' ' i-0ril^^</^y/'72^

fS'Sii^  I

FOREIGN SCENES

TRAVELLING RECREATIONS.

By JOHN HOWISON, Esa.
OF THE HONOURABLE EAST INDIA COMPANY'S SERVICE,
AND .AUTHOR OF SKETCHES OF UPPER CANADA.

IN TWO VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

EDINBURGH :
PUBLISHED BY
.OLIVER & BOVD, TWEEDDALE-COURT ;
AND
GEO. B. WHITTAKER, LONDON. .
¦ . 1825.

CONTENTS.

Page
Life in India,    1
FoHEIGN AdVENTUBE,  109
The Cantonment of Sbroob,  149
The Drlinqcbnt,  „..„„„..  .„  183

LIFE IN INDIA.

LIFE IN INDIA,

One morning, after a six weeks' voyage from
the Cape, I was roused by an unusual noise
upon deck, and, on going there, found myself
in sight of the continent of India, and surround
ed by a number of its natives. The coast of
Malabar lay a few miles off, and my fellow-pas
sengers were gazing with intense curiosity upon
the land in which most of them had the pros
pect of spending the greater part of their lives.
I believe its appearance disappointed every one.
A barren, treeless, rocky, and apparently unin
habited tract of land stretched before us, and
formed the exterior of that region which is
vol.. II. A

2 LIFE IN INDIA
usually considered the garden of the world, the
source of exhaustless wealth, and the theatre of
all that is splendid, beautiful, and luxurious.
The scene merited a glance of a few mo
ments' duration only ; and I du-ected my atten
tion to the natives who had come from the shore
in a canoe, with poultry, fruit, and vegetables,
for sale. Their dress consisted of a large piece
of cloth wrapped round the loins, and a conical
hat made of the bark of some tree. Their
v'olour was a bright copper, and they were toler
ably well formed, and had mild, though weath
er-beaten, countenances ; in which, however,
there was an expression of imbecility that cor
responded well with the languor of their car
riage and motions. They talked loud and con
stantly, but apparently without any purpose,
except when selling their commodities ; for no
one answered the interrogatories of his neigh
bour, or even seemed to listen to what he said.
After a long parley, the ship's steward pur
chased most of their articles, and they jumped
into their canoe, which wa.s one-third full of

LIFE iSr INDIiV. 3
water, and paddled off, one of them baling it
out with a cocoa-nut-shell.
Such was our first introduction to the shores
of the East, and to their primitive inhabitants.
All parties seemed to feel that it was miserably
deficient in that interest and splendour which
they had anticipated. The weak, half-naked,
talkative, miserable-looking people, who had
visited us, were rather unlike children of the
sun, and the barren coast of Malabar more re
sembled the wilds of the North, than a part of
the most fertile and favoured land that extends
between the tropics. We looked in vain for
that magnificence which is usually believed to
characterize the productions of art and of nature
in Asia. We saw neither forests nor luxuriant
vegetation, and bare rocks diversified the face of
the country, instead of palaces, mosques, and
pagodas. However, the coast, as we proceeded to
wards Bombay, became better cultivated and
more interesting. We had a good view of
Teliichery and Goa, and of several other settle-

4 LIFE IN INDIA-
ments, and occasionally enjoyed a glimpse of some
fine scenery a little way back in the country ;
for, being obliged to beat up the channel, we
sometimes were within half a mile of the shore,
and sometimes quite out of sight of land. The
wind was so gentle, that we seldom made more
than four or five leagues in twenty-four hours,
which seemed very tantalizing, when we con
sidered that we were not more than two hun
dred miles from our port of destination.
At length we one evening discerned the
white tower of the Bombay lighthouse, which
soon after sunset began to exhibit a brilHant
and steady blaze. A beacon always is an in
teresting object when seen at sea, but becomes
particularly so, when it forms a guiding star to
the spot where one's hopes, pleasures, and in
terests are to be centred for a series of years.
The night was calm and clear, and the moon
rose beautifully behind some hills, at first dusky,
large, and undefined, but afterwards bright,
warm, and soft in its outline. The richness of
Its light, the quietness and reposing aspect of

LIFE IN INDIA. 5
the coast, the rippling of the sea, and the calm
ness of the air, were all in harmony with an
Asiatic clunate, and well calculated to dispose
the mind to indulge in the reflections which ob
trude themselves upon those who are on the eve
of landing in a foreign country, adopting an
untried mode of life, and entering an unknown
circle of society.
Next morning we entei-ed Bombay harbour,
-and saw the island and town before us, which
are celebrated for their beauty when viewed
from sea ; however, the fineness of the prospect
has been much overrated. The islands of Sal
sette and Elephanta are rather pretty, the latter
being well wooded; but that of Bombay ap
pears very barren, and has no timber upon it,
except some cocoa-nut groves, which look ex
tremely awkward and disagreeable when seen in
any numbers, and when not intermixed with
other kinds of trees.
I went ashore soon after the anchor had
been dropped. On approaching the quay, I
found myself surrounded by undescribabje

6 LIFE IN INDIA.
noise, tumult, and confusion. It was necessai-y
to disembark at the bottom of a flight of stone
steps, leading from the beach to the wharf; but
we could hardly gain the spot, such was the
nuiiiber of boats collected around it. These
were full of natives, who talked as loud as pos
sible, and without intermission, and were quar
relling with each other continually, and endeav
ouring to get near the landing-place ; sometimes
pushing with their oars to effect this, and some
times leaping into the water, and resolutely
hauling their own boats forwards between those
belonging to their adversaries. The sea, with
in twenty yards of the beach, was crowded with
half-naked people, carrying bales of goods to
several lighters, which had been prevented by
the shallowness of the water from coming close
to the wharf. The men on board of them were
vociferating to the porters to walk faster, and
the latter were talking to each other, and often
stumbhng so much, that their burdens seemed
about to be precipitated into the waves. On
gaining the top of the stairs, I got involved in a

LIFE IN INDIA. 7
crowd of a more varied and less noisy descrip
tion. I was first addressed by four palanquin-
bearers, who offered to carry me into the fort.
They threw open the doors of the palanquin,
and motioned me to get into it ; while a boy,
apparently belonging to their party, held a sort
of umbrella over my head, to protect me from
the sun. The men had the Asiatic countenance,
but were almost as black as negroes, and their
figures, though of slight proportions, were mus
cular. They wore white cotton drawers, and
short jackets of the same stuff, and had coarse
cloth turbans upon their heads. While I refus
ed their services, three men with p^ers in their
hands approached me, making many obsequious
gestures. They all were dressed exactly alike,
and in much better style than the palanquin-
bearers. Each had a vest of fine cotton, which
was tight at the throat, and fitted close to the
body as far down as the waist, where it became
loose and flowing, and reached to the knee ;
under this they wore very wide striped trowsers.
These were so long as nearly to conceal their

8 LIFE IN INDIA.
feet and the crimson slippers upon them.
Their countenances were grave, mild, and not
disagreeable ; but, at the same time, carried in
them a lurking expression of knavery and cun
ning. I found that they were Parsee servants
out of employ, and that they wished to enter
my service. Each displayed a variety of certi
ficates of good character ; and, as I was in need
of an attendant, I hired the one who appeared
to understand English best. I had scarcely
done this, when I was startled by the sound of
rapid footsteps behind me, and, on looking
round, saw a string of natives, every two of
whom had a" large bamboo between them, with
its extremities resting upon their shoulders, and
having a trunk or box suspended from the mid
dle of it. They were hurrying along at a very
quick pace, unmindful of the exclamations of a
European young man who followed them, pant
ing with heat and covered with dust. A crowd
of palanquin-bearers, Parsee servants, native
boatmen, and boys with umbrellas, surrounded
him, and were addressing him at the same mo-

LIFE IN INDIA. 9
ment, and raising their voices to make themselves
heard. He evidently neither understood what
they said, nor wanted their services, but seemed
fearful of losing his baggage, which was on its
way to the custom-house ; and thither I ob
served them following him with unabating cla
mour and pertinacity, till they all got out of
sight! I was now hastening to my palanquin,
when a voice of expostulation induced me to
stop, and a most extraordinary figure approach
ed, and demanded alms. He was an old man,
with a flowing white beard and emaciated visage.
His hair was long, black, and matted, and his
cheeks and forehead were marked with different
kinds of paint, which gave him a most hideous
aspect. He supported himself with a large
stick ; and this seemed very necessary ; for his
limbs looked withered, nerveless, and distorted,
and he walked apparently with pain and diffi
culty. He had a piece of ragged cloth wrapped
round his loins, the rgst of his body being naked,
and covered with strange figures and characters.
His demeanour was not marked by the humility

10 LIFE IN INDIA.
of a beggar, but exhibited a mixture of haughti
ness, self-possession, and indifference, which
formed a striking burlesque upon the abjectness
and misery of his personal appearance. Having
freed myself from his importunities, I leaped
into my palanquin, and was soon on my way to
the Bombay esplanade.
On arriving there I took up my abode in a
tent which -belonged to a fellow-passenger, who
had before lived in India for several years. It
was lofty and spacious, and altogether much
more comfortable than I had previously con
ceived it possible for a canvass-habitation to be.
But the tents in India are very different from
those used in Britain. The interior part of the
former consists of a conical fly, supported by
one or by two poles, according to its dimensions.
From the edge of the fly, walls of canvass, kept
straight by bamboos fixed upon them, descend
to the ground, into which the sharp ends of the
bamboos are fixed, in order to keep the cloth
upright and on the stretch. The inside of the
whole is lined with calico; and, if the tent be

LIFE IN INDIA. 11
well pitched, its walls and roof look remai-kably
smooth, close, and neat. Another fly, and other
walls of larger dimensions than those just de
scribed, are erected over and around the latter,
but about three feet distant from them. Thus,
there are two distinct tents, one within another ;
the space that intervenes between their surfaces
allowing a free circulation of air, and acting as
a non-conductor to the heat of the sun, when it
strikes violently downwards and penetrates
through the upper and external fly.
Among unmarried men, in general, one tent
is made to serve both for a dining-room and a
bedchamber ; but families usually have several,
some of which are used for sleeping-apartments,
while two of the larger sort are fitted up as re
ception-saloons and dining-rooms. These, when
tastefully furnished vnth lustres, lamps, tables,
carpets, and couches, have a species of ele
gance that is truly eastern ; but the cloth roofs
and walls, particularly at night, look comfort
less and insecure ; and, upon the whole, I am
inclined to think, that a tent, however well fur-

12 LIFE IN INDIA.
nished and complete it may be, is not a desirable
place of abode in any chmate.
The Bombay esplanade, on which I had
taken up my residence, is a large expanse of
level ground, stretching along the sea-beach
nearly a mile. A considerable portion of it is
reserved for the accommodation of the native
troops stationed at Bombay ; but a large space
is likewise set apart for any strangers or civilians
who may choose to encamp upon it. During
six months of the year the esplanade is covered
with tents, many of which are occupied by peo
ple visiting the presidency, and many by per
sons who have houses in Bombay, but' who,
in the dry season, are glad to exchange the
heat, dust, and confinement of the town, for the
beauty, coolness, and open prospects of the sea
shore. The tents vary much in shape and in
size,, and are pitched in a style of irregularity
that is rather unpleasing to the eye; and the
bad effect of which is not redeemed by any ex
ternal elegance in their structure, or any variety
in the materials of which they are composed.

LIFE IN INDIA. 13
The esplanade is a favourite place of even
ing resort, both with Europeans and natives.
The former usually assemble on horseback, or
in carriages, every afternoon after sunset, and
ride backwards and forwards, enjoying the sea-
breeze, and exchanging salutations with their
acquaintances. I joined the throng the first
day I arrived in Bombay ; but found that the
scene, so far from being a brilliant, or even a
gay one, presented none of that imposing splen
dour which I had expected to find in the equi
pages and company assembled in the Hyde
Park of one of the seats of government of the
East. Newly-arrived cadets formed a large pro
portion of the equestrians. Large shoals of
them, dressed in their new uniforms, and mount
ed on sorry Arabs, issued from the tents and
barracks at sunset, and cantered about, ran
races, and tried to " witch the world with noble
horsemanship." The civilians were next in
number ; but they appeared in the more sober
livery of blue or white, and rode more cau
tiously than the young soldiers. Sometimes an

1-4 LIFE IN INDIA.
officer of the staff, known -at once by his military
hat and feathers, might be seen galloping along ;
and, at other times, a female equestrian, sur
rounded by gentlemen, would cross the most
public part of the esplanade, and lend a tran
sient eclat to the monotonous groups in her vi
cinity. The four-wheeled carriages Were neither
numerous nor elegant ; in general, they were
drawn by Arab horses, with long bushy tails,
which, as every one knows, look most awkward
upon a horse when in harness ; and the native
drivers managed their reins so clumsily, that the
defects of the animals and equipages under their
control became doubly apparent.
Sometimes a military band performs upon
the esplanade. This proves a great attraction,
and draws all the carriages and horsemen to
one spot, where may be enjoyed a coup d'oeil of
the best society in Bombay. A great number
of natives usually seat themselves on the ground
within hearing of the music, though, it appeal's,
that curiosity, not the love of harmonious sounds,
induces them to collect together in this manner.

LIFE IN INDIA. 15
But, nevertheless, they seem better satisfied
with the concert than the European auditors,
on whose countenances no expression of pleasure
is ever to be detected. One of the things, in
deed, that first attracts the attention of a stran
ger on ariiving in the East, is the look of ennui,
languor, and apathy, that is imprinted on almost
every face. In the morning, a man seems de
pressed at the thoughts of having a long day to
pass, and at night he appears exhausted by the
fatigue of passing it. The evening-drive on the es
planade affords no positive pleasure to those who
daily have recourse to it ; but it serves to kill
an hour, — brings together friends or acquaint
ances, (which in India mean the same thing,)
and if, as is often the case, the parties have so
little to talk of that they can hardly exchange
words, they, at least, enjoy the satisfaction of
being able to exchange yawns. I had entered
Bombay with the impression that it was tJie seat
of wealth, splendour, fashion, and extravagance ;
but a stroll upon its esplanade removed the de
lusion. I believe there are few Enghsh water-

16 LIFE IN INDIA.
ing-places of the third class that could not pro
duce a better evening turn-out than this Scotch
factory. Every thing had an appearance of
dinginess, age, and economy, that seemed miser
ably out of place beneath the ardent clime and
radiant skies of Asia.
I have already mentioned how beautiful the
moonlight was the evening preceding our arrival
in Bombay. However, I thought it appeared
much finer on shore, and likewise of a peculiar
kind, such as I had never before seen, combin
ing a mellowness and a brilliancy that are sel
dom found united. Moonlight, in northern re
gions, is clear, cold, white, and dazzhng, and
gives to objects a hardness and a definiteness of
outline, such as they rarely have even in bright
sunshine. In the West Indies, again, the lunar ra
diance is warm, fiery, and glowing ; and scenery
under its influence appears hazy, indistinct, and of
enlarged magnitude. The autumnal moonlight
of Britain exhibits something of both the cha
racteristics above described ; but has a feebleness
and wateriness, which, in a great measure, neu-

LIFE IN INDIA. 17
tralize the effects of the combination. But in
the Bombay moonUght, at the time I speak of,
softness and brightness were so intimately and
harmoniously blended, that it seemed more ex
quisite than any I had ever before had an oppor
tunity of observing.
My tent stood within a few yards of the
beach, and the prospect from it, on the night of
my arrival, was very fine. Before me was an
expanse of smooth sea, extending to the horizon,
and specked with small vessels, called Pattemar
boats. The wind near the shore was too faint
to impel forward those under its influence, and
they floated idly in the moonlight ; but several
of the more distant ones moved rapidly along,
and others could he discovered beyond them,
but so imperfectly, that they more resembled
exhalations resting on the face of the ocean, than
vessels carrying human beings. On my right
the coast of the island had a graceful sweep se
veral miles in length, and terminating in a rocky
point, which projected a considerable way into
the sea. On the extent of beach intervening
VOL. II. B

18 LIFE IN INDIA.
between its extremity and my tent the little
waves broke with faint murmurs, and sparkled
in the moonlight. Behind me lay the esplanade,
white with innumerable tents, in some of which
the faint twinkling of a lamp was discoverable
when the doors were moved backwards and for
wards by the wind. Towards my left, the town
of Bombay and its fortifications, forming a black
mass of building, stood as noiseless as if they
had been uninhabited, and closed the prospect.
Not a person nor an anitaal was stirring any
where ; and the heavy breathing of my servants,
overcome with sleep, was the only sound that in
dicated vicinity to a human being.
In the morning, the first objects that attract
the attention of a stranger residing in the espla
nade, are crowds of Parsees standing by the
edge of the sea, and praying aloud with uplifted
hands. The murmur of their voices is power
ful aftd constant, «nd has a singular effect when
heard amidst the dashing of the waves. The
devotees are most numerous during sunrise,
when they line nearly the whole of the beach

LIFE IN INDIA. 19
that skirts the esplanade, and from their dress,
attitudes, and occupation, form a very impres
sive spectacle. They stand with their faces di
rected towards the sun, and never for a moment
turn from it till they have finished their religious
duties, the performance of which usually occu
pies about a quarter of an hour.
Many European gentlemen may at the same
time be seen taking a morning ride along the
beach. This, in Bombay, is called a " consti
tutional;" and is considered so necessary to the
health, that even those who dislike early rising
and exercise on horseback, are in the habit of
daily getting up at dawn, and galloping several
miles before breakfast. Nothing can be more
melancholy than the appearance of the latter
sort of equestrians. One can easily see that
they would gladly exchange the saddle for a
mattress, and that they feel at a loss whether to
run the risk of disjointing themselves by gallop
ing fast, and getting over the allotted number of
miles as soon as possible, or to limit their pace
to a slow trot, and make the gentleness of the

20 LIFE IN INDIA.
motion console them for the increased duration
of their ride. Such men, after taking a " consti
tutional," think that, at breakfast and tifiin, they
may safely eat as much and as many things as
they please ; but were they to practise temper
ance all day, they would find that they might
sleep all the morning without any serious injury
to health. The sight of these " constitutionahsts" is
rather depressing to a stranger just arrived in
Bombay. He has probably, during the greater
part of the preceding night, been tortured into
a fever by musquetoes, and half suffocated with
the closeness of the atmosphere. He gets up
exceedingly fatigued by his efforts at repose, and
goes to the door of his tent, expecting to inhale
a cool and refreshing-sea breeze ; but he finds a
perfect calm, and sees a volume of dense and
lazy mist extending along the beach, and totally
conceaUng the expanse of ocean behind it. At
intervals the spectral forms of the constitution
alists glimmer dimly through the vapour, and
are soon again lost in its obscurity. Their grey

LIFE IN INDIA. 21
Arab horses canter noiselessly upon the loose
sand, and appear almost as melancholy and dis
pirited as their riders, who look as if they were
on a journey to the other world. The new-im
ported and florid European, on first seeing
them, naturally forms the conclusion, that a few
years residence in India will reduce him to what
they are, and feels inclined to exclaim, in the
words of Hamlet,-—" To this complexion must
I come at last !" and to wish himself on board
ship again, and in full sail towards England.
A few mornings after my arrival, I seated
myself at the door of my tent, which stood in a
very public part of the esplanade, and observed
what was going on around me. No Europeans
were visible, but a great number of Parsee and
mussulmen servants were hurrying about with
dishes, tea-equipages, &c., it being about the
usual hour of breakfast. Palanquin-bearers
and native grooms lay at the door of, almost
every tent awaiting the commands of its inmates.
Here and there Arab horses stood unsheltered
in the sun, and sometimes a gig or a palanquin

22 LIFE IN INDIA.
could be seen shooting rapidly along from one
part of the encampment to another. Water-
carriers with their oxen were abroad in great
numbers, and likewise women retailing buffaloes'
milk in polished brass pitchers. A little way
off was a public fountain, where a vast multitude
of natives, both male and female, were supplying
themselves with water, scouring their copper
jars, washing their children, quarrelling and
singing, and talking so loud as to drown all
other noises. A little way from me some peo
ple were pitching a handsome tent, probably for
the reception of a stranger, and in another di
rection, they were striking one, whose owner
seemed on the eve of commencing a journey ;
for six or seven ponies laden with trunks stood
near the spot, and a party of servants were pack
ing up a variety of articles. Besides the peo
ple that were actually employed in the different
ways above described, I observed many others
walking along or seated on the ground, appa
rently inattentive to the busy scene, and quite
unconnected with ally of its details ; so that

LIFE IN INDIA. 23
every part of the esplanade was enlivened by
objects pregnant with novelty and interest to a
stranger. I had not been long seated, when an old
man, attended by a little girl leading two goats
and several kids, approached. He offered either
to sell them or to bring their milk to the tent
every morning. The animals, particularly the
young ones, were the most beautiful of their
kind I had ever seen, and I expressed a desire
to purchase the smallest of the latter. " No,"
said he, " it must not be taken away from its
parent. It could no more live without her than
this child could without me." The girl smiled,
and took the kid in her arms, and walked away
followed by her father.
Soon afterwards a man, carrying several
swords, and followed by two low-cast natives
with bundles on their heads, came to the door of
my tent. He proved to be a travelling mer
chant, and immediately displayed his goods,
which consisted of silks, muslins, silver plate,
old books, &c., and a great variety of trifles and

24 LIFE IN INDIA.
trinkets. The price upon his articles was always
double what he was willing to accept ; but he
doubtless had learned from experience, that
Europeans, on first arriving in the country,
were in general too ignorant of Indian character
to suspect this. He valued his English books
by the same standard that many of the reading
public do, the newest works being in his opinion
the best. He could decipher the dates in the
title-pages, but nothing more. Having taken
Up an old edition of Milton, he presented it to
me, saying, " This is good," and then held up
another volume of recent date, called the " Ca
det's Assistant," and cried, but " This is better."
I purchased from him two small bottles, which,
he said, contained attar of roses ; but on opening
them after he had gone, I found that the liquid
within was common almond oil.
I now saw a troop of native beggars advanc
ing. They were fourteen in number, and were
all blind. They walked in a line, the person at
the head of it being led by a child, and having
a string extending from him, to different parts

LIFE IN INDIA. 25
of which his companions in misery were attach
ed. When they came in front of me, their
guide twitched the cord, and they all prostrated
themselves on the ground, uttering supplications
and groans. Their dress and appearance were
miserable in the extreme ; but the- little boy
that conducted their steps looked gay and indif
ferent, and, on receiving some money, led them
away as if they had been a flock of cattle.
My next visitors were two snake-charmers,
who lived by exhibiting their art in public.
They were attended by a goat and a monkey,
both of which performed various little tricks
with considerable dexterity. They carried their
snakes coiled up in baskets, and having drawn
them forth with much pretended caution and
timidity, laid them on the ground. Their
keeper then began to beat a small drum. The
animals, one of which appeared to be a real
cobra de capello, and the other a species of" the
boa, erected themselves on hearing the noise as
if preparing to dart at him who made it ; but
he suddenly changed the music to a long whistle.

26 LIFE IN INDIA.
and the snakes sunk upon the ground, and con
tinued without motion for a little time. They
then crawled slowly , towards him, and he pro
ceeded to twine them around his neck and
waist and arms ; but he did not affect to be
seized with convulsions, as snake-charmers usual
ly do on applying the reptiles to their bodies.
The cobra had of course been deprived of its
fangs ; but I could not prevail upon the people
to let me look into its mouth,
A variety of other characters came to my
tent in the course of the morning, among whom
were an Arab disposing of rose-water, a Persian
with gems for sale, and a native horse-dealer.
The esplanade, from the multitude of Europeans
encamped upon it, affords a fine field for mer
chants and pretenders of every kind, the first
finding purchasers, and the others dupes among
the liberal-handed and unsuspecting cadets
whom British ships daily bring to Bombay,
In traversing the town of Bombay one sees
nothing indicative of eastern magnificence. Its
streets are narrow and unpaved, and the build-

LIFE IN INDIA. 27
ings are more like merchants' ware-rooms than
dwelling-houses. The European parts of the
city of Calcutta are said to consist of a succes
sion of palaces, and Madras, we are told, abounds
with elegant structures ; but the best streets in
Bombay, I should suppose, scarcely equal the
native suburbs of its sister presidencies. The
houses, interiorly, are neither so spacious nor so
convenient as Asiatic habitations are generally
supposed to be, and though many of them are
well furnished, none are fitted up with any
degree of luxury or splendour.
The stranger arriving in Bombay, full of
the delusions that prevail in England respecting
India, will be miserably disappointed on finding
the hospitality of the people as much inferior to
his expectations as are their dwelling-houses and
style of life, and on observing that the social in
tercourse that takes place among them is not
characterized by that liberality of feeling, 'at
tractive elegance, and festive splendour, which
appear to exist in other parts of the East, and
which, in tropical climates, tend to throw a gloss

28 LIFE IN INDIA.
upon life there, such as charms the novice, and,
for a while, prevents him from discovering its
real spiritlessness and insipidity.
The only thing that a stranger in Bombay
will find to coincide with his previous impres
sions respecting Asiatic manners, is the bodily
indolence of Europeans of all classes, and the
undisturbed and unanxious routine of life which
they enjoy. But this is common to every part
of the East, and is a necessary effect of the cli
mate. In no part of the world have men so
little to do as in India ; yet but a small propor
tion of that little is done by those to whom the
performance of it belongs. This is one of the first
things that strikes a new-comer. He sees that
existence is made as easy to all ranks as human
ingenuity can make it, and that no one requires
to pay any attention to those economical or do
mestic arrangements that would necessarily oc
cupy a considerable part of his time and atten
tion were he at home. All little duties that
create annoyance and personal fatigue devolve
upon servants and dependants ; and gentlemen

LIFE IN INDIA. 29
of every grade, from the ensign to the general
officer, seem to think and feel that the exertion
of eating, sleeping, and amusing themselves, is
as great a one as they can safely subject them
selves to. The natives, indeed, teach this as
much as the climate ; for, with the exception of
the lowest casts, they are more indolent and in
active than their European masters.
The mode of life pursued in Bombay is, I
believe, the same as prevails in other parts of
the East. People usually get up at six in the
morning, or even earlier, and take exercise of
some kind, or perhaps transact business before
breakfast. The forenoon is spent in visiting or
in professional duties, and at one o'clock a meal
called tiffin is put upon the table, TiflSn cor
responds with the English luncheon, but is infi
nitely more abundant and substantial, consisting
sometimes of soup, beef-steaks, fricasees, curries,
hams, &c. and a liberal allowance of bee^ and
wine. The partakers of this unnatural repast
are in the habit of indulging in a siesta after it,
or, in other words, of going to sleep for two hours,

30 UFE IN INDIA.
which is a rational enough plan, the giddiness
occasioned by the malt liquor they have drank
often rendering them unfit for any thing else.
On awakening from their afternoon's slumber,
people prepare for an evening-drive upon the
esplanade; froni which, after viewing the same
circle of faces, the same carriages, and the same
uniforms, that they have daily seen for many
months past, they return soon after sunset and
dresg for dinner. This meal is served up about
seven, and is little more than a pastime and a
matter of ceremony ; for, in general, most of the
dishes are sent from the table nearly untouched,
the heat, the tropical languor, and the meridian
tiffin, aJl combining to drive away appetite.
Coffee and tea succeed the dinner in the course
of the evening, and the party in general sepa
rates long before midnight.
The only objectionable point in this distri
bution of the day is the tiffin, which is at best a
most uncomfortable, injurious, and unnecessai-y
meal. It occurs when the heat is greatest, and
only three or four hours after breakfast, when

LIFE IN INDIA. 31
people do not require to eat, and induces a
habit of drinking in the forenoon, and destroys
all relish and natural appetite for dinner. The
evening is evidently the proper time for banquet
ing in the East ; for there, as in other tropical
climates, a man is coolest when his stomach is
empty, and the heat in the middle of the day
feels oppressive enough without the addition of
the feverish glow that succeeds a full meal.
Perhaps few people could endure total abstinence
between an early breakfast and a late dinner ;
but a little wine and biscuit would form a much
better kind of refreshment for thera than curry,
bacon-ham, and beer. However, in India the
taste for tiffins would be much less general were
not they found to relieve ennui and languor, by
causing a break in the day, and diversifying its
wearisome routine. The banqueting-table is
resorted to as a place of pastime and amusement
by the idle and indolent in Europe as well ^s in
Asia ; but in the former country, perhaps, chiefly
becayse it is the means of collecting people tOT
gether and promoting conversation. In India,

32 LIFE IN INDIA.
however, people seldom talk much during meals,
the fund of conversation being so scanty, that
they are unwilling to exhaust any part of it
when they have so reasonable an excuse for si
lence as tiffin or dinner affords.
In India, the details and appendages of a
large dinner-party differ considerably from those
belonging to a similar entertainment in England.
All the guests, whether male or female, are at
tended by their own servants, whose dresses are
as various as those of their masters and mistresses.
Forty people seated at table have an equal
number standing behind them ; and a person
newly arrived in the East, and a member of such
a company, would perhaps derive more amuse
ment from viewing the servants, than from the
society of the individuals upon whom they were
attending ; for he might see men of four or five
different casts and of as many different nations
ministering to the wants of those of one. The
punkah, which forms a part of the furniture of
most dining-rooms in India, is usually kept in
constant motion during dinner, when it is of

LIFE IN INDIA. 33
more service in driving away mosquetoes, and
dispelling the fumes of the meat, than in keep
ing the company cool. Indeed, one very dis
agreeable circumstance, arising from the crowd
of servants in waiting at a large party, is the
increase of heat which they occasion, and which,
by taking away the appetite of the guests, in a
manner renders the attendance of the former
useless and unnecessary. People do not usually
remain long, at table after dinner has been re
moved, and very little wine is drank, which ap
pears surprising ; for one would suppose that the
dull uniformity of life in India, the want of
evening amusements, and the enervating in
fluence of the climate^ would powerfully tempt
men to seek relief in the bottle. After all, a
lai^e dinner-party in the East generally proves a
heavy and fatiguing affair. It consists of an
abundant repast, of which no one cares to par
take,— of obsequious attendance, which is equally
useless and inconvenient, — and of people who are,
too indolent to endeavour to amuse one another,
and too weary to be disposed to feel amused
VOL. II. C

34 LIFE IN INDIA.
themselves. Tea and coffee sometimes give a
degree of excitement to the spirits of the party ;
which, however, is soon followed by propor
tional depression ; and before the arrival of that
hour at which, in Europe, conversation is bright
est, and people's energies are most active, every
one is dther half asleep, or desirous of being
wholly so.
The European society in Bombay, though
not divided into distinct classes, is composed of
distinct circles. The members of one circle are
scarcely ever to be met with in another, not be
cause their rank or manners renders them inad
missible into any except their own, but because
they belong to a particular set, and are sup
posed to give an exclusive preference to the
society which it affords. This non-intercourse
is usually encouraged by the leading persons of
each circle, who, feeling jealous of each other,
wish to attach their respective adherents exclu-
sively to themselves. Some individuals indeed
contrive to act the part of neutrals, and to keep
up a connexion with several different sets at the

LIFE IN INDIA. 35
same time ; but they seldom are much esteemed,
and soon discover that party-spirit is as necessary
to a man's consequence in social as in poUtical
life. The rivalry which exists between the in
dividuals who preside over the different circles is
almost the only thing that disturbs the harmony,
or rather torpor, of society. The men, indeed, are
generally too indolent and good-natured to in
dulge any feelings of the kind ; but the females
betray an abundant share of mutual hostility,
and a jealous desire of lessening each other's in
fluence, notoriety, and irriportance. A stranger,
who wishes to become a member of any particu
lar circle, and to be invited to all the parties
given by its patroness, has merely to make her
a visit, and to entertain her with some scandal
against her rivals. This good office proves that
he is attached to her interest, and he accordingly
becomes a frequent guest at her table, and con
tinues to be so as long as he acknowledges »her
supremacy ; biit, should she suspect him of
paying tribute at another shrine, she will cut

36 LIFE IN INDIA.
him without any ceremony, and expect her
adherents to do so likewise.
On leaving the Presidency, and going into
the interior of the country, I was equally as
tonished and pleased to find the society at out-
stations much superior in refinement and liberal
ity to that of Bombay. I everywhere met with
a spirit of mutual confidence and a disposition
to sociality, which do not, and indeed cannot,
exist at the seat of government. Among the
leading people there, the collusion of interests is
too constant, and the points of rivalry are too
nurherous, to admit of such a state of things.
Wherever there are a governor and a commander-
in-chief, both rich in patronage, it may be sup
posed that there will be a great deal of intriguing
in the society of which they form the heads.
Even those who have no favours to ask for
themselves, will be desirous of having the power
of asking them for their friends, and of increas
ing their consequence bj- appearing to stand well
with the individuals who conduct public affairs.

LIFE IN INDIA. 37
This feeling prevails to a great degree among
the established residents of Bombay, and parti
cularly among those who hold high situations
there ; and often makes them, in their intercourse
with each other, mutually infringe even the
ceremoijials of external courtesy. There is. a
disagreeable stiffness, reserve, and caution, in
their manners to strangers ; and the liberal and
unsophisticated spirit of society is, to be found
only among the officers of the regiments that
happen to be stationed at the Presidency. Per
sons of the former description never appear to
feel at ease in each other's company. They
seem fearful of committing themselves, of letting
out their secrets, and of affording some one the
means of circumventing them.
At the out-stations in India, a man's conse
quence in society is not affected by his rank, or
by the amount of his income ; but, in Bombay,
among' the leading circles, these two points are
inquired into and ascertained before he is invited
to dinner, or perhaps even spoken to. But,
should a stranger happen to be introduced into

38 LIFE IN INDIA.
a society of this kind, where he is wholly un
known, its members will immediately throw a
glance at his uniform, and determine from its
appearance whether or not he is to be treated
with any consideration. They at once discover
his rank, be it field-officer, captain, or subaltern,
and, after calculating the amount of his monthly
pay, regulate his precedence accordingly. Staff-
facings, however, sometimes cover the sins of a
poor lieutenant low in the service, and even pro
cure him a seat next his host's new-imported
ugly niece or female cousin ; or a distant rela
tionship to the governor may entitle an ensign to
a place not very far from the lady of the house ;
but should a subaltern have none of these
grounds of distinction, he will probably have to
dine off the dish that is opposite him, or be asked
condescendingly by his host to join him in taking
beer, after almost every person at table has de
clined the invitation. All this sort of thing
takes place more or less in society in Europe ;
but there the distinctions of birth, titles, and
wealth, belong, perhaps, as it were, peculiarly

LIFE IN INDIA. 39
and exclusively to those who practise it, and
endow them, in some degree, with a right to do
so. But the ostentation, hauteur, and jealous
respect of persons, that are carried to a great
extent by some people in Bombay, have no
foundation of the kind, and appear alike despic
able and ridiculous, particularly when one con
siders, that those who assume them were once
no higher in rank, and probably three times
poorer, than are the individuals upon whom they
take an opportunity of playing off their vulgar,
low-lifed, and ill-managed pretensions.
Bombay, upon the whole, is a very disap
pointing place. A man, on arriving there, will,
I beheve, find fewer of his Asiatic anticipations
realized than he would in either of the sister
Presidencies; and the simple fact of its being
an island, and a very small one, excites disagree
able ideas of narrowness, isolation, confinement,
and want of scope, which depress the energies of
a stranger, uncertain about his fortunes, and
newly exiled to a foreign land.
Were the Genius of Scandal at a- loss where

40 LIFE IN INDIA.
to establish her head-quarters, I would recom
mend that their site should be Bombay, and that
she should select her personal staff from the resi
dent society of that island. The duties of her
department would then be most efficiently per
formed ; for in no other part of the world where
I have ever been is the propensity for gossiping
so universal and unintermitting. The people
do almost nothing but retail stories about each
other. Male tattlers are nearly as common . as
female ones^ and are more valued in society,
their opportunities of obtaining private informa
tion being greater. Every attempt at intrigue,
every piece of jilting, every after-dinner quarrel,
and every domestic broil that takes place, is
known and circulated within twenty-four hours
subsequent to its occurrence. The arrival of a
ship full of passengers affords a delightful mor-
ceau to the scandal-mongers ; and. I am con
vinced that, were the young ladies who come out
to Bombay to be told before entering its harbour
to what an ordeal of criticism and scrfttiny their
manners, conduct, persons, connexions, and ac-

LIFE IN INDIA. 41
complishments, would soon be subjected, they
would all throw themselves into the sea.
In England, the idea of luxury has some
how or other got so intimately connected with
that of India, that in most minds they are inse
parable ; and, therefore, the first thing that a
stranger has in expectation on arriving there
is the enjoyment of this luxury, and it is the
first thing in which he is disappointed. Those
only who never have visited tropical climates,
believe that they can be the seat of luxury ; for
the highest pitch of it that is attainable by a
European in any of them is relief from absolute
suffering. One week's residence in India usually
serves to dispel all those delusive anticipations of
a hfe of splendour and voluptuousness, which
occupy the minds of the young men and women
who embark for its shores. They find that
there they cannot, without some trouble and
management, ensure to themselves even the
enjoyment of simple and uninterrupted personal
comfort. Those conveniences which are common to

42 LIFE IN INDIA.
almost every European in India, and which the
heat renders almost essential to existence, are,
in Britain, ranked as luxuries, because the peo
ple there, seeing that such would be superfluous
in their own chmate, think that they must be
equally so in every other. The punkah is one
of them. It is a slight frame of wood, covered
with canvass or silk, and suspended from the
ceiling. Two servants, by means of a string,
swing it backwards and forwards during meals,
and thus waft a quantity of air in the faces of
the guests on opposite sides of the table alter
nately. The latter have, perhaps, entered the
dining-hall in a state of perspiration, and conse
quently have a shivering-fit every time the pun
kah drives a blast of wind upon them, and are
in a glow of heat when the machine is doing the
same favour to their friends on the other side of
the table. In this " sweet vicissitude and grate
ful change" consists the luxury of the punkah ;
which I, for one, always would gladly dispense
with ; for, even though it may sometimes afford
a momentary and refreshing coolness, the sue-

LIFE IN INDIA. 43
ceeding heat feels so much more intolerable,
that the transient relief one has experienced ren
ders him doubly alive to his torments, on the
same principle that an occasional glimpse of
heaven is said to give additional acuteness to the
sufferings of the damned.
The palanquin, which is too well known to
require description, has no more claim to the
name of a luxury than the punkah ; for the heat
renders it one of the necessaries of life in India,
and it is a conveyance which would seem odious
any where else. There surely is nothing delight
ful or voluptuous in lying full length in a close
wooden box ; and I suspect that Europeans in
the East would prefer travelling in an open car
riage, or on horseback, to moving along at the
rate of four miles an hour in a palanquin, were
such exposure to the climate as safe and agreed-
able as it is in England.
Among the reported luxuries of the E^st,
that of having a large retinue of attendants holds
a distinguished place ; however, in Britain, one
servant does as much as five can do in India;

44 LIFE IN INDIA.
and, as a man's domestic comfort becomes the
more precarious in proportion to the number of
people upon whom it depends, it follows that he
has less chance of enjoying it without interrup
tion with a large household-establishment in the
East, than with a small one at home. The ser
vants that surround an Indian dinner-table, and
give an air of luxury and grandeur to the enter
tainment, are so far from adding to the comfort
of the guests, that they would gladly dismiss
two-thirds of them, were they not aware that the
remainder would, from indolence and stupidity,
be incapable of performing the duties required
of them.
- The cuscus tatty is another luxury of the
East. It consists of a frame of wood, inter
woven with twigs, between which is distributed
a layer of a particular kind of grass, that yields
an agreeable fragrance when moistened ¦ with
water. This apparatus being fixed in the wind
ward door- way of an apartment, is kept constant
ly wet by people employed for the purpose, and
the breeze, in passing through it, acquires, from

LIFE IN INDIA. 45
the rapid evaporation of the water, such a cool
ness as makes the thermometer sink sometimes
twelve or fifteen degress below the natural tem
perature of the atmosphere. The tatty, no
doubt, affords great relief from the heat, which
would otherwise be nearly insupportable ; but
I suspect that most people would be better
pleased were the climate so cool as to render this
kind of artificial refrigeration unnecessary. In
England, a good fire, during chill weather, is
actually a much greater luxury than tatties are
in the greatest heats of India ; yet people usu
ally regard the former as one of the first neces
saries of life, while they sometimes mention the
latter as one of the voluptuous enjoyments that
are peculiar to Asia.
Those things alone which add directly to
human enjoyment can properly be called luxu
ries, not those that merely ameliorate human
suffering. Therefore, the punkah, the cuscus,
the mosqueto-fan, the palanquin, &c. belong
to the latter class, and, instead of being delight
ful superfluities, are actual necessaries of life ;

46 LIFE IN INDIA.
with this peculiarity, however, that the more
requisite they are, the more uncomfortable must
be the condition of those who employ them.
When the conjoined use of the three first-men
tioned Asiatic conveniences is required at a din
ner-party, it is a proof that the guests are tor
mented with the extremes of heat ; but when the
weather is cool enough to enable the latter to
dispense with them, they can generally manage
to take their meal in comparative comfort, and
without much annoyance.
From all this it will appear, that India is
not the country for social enjoyment, although
its European inhabitants possess wealth, leisure,
and facilities of intercourse, sufficient to make it
superlatively so, could they resist or escape the
benumbing and tyrannical influence of its tropi
cal climate. The heat neither renders people
inliospitable, nor prevents them from frequently
meeting together ; but it is the caUse of a lan
guor and a spiritlessness in society, which are
particularly evident to a stranger, and which
sometimes make him feel company depressing

LIFE IN INDIA. 47
instead of exhilarating. This is a source of dis
appointment to most people on first arriving in
the East, particularly if they have been taught
to believe that social life there is both fascinat
ing and brilhant. They soon find it quite the
reverse ; for, in addition to the stupifying influ
ence of the unremitting heat, it is affected by the
remoteness of India from Europe, which is the
only quarter of the world that furnishes a suf
ficient supply of events, of sources of interest,
and of intellectual excitements, to keep the
minds of refined and civilized people in a state
of activity and progression. Wherever these
are wanting, as is the case in all the British
colonies, society has a hateful degree of dulness
and insipidity in its composition. This is not
the fault of its members, but of their situation,
which shuts them out from that knowle'dge of the
march of human affairs which promotes conver
sation, and sometimes makes the dullest people
entertaining. The European inhabitants of
India receive intelligence of all the important
events that take place in Britain, and of many

48 LIFE IN INDIA.
of the minor ones ; but both are too indistinctly
reported to create interest, or to afford subjects
for conversation. It is only when people are in
the midst of things, that they are much affected
by their complexion, or anxious about their re
sults. But India never is the scene of any pub
lic occurrences that attract the attention of its
residents ; among whom consequently there is no
current fund of general interest, which they at all
times can draw upon for supplies of conversation,
as is the casein Britain and in most of the coun-.
tries of Europe.
The stranger in India immediately perceives
this deficiency of subjects of general interest,
and the narrow limits within which common
conversation is necessarily confined. The peo
ple of the East probably subsist on fewer ideas
than any other equally polished, refined, and
enlightened society whatever. They have almost
nothing to talk of but their own affairs and the
private concerns of each other ; and a person,
on first arriving among them, finds himself total
ly excluded from taking any part of their con-
2

LIFE IN INDIA. 49
versation, because he has no knowledge of the
people to whom they are constantly alluding.
An anecdote of one individual forms an intro^
duction to something about another, which again
leads to a story of a third, and they bring for
ward the whole of their acquaintances in suc
cession, and perhaps in such regular and unva
rying order, that he who has heard the catalogue
two or three times discussed, may, when any
particular name is mentioned, form a pretty cor
rect guess as to the one that will immediately
follow. This is excessively tiresome ; but one
cannot reasonably complain of its being so ; for
he ought to consider, that conversation of some
kind or other is indispensable, and that India
affords no choice of subjects ; and, in short, that
he himself, after residing a few months in the
country, will be obliged to have recourse to that
personal sort of talk which at first appeared to
him so uninteresting.
One may easily conceive what a dull affair
a large party in India usually proves, particu-r
larly if the company do not resort to music or
VOL. II. D

50 I-IFE IN INDIA.
cards. The want of subjects of conversation is
a minor evil, compared with that exhaustion
which every one feels before the evening is half
spent, and which deadens all relish for pleasure
or amusement of any kind. When strangers
meet together, they may not even be able to
converse about their acquaintances, as one party,
perhaps, knows nothing of the associates of the
other ; and the few subjects of general interest
they may have recourse to are soon exhausted.
Neither is the appearance of an Asiatic drawing-
room calculated to dispose people to sociahty.
It may seem chimerical to say that the aspect
of an apartment ever can have any effect of the
kind ; but we have a proof for it, when we ob
serve how a fire, a table with lights upon it, or
a couple of couches placed directly opposite to
each other, act as centres of attraction, around
which individuals assemble, and are led to en
gage in amusements or conversation. In Indian
houses, however, the large and lofty rooms, the
glimmering lamps, the scattered chairs, the open
doors and windows, and the darkness of night

LIFE IN INDIA. 51
visible through them, have an aspect of chilhness
and comfortlessness, which acts as a damper
upon one's spirits, already depressed by the heat,
and makes him regret the want of the various
little adjuncts which give a zest to social life in
northern climates, and which can neither be ob
tained nor enjoyed in the East.
When it is considered how constantly the
conversation of the people in India turns upon
the affairs of one another, it may be supposed
that they have a great propensity for scandal.
This certainly is the case ; however, much as
they love domestic news, they cannot be ac
cused of talking with malignant complacency of
the faults and frailties of their acquaintances.
Every thing is said in a good-natured way, and
the personalities which they utter hinge chiefly
upon ridiculous points in the characters, man
ners, and opinions, of those to whom they refer.
Constant habits of observation of external beha
viour, produced by the vacuity of mind, and
the wearisome idleness incidental to life in the
East, have endued people there with much quick-

52 LIFE IN INDIA.
ness of perception on subjects of this nature, and
they satirize the weaknesses, foibles, and singu
larities, of each other with considerable humour
and dexterity. This is often carried to such an
extent, that, in a house where there is a constant
succession of morning visitors, a running conver
sation of the kind will be kept up for hours to
gether, each person, when he takes leave, afford
ing a source of talk and merriment to those that
remain, and likewise to those that enter, and
continuing to engross their attention till another
individual quits the company, and supplies fresh
sport to its members, after they have nearly
run down the game that had broke cover before
him. All this sort of thing is comparatively
harmless, because mahgnity has no part in it,
and because nothing ever is said that can lower
the individual under review in the estimation of
others ; for it may be observed, that the good
nature and forbeai-ance with which people in
India talk of the peculiarities of their acquaint
ances is extended to their moral frailties also.
The indiscretions of both sexes are usually re-

LIFE IN INDIA. 53
garded with much lenity ; and when such are
made the subject of conversation, they generally
are treated with ridicule, but never are malig
nantly brought forward for the purpose of de
forming and calumniating the guilty persons.
A scandalous story is circulated with such ra
pidity, and every one expresses so much anxiety
to learn the particulars of it, that a stranger
would be inclined to attribute the eagerness for
intelligence to a latent love of mischief and
slander ; but this is not the case ; for the persons
most active in propagating the tale or report,
always are aware that its publicity will not in
jure the respectabihty of the individual who is
impUcated in it. The feelings of Europeans in
India, on points of violated morality, resemble
those that are current in the fashionable world
in England, being only rather less fastidious. In
the former country, the stigma attached to profli
gacy and licentiousness in either sex is so slight,
that people do not hesitate to accuse oiie another
of laxity of conduct on the most fallacious
grounds ; and the utmost purity of life and

54 LIFE IN INDIA.
correctness of manners sometimes prove insuffi
cient to secure a female from being suspected of
errors and levities which are alike repugnant to
her principles and to her inclinations^
Indeed, the disgusting licentiousness with
which women of the best reputation are talked
of forms the chief defilement of Indian society,
and the only base and vile feature in its compo
sition. No female, however correct and modest,
is safe from this kind of profanation. A scan
dalous story, affecting or involving the reputa
tion of a woman, is propagated with embellish
ments, and listened to with the utmost avidity,
particularly by old Indians. They gloat over
a recital of the kind with the epicurism of prac
tised debauchees, and try to rival each other in
the amount and rankness of the offerings which
they scatter upon the altar of voluptuousness and
obscenity. Though general conversation in India, as I
have already remarked, consists almost entirely
of personalities, the society does not afford so
much scope for them as might be expected,

LIFE IN INDIA. 55
One would suppose that the idleness, liberty of
action, and pecuniary resources enjoyed by
Europeans in the East, would, by affording
every person the means of indulging his favour
ite propensities, elicit and bring into action a
vast variety of peculiarities connected with hu
man manners, opinions, occupations, and amuse.
ments. In India, however, the surface of society
is not diversified with any thing of the kind.
The enervating influence of the climate, proba
bly in most cases, weakens the mental energies
so much, that people lose all excitement to
action, and become too indolent even to follow
their own inchnations, except in the most com
mon affairs of life. AU those whims, caprices,
and riots of fancy, which lead men into eccen
tricities of conduct, and produce in them pecu
liarities of character and manners, are rendered
torpid ; for the journey of life, even when per
formed in the smoothest way, is stiU so fatiguing,
that the traveUer feels unwilling to increase his
toils by wandering into by-paths, though he
should think them agreeable ones.

56 LIFE IN INDIA.
Nevertheless, the individuals belonging to
each different grade of rank in the military ser
vice collectively exhibit some general peculiar
ity of character. Almost all subalterns are de
voted to field-sports and horse-racing, often to
the ruin of their constitutions and future pros
pects. Unfavourable as the climate is for these
pursuits, they are entered into with a degree of
enthusiasm that probably is unknown in other
countries. Sporting affairs form the chief sub
jects of conversation among young men every
where, and particularly at regimental messes,
where the various details of the chase, of cours
ing, of dog-training, and of betting, are daily
entered into with a minuteness that seems very
tiresome to those who feel no interest in such
matters. However, when one considers the
boldness of spirit which hunting excites, and the
fine training which its practice affords to the
young soldier, he will he inclined to regard the
prevailing taste for field-sports in India as a be
neficial thing. Young officers, without some such
stimulus to personal activity, would become too

LIFE IN INDIA. 57
indolent and effiminate to encounter the fatigues
of a campaign, or to be at all effecient when their
services were required against an enemy.
When a man attains the rank of captain,
(which he seldom does in less than fifteen years
from the time of his entering the service,) he
usually becomes comparatively sedate and cau
tious. He renounces all the more violent kinds
of field-sports, and is careful of endangering his
health by excesses or needless exposures to the
chmate. He also sets about paying his debts,
and perhaps thinks of eventually saving money.
He improves the interior of his house, com
mences smoking the hookah, gives dinners, and
cultivates social pleasures, and complains of his
slow promotion. A disposition to indolence and
to domestic comfort gradually steals upon him,
and he begins to wish earnestly for a good ap
pointment, and to exert himself in procuring
one, A captain, who has served seventeen or
eighteen years, perhaps affords the best speci
men that can be found of the manners, opinions,

58 LIFE IN INDIA.
and habits of feeling, which a long residence in
India generates in a European.
The officer who has arrived at his majority,
or lieutenant-colonelcy, in general renounces
most of his Asiatic pursuits and amusements,
and directs aU his thoughts towards his native
country. His grand object is now to return to
it, and he is continually planning how he may
best and soonest accomplish this. He follows a
system of retrenchment, overlooks his agent's
accounts, and watches the fluctuations in the
rates of exchange between India and England.
An army-list, covered with pencil-marks, lies
constantly on his table ; and he begins to won
der how his seniors in the regiment contrive to
hold out so long. At length, when exhausted
by suspense and delay, and on the point of em
barking for Europe, he gets a step in the ser
vice, which brings him so near having another,
that he abandons aU immediate intention of
leaving India, and perhaps remains in the coun
try till he dies, or becomes a general officer.

LIFE IN INDIA. 59
In Britain, people appear to have pretty
correct ideas of the general state of Indian
society ; for it exhibits much of that smoothness
of manners and amenity of feeling which they
suppose to be its characterizing features. A
stranger in the East is struck with the freedom
from restraint with which men enter into conver
sation and exchange the civilities of life, and
with the frankness they use when talking of
their own affairs. They have a mutual confidence,
which dispels the reserve that in Europe infects
people who are little acquainted with each other,
and represses the spirit of sociality. In India,
every person is equally independent if he chooses
to be so ; and the place which he holds in society
is not at all affected by the amount of fortune.
Rank in the service forms the chief ground of
distinction and consequence ; however, a man
cannot rationally assume much upon a superior
ity of this kind, which has nothing exclusive in
it, hke titles or high birth, but which is common
to many of his contemporaries, and equally at
tainable by aU of his juniors who choose to wait

60 LIFE IN INDIA.
till promotion elevates them. In India, a man
does not require the aid of talents and industry
to ensure to himself prosperity and advance
ment. These are within the reach of.all who
discharge their duties ; and the possession of
them, consequently, does not argue any intellec
tual superiority in him to whom they belong.
This state of things, by placing every man's'
fortune on the same basis, and making its tenor
in a great measure beyond his control, neutral
izes those elements of envy and jealousy that
are inherent in most minds, and renders useless
all rivalry and competition in the general affairs
of life. In India, no man stands in the way of
another, except in so far as his promotion is con
cerned ; and few people are sufficiently depraved
to feel evilly-disposed towards their seniors
under such circumstances.
It may easily be conceived, that the inatten
tion to pecuniary matters, which the liberal in
comes and independent prospect of Europeans
in India admit of, promotes a generosity of
feeling on all subjects connected with money,

LIFE IN INDIA. 61
and likewise on others of a different nature.
The economy and cautiousness of expenditure
that are requisite, even among people of some
fortune in Britain, have a great effect in hard
ening the heart, weakening the principles of
benevolence, and creating a narrowness of feel
ing, which goes far to affect the general tenor of
their opinions. There is nothing of this kind
in India ; for there one gets his money with so
little trouble, and with so much certainty, that
he puts a comparatively small value upon it,
unless when naturally avaricious. Many per
sons never see money for years together, the
.business of receiving their monthly incomes,
and of paying their household expenses, de
volving upon their clerks or dependants. In
deed, the trouble of studying domestic ways
and means, were it necessary in India, would be
insupportable. Life there is too fragile and
unenergetic in its character to be disturbed by
disquieting calculations and provident anxieties
about the future. To the fatigue of living it

62 LIFE IN INDIA.
would not do to add that of contriving how to
live. But, favourable as the state of India society
apparently is to the existence and interchange
of the humane affections, selfishness forms a
predominant feature in its composition, — not
that paltry selfishness which shews itself in the
daily affairs of life, but that general kind, which
makes one shut his heart against all ties and
predilections that may affect his personal comfort,
his convenience, or his interest. That mildness
of manner, and that suavity of behaviour, which
characterize the common intercourse of men in
India, are quite superficial and unmeaning. The
most intimate acquaintances feel little actual re
gard or concern for each other. Strong friend
ships do not exist in either sex. People even
make their partialities a matter of convenience,
at least in so far as they forget and become in
different to those they most loved, when they
happen to be removed from them. In no part
of the world is a man sooner consigned to obli-

LIFE IN INDIA. 63
vion after he is dead than in India ; and no where
do people take leave of their most intimate as
sociates with more calmness and carelessness.
This state of feeling ought not to be condemned.
Though bad and objectionable in the abstract,
it is well adapted to the condition and circum
stances of Europeans in the East. There, a
man has a thousand powerful reasons to deter
him from forming ties of any kind, or entangling
his feelings in any way, that may eventually af
fect his happiness. He never can be sure of re
maining in one place for any considerable length
of time ; and his friendships, if he has formed any,
are thus Ijable to be broken in upon in the most
sudden manner. He perhaps changes his as
sociates and acquaintances every year or two ;
for death is constantly at work among them, and
they are as much exposed to removal to distant
spots as he is himself. It is therefore his in
terest to avoid aU strong and permanent attach
ments to persons, to places, and to things, and
to have his feehngs and affections as portable as
his camp-equipage. If, in pursuing this plan.

64 LIFE IN INDIA.
he circumscribes his means of enjoyment, he also
diminishes the number of his regrets, and quali
fies himself for living contentedly in a country
where his happiness is the more secure the less
it is connected with the external circumstances
in which he chances to be placed.
The influence of climate is not the only
thing that affects the character of social inter
course in the East, and renders it dull and unin
teresting. The generality of the people them
selves are defective in many of those qualities
that are essential to the composition of good
society. India is not the country for acquiring
a knowledge of life and manners, or indeed of
almost any thing else that is worth knowing;
and the attainments of most of those that come
to it are, as may well be conceived, of a very
slender description. The cadet, who enters the
Company's army at the age of fourteen, cannot
be supposed to be acquainted with any thing
beyond the common and fundamental branches
of education. He probably never has been ten
miles from his father's house, nor has read any

LIFE IN INDIA. 65
book except Robinson Crusoe: with such qua
lifications he embarks for India, rises in the ser
vice, and perhaps becomes a leading member in
society. Can much knowledge, taste, or general
information, be expected to be current in a cir
cle of this kind .'' It may be said that the young
cadet will supply the deficiencies of his original
education after arriving in the East ; but this can
not be admitted. He will very seldom have the
inclination, and still seldomer the means of doing
so. The aversion to intellectual pursuits, pro
duced by the enervating influence of the climate,
the general neglect and disesteem with which
they are treated, and the contagious indolence
and idleness of his companions, will extinguish
all desire for mental improvement and superior
ity. On the other hand, should he feel anxious
to attain these, it will probably be out of his
power. Stationed, perhaps, in a remote part of
the country, shut out from society, destitute *of
books, and irresolute, from acquired habits of in
attention, his studious propensities will soon de
sert him beyond recall, and he will eventually
VOL. II. E

66 LIFE IN INDIA.
adopt the same mode of life and style of amuse
ments that are followed by his young brother
officers. He alone who has lived in India, and has
observed the tenor of existence usual among
Europeans there, can conceive how essential in
tellectual pursuits of some kind or other must
be to their happiness. The country furnishes
no resources that are capable of yielding con
stant avocation and amusement to persons who
have so much leisure on their hands as those in
the Company's service ; and he who possesses no
fund of recreation within himself, must make life
a scene of frivolity or of absolute idleness. One
of these two extremes is adopted by many men ;
some devote themselves entirely to hunting and
shooting, and to rearing dogs and horses ; others
to dressing themselves and intriguing ; a third
class to eating, drinking, and smoking ; and no
inconsiderable number to drowsy inaction and
prolonged sleep.
Nothing can be more ill-judged, than the
prevalent practice of sending boys to India be-

LIFE IN INDIA. 67
fore they have completed their education. It
is generally thought to be very desirable that
cadets should enter the service at an early age ;
and they are consequently hurried from home
before they have had time to acquire any of
those habits, tastes, propensities, and resources,
that would enable them to furnish themselves
with means of enjoyment in all circumstances
and situations, and to render their exile sup
portable and even agreeable. He who has the
prospect of residing twenty years in India,
ought to be qualified for this long banishment
by much previous mental preparation. It is a
general opinion, that those persons who are
destined for the East require nothing of the
kind; and, in a certain sense, it is a correct
one; for a man may indeed keep alive, dis
charge his duties, make money, and rise in the
service, without any extraordinary attainments ;
but he will not be capable of putting to flight
weariness, discontent, and ennui. It will not
be in his power to render life interesting and
pregnant with pleasure, in situations that neither

68 LIFE IN INDIA.
afford him society nor any other external
sources of enjoyment. If, under such circum
stances, his own mind cannot answer the de
mands which he must make upon it, his condi
tion will be a miserable one. This is daUy ex
emplified at out-posts in India ; the officers who
occupy them being sometimes entirely shut out
from the civilized world, and quite debarred
from participating even in its most communic
able advantages. Constant and active occupa
tion itself would hardly secure a man so situated
from the inroads of ennui ; and it is easy to con
ceive how intolerable the abundant leisure that
belongs to all the members of the Indian army
would be to him, had he no favourite pursuit or
avocation to which he could apply himself.- The
idle man is miserable in England, but still more
so in India. In the former country, however
secluded he may be, he always can indulge in
locomotion, and substitute activity of body for
the exercises of the mind ; but the climate of the
East will not admit of this kind of pastime ; and
every European there, who studies health and

LIFE IN INDIA. 69
personal comfort, must reconcile himself to seven
or eight hours of daily confinement within doors.
Should he have no domestic avocations or pur
suits to fill up this long space of time, or no so
ciety to supply him with ideas, he will be apt
to wish for a fate similar to that of the Seven
Sleepers. These considerations will shew the bad
policy of sending young men to India before
they have acquired those habits and qualifica
tions which are essential to happiness in that
country. Their education should be as com
plete and comprehensive as possible, instead of
being limited to the most common and necessary
branches. This plan of course would prevent
them from entering the service at so early an
age as they do at present ; but the advantage
arising from the delay would liberaUy compen
sate for the attendant sacrifice of a few years.
The cadet destined for the East has compara
tively little chance of living to revisit his native
country ; but, even supposing he had a certainty
of surviving his long period of service, it would

70 LIFE IN INDIA.
be of little importance to him whether his de
finitive return home took place when his age
was forty-five or fifty ; while the constant plea
sure and satisfaction which he would derive
from his mental accomplishments, during his
sojourn in the East, would prove of incalculable
value to him, and make him regard as any thing
but lost the time he had spent in axjquiring
them. To those who never have been in the East,
it may be difficult to conceive how the residents
at small out-posts contrive to pass their time.
In large cantonments people usually spend the
morning in paying and receiving visits, the
afternoon in taking tiffin and sleeping, and the
evening in attending parties ; but where there is
no society, this style of life of course cannot be
adopted. Even the tiffin and succeeding slum
ber are then discarded, early dinners rendering
the one unnecessary and the other inconvenient ;
and people live almost entirely in the English
style, with the exclusion, however, of suppers
and late hours. In India, the recreations which

LIFE IN INDIA. 71
can be pursued out of doors are very limited in
number. Riding and walking cannot be at
tempted with comfort except before sunrise and
after sunset ; but during the first period one
feels more inclined to sleep than to take exer
cise ; and when the latte"r arrives, he is too much
fatigued to enjoy locomotion of any kind.
Bodily exercise, when pursued for its own sake,
being in a manner forced, is usually abridged
as much as seems consistent with a due re
gard to health, and occupies a very small por
tion of any individual's time. In the morning,
it is succeeded by the labours of the toilet,
which are commonly prolonged till breakfast is
nearly ready. This meal is always a substantial
one, consisting, in addition to its usual requi
sites, of fish, eggs, ham, fruit, 8ec. On its be
ing ended, the company rise from table, and be
gin to occupy themselves as they severally in
cline, or continue conversing for some time.
Any trifle serves to engage and amuse the mind
in India. It would appear that the debUitat-
ing influence of the heat is exerted upon the

72 LIFE IN INDIA.
faculties as well as upon the body, and that the
range of the former is narrowed in proportion to
the limitation which takes place in the activity
of the latter. One day's observation of a party
of Europeans in the East would serve to illus
trate this, and to shew what a degree of fatigue
attends even the exertion of amusing one's self
there. •
About noon people usually abandon their
respective employments from mere exhaustion,
and saunter about the room, or stretch them
selves on couches, till the approach of the dinner
hour hurries them to their toilets ; from which
they return in a state of comparative renovation
and viva,city. This is increased by the meal,
and by the agreeable stimulus of a moderate
quantity of wine, and they continue on tolera
bly good terms with themselves and with one
another till they get up from table. An attack
of languor is then liable to supervene. This,
however, is partly dissipated by the evening
ride, and by the tea which follows it ; and, pro
vided the weather is cool, and the party not

LIFE IN INDIA. 73
large, time passes rather pleasantly till about
nine o'clock, when it becomes necessary to take
another exhilarant in the form of brandy and
water, which in some degree supports the spirits
tiU the usual hour of repose arrives. It might
naturally be supposed that the prospect of going
to bed, after a day of languor, would be an
agreeable one, — -but far from it. The couch
seldom affords refreshing and undisturbed re
pose. Sleep is frightened away and interrupt
ed by a thousand different causes. The heat
perhaps is oppressive, and produces restlessness
and fever ; flights of mosquetoes annoy by their
stinging and by their ceaseless hum ; the bat
wheels in circles around the head, and threatens
to alight upon it; jackalls howl within a few
yards of the bedchamber, or the ear is tortured
by the discordancy of Asiatic music, and serenad
ed by the barking of innumerable Paria dogs ;
and the morning finds the person who has been
exposed to all these miseries unvisited by slum
ber, and more exhausted than he was the pre
ceding night when he first lay down.

74 LIFE IN INDIA.
It will appear, from this sketch of a day's
existence in the East, that life there, in most
instances, consists chiefly of a succession of
struggles against personal inconveniences and
bodily uneasiness, and that those energies, which
people in temperate climates employ in aug
menting their sources of positive enjoyment, are
expended in diminishing the causes of positive
suffering. The means which in India are
adopted to alleviate the heat are of comparative
ly little avail. They affect the ima^nations of
those for whose benefit they are resorted to
more than they do the thermometers that hang
in their houses. The influence of the climate
can be successfully resisted only by withdraw
ing the attention from it. When the mind is
idle the body is delicate. Constant employment
renders one almost insensible to the heat, and
invigorates the frame infinitely more than the
combined operation of fans, punkahs, and tatties,
even can do. But this plan cannot be pursued
without considerable exertion ; for that over
whelming languor and indolence, which seem to

LIFE IN INDIA. 75
be interwoven with existence in the East, and
which prove hostile to any sort of activity, how
ever agreeable in itself, must first be overcome
and put to flight. Repeated efforts will not fail
to effect this ; and when a man has once got
into regular habits of employment, he will suf
fer comparatively little exhaustion from the heat,
and will enjoy much better health and spirits
than he would otherwise do. This is the only
system that can render life tolerable in India ;
and one must adopt it in the early part of his
career there, otherwise it will become impractic
able. He, who passively yields up soul and
body to the enervating dominion of the climate,
will gradually acquire a torpidity of mind, such
as will render him incapable of any higher en
joyment than what arises from exemption from
actual suffering.
It might naturally be supposed that the in
dolence and idleness prevalent among Eij^o-
peans in India, and the scantiness of their means
of amusement, would dispose them to indulge
in the lower kinds of dissipation, such as gam-

76 LIFE IN INDIA.
ing and intemperance in wine. Both, however,
are comparatively very rare, though there is no
country in which such excesses would be more
excusable. A propensity for high play is com
mon to the inhabitants of almost all hot climates;
and that it so seldom shews itself in India is
indicative of the good taste and inteUectual
resources of their white population. Indeed,
the correct conduct of the Indian army is be
coming more conspicuous every year ; and when
one considers the temptations to excesses of
every kind with which the military life abounds,
and the facihties of committing them which
the country affords, it seems astonishing that
Europeans in the East should keep at all within
the pales of moderation, temperance, and pro
priety, or resist the misleading influence of idle
ness, wealth, high living, and an inflaming
climate. Those three powerful causes of restraint,
which, in Europe, influence the tenor of most
people's lives, are unfelt and unknown in Indian
society. There., moral feeling, a desire for the

LIFE IN INDIA. 77
good opinion of the world, and for the esteem
and respect of the female sex, do not, in general,
collectively or individually, deter men from out
raging propriety, or committing reprehensible
actions. In most instances, correct conduct is
the result of good feehng and honourable pro
pensities, not of conformity to any set of regu
lating principles, or of any sense of duty or of
future responsibility.
Religion and its external observances are as
much neglected in India as in other tropical
climates. Military men, during the early part
of their career in the East, are usually posted in
remote parts of the country, where moral con
siderations are never presented to their minds
under any form or by any accident. They con
sequently seldom think about religion, and are
inclined to be very sceptical when they do. De
liberate infidelity, however, I believe to be un
common in India. To use an expression of Dr
Johnson's, " the people are infidels, as dogs
are infidels, that is to say, they have never
thought upon the subject."

78 LIFE IN INDIA.
A desire for the good opinion of the world
operates much less strongly upon men's conduct
in India than in Britain, their prosperity and
advancement not being affected by the estima
tion in which they are held by the society in
which they live, and the members of that so
ciety viewing with lenity and indifference those
excesses which, in other countries, would injure
the reputation and respectability of the persons
who committed them.
In the middle and well-principled classes of
society in England, the fear of forfeiting the re
spect and good opinion of the female sex often
deters men from violating decorum and the es
tablished rules of morality, when they would
otherwise do so without hesitation. In India,
however, this restraining principle is very limit
ed in its influence. There a vast majority of
the Europeans are stationed at places where
they scarcely ever see a white woman ; and
when they happen to have an opportunity of
enjoying female society, it usually is that of
married ladies, whose good graces, even in Eng-

LIFE IN INDIA. 79
land, are prized and cultivated by the generali
ty of young men, only in so far as the posses
sion of them may be the means of facilitating
their intercourse with the youthful and unwed-
ded part of the sex, and of rendering themselves
respectable in the eyes of the latter. But the
fact is, that in India even single women lose
much of that scrupulousness of feeling that pre
vails among the sex at home, and endeavour to
shut their eyes to the dissipations of their male
acquaintances, or at least do not regard them
with such dislike or indignation as to refuse to
countenance or associate with guilty persons.
In no part of the world, I believe, are wo
men objects of such unremitting attention as in
India. Whether married or single, they receive
constant homage from men of all ranks. Osten
sibly they are of much greater consequence in
society than in Britain ; but actually they are of
much less, at least iii so far as regards the influ
ence they exert upon the characters, conduct,
and opinions of the male sex. In the East, wo
men are courted and caressed, partly because

80 LIFE IN INDIA.
they are scarce, and partly because their society
is agreeable and interesting ; but they excite
none of that enthusiastic passion, and devout
and pure admiration, which give them a presid
ing power over the destinies of the opposite sex,
and lend a dignity and consequence to the part
they perform in the various duties and relations
of domestic life. In India, women are admired
and valued more for the sake of their persons
than on account of the fascinating influences
which belong to their characters, manners, affec
tions, and accomplishments, when such inter
weave themselves with the daily routine of a
man's existence.
That this is the case is the fault of the male
sex ; the circumstances of whose juvenile life al
ways are unfavourable to their acquiring refined
and exalted ideas of female worth and purity.
It is the passion of love alone, as felt at an early
age, that awakens the mind to all the finer in
fluences of female character, and leaves impres
sions, recollections, and associations, which ever
afterwards continue to sublimate a man's ideas
2

LIFE IN INDIA. 81
of women, and to invest the sex with attractions
which are not perceptible to those who have
never experienced the ardours of a youthful at
tachment. In Britain, almost every young man
has at one time or other known something of the
kind ; and from this partly arises that respect
ful, pure, and delicate regard, in which the fe
male character is almost universally held there.
But the cadet has no opportunity of acquiring a
sentiment of this nature; for he embarks for
India when a boy, and is transferred to a coun
try where he is totally excluded from female
society, and where the degraded condition of the
native women, and the intercourse he sees others
keep up with them, combine to corrupt his
principles, and to make his opinions of the sex
those of a stupid profligate and of a hardened
sensualist. In India, very little social intercourse takes
place between tlie younger part of the sexes,
even in situations that are favourable for it.
The object, which most of the females who
come to the country have in view, is that of
VOL. II. F

82 LIFE IN INDIA.
marrying well, and of securing a good establish
ment. These, as they soon perceive, they can
not obtain by connecting themselves with per
sons who are young in the service, and conse
quently they neither encourage the attentions of
such nor feel any pleasure in their company.
A subaltern is an object of total indifference to
a woman, unless he has a large income, which
very seldom is the case. However, should he
happen to feel and betray any partiality for an
individual of the kind, her friends or guardians
wUl take care to prevent her from carrying the
degrading propensity to any length, and to pro
mote the advances and throw her in the way of
men of suitable rank and fortune. Those little
gaUantries and romantic partialities, that are so
common among young people in Britain, are
totally unknown in India. No man, who has
less than forty pounds a month, is thought en
titled to offer particular attentions to an unmar
ried female, because he is not what is termed
" an eligible," or, in other words, because he
would not form an advantageous match. All

LIFE IN INDIA. 83
this tends to make European female society in
different, or even disagreeable, to young men in
the East. They will not submit to be neglected
and looked down upon by women, who perhaps
are their inferiors in birth, education, and man
ners, and take their revenge by talking and
thinking slightingly of their female acquaint
ances, however little they may merit such treat
ment. The sketches which I have given of the state
of society in the East, will perhaps convey un
favourable impressions" of the country ; and it
will therefore be proper to say, that, though
India has a dark side, it also has a fair one.
Who could endure to live in it were not this the
case.? The man who embarks for its shores
throws himself in the way of encountering many
inconveniences to which he would be a stranger
were he to remain in his native land, and also
makes some sacrifices for which he will scarcely
find a compensation; but he at once escapes
from the struggles with fortune, the uncertain
success, and the continual labour, that would, in

84 LIFE IN INDIA.
all probability, attend his career in any line of
life at home, and secures to himself an inde
pendence, which grows more abundant and
more easily acquired as his age advances.
Those who enter the military branch of the
Company's service, do not indeed receive a great
deal of pay at first ; but it is quite sufficient to
support them in comfort and respectability, and
in a style suitable to their rank in the arm}-,
provided they neither gamble nor engage in
horse-racing, nor get in debt at the commence
ment of their career. No man in India need
give himself the least anxiety about the future,
in so far as regards the means of subsistence.
Even supposing he makes a practice of spending
every shilling he receives, he has only to remain
in the country till his period of service entitles
him to a pension sufficient for his comfortable
support at home. His style of life is the most
easy and gentleman-like in the world, if he
chooses to make it so. He enjoys every requi
site for engaging in his favourite pursuits and
avocations, as far as leisure and pecuniary re-

LIFE IN INDIA. 85
sources go ; and, when within the reach of so
ciety, may either select a set of companions, or
associate with the whole circle, or live in com
parative solitude and seclusion, as happens to be
most agreeable to his taste. All his domestic
arrangements may be formed on a liberal plan ;
he may be as hospitable as he pleases, and may
have servants, horses, carriages, and other con
veniences, at command. It is true that, in the
midst of all this, he may be carried off by an
attack of cholera — driven mad by a stroke of
the sun — rendered hypochondriac by a diseased
liver, or forced to quit the service by confirmed
bad health ; but were he in his native country
he might be killed by typhus fever, thrown into
a jail on account of debt, instead of a lunatic
asylum, made miserable by pecuniary embarrass
ments, or obhged, by iU success, to abandon one
line of life and to adopt another. Dr Johnson
has made the following remark : — " A man had
better have ten thousand pounds at the end of
ten years passed in England, than twenty thou.

86 LIFE IN INDIA.
sand pounds at the end of ten years passed in
India ; because you must compute what you
give for money ; and a man who has lived ten
years in India has given up ten years of social
comfort, and all those advantages which arise
from living in England." This would be as
just an estimate of the thing as possible, were a
man certain of having ten thousand pounds after
ten years of active employment at home, and of
enjoying a liberal income during that period.
" Ten years of the social comfort and of all
those advantages which arise from living in
England," are worth more than ten thousand
pounds to him who has the means and oppor
tunity of enjoying them. And no one who pos
sessed these means, or had a sure prospect of
possessing them, would embark for India. But
if he is without either, he sacrifices little in
quitting his native country. Its social comfort
and peculiar advantages are not common to all
that reside in it, but must be purchased and
paid for at a very high rate ; and the man who

LIFE IN INDIA. 87
is unable to do this, can no more participate in
them than he could do were he in Kamtschatka
or Arabia Deserta.
It is supposed in England, that the climate
is the chief source of a European's sufferings in
India ; but quite incorrectly. I believe that the
generality of people who come to Asia find the
heat much less intense and annoying than they
expected, and that a few years' residence in the
country makes them almost callous to its influ
ence. It is not uncommon to hear Indians as
sert, that the cliniate they are living in is much
superior to that of Britain, and that their great
est objection to returning home is the coldness
and variableness of the seasons there. In India,
all the inconveniences arising from extreme
warmth are counteracted as much as possible,
and people scarcely ever find it necessary to ex
pose themselves to the sun. The general un
healthiness of our Asiatic possessions has like
wise been greatly exaggerated ; and if one con
siders how constantly their European inhabit
ants lay themselves open to causes of disease, it

88 LIFE IN INDIA.
wUl appear astonishing that the mortality
amongst them is not greater. Whenever a man
dies in India, people conceive that he has fallen
a victim to the climate, though the cause of his
death may have been one that is common to all
countries. Notwithstanding all the miseries incidental
to life in India, the Europeans there are a cheer
ful, sociable, and, I believe, upon the whole, a
tolerably happy people. They lead an easy, in
dolent, careless, and imaginative life ; and, if
they have not very abundant and exalted means
of enjoyment in their power, they, in compensa
tion, meet with comparatively few crosses and
vexations.' Almost none of them are quite
satisfied, neither are almost any absolutely dis
contented ; and even those who dislike India at
first, seldom fail to become reconciled to it, or
at least to get resigned to their exile, before
they have served many years in the countrj'.
It will be observed, that, in the above enu
merations of the advantages belonging to life
in India, I have not included that of acquiring

LIFE IN INDIA. 89
a fortune, which is the one that is most dazzling
to people in England, and most frequently dwelt
upon by them. There, many persons suppose
that a man who goes to the East must get rich
as a matter of course. This is a complete delu
sion. At present, very few Indians succeed in
accumulating any wealth; and, even formerly,
when the service afforded many more facilities
of the kind than it does now, the number of
officers who returned home rich was trifling,
compared with the multitudes that were detain
ed in the country by the want of resources, or
quitted it with nothing but their pensions. Un
der the present system, there are no by-ways of
making money, at least none that can be honest
ly pursued. An officer's military pay and allow
ances form his whole income, of which he can
not, in general, save much, if he lives in a style
suitable to his rank and to the situation that he
holds. People do still, sometimes, acquire im
mense fortunes in India ; but then they are to
be suspected of peculation and mal-practices,
and would, in general, I suspect, feel rather

90 LIFE IN INDIA.
puzzled were they requested to explain how
they accumulated their wealth. I am wilhng to
acknowledge, however, that neither the number
nor the amount of the fortunes now made, is
equal to what it might be, were people to hus
band their means and study economy ; but no
person of liberal ideas can patiently submit to
such a plan in India, where life, to be at aU
comfortable, requires the aid of many expensive
accompaniments and conveniences. The dura
tion of a man's existence is likewise so uncertain,
that he feels inclined to enjoy himself while he
can. If young in the service, he is little dispos
ed to circumscribe his pleasures that he may
save money, which is to lay useless and unem
ployed till the doubtful period arrives when he
is to have the means of returning to his native
country. A stranger in the East would suppose, from
the conversation of its European residents, that
the hope of revisiting home supported their spirits
more than any thing else, and formed a subject
of constant and delightful anticipation ; but.

LIFE IN INDIA. 91
notwithstanding a great deal of talk, their feel
ings upon this point are neither vivid nor strong.
One daily hears old Indians speak of their
homes, and of the pleasurable associations that
belong to the idea of them ; but it is easy to
perceive that those remembrances are exceed
ingly faint, confused, and incorrect. What
can a person, who has left his native country at
the age of fourteen, recollect about it that is
worth recollecting . I* AU his impressions must
refer to boyish habits and boyish enjoyments,
both of which he knows will be quite unsuitable
to his taste and advanced years when he returns
to the scenes of his early life.
Most of the old Indians who go home are,
I beheve, disappointed. The cause of this lies
in themselves, not in the country which they re
visit. They have no definite idea of what they
ought to expect, but anticipate innumerable plea
sures and a constant succession of amusements,
without knowing from what sources they are to
be derived. They soon become tired of the novel
ties and frivolities that at first serve to occupy

92 LIFE IN INDIA.
their attention. In conversing with Indians,
who were on a visit to their native country, or
who had returned to the East after making one,
I have usually found that their chief sources
of interest and gratification had been derived
from the trashy pageantry of the theatres, street-
riots in London, bull-fights, and pugilism, car
icature-shops, coffee-houses, and the more ob
vious peculiarities of British manners and modes
of life. Such things, in general, afford a very
temporary and superficial kind of attraction,
which, when it wears off, leaves the person, once
under its influence, destitute of amusement, and
out of humour with himself.
Old Indians, who have not taken advantage
of their furlough after ten years service, feel
quite but of their element on first arriving in
England. The customs of the country are as
strange and new to them as were those of the
East the day they landed on its shores. This
circumstance does not make them awkward and
abashed, most of them having too much of the
gentlemen in their address for that ; but they get

LIFE IN INDIA. 93
fractious and impatient, and scorn to be taught
those things of which it is no disgrace to them
to be ignorant. They usually carry an air of
uncomfort and dissatisfaction about them ; and
are often silent and reserved in company, not
from pride or diffidence, but from the want of
something to say. An old Indian, just return
ed home, is a person who presents nothing envi
able in his circumstances, except his wealth,
should he happen to have any ; and this often
proves inadequate to his purposes. For he,
perhaps, finds that he cannot afford to live in
the style that he proposed to do, and he bears
a retrenchment of his comforts with a very bad
grace. People returning from the East make
great mistakes about the value of money in
England, and about the expenses that attend
living there. They go home, as they suppose,
with the means of supporting an elegant esta
blishment, and of purchasing every comfort and
convenience ; but find, to their disappointment,
that their incomes hardly suffice to procure what
they have been accustomed to consider the neces-

94 LIFE IN INDIA.
saries of life. The study and practice of domes
tic economy becomes intolerable to them after
having neglected both for years ; and they, per
haps, are glad to return to the East, and to re
sume the enjoyment of Asiatic indolence and
independence. The number of Indians who
feel disgusted with their native country is greater
than is generally supposed ; for they are ashamed
to confess their dislike to it. Some complain of
the badness of the climate ; others of the avarice
and illiberality of the people; a third set of
the taxes and game-laws ; and the dissatisfaction
of a fourth party arises from their having found
themselves of less consequence when at home
than they had expected to be.
Perhaps it is not generally known in Eng
land, that British India consists of three great
divisions, which are named Bengal, Madras, and
Bombay. Throughout all these, the climate,
the customs, and the mode of life followed by
Europeans, have a general similarity ; but still
the three armies belonging to the three countries
differ greatly in their respective characters.

LIFE IN INDIA. 95
Bengal is the richest and most extensive di
vision of India; and the Company's servants
there are much better paid than in Madras or
Bombay. On this ground, they arrogate to
themselves a personal and a military superiority
which does not exist, and which the officers of
the sister Presidencies very properly refuse to
acknowledge. The distinguishing qualities which
the Bengalees actually possess are indolence and
luxury ; and these arise from their having less to
do, and more to spend, than their neighbours.
They cultivate a degrading degree of laziness,
under the idea that it is dandyism and refinement.
They must have servants to assist them in the most
trifling offices, and seem to think that there is
a virtue and a dignity in giving as much trouble
as possible. Nevertheless, they are almost all gen
tlemen in manners, ideas, and appearance, and
have a high-cast military air about them, which
does not belong to the generality of the officers of
the sister Presidencies. Their social qualities are of
the first description, and acquire additional lustre
from the knowledge of the world and exteii-

96 LIFE IN INDIA.
sive information that often accompany them ; and
no man can have a little intercourse with the Ben
galees without wishing to have a great deal
more. They have one distinguishing characteristic,
which is notorious even in Britain. I mean their
love of exaggeration and rhodomontade. It
may seem unaccountable, that this propensity
should exist among the European inhabitants
of one part of India only ; but such is the case ;
for comparatively little of it can be detected in
Bombay or Madras. The fact, however, I
think, admits of easy explanation. Were the
officers belonging to the two last-mentioned esta
blishments to be as well paid, and to live in as
great luxury as those of Bengal, their imagina
tions would become equally vivid and licentious.
They would perform as extraordinary feats in
hunting, see as many strange animals, and meet
with as many wonderful adventures, as their
voluptuous neighbours, who, in point of achieve
ments, may be regarded as the knights-errant of
modern times. None but the rich, the idle, and
2

LIFE IN INDIA. 97
the pampered, ever are addicted to conversa
tional embellishments, or to passing off the ex
travagant fictions of their own imaginations for
the daily realities of common life. Whenever
the Honourable East India Directors wish to
have three gasconading armies instead of one,
they have only to issue orders, that their servants
in Bombay and Madras shall be as well paid as
those in Bengal.
The Madras and Bengal officers have not a
single trait of character in common. They are
so unlike each other, that a person, who had seen
very little of either party, could easily distin
guish them under almost any circumstances.
The Madras people are indifferent to the luxu
ries of the table, to elegant conveniences, and
sometimes even to personal comfort. They
neither are indolent nor effeminate ; and have so
little dandyism among them, that they often
neglect their dress, and look rather unmiUtary.
In elegance of manners, they are thought to be
inferior to the Bengal and Bombay officers ; and
they patronise some unpleasant customs that
VOL. II. G

98 LIFE IN INDIA.
are unknown in the neighbouring Presidencies.
They are said to love money more than other
Indians do ; but this assertion seems to be ill-
founded, most of them being very poor, and
very much in debt. They combine cleverness,
bravery, and activity, in their mUitary character ;
and are supposed, when in the field, to be the
most efficient part of the Indian army.
On looking over the preceding pages, I am led
to fear, that I have given a very unfavourable
picture of India, and, at the same time, to regret
that I cannot, consistently with truth, soften
any of the traits. However, that tone of feel
ing, and that system of life, which I have de
scribed as prevailing among European society
generally, are sometimes not at all discoverable
in domestic circles, or in the private opinions
and pursuits of individuals; and one might,
under certain circumstances, reside many years
in the country, without being aware of the exist
ence of any peculiarity of the kind It is only
on the broad surface of society, as seen in large
and populous cantonments, that the repelling

LIFE IN INDIA. 99
features of Asiatic life are obtrusively visible.
The small circles of retired out-stations display
almost none of these, and are often quite exempt
ed from their malign influence ; and it is at such
places, I beheve, that " Life in India" appears
under its most agreeable aspect. The back of
the toad, though thickly studded with venomous
blotches, StiU exhibits a few smooth spots ; and
the society of the East, though protuberant with
deformities, will afford many exceptions to its
general character, as given in the preceding
pages. I am far from asserting, that it is impossible to
enjoy much happiness in India. A moment's
recoUection would furnish me with a hundred
instances to the contrary ; in nearly all of which,
however, I should find that the sources of enjoy
ment were unconnected with the country, or, at
least, independent of it. If a man carries a store
of European ideas, pursuits, and associations,
into Asia, and takes care they shall not be cor
rupted, lost, or impaired, he may lead an agree
able enough life, and often manage to forget that

100 LIFE IN INDIA.
he is a prisoner in a tropical climate. He should
endeavour to avoid acquiring those opinions and
habits of feeling that are peculiar to it ; for he
will find that the more he approximates in every
respect to the prevailing state of things in his
native country, the happier he will be.- One,
indeed, often hears this, maxim inculcated j not
from the idea that an adherence to it will add
to present enjoyment, but as an inducement to
preserving the recollection of European manners
and customs, that people, when old Indians, may
feel at home when they do go home. The
penalties which those who have whoUy aban
doned themselves to Asiatic pi^edilections and
propensities incur, on returning to their native
land aftier a long absence, are sufficiently severe
to make any one, who has witnessed them, and
is acquainted With India, determine upon reso
lutely cherishing European recollections, feel
ings, and tastes, under all circumstances what
ever. In India, a man's happiness and personal
enjoyment are sometimes much affected by his

LIFE IN INDIA. 101
local situation. Should he be obliged to reside
in a disagreeable and unhealthy climate, he, will
find little compensation for his sufferings in any
pecuniary or other advantages which may be
long to his appointment. Climate should be
a consideration of the first importance to every
sojourner in Asia, particularly as there is much
room for choice on this point, some parts of the
country possessing a great superiority over others
in temperature and agreeableness. To have the
use of one's faculties all day, and to enjoy undis
turbed sleep at night, are things' worth purchas
ing on almost any terms ; at least, those who
have felt the enfeebling effect of constant heat,
and the harassing torments of feverish and
broken repose, will think so.
The barrenness or fertility of a country, or
its bleakness, or the beauty of its scenery, are of
no consequence in a climate where one is impri
soned within doors from sunrise to sunset. Fine
prospects cannot be enjoyed in India ; and even
rare as they are, few persons care to purchase a

102 LIFE IN INDIA.
view of them, by undergoing that exposure to
heat, dust, and fatigue, which is the usual con
sequence of rambhng abroad during daylight in
the tropics. There, trees, rivers, and cultivated
plains, yield in attractiveness to green blinds,
cool claret, and Bengal mats ; and the beauties
of nature are viewed with most pleasure and
comfort after they have been transferred to
canvass or drawing-paper, and hang upon the
walls of people's houses.
It is remarkable, however, that amateur-
gardening should be a favourite pursmt in India,
where no man can have more than two hours'
enjoyment in the open air out of the twenty-four.
But the European horticulturist, in general,
pays little attention to the productions of the
country, and seldom cares about rearing them
in perfection, his grand object being the success
ful culture of British vegetables. A vast deal
of time, money, and labour, is often expended in
this way ; and, in the majority of instances, with
out attaining the desired end. The potatoes.

LIFE IN INDIA. 103
pease, turnips, cauliflowers, Sec raised in Asia,
are nine times out of ten totally inferior to simi
lar articles in England ; but the pleased culti
vator wiU seldom acknowledge this ; and perhaps
insists upon conducting his guests or visitors
through his garden in the meridian sun, that he
may display to them stunted, shrivelled, and worm-
eaten exotics, which are to cover his table in the
evening, probably to the exclusion of those very
dishes that would alone have made his dinner
an acceptable one.
It is not my intention to ridicule the prac
tice of pleasure-gardening so common in India ;
but I think it should not be made to supersede
every thing else, as is sometimes the case.
When I enter a house, and find neither couch
nor chair, nor a common mat, nor carpet, nor
any glass in the windows, but am told by its
possessor, that he has a fine garden and plenty
of European cabbages, I cannot help smiling at
his ideas of domestic comfort, and wishing that
he would dismiss his weeders, his buUocks, and

104 LIFE IN INDIA.
his water-carriers, and convert his transitory
drooping vegetables into permanent standing
furniture. With regard to the comparative advantages
of residing in a large or in a smaU cantonment,
I am inclined to give the preference to the latter.
The society of India does not present variety
enough to render it very enUvening ; and the
only difference between an extensive and a con
fined circle is, that in the one you hear the
same things oftener repeated than in the other,
because there is a greater number of people to
repeat them. The monotony of life, in a retired
station, is such, that one ceases to expect any
novelty, and therefore never is disappointed.
He chalks out a scheme of enjoyment, and pur
sues it without interruption, — he calls all his
resources and energies into action, and learns to
make himself independent of external circum
stances, — he tries to forget that he is in Asia,
and manages to do so by thinking of things that
have no connex:ion with the country. This, I

LIFE IN INDIA. 105
suspect, is the perfection of Indian life. The
foregoing remarks of course do not apply to hog-
hunters, horse-dealers, dog-breakers, and beer-
drinkers. Their pursuits and enjoyments may
be cultivated and promoted with equal success
in almost any country ; and I do not hesitate
to pronounce them the happiest people in our
Eastern dominions.
Thus, India may be made a tolerably plea
sant place of abode, as long as one enjoys good
health, and is fortunate enough to be stationed
in a part of the country where the chmate is
agreeable; but when lingering disease and its
attendant ills begin to assail the European
resident, his exUe becomes insupportable, and
the tenor of his life one continued scene of lan
guor, depression, and misery. No energies,
however active, can successfully struggle against
bad health in Asia ; for no where does an invalid
so soon yield to despondency, or so soon be
come impatient under personal suffering. .The
lowness of spirits which, in general, accorapa-

106 LIFE IN INDIA.
nies even the slightest illness is indescribable,
and is almost always conjoined with a vehement
desire of revisiting one's native country, the
finger of nature pointing out the best and most
effectual restorative. The condition of an Indian
invalid is a truly pitiable one, particularly if he
has formed no domestic ties. He seems, as it
were, alone in the world, — he knows that he has
little claim upon the sympathy or interest of his
acquaintances, — his native attendants are people
who have no feelings in common with him,— he
enjoys no command of external resources or
pleasures, — and he lingers out, day after day,
under this single consoling impression, that his
wants will be provided for without any exertion
on his own part until he is restored to health,
or dies. But this gloomy picture never will be
realized, at least for any length of time, by
those who take care to avoid such involve
ments as may detain them in India contrary to
their inclinations. Pecuniary embarrassments,

LIFE IN INDIA. 107
resulting from a career of joyless extravagance,
often prevent the victims of tropical disease from
seeking the renovating influence of their native
skies, and there acquiring that vigour of mind,
and strength of constitution, which would make
them alike healthful and happy during the years
of their subsequent residence in India.

FOREIGN ADVENTURE.

FOREIGN ADVENTURE.

It is not always the love of gain that urges to
foreign adventure. Young, ardent, and ambi
tious spirits, go abroad to seek those mental ex
citements which they cannot obtain at home. A
quiet life, and a mediocrity of happiness and
enjoyment, have no charms for them ; and the
anticipation of dangers and difficulties and pri
vations under foreign climes, is more exhilarat
ing than the prospect of ease, security, and
comfort, in their native country.
There is something in home which depresses
the energies of an imaginative young man. The
presence of his friends, acquaintances, and asso
ciates, and the knowledge he has of their pecu-

112 FOREIGN ADVENTURE.
liar prejudices, and of the estimate they have
formed of his character, are so many links of a
chain which binds him down to remain what
they think he is, and disables him from strug
gling to appear what he thinks he actuaUy can
be. He feels that he is capable of holding a
higher place in society than others are wilhng to
believe ; but has not resolution to prove to his
friends, that their preconceived opinions respect
ing him are erroneous and unworthy of his
merit. The desire of escaping the benumbing
influence of these domestic associations induces
him to seek a foreign land, in the hope of
enjoying, among strangers, that unimpeded exer
cise of his energies, and that degree of personal
consequence, which he finds to be unattainable
at home. Foreign adventure frequently is a sort of in
tellectual knight-eri:antry ; those who engage in
it scorning mental inactivity and domestic quiet
as much as men of honour and courage did in
the days of chivalry. There is now no outlet
for restless spirits, except excursions to foreign
2

FOREIGN ADVENTURE. 113
countries in search of fortune ; and, common as
these have lately been, the mere idea of going
abroad on an uncertainty, has still something
romantic in it to an aspiring and enthusiastic
mind. The most determined and ingenious
castle-builder finds it difficult even to imagine
the possibility of his having his propensities for
adventure gratified at home ; but he can con
ceive himself encountering a thousand difficulties,
and placed in a thousand interesting situations,
,-while traversing a distant land. That hatred
of every thing common-place, which attends a
love of romance, whets his appetite for the dan
gerous, the terrible, and the afflicting, and he
thinks the vagabond and precarious life of an
embarrassed and neglected adventurer, more
respectable and dignified than the quiet seclu
sion and domestic tranquilUty enjoyed by those
who are contented with mediocrity at home.
This fever of the mind is unknown to gro
velling and undeveloped beings, though it
often leads its victims into extravagance and
absurdity. In fact, it is the effervescence of a
VOL. II. H

114 FOREIGN ADVENTURE.
soul anxious for an opportunity of exercising its
faculties, trying the strength of its feelings, and
enjoying violent changes of excitement. Persons
of this character go abroad for the same reason
that others go to see a tragedy. Both parties
wish to be relieved from the insipidity of the
things around them ; in the one case, the desire
of novelty and of new states of feeling is bound
less, and in the other, it is satisfied with a change
of a few hours' duration.
However, by far the greater number of adven
turers are animated by mercenary motives alone,
which are much better adapted to ensUre them
success than romantic ones. The person who goes
abroad solely for the purpose of improving his
fortune, enjoys every advantage over those who
have additional objects in view. The attention
of the enthusiastic traveller is constantly dis
tracted by the beautiful and the interesting.
The lover of adventure often involves himself
in difficulties, which prove equally prejudicial to
his credit and to his purse ; and the man of
sience cemploys his time in pursuits which nei-

FOREIGN ADVENTURE. 115
ther lead to prosperity, nor advance him in the
estimation of others- But the determined money
maker directs all his energies to the attainment
of one end, and seizes every opportunity that
can promote his success. The coarseness of his
feelings enables him to come unhesitatingly into
contact with all sorts of people, and to practise
arts, and endure humiliations, to which minds of
a superior stamp will not submit. He has pro
bably been forced from home by the impossibility
of obtaining a respectable subsistence there; and
the irritation of temper which this excites ren
ders him desperate in his schemes, and indiffer
ent about what means he uses for their accom
plishment. The poor, needy, mean, uneducated,
sycophantish refugee, is the character that suc
ceeds in foreign, adventure, and the only one
that ever ought to undertake it. The man of
liberal, honourable feelings, and elegant pursuits,
almost always fails in acquiring wealth or con
sequence abroad, when he has no means of se
curing them independent of his own exertions.
A third class of adventurers consists of young

116 FOREIGN ADVENTURE.
men who, though able to provide for themselves
at home, go abroad in the hope of obtaining si
tuations of eclat, and of becoming of more conse
quence than they could ever expect to be in their
native country, which perhaps does not afford
them any opportunities of exercising their talents,
or of bringing themselves into public notice.
They usually are well educated, well recom
mended, and have a tolerable supply of money.
Their appearance, address, and the definite
nature of their plans, at once distinguish them
from the herd of common adventurers who indis
criminately forage for a subsistence, while their
manners and their mode of life bespeak a degree
of independence, which ensures them rpspect as
long as their money lasts ; and when poverty does
assail them, they are looked upon with pity in
stead of contempt.
An adventurer is an unpopular character
everywhere, and one who, in the general opi
nion, is hardly entitled to the common civilities
of life. He comes in such a " questionable
shape," that people think him a fair object of

FOREIGN ADVENTURE. 117
distrust, and claim the right of demanding from
him an account of himself, and of doubting the
truth of what he relates. Being without any
visible means of subsistence, he is universally
suspected of having designs upon the pockets
and credit of those among whom he resides ; and
his acquaintances avoid any intimacy with him,
and even fear to shew him kindness, lest he
should be emboldened, in case of misfortune, to
demand assistance from them, and to make an
appeal to their benevolence. His society is
tolerated instead of being courted ; and people
do not hesitate to oppress and insult him, be
cause he is destitute and helpless, and because
they think he will not dare to resent their inso
lence ; it often being necessary, to the success of
an adventurer, that he should be on the most
conciliating terms with every one, in order to
secure the interest of all.
In the adventurer, who is prompted to go
abroad by the spirit of romance, the departure
from home excites a thousand new and interest
ing emotions, which are unknown to the merce-

118 FOREIGN ADVENTURE.
nary calculator under similar circumstances.
The former feels the associations connected with
his native place growing stronger and more pas
sionate as the hour approaches which is to sepa
rate him from it, perhaps for ever ; and he has
a melancholy pleasure in contrasting the peace
ful tenor of his past years with those difficulties
and disappointments which may perhaps attend
his career abroad. He wanders among the
scenes where he has been accustomed to nurse
his imagination, and to indulge in those flights
of fancy and schemes of happiness which he
hopes to realize in foreign climes. He contem
plates with tender regret the woods, rivers, and
valleys, that have been the theatre of his early
life and early joys, and which he, perhaps, at
one time hoped would afford him repose in his
dechning years^ He calls to remembrance the
hours he has passed with the friends of his youth,
and in the society of her who formed the object
of a boyish love, — he dwells upon their rambles,
their amusements, their characters, and their
occupations, — he thinks of the enthusiasm, the

FOREIGN ADVENTURE. 119
ardour, and the pleasure, which at those times
reigned in his mind undisturbed, and enveloped
him, as it were, in a fragrant cloud, through
whose medium every circumstance, affection, and
acquisition connected with human life, looked
beautiful, dazzling, and of easy attainment.
When he recollects those things, he almost sus
pects that, in forsaking home, he will forsake
the seat of happiness, and regrets that his des
tiny leads him to seek his fortune in foreign
lands. But the desire of novelty and excite
ment recurs ; and he tries, by anticipating a bril
liant future, to forget what he has been, and
what he has enjoyed, and to disencumber him
self of all feelings and associations that have no
reference to passing events and to the existing
moment. At length the day fixed for his departure ar
rives, and, instead of being able to nurse his feel
ings, and give way to what he thinks t\\e refine
ment of sorrow, he finds it necessary to employ
himself in a thousand things that are not at all
affecting to the imagination. The preparations

120 FOREIGN ADVENTURE.
for a journey are rather unromantic in their cha
racter, particularly when the person about to
undertake it has to engage in them himself.
The young adventurer experiences this, and is
astonished and disappointed, that his emotions
are not so strong as to render him incapable of
attending to the common affairs of life, and of
taking a share in the various trifling arrange
ments that immediately precede his departure.
He sees his friends employed in their usual avo
cations, and apparently much less miserable than
he expected they would be ; while, at the same
time, his regret at leaving them falls short of
what he had anticipated ; and the uncomfortable
suspicion, that there is a deficiency of affection
on their part, and of feeling on his own, arises
in his mind, and he sets out from home in a state
of despondency and dissatisfaction.
He next goes on board of ship, glad to find
himself among people who have never before
seen him, and to whom he has it in his power to
appear what he pleases. Ignorant as he is of
real life, he does not expect to encounter any

FOREIGN ADVENTURE. 121
troubles, or to find himself placed in any interest
ing situations, during the voyage; but he employs
himself in imagining what will occur to him
after he reaches the land where he hopes to lay
the foundation of his fortunes and of his happi
ness. He endeavours to prepare himself for
every difficulty and disappointment that can
occur, and to contrive means of averting and
overcoming them when they do actually assail
him. He forms plans of conduct and of be
haviour to be adopted under different circum
stances and towards different people, and in
vents expedients to be resorted to in all cases of
ill success, faUure, and difficulty, and congratu
lates himself on possessing that fertility of mind
which he thinks will enable him to enter life
with eclat, and will ensure to him a brilliant and
uninterrupted course of prosperity.
Having arrived at his place of destination,
his first experiment upon the people among
whom he has thrown himself is the delivering of
introductory letters ; which he commences with
alacrity and •confidence, expecting to find every

122 FOREIGN ADVENTURE.
one generous, hospitable, and anxious to assist
him. The first person he visits is perhaps a man
of some consequence. He takes the letters from-
the hand of our adventurer as if he were receiv
ing a petition, and had doubts of the truth of its
contents. He reads them before he asks the
bearer of them to be seated ; and then, instead of
inquiring what his views are, or how he can be
of service to him, enters into common-place con
versation. This is carried on with so much
politeness and affabihty, that the youth to whom
it is addressed thinks he may venture to hint in
what manner his entertainer's interest and influ
ence will be available to him. The latter at
once perceives his drift, and ingeniously pre
vents him from coming to an explanation. The
adventurer finds it impossible to mention one
word of his dearest concerns, and rises to take
leave with an air of disappointment, which the
other answers by inviting him to dinner next
day, and adding, as he follows him to the door,
that he hopes he will make his house his home

FOREIGN ADVENTURE. 123
whenever it is convenient, which means, " my
attentions will cease after to-morrow."
The young enthusiast is rather discouraged
by the reception he has met with, and hastens to
pay his respects to another individual, who re
ceives him with cordiahty, and expresses an
anxious desire for his success and welfare ; but
declares that he has no influence whatever him
self, and must therefore engage his friends in
behalf of one he so earnestly wishes to serve.
The adventurer is deUghted with this, and de
parts in high spirits; his new acquaintance having
invited him to his house on a particular day.
He goes at the appointed time, and is civilly
entertained by his host, who laments that he has
not been able to forward his views, complains of
the indolence and backwardness of his own
friends, is astonished they feel no interest in at
tending to his applications, and vows that they
shall have no peace till they exert themselves in
promoting the views of his guest. Another ap
pointment, however, is made, and the deluded
youth hears a repetition of the same assurances

124 FOREIGN ADVENTURE.
and declarations. At length he discovers that
his pretended patron has actually no power to
assist him, either directly or indirectly, but that
the vanity of appearing to possess influence
makes him affect to have the command of that
of his friends, to whose carelessness and neglect
he plausibly imputes the failure of his plans
and the non-fulfilment of his promises.
The yet sanguine adventurer now delivers
a third letter of recommendation. The person
to whom it is addressed has spent his early life
in struggling against bad fortune, poverty, and
unfriendedness. His hardships and difficulties,
though now overcome and past, have made his
temper austere, and his mind unfeeling and
illiberal. It annoys him to think that any young
man, on his outset in life, should escape similar
trials, or indulge prospects of uninterrupted suc
cess and prosperity ; and he makes it a uniform
practice to damp the aspirations of youth, and
to throw gloomy shadows upon futurity. The
first salutations are scarcely over when he says,
" I doubt if your plans will answer, — I am sure

FOREIGN ADVENTURE. 125
they will not, — I'll do all I can, however, though
I couldn't blame myself were I to do nothing ;
for I had no one to assist me or advance my
interest when I came to this country. Letters
of introduction were not in fashion in those days ;
but young men like to make their fortunes easily
now. You'll find your situation a very unpleasant
one here ; but, I suppose, you won't mind that.
Young men should love hardships ; for it is the
business of youth to bear them. Come and dine
with me to-day ; you see I use no ceremony with
you. He who has his fortune to make must
not be particular." The youth declines the in
vitation, and hurries indignantly from the house,
astonished that he has failed to excite some in
terest in the bosom of one who, like himself, has,
in his early years, had all the world before him,
altogether forgetting that the similarity in their
circumstances has .been produced by the influ
ence of causes that are very opposite in^ their
nature. Disgusted and discouraged, our adventurer
almost hesitates to avail himself of his remain-

126 FOREIGN ADVENTURE.
ing notes of introduction ; however, hope and cu
riosity prevail, and induce him to pay his respects
to a fourth individual. This man receives him
kindly, applauds his enterprise, assures him of
brilliant success, and suggests various schemes
to hasten and promote it. He points out new
plans for his adoption, directs him in what man
ner he is to accomplish them, calculates their re
spective advantages, and brings fortune and
prosperity, as it were, within his grasp. Our
novice is charmed with the interest which his
new friend appears to take in his affairs, and
confides every thing to him. They part in mu
tual good-humour ; and the latter immediately
attempts to reduce to practice the advice and
theories which he has just been put in possession
of; but finds it impossible to do so. He then
visits the author of them, for the purpose of
communicating his difficulties, and inquiring
how they are to be overcome. The gentleman
hears all this in an easy and unembarrassed
way, and declares he is annoyed, grieved, and
surprised, at the failure of the plans he has sug-

FOREIGN ADVENTURE. 127
gested ; but proposes a remedy, and recommends
that it should be adopted without delay. The
remedy appears as promising as the schemes did
that preceded it ; but proves equally fruitless ;
and our adventurer at length discovers, that his
friend is too indolent to assist him personaUy, and
too ignorant ofthe world to instruct him how to as
sist himself, and that the various plans of action,
of which he has been the projector, have been
contrived, less with a view to benefit the person
requiring them, than for the purpose of amusing
his own idle and vain imagination.
The adventurer next introduces himself to a
man of polished manners, liberal ideas, and ge-
neraL inteUigence. This person treats him with
attention, and frequently invites him to his house,
where he meets with elegant dinners and gen
teel company ; but he wants something more
than these. He wishes his acquaintance to take
an interest in his concerns, and to exert himself
for his benefit ; but soon finds that such objects
are unattainable. His host is pleased with his
conversation, and fond of his society, and even

128 FOREIGN ADVENTURE.
desires his welfare; but, at the same time, is too
proud to condescend to assist an adventurer.
His backwardness, in this respect, does not pro
ceed from want of feeling, want of power, or
want of inclination, but from false ideas of dig
nity and propriety, and from a scrupulous re
gard for the opinions of the people around him.
Our hero sees that, though his host will con
tinue his hospitality for any length of time, he
will not make an application, write a letter, or
give a recommendation in his favour, were it to
make his fortune, or save his life. A character
of this kind proves an agreeable acquaintance,
but a useless patron ; and, as the latter is what
the adventurer is in quest of, he finds it neces
sary to seek for one in some other quarter.
Our youth delivers his remaining introduc
tory letters with a bad grace, and finds that they
are not more attended to than the others have
been. He becomes irritated at his acquaint
ances, and resolves to break off all connexion
with them, It annoys and humiliates him, when
he reflects that all his plans to secure their in-
2

FOREIGN ADVENTURE. 129
terest and excite their regard have completely
failed, and that the styles of manners and
modes of action, which he invented in anticipa
tion, have proved inadequate, useless, and im
practicable, in those very cases in which he
thought they would be most effectual with
others and most serviceable to himself. He
feels that he is ignorant of mankind, and desti
tute of penetration ; but endeavours to believe
that he has not chosen a proper field for the ex
ercise of his powers, and that his acquaintances
have been dull enough to mistake him for a
common adventurer, and have consequently de
nied him those attentions and good offices which
they would otherwise have bestowed.
He now determines to seek fortune in a
place where he is quite unknown. He has been
led to suspect that a card of recommendation
generally prepossesses a man against the bearer
of it, because it gives the latter a claim upon
his kindness and hospitality, which he feels more
inclined to resent or evade, than to answer and
comply with, from its being hardly optional
VOL. II. I

130 FOREIGN ADVENTURE.
with him whether he shall do so or not. The
idea of struggUng for success in life among
strangers is pleasing to our adventurer, who ar
dently wishes to encounter a few difficulties,
trials, and embarrassments ; and he gladly leaves
the place where his cold-hearted acquaintances
reside, and chooses a spot more congenial to his
juvenile projects and enthusiastic reveries.
However, in attempting to force his way
among people to whom he is totally unknown,
he meets with impediments, annoyances, and
humiliations, which he never had calculated
upon, or even believed to be possible. He finds
that honour, integrity, agreeable manners, and
respectability of conduct, are not sufficient to
advance a man to that station in society to which
his merits entitle him ; and that the person who
has neither wealth, rank, nor pubUc favour, to
help him forward, must, in most cases, substitute
address, impudence, and false pretension, in the
place of them, if he wishes to be of any conse
quence whatever. Here our adventurer feels
his defects. Like all enthusiasts and lovers of

FOREIGN ADVENTURE. 131
romance, he is troubled with diffidence and
false modesty. He can imagine himself doing
and saying fine, impressive, and irresistible
things, but wants assurance to- do and say them
in reahty. This throws him into the back
ground ; and, as he neither is rich nor power
ful, nor of noble birth, he remains there; for
even those who are acquainted with his merits
do not attempt, or even wish, to draw him into a
more conspicuous situation.
There is no quality that is so much praised
and so much despised as modesty. A modest
person, taking the term in its common accepta
tion, is popular everywhere, and particularly
among people of pretension and assurance.
When a man enters a company of strangers,
most of the persons comprising it are jealous of
him, lest he should mortify their vanity and am
bition, and throw them into the back-ground,
by proving more agreeable and better informed,
and making himself of greater consequence, than
themselves ; but the moment they discover that
he is a modest man, or, in other words, that he

132 FOREIGN ADVENTURE.
is destitute of self-confidence, and unable to take
his own part, they feel at ease, and treat him
with a mixture of complacency and good-natur
ed fcontempt. He may have the power of being
very witty and very entertaining, but he does
not possess the art of bringing his accomplish
ments into notice; and why should any one
take that trouble for him .'' He therefore sits in
a corner, neglected and unheeded, and people,
as they pass along, triumphantly exclaim,
" What a charming thing is modesty !"
Our adventurer, finding himself deficient in
all those qualities that are calculated to secure
the interest of strangers, and to enable him suc
cessfully to push his fortune in the world, grows
melancholy and desponding. He loses spirit to
combat even the difficulties and evils that he
knows he can easily overcome, and every day
feels more unwilling to engage in those struggles
with adversity and disappointment, which sel
dom fail to chequer the early career of even the
most prosperous adventurer. In proportion as
his self confidence decreases, the estimation and

FOREIGN ADVENTURE. 133
respect of others is withdrawn. He thinks peo
ple despise him, when they only are indifferent
to him ; and reflects with shame on that igno
rance of human life and human character, which
has betrayed him into so many mistakes, and
rendered him ridiculous in his own eyes. His
wanderings in a foreign country have not pro
duced any of those interesting adventures and
affecting situations, which he at one time be
lieved would be inseparably 'connected with
them ; and, on reviewing the tenor of his life
since he left home, he finds that it has proved a
scene of delusion, disappointment, humiliation,
and unrewarded anxiety.
Distratfted by reflections of this kind, he
forms desperate resolutions, and resolves never
to revisit his native country till he has achieved
at least part of those plans which formed the
ostensible objects of his pursuit abroad. Find
ing it impossible to succeed in the sphere he
first made choice of, he descends to a lower one,
and seeks fortune in paths, in which, under
other circumstances, he would be ashampd to

134 FOREIGN ADVENTURE.
tread. His resources gradually fail ; and,
scorning to ask assistance of any one, he em
barks and perishes in some wUd enterprise, or
engages in an obscure occupation, and drags a
life of discontent and misery, endeavouring to
forget the past, and what he has been, and
sternly indifferent about the future, and what
he may appear to be. Such is the history and
fate of many young men, who try to be the
architects of their own fortunes, in places like
Havana, New Orleans, and Sierra Leone.
The career of the money-making adven
turer seldom is marked by any conflicts of emo
tion or acute disappointments. He cares little
how men feel and conduct themselves towards
him in general, provided they neither oppose
his projects nor impede their accomplishment.
He does not go abroad to seek sources of mental
excitement, exercise for his affections, or food
for his imagination ; and therefore never is led
astray by the pursuit of such unsubstantial ob
jects. He is always in readiness to turn every
circumstance to his advantage, and to court for-

FOREIGN ADVENTURE. 135
tune wherever he may find her disposed to smile
upon him. Having little sensitiveness of mind,
he neither feels nor resents neglectful treatment,
but is submissive and concihating to the people
around him ; and, instead of soliciting their in
terest and good offices, shews, by his conduct,
that he is contented to wait tUl they think pro
per to bestow them. The whole tenor of his life
is marked by a humble subserviency, both to
persons and to circumstances. He catches the
drops that fall from the brim of the cup of
prosperity ; but never makes an effort to get the
vessel into his own hands, lest, during the strug
gle, its contents should be spilt and lost. He
thinks no man too weak or mean to be useful to
him, and no advantage too contemptible to be
turned to his purposes ; and at length acquires
those gifts of fortune, which are the rewards of
prudence, caution, submissiveness, and self-de
nial. The history of the young man that goes
abroad in the hope of making a figure, and of
at once obtaining a post of emolument and re-

136 FOREIGN ADVENTURE.
spectability, is very easily told. He either suc
ceeds to the utmost of his expectations, or not
at all. However, the first part of his career is
usually brilliant, and abounding with fine pros
pects. Introduced by powerful recommenda
tions to the best society, liberaUy provided with
money, caressed by his acquaintances, and en
couraged by flattering promises, he leads a gay,
extravagant, thoughtless, and improvident life.
If the interest of his friends at last procures him
the situation to which he has been aspiring, it
probably is just in time to save him from ruin ;
but if they fail, he finds himself totally unable
to establish his own fortune, and speedily falls a
victim to disappointment. On discovering that
his patrons want the power or the inclination to
serve him, he suddenly awakes to a sense of his
perilous and destitute condition. The means of
support are probably fast failing him ; but his
pride prevents him from retrenching his ex
penses, and he continues to pursue his first
course of life, irresolute what to do or which way
to turn. At length he gets involved in debt.

FOREIGN ADVENTURE. 137
and is bound to the spot where his fortunes have
been wrecked. He struggles to keep up ap
pearances to the last ; but his associates see how
things are going with him, and become shy of
his company. This cuts him to the heart, and
makes him lose aU self-respect. He confines
himself to his miserable lodgings during the
greater part of the day ; and when he does ap
pear abroad, his haggard looks, slovenly dress,
and unequal steps, hint the nature of his indul
gences at home. He has begun to drink ardent
spirits, and soon ceases to make any secret of it.
However, when even this far degraded, he, per
haps, once or twice endeavours to rally and re
gain the confidence of his friends ; but faUs, and
sinks into a deep and unconquerable desponden
cy, which wears down his constitution. He
becomes hypochondriac, sickens, and dies, and
is carried to his solitary grave by strangers and
hirelings. In the West Indies, I have met with many
men whose histories tallied with what has now
been related. They could easily be known by

138 FOREIGN ADVENTURE.
their idle habits, their depressed spirits, and the
look of humiliation which they wore. On con
versing with them, one found their manners, in
telligence, and acquirements, much superior to
those of the people around them ; but they care
fully avoided any allusion to what they had
been, and endeavoured to appear contented with
what they were. They passed their hours in
languor and inactivity, and evidently had no
object in view but that of forgetting themselves ;
and when memory became troublesome, she
was stilled by the influence of wine or brandy.
Often have I watched the nightly return of such
characters to their boarding-house, after an
evening spent they hardly knew where or how.
When all the other inmates of the house were
asleep, I have observed the former drop in one
by one, and stroll about the silent and half-
lighted hall, apparently irresolute whether to go
to their chambers, or to issue forth and com
mence anew their nocturnal revels. Exhausted,
miserable, and stupified with ardent spirits,
they would at last throw themselves into chairs,

FOREIGN ADVENTURE. 139
or lay down on sofas or benches, and slumber
till morning roused them to another day of in
quietude, dissipation, and wretchedness.
Such men, though relieved from their debts
and their difficulties, would not go back to their
native country. The shame of returning penny-
less and unsuccessful makes many an adven
turer submit to poverty and privations abroad,
when ease and comfort await his acceptance at
home. The only rewards of foreign enterprise
are wealth, and the personal superiority ac
quired by travel. But a man's friends will sel
dom acknowledge the existence of the latter,
unless it be graced and rendered conspicuous
by the lustre of the former.
The West Indies and the Southern States of
America form at present the grand theatres for
adventurers, to whom temperate climates are
not at all favourable, the waste of human life in
them not being sufficiently rapid to render a
constant influx of strangers necessary. The
European population of Jamaica undergoes a
total change every seven years, and that of New

140 FOREIGN ADVENTURE.
Orleans and of Sierra Leone is renewed twice in
the same period. Two-thirds of the foreigners
who come to reside in Havana die within six
months after their arrival ; and in some of the
Dutch East India islands the mortality is stUl
greater. It is from the deadliness of tropical chmates
that the ferocity of character which distinguishes
European ^society in the West Indies and in
the Southern States of America takes its origin.
When men see their associates perishing around
them, and know that they themselves may be
come death's next victims, they lose all tender
feelings, and study self-preservation only. Life
seems too short and uncertain to be wasted in
the indulgence of human affections. Every one
is aware of his danger, and scrambles to secure
the means of flying from it. It is like a retreat
after a battle, in which soldiers do not scruple to
trample down their friends and companions in
order to facilitate their own escape. So, in tro
pical climates, adventurers are obtuse to all cir
cumstances unconnected with gain ; and even re-

FOREIGN ADVENTURE. 141
joice to see their fellow-creatures precipitated
into the whirlpool of destruction, when they
happen to impede their progress through the
avenues that lead to profit, preferment, and pros
perity. Revolting and unnatural as this state of feel
ing appears to a stranger, on his first visit to a
tropical country, it ought to be contemplated
with forbearance, as being excusable and un
avoidable. No man ever resides under a bad
climate, except for the purpose of acquiring the
means of eventually living in a good one ; and,
therefore, the adventurer who comes to the
West Indies has no object in view but gain.
His avowed business is to struggle against com
petition, bad fortune, disease, and death ; and
any refinements of feeling would be fatal to his
personal comfort and injurious to his interests.
To avoid cheating his fellow-creatures, and to
respect the common rights of humanity, is all
that can reasonably be required of him ; for his
situation is too desperate a one to admit of his
having any concern for the welfare, happiness.

142 FOREIGN ADVENTURE.
or safety of others ; and any professions to the
contrary might justly be regarded as the off
spring of hypocrisy, instead of the fruits of
benevolence and disinterestedness.
Little can be said in favour of foreign ad
venture, even when successful ; those who en
gage in it losing in contentment and serenity
what they gain in wealth and knowledge of the
world. I have met with few instances of people,
who had spent the greater part of their lives
abroad, being afterwards happy at home. The
rich West-India merchant, the American fur-
trader, and the old East-Indian officer, alike
feel themselves out of their element on return
ing to their native country, particularly if they
have left it in early youth, and experience wants,
uncomforts, and sources of uneasiness, which
money neither can supply, remove, nor aUeviate.
Their friends see that they are discontented,
but cannot imagine the reason; and the sufferers
are perhaps as little able to explain it to others
as to themselves.
Those who never have been abroad do not

FOREIGN ADVENTURE. 143
easily believe that a residence in a foreign coun
try often disqualifies a man for enjoying life at
home. Britain certainly contains the elements
of happiness in a larger proportion than any
other land ; and one may perhaps command
these with more limited means than he could
any where else ; but of what avail is all this, if
his mind is incapable of extracting the least
gratification from them ? The sojourner abroad
too often loses all healthy perceptions and un
sophisticated feelings. The operation of new
scenes, new pursuits, and new states of society,
for a series of years, produces in him a morbid
state of mind and a love of excitement, and a
passion for change, which are hostile to serene
pleasures and to a serene mode of life. He
may see and acknowledge the superiority and
preferableness of these, without being able to
feel it in his own case. The drunkard, accus
tomed to the stimulus of ardent spirits, will pre
fer the most noxious and fiery distilled liquors
to the most delicate wine, though he may, at

144 FOREIGN ADVENTURE.
the same time, confess and regret the baseness
and coarseness of his taste.
People, who have passed their youthful
years in active employment in tropical countries,
certainly are not calculated for domestic life at
home. They all are either too corrupt and de
praved, to feel comfortable under the restraints
which a refined and moral state of society im
poses, or too restless and irritable to relish the
unvarying routine of existence, as it passes in a
family circle. They do not easily get recon
ciled to manners and modes of life to which
they have long been strangers ; while, perhaps,
the want of internal "resources renders them very
weary, languid, and discontented. The man, who
has spent his youth and prime in accumulating
money abroad, seldom possesses a cultivated
mind, or has the faculty of making his under
standing afford him the means of employment
and recreation.
I am much inclined to doubt, if any man
ever found himself happier or better after re-

FOREIGN ADVENTURE. 115
siding abroad for a long period. . Almost every
country and every*society contains something to
excite the regrets of him who leaves them with
out the intention of returning. These haunt
his mind when at home, awaken painful com
parisons and associations, and divert, into a
thousand sinuous channels, those feelings and
affections which ought to flow in one quiet and
continuous current. Although the tenor of his
past life may neither have been vicious nor pro
fligate, he will have acquired a knowledge of the
baser parts of human character, and a familiari
ty with what is depraved and corrupt, that
wUl infect his heart and principles, and prove
fatal to the growth and existence of some of
the most refined and amiable feelings of our
nature. An abode in a foreign land generally in
creases the number of a man's wants, and makes
him more alive to the disagreeables and causes
of annoyance that may be attached to his condi
tion at home when he returns there. Should he
VOL, II. K

146 FOREIGN ADVENTURE.
possess wealth, however, he will have the means
of removing most of these sources of disgust ;
but he cannot purchase that buoyancy of spirits,
and glow of contentment and cheerfulness,
which, I think, belong exclusively to those who
never have left their native land, or, at least,
resided abroad long enough to acquire new
manners and habits of feeling. That gloss,
which makes life a theatre of novelty, and in
vests some of its worst parts with a fictitious
charm, is completely destroyed, by the straight
forward intercourse with the world, and by the
scenes and peculiar situations which every man
must go through, witness, and be placed in,
whether pushing his fortune or quietly sojourn
ing in a foreign country. The common enjoy.
ments which existence affords lose their zest; and
he is astonished to see people pleased, amused,
and made happy, by things that, to his vitiated
taste, appear alike valueless, insipid, and un
desirable. Ill health, disappointment, ennui,
and mortified ambition, often add bitterness to

FOREIGN ADVENTURE. 147
the above sources of dissatisfaction, and perhaps
combine to drive him back to permanent exile
in the distant land where he has acquired his
wealth, and has at the same time been rendered
incapable of enjoying it.

THE

CANTONMENT OF SEROOR.

THE

CANTONMENT OF SEROOR.

Perhaps in no part of the world are monu
ments of human industry and of civilization
sooner erected than in India, and perhaps no
where do they so rapidly decay. The materials
of the buUdings are as unenduring as their in-
^habitants are transitory; and edifices, which
bear the stamp of a venerable old age, have pro
bably been raised, occupied, abandoned, and
levelled by dUapidation, within a shorter space
of time than in Europe would have been re
quired to construct and complete them. The

152 CANTONMENT OF SEROOR.
Asiatic traveller, when he sees extensive ruins,
does not seek for their origin in the records of
past centuries, but learns their history from the
by-standers ; some of whom perhaps were born
many years before the desolate walls which he
is contemplating began to rise above their foun
dations. The cantonment of Seroor is strongly illus
trative of these remarks. Ten years have
scarcely elapsed since it contained nine thousand
troops and thirty thousand natives. A hun
dred of the former, and a twelfth part of the
latter, are all that now remain ; and the innum
erable buildings, occupied by its former large
population, have already become a mass of ruins,
among which the benighted traveller would seek
in vain for a roof to protect him from the storm,
or a shed to shelter his horse.
The local features of Seroor mark it out as
an admirable station for a large force. It
abounds in strong positions, is well supplied with
water, and enjoys a delightful and healthy
climate. There are everywhere beautiful plains

CANTONMENT OF SEROOR. 153
for parades and for encampments ; and the
good roads in its vicinity afford facilities of com
munication with other places during all seasons.
However, notwithstanding these advantages, the
troops that occupied this favoured spot were re
moved several years ago, and Major-general
Sir Lionel Smith, K.C.B., commanding the
Poonah division of the Bombay army, and his
personal staff, at present form the whole Euro
pean population of Seroor.
The country around the cantonment is
miserably barren, and altogether very untropi-
cal in its appearance. It abounds with small
conical hills, which have scarcely any verdure
upon them, even in the rainy season. One may
travel several miles without seeing a tree or
shrub, the place of these being supplied by
large stones, which are the only objects that di
versify the surface of the ground. During the
monsoon, when the sky is obscured by lowering
clouds, and when the rain beats and the wind
blows chill and strong, Seroor exhibits all the
wildness and dreariness of an uncultivated

154 CANTONMENT OF SEROOR.
northern region. At such times the atmosphere
is uncomfortably cool, and fires would be very
pleasant ; but, from the construction of the
houses, and the extreme scarcity of fuel, they
are unattainable.
On ascending any of the high hUls that
bound the west side of the cantonment, one en
joys a complete view of its extensive ruins, and
of the bazaar, or viUage, which was occupied by
the natives, who followed the troops and sup
plied them with provisions. A beautifuUy
level plain, skirted by two ranges of hUls,
stretches beneath the eye, and presents a confus
ed assemblage of tenantless buUdings of all sizes
and forms, and in every stage of decay. Of
some nothing remains but the bare walls ; others
are half unroofed ; many have crumbled into
heaps of ruins ; and a few look as if they had
been but recently deserted by their inhabitants.
Two long and regular rows of buildings, extend
ing the whole length of the cantonment, mark
where the officers resided. All their houses had
small gardens attached to tliem ; and in many

CANTONMENT OF SEROOR. 155
spots, the hedges, shrubs, water-courses, flower-
plots, and gravel-walks, still remain ; and in
other places, a gateway, standing alone, shews
where an enclosure has been, and forms an en
trance to grounds that are now open and accessi
ble on all sides. Here and there a wide and
lofty arch points out the site of a mess-room ;
and in another quarter, a square building, with
high walls, is aU that remains of a tennis-court.
Low huts, once the residences of servants, horse-
keepers, gardeners, and palanquin-bearers, are
scattered about in the vicinity of the houses ;
and ranges of deserted stables bound the ends
of the enclosures, and can now with difficulty be
recognised as having once formed quarters for
innumerable horses. A little farther off are the
hovels of the native soldiers, crowded together,
and forming an undefined mass of rubbish ; and
beyond them lie the ruins of a village, which, a
few years ago, contained thirty thousand inhabit-"
ants ; but the whole unoccupied extent of which
does not now present to the view one entire habita
tion. Behind the bazaar, and along the extreme

156 CANTONMENT OF SEROOR.
outskirts of the cantonment, a small river, called
the Gornuddy, meanders with a clear and gen
tle current, and yields a delightful relief to the
eye, after wandering over such a tract of gloom
and desolation as has just been described.
Barren hills rise abruptly from the banks of the
stream, and a succession of others of superior
elevation appear beyond them, and with their
summits circumscribe the horizon.
Nothing can be more beautiful and impres
sive than this scene, when moonlight communi
cates to the ruins a mellowness of outline, and a
solemnity of aspect, of which they are destitute
during the day. The detached walls and
broken arches then look grand and antique, and
one may see the rays of the moon darting
through the windows of the buildings, and il
luminating their gayly-painted apartments, as if
in mockery of the transient festivities that once
enlivened them. Jackalls and Paria dogs prowl
about the enclosures, and pursue their prey un
disturbed by any noise except that of their own
cries ; and the roads wliich intersect the canton-

CANTONMENT OF SEROOR. 157
ment, and were once thronged with people, lie
deserted and untrod, except by the feet of wan
dering cattle.
On descending to the plain, the attention is
first attracted by the ruins of the bazaar.
These, though extensive, have no variety. The
houses are low and small, and all of them are
built on nearly the same plan. They contain
few memorials of their inhabitants, except clay
fire-places, broken altars, and diminutive re
cesses for the images of their gods ; and no one
acquainted with the character and habits of the
lower orders of the natives of India would care
to find any thing more. Their inteUectual fee
bleness, their frivolity, and their despicable
style of life, all combine to shut them out from
the sympathies of a European. Though half-
civilized, they are unworthy to take precedence
of the most barbarous nations, in those points
which render a people objects of interest and
curiosity ; and therefore the traveller will wan
der among the modern ruins of this village,
without feeling a wish to ascertain where its in-

158 CANTONMENT OF SEROOR.
habitants have gone, or whether they are dead
or alive. Instead of lingering near the bazaar, he wiU
turn his steps towards those buildings that were
once occupied by European officers. Here there
is greater scope for the exercise of imagina
tion ; and in walking through this part of the
cantonment, one is irresistibly led to sketch
ideally the characters of its former inhabitants,
and to people the deserted apartments with the
creations of his fancy.
The first house he happens to cast his eyes
upon may have been the residence of a sports
man, whose hopes, joys, and anxieties, were
centered in the chase, and who had not a single
idea unconnected with his favourite pursuit.
He disregarded and despised all persons who
did not join his hunting expeditions, and pre
ferred the sight of a wild hog, or of a wolf, to
that of an agreeable man or an interesting wo
man. Society was nothing to him ; and it was
a scarcity of animals, not of human beings, that
made a place dull and disagreeable in his eyes.

CANTONMENT OF SEROOR. 159
His estimate of different countries was formed
from a consideration of the goodness of their re
spective breeds of dogs and horses ; and if he
chanced to feel a wish to return to his native
land, it was because he thought the fowling-
pieces, grooms, or terriers, were better there
than in India. He was silent and reserved in
company, and fell asleep when people talked of
what he did not understand. He always be
came drowsy after dinner, if hunting did not
form the subject of conversation ; but, in the
latter case, he talked fluently — told extraordi
nary stories^ — teased the ladies with the exploits
of his dogs, and, on the breaking-up of the
party, went home, saying, he had spent a most
delightful evening. He scorned to use any pre
cautions against a tropical climate, and drank
beer and smoked segars before breakfast, and
was at last carried off by an illness of six or
seven hours' duration. His friends ^nd acquaint
ances, on hearing of his death, cried, " Ah,
poor Bob's gone out ! — He was a damnation

160 CANTONMENT OF SEROOR.
good fellow ! — This brings Tom to his ma
jority !"
That house, a little way off, belonged per
haps to an Indian fop, debauchee, and epicure,
— characters which, in tropical countries, are
usually found united. His time was occupied
in dressing, dining, and quarrelling with his
cook. He rose at an early hour in the morning,
not for the purpose of taking exercise, but that
he might have time to prepare his person before
breakfast was served up. Bathed, perfumed,
anointed, and laced in:jCorsets, he issued from
his chamber and sat down to a luxurious meal,
which his debilitated organs prevented him from
enjoying. After an hour spent at table, he re
tired to an elegantly-furnished apartment, and,
reclining on a couch, anxiously awaited the ar
rival of visitors, not because he wished to see
them, but because he wished them to see him.
The most frivolous amusements engaged his
time and attention ; and the arranging of his
smelling-bottles, china-boxes, and couch-carpets,
2

CANTONMENT OF SEROOR. 161
formed a subject of serious deliberation. He
hated all military duty, except dress-parades ;
and when he paid visits and attended parties, it
was not for the sake of society, but that he
might have an opportunity of.^ displaying a
splendid uniform. Though old and grey-hair
ed, his grand ambition was to pass for a man of
intrigue and a favourite with the sex. His
vanity in this point was satisfied with the
coarsest food ; and the reputation of being fa
miliar with even the wife of his housekeeper, or
of his cook, flattered and elevated him in his
own eyes. He preferred the company of young-
men to that of his contemporaries, because the
former did not remind him that he was old, and
because they humoured his folly by rallying
him upon his debaucheries and the licentious
ness of his life, and gave him credit for excesses,
in which old age and debility had long prevent
ed him from indulging. His attention to fe- -
males was delicate and becoming ; but, when
their backs were turned, he endeavoui-ed to de
grade them into mere sensualists. In his eyes,
VOL. II. L

162 CANTONMENT OF SEROOR.
a virtuous woman was either a fool or a hypo
crite ; and he never began to respect one of the
sex till she had ceased to respect herself. His
table-equipage, his wines, and his dishes, were
all of the best and most expensive kind ; and
even when without company, he dressed cere
moniously for a dinner which he felt little in
clination to partake of. However, fine clothes
and high living formed his supreme good ; and
the daily happiness of a man, perhaps about to
enter his grand climacteric, was dependent upon
the exertions and activity of a Portugee cook
and a Mahratta tailor.
Yonder house, from its size and accommo
dations, appears to have been occupied by a
family, perhaps by a brother and his sisters, or
an uncle and his nieces. The young ladies
were probably sent out to India at the desire of
their protector, who, holding a lucrative situa
tion, and residing in a populous cantonment,
thought his wards could hardly fail by marriage
to establish themselves in life soon after their
arrival. However, unfortunately, they did not

CANTONMENT OF SEROOR. 163
turn out so pretty, so handsome, or so agreeable
as he expected, and he began to grow heartily
tired of them, particularly as no suitors seemed
disposed to come forward. He now found it
necessary to push matters. The girls were
provided with a handsome equipage, and with
showy dresses; and their protector began to
give dinners and evening-parties, which, in one
sense, were very select ; for no man could get a
seat at his table, any more than he could have a
seat in parliament, unless his annual income
equalled a certain amount. All who had this
qualification were welcome guests, whatever
their characters, manners, acquirements, or per
sonal appearance might be ; and a stranger, on
surveying the individuals that usually encircled
his board, would have thought that he took par
ticular compassion on the old, the maimed, the
infirm, and the diseased, and made such men
the exclusive partakers of his hospitality ; and
it was so ; for he not only gave them dinners,
but wished to provide them with nurses and
companions to enliven their homes. Lieutenants

164 CANTONMENT OF SEROOR.
and ensigns, and others low in the service, were
entirely excluded from these festivities ; and if
such persons happened to make a morning visit,
they were received with cold courtesy, and al
lowed to sit unnoticed on a couch, and employ
themselves in admiring their own uniforms.
But rich majors, gouty colonels, and bilious
collectors, however disagreeable, met with flat
tering attention and respect, until each of the
young ladies had succeeded in manoeuvring one
of them into the toils of matrimony. The
guardian, having now cleared his house of his
wards, returned to his former style of life ; but,
while congratulating himself on the address he
had displayed in procuring them such comfort
able establishments, had the same game played
upon himself by one of their husbands, and
was entrapped into an alliance with his sister or
cousin, before he even suspected that the par
ties had any such design upon him.
That large buUding, with the arch in the
middle of it, must have been the mess-room of
some regiment. How silent now are those walls

C.VNTONMENT OF SEROOR. 165
that once nightly echoed to the voices and songs
of their convivial inmates ! In that corner, per
haps, stood a billiard-table, constantly surround
ed by idlers, the noise of whose tongues was as
incessant as the rattling of the balls which they
used in the game. In the centre of the hall was
the mess-table, at which twenty or thirty officers
of all grades daily assembled, to discuss the af
fairs of their regiment, the chances of promo
tion, the merits of particular dogs and horses,
and the looks and characters of the ladies of
the cantonment. On one side sat the old col
onel, anxious to retire from the service, but un
willing to resign a good income ; opposite was
the officer next in seniority, talking to him of
the pleasures of home, the cheap living there,
and the benefit his constitution would derive
from the chmate of England ; another place was
occupied by a young ensign, impatient for a
lieutenancy, and condemning to an earl)* death
one-third of the people around him ; while his
anticipated victims were at the same moment
whispering to each other that he himself was

]66 CANTONMENT OF SEROOR.
the worst life in the company. Here one party
sat talking of a reported increase in the mihtary
establishments ; there, a knot of sportsmen were
arranging a hunting expedition. At this end
some were disputing about the terms of a bet ;
and, in another quarter, a set of dandies were
commenting upon uniforms, epaulets, and fac
ings. Ease, good humour, and hilarity, once
reigned constantly within these walls, that now
are as -silent as the graves that contain many
of the persons that formerly enlivened them with
their presence ; and death must stiU be at work
among the surviving remnants, not one of whom
perhaps will ever return to his native coun
try! The house that next presents itself may have
been the residence of one who first was a spend
thrift, and afterwards a poor invalid. On com
ing to India, he fancied that the prospects of
wealth which the country afforded were bound
less, and that he had nothing to do but to en
joy himself. In possession of vigorous health,
he ridiculed the idea of providing for the future.

CANTONMENT OF SEROOR. 167
and indulged in every species of extravagance,
and eventually got involved in debt. The hour
of need and trial at length came. He had an
attack of illness, and found, that, unless he re
moved to a European climate, he would fall a
victim to tropical disease. That passionate de
sire of revisiting home, which often affects sick
people in India, arose in his heart, and occupied
all his thoughts, but carried agony with it ; for
he knew too well that his wishes could not be
gratified. He had no means of meeting the ex
penses of a voyage to Europe, or of supporting
himself there ; and was aware that his creditors
would not consent to his leaving India, unless
he gave security to the amount of what he owed
them. This was impossible ; and he found him
self condemned to live and die in exile. The
East had now lost its attractions in his eyes, and
its customs, its amusements, and its society,
were alike distasteful to him. One set^iment
filled his mind, to the exclusion of all others, and
that was the love of home, which he, perhaps,
had scarcely ever felt during his hours of health.

168 CANTONMENT OF SEROOR.
gayety, and extravagance. Long-forgotten as
sociations, visions of past pleasures, images dear
to youth, and scenes of domestic happiness,
haunted him night and day, embittering exist
ence, and rendering detestable his situation, his
associates, and every thing around him. His
mind and body were now ahke diseased ; but
their reaction upon each other gradually became
more feeble, and he felt himself dying ; and, at
the same time, had the melancholy conviction,
that a return to his native country would revive
the powers of life, and restore his original
health and vigour. Nature could not long
struggle against harassing disease and acute
disappointment, and he soon found a solitary
grave in the plains of India.
That house towards the left was perhaps the
abode of a character not uncommon in India so
ciety, — one who sacrificed the certainties of the
present to the possibilities of the future. He
had left his native country at an early age, and
his grand ambition had always been to return to
it with immense wealth. In pursuance of this

CANTONMENT OF SEROOR. 169
object, he practised the most rigid economy,
and denied himself all those comforts and enjoy
ments that other persons of his rank indulged
in without hesitation. He consoled himself,
under the want of them, with the assurance that
he was fast amassing money, and hastening the
period at which he would be able to revisit home
in the possession of a hberal fortune. His hap
piness consisted entirely in anticipation ; and he
considered his enjoying the present as an unwar
rantable encroachment upon those pleasures
which he had reserved for the future. The
vividness of his imagination concealed from him
the delusiveness of his prospects. He was con
tinually drawing conclusions before he had esta
bUshed the premises. The slightest report of
the death or resignation of any of his seniors, —
of an increase of pension, or augmentation of the
army, — of the payment of prize-money, — or of
any occurrence that was favourable to his* in
terests, served as a foundation for new hopes
and new schemes connected with the future.
When his friends visited him, they usually found

170 CANTONMENT OF SEROOR.
him with the army-list in his hand, calculating
the chances of promotion, and anticipating every
one's death but his own. He would sometimes
take it in his head to kill three or four men in a
morning, and would promulgate their decease with
a degree of confidence, that imposed upon even
-those who were acquainted with his character and
peculiar propensities When any of his auditors
convinced him that the parties were alive, he
would say that it was of no consequence, because
he could prove that they would all be dead in a
very short time. He talked continually of what
he intended to do, and how he intended to live
on going home, and declared that he felt indif
ferent about what he did, or how he lived, till
then. Years after years glided away without
bringing about the fulfilment of his plans and
expectations ; but his pursuits made him in
sensible to the lapse of time, and he grew old
without knowing it. At length, after a long
period of uncomfort, privation, and harassing eco
nomy, he began to make preparations for quit
ting India, and commencing his long-anticipated

CANTONMENT OF SEROOR. 171
career of pleasure and felicity ; but he was car
ried off by sudden illness, leaving his fortune to
be dissipated by relations who had encouraged
him in his schemes of prospective happiness, and
secretly cherished the hope that his death might
throw his wealth into their hands before he had
an opportunity of spending and enjoying it in
the way he had proposed eventually to do.
There might have been the residence of a-
nother person who thought that wealth would
prove the key of happiness in his native country.
He perhaps passed thirty years of his life at out-
stations, where he was almost totally secluded
from European society, and in a manner insolat-
ed from the civilized world. But he did not at
all regret this, as it enabled him to live as penu-
riously as he chose, and to accumulate an im
mense fortune. He at length went home ; but,
for the first time in his life, felt himself abroad,
and in a strange land. During his residence in
India he had totally neglected to keep up Euro
pean associations and habits of feeling, or to ac
quire any knowledge of the existing state of

172 CANTONMENT OF SEROOR.
manners and modes of life in Britain. Instead
of being treated with respect and deference, he
was ridiculed and despised as a monster too un
tutored and uncouth to be endured in good so
ciety. He found it impossible to rid. himself of
his Asiatic ideas and customs, and to substitute
English ones in their place, and suffered daily
mortifications, and got into innumerable scrapes,
in consequence of his ignorance of the world and
of human character. His wealth could not
supply these deficiencies, nor blind people to
them. The men pitied him, the women made
him their sport, and his relations stripped him
of his money. When in society, he merely
filled a chair, being unable to take any part in
conversation, or to increase in any way the com
fort or enjoyment of the circle of which he hap
pened to be a member. He could, indeed, talk
of the Pindarees, describe tiger-hunting, or give
a history of the cruelties of some Nabob ; but
unfortunately he found that no one took the
least interest in subjects of the kind, or wished
to hear him descant upon them. He had in-

fANTONMENT OF SEROOR. 173
tended to provide himself with a young and
fashionable wife, but his gallantry was too boorish
to be acceptable to women of any pretensions ;
and they either turned him into ridicule, or
avoided his company. In short, he was rich,
and nothing else ; and he learned, when too late,
that wealth had not the omnipotent influence
that is often ascribed to it. Too proud to bear
neglect with indifference, he at length abandon
ed aU intercourse with any but old Indians of
his own standing ; and, in their company, endea
voured to enliven the dulness and monotony of
age by recollections of an equally dull and mo
notonous youth ; but this sort of life soon
ceased to be endurable, and he returned to
India with the determination of never again
quitting it.
That mean-looking house perchance formed
the abode of one whose mode of life seemed in
consistent with his rank and circumstances, and
who denied himself every thing beyond the
mere necessaries of life. His prudence, his
economy, and his penuriousness, were the ridi-

174 CANTONMENT OF SEROOR.
cule of his acquaintances. He had the charac
ter of a determined money-maker ; and when
people calculated the amount of his monthly
savings, they despised his avarice, and regretted
that fortune had been so liberal to one whose
narrow-mindedness made him abuse her bounty.
He quietly heard the taunts of his associates ;
for pride and a sense of his own dignity re
strained him from making those disclosures
which would have silenced them for ever. His
penuriousness did not arise from the love of
money. He had parents, or brothers and sisters,
in destitute circumstances at home, and it was to
provide them with the comforts of life that he
dispensed with such himself, and bore the ridi
cule and animadversions of his companions and
acquaintances. An unwillingness to impeach
the respectability of his relations, by avowing
their poverty, likewise sealed his lips as to the
cause of his imputed avarice, and made him
more patiently endure the slights to which it
daily exposed him. At length he died; and
people, on inquiring the amount of his wealth,

CANTONMENT OF SEROOR. 175
learned, to theh astonishment, that the funds he
had left were hardly sufficient to defray his fu
neral expenses ; but that he had been a wUling
martyr to poverty in the cause of benevolence,
and had sacrificed his personal comfort and the
respect of the world to the noble pride of fulfil
ling the duties imposed by filial love and fraternal
affection. After strolling along the whole range of offi
cers' houses, one comes, very appropriately, to a
burying-ground, which, indeed, forms the chief
outlet of almost every cantonment in India. The
burying-ground of Seroor, however, is small,
and does not contain so many graves as might be
expected. Though rather pleasingly situated,
it wants the hallowing influence of a church in
the midst of it, and the solemn shade of lofty
trees, such as surround most receptacles for the
dead in Britain, and throw a melancholy sombre-
ness over them, that accords well with the put-
poses to which they are apphed. An unshelter
ed burying-ground in India, bleaching beneath
the glare of a fervid sun, and exposed to the in-

176 CANTONMENT OF SEROOR.
vasions of wolves and jackalls, is not the least
striking part of an Asiatic landscape, and is one
that has in it something repulsive to British
feeUngs. The only remarkable tomb in Seroor is one
that was erected to the memory of Colonel Wal
lace, who died in command of the cantonment,
and so much beloved by the natives, that they
honoured him with an apotheosis, and now
daily perform religious rites at his cemetery,
where an officiating priest attends, and some
times keeps a lamp burning during a great part
of the night. His apparition, it is said, frequent
ly walks round the lines at midnight ; and the
Sepoy sentries are in the habit of presenting
arms at the time they expect it to pass before
them. The priest declares that a voice from his
tomb has more than once uttered prophecies and
revelations; and the natives believe this, and
seldom engage in any thing important without
making an attempt to propitiate the shade of the
departed Colonel Wallace.
At the other extremity of the cantonment is

CANTONMENT OF SEROOR. 177
a small eminence, called Scandal-Point, where
the idlers of Seroor used to assemble in the even
ing, and amuse themselves with that kind of con
versation which is indicated by the name of their
place of rendezvous. Scandal-Point overlooks
a beautiful plain, that served for parades and
for a pleasure-riding ground, and was every
afternoon crowded with carriages, pedestrians,
and horsemeji, who were attracted to the spot by
its convenience, its gayety, and the music of a
military band ; but all this pageantry has passed
away, and now the dull expanse is seldom en
livened by any objects more interesting than
cattle, Paria dogs, and crows.
One evening, on ascending the eminence
above-mentioned, I found a new and brilliant
scene awaiting me. A Bengal regiment, on its
march to Bombay, had that day arrived at Seroor,
and the esplanade that lay in front of me was co
vered with tents of every size and description,
from the shewy one of the field-officer to the
humble canopy of the simple-minded Hindoo.
Crowds of people were wandering along the
VOL. II. , Jl

178 CANTONMENT OF SEROOR.
avenues of the encampment, and the busy hum
of their voices was scarcely drowned by the
bugles and drums, neighing of horses, tinkling of
camel-bells, and creaking of baggage-waggons,
that mingled disorderly together, British offi
cers and their ladies, horse-keepers, camel-drivers,
palanquin-bearers, native women and chUdr
ren, water-carriers, and European soldiers and
their wives, might be seen passing and repassing
in varied groups ; the respective costumes, laUr
guages, and complexions of which, formed con
trasts equally vivid and amusing. In different
parts of the esplanade, elephants, gayly capari
soned, and surmounted with smaU pavilions,
paced majestically along, waving their probosces
over the heads of the diminutive-looking people
and animals around them. . Camels were seen
everywhere; some going to water, others de
vouring their fodder, and a third set crouching
on the ground while people were unloading them.
Long lines of bullocks, country horses, and artil
lery-waggons, formed the outskirts of the en
campment ; and the multitudes of people that

CANTONMENT OF SEROOR. 179
attended them made the bustle there as noisy
and animated as it was in the centre of the
plain. On descending from the Point, I first ob
served a number of Hindoos sitting under a
scanty covering of canvass, supported by short
sticks. They were taking their evening-meal in
profound silence, amidst a cloud of smoke that
rose from a small fire in the midst of them. I
next passed the tent of an officer. It was lined
with crimson, and brilliantly lighted up ; and a
party of officers in uniform sat round a table,
which displayed a variety of dishes, wines,
and silver-plate. A range of Hindoo servants,
in fanciful liveries, attended the board, and their
grave looks and solemn demeanour correspond
ed ill with the unbounded gayety and social ease
of their masters. On advancing a little further,
I saw a crowd of coolies, or native porters, hud
dled together beside the burdens they had car
ried during the day, and talking with as great
vivacity, and apparently enjoying themselves
as much, as the European military in their

180 CANTONMENT OF SEROOR.
immediate vicinity. I now came to the tent of
a private soldier. He and his comrades were
drinking arrack together, and talking of the
pleasure of revisiting Ireland, after long years
of exile in India. A little way off was a native
priest and beggar sitting on the ground, count
ing his beads, and calling out that he would
secure admission into heaven to aU who bestow
ed alms upon him; but his offers of salvation
were sometimes rendered unintelligible by the
loud voices of a troop of Indian courtezans, who
danced round a vase of flowers, and sung the
popular love-songs of their country.
On revisiting Scandal-Point the succeeding
evening, I found every thing again desolate and
deserted. The camp and its assembled multi
tudes, the elephants, the camels, the oxen, the
carriages, and the tents and fires of the native
foUowers, had totally disappeared. A depress
ing gloom and silence reigned over the tenant
less plain as it stretched beneath me, dimly illu
minated by the lurid glare of a sun setting amidst
thundery clouds. I observed a vulture, gorged

CANTONMENT OF SEROOR. 181
with carrion, hopping lazily along, and flapping its
wings, and looking at me as carelessly as if I had
been one of the large grey stones that lay around
the httle mount on which I stood. A solitary
jackall likewise appeared at a distance in quest of
prey ; and, warned away alike by these intruders
and by the departing twilight, I hastened home
wards. The aspect of a deserted cantonment is a
perpetual source of melancholy impressions to
those who reside in it, particularly if they have
known the spot when full of inhabitants, and
have witnessed their gradual removal by death,
or change of abode. In India, every one loves
to see a large society around him, as the plea
sures of social intercourse form almost his only
compensation for what he there suffers from the
climate. Those who. are stationed at such
places as Seroor, not only live in comparative
solitude, but know that their condition, in so far
as regards society, will suffer no amelioration ;
for a cantonment, once abandoned, has little
chance of ever being occupied. The ruins,

182 CANTONMENT OF SEROOR.
which to a stranger visiting the spot form its
only attraction and interest, are, to the remain
ing inhabitants, painful memorials of dead and
absent friends, and gloomy monuments com
memorative of former years and of past enjoy
ments.

THE DELINQUENT.

THE DELINQUENT.

The third act of " II Flauts Magico" had com
menced in the London Opera-house. The or
chestra was pouring its rich and varied harmony
to a crowd of more or less impassioned lis
teners, and conveying to them emotions and
shades of feeling which, to them, were almost
independent of the accompanying language.
Every eye rested upon a young female per
former, who was about to begin a song ; and'its
announcing symphony had just ceased, when
Owen Falconveer entered the theatre. His eyes
almost immediately met her's, and they ex-

186 THE DELINQUENT.
changed glances of mutual recognition and ten
derness. They had long passionately loved
each other ; and Owen now came to give her
one farewell look, for his fate demanded that
they should part for ever, — and on that night
too. Mariette was unconscious of her impending
misfortune, and went through her song and re
citation with all the beautiful enthusiasm that
usually characterized her acting. While Owen
gazed and Ustened, he almost forgot his miser
able situation in the rapture which the fair
creature's performances inspired. Her voice, as
heard among the flutes, bassoons, and hautboys,
made his heart palpitate and his frame tremble.
A languid voluptuousness stole over him, and
his senses became, as it were, lost in a short-
lasting hallucination, which shut out every
gloomy thought, and concealed every fearful
prospect, except when his crimes and his dan
ger obtruded themselves momentarUy upon his
recollection, hke the wild and ghastly faces that
often gUmmer amidst the pageantry of our most

THE DELINQUENT. 187
brilliant and joyous dreams. He had almost
insensibly withdrawn his eyes from Mariette ;
for her image floated in his mind with a vivid
ness more intense than belongs to the realities of
vision. But the concluding chords from the
orchestra made him start up and look towards
the stage. She vanished with a light step ;
another voice began to sing; and Owen felt
himself no more in heaven. He buried his face
in the crimson curtain of the box, and threw
himself back upon the seat in bitter sorrow and
desperation. Owen's story thus far may be shortly and
simply told. He was the son of a clergyman^
and had spent his early youth in a retired part
of the country, secluded from society, and igno
rant of the great world. Both his father and
mother died before he had completed his educa
tion, or engaged in any particular profession ;
and a distant relation then took charge of hinr,
and eventually procured for him a situation of
considerable trust and responsibility under go^
vernment. His removal to London followed

188 THE DELINQUENT.
this, and he soon got initiated into all the excesses
and extravagancies of gay life, and, among other
indiscretions, fell in love with a female performer
at the opera. This attachment was an expen
sive one, owing to the generosity of his disposi
tion, and the improvident habits of his enslaver,
who accepted his presents, and spent his money,
without ever considering that she was involving
him in fatal difficulties. Owen's style of life
likewise was very expensive, and his income,
though good, proved totally insufficient for his
purposes. He had long been aware of this ; but
had postponed the day of retrenchment from time
to time. In short, he was completely ruined.
He had that morning received an intimation, that
his public accountis would be examined and
audited in the course of the ensuing week ; and
a little calculation had shewn him that he had
embezzled many thousand pounds of govern
ment money, and would therefore be a defaulter
to that amount. He saw no possible means of
avoiding public punishment and disgrace, and
determined to take flight without delay. He

THE DELINQUENT. 189
even now almost feared to appear abroad, lest
his delinquencies should already have been sus
pected ; but he had not resolution to bid Ma
riette farewell, and had visited the theatre that
he might see her in her glory, and in her beauty,
once before he quitted England.
Owen, as he looked on the gay crowd around
him, recalled the time when he had first beheld
Mariette. The opera and its fascinations were
then new to him, and, on entering the house,
he was dazzled, agitated, and confused, with the
magic splendours of the scene. The visions, in
which he had indulged while in rural retirement
and seclusion, seemed to be suddenly realized,
and life at once became invested with a thousand
delights and attractions, which he had formerly
believed to exist in the ideal world only. The
exquisiteness of the music, the glow of the lights,
the loveliness of the female faces, the richness of
their dresses, and the heat and closeness ofthe air,
all combined to bring on a delicious and over
powering intoxication. His senses dissolved one
into another, and lost their individual distinct-

190- THE DELINQUENT.
ness ; and an assemblage of beautiful objects was
spread before him in radiant confusion. Splen
did architecture, distant perspectives on the
stage, graceful forms, soft perfumes fanning in
the air, and harmoniously combined voices,
seemed to involve themselves on every side,
and to float languidly in the mixed atmosphere
of pleasure that encompassed him. He was
surrounded by beings seemingly more lovely
than ever appeared in daylight, and he was un
willing to break the delusion by any unseason
able act of thought, — he heard their playful
talk, and even felt their breath upon his cheek,
and caught the perfumes that exhaled from their
rich and glossy hair. The language of Italy
for the first dropped blandly upon his ear, and
though he understood it not, he feU what it
meant, and listened with strange delight to the
songs and dialogues of men and women belong
ing to a foreign clime ; while the accompany
ing strains, composed by the cunningest master
of harmony, and poured forth by a choir of
every kind of wind and stringed instruments.

THE DELINQUENT. 191
filled him with pleasing horror. To one, who
had before heard no music but the simple melo
dies of his native land, the voice of an orchestra
was entrancing, whether it spoke in the melan
choly language of hautboys and French-horns,
or in the keen and transparent tone of violins,
or was heard in the thunders and tumult of a
conjoined and numerous band of performers. It
was amidst the elevation of spirits arising from
those excitements, that Owen first saw Mariette
and loved her; and the frequent repetition of
them had, in a great measure, kept alive the
violence of his passion, which, under other cir
cumstances, might have gradually abated. In
the habit of regularly attending the opera, he
had enjoyed an opportunity of almost nightly
seeing Mariette dressed with taste and splendour,
and hearing her sing the impassioned airs of
Italy, with an enthusiasm and feeling that were
equally captivating to himself and to her tiidit-
ors. These festal attractions were at length as
sociated with her image, and Owen regarded

192 THE DELINQUENT.
her as a being who lived constantly in a peculiar
sphere of her own, where there was nothing but
music, animation, applause, and magnificence.
The curtain had dropped, and the audience
nearly dispersed, before Owen thought of leav
ing the theatre. At length, wrapping himself
up in a boat-cloak, he hurried out-by a private
passage. On reaching the street, he observed
Mariette's carriage driving off, and doubted not
that she was in it, , A sudden impulse induced
him to pursue the vehicle, which moved very
rapidly, and he commenced running, and kept
up with it in a state of desperation for a consi
derable time. But he gradually lost ground,
and was at last obhged to stop from exhaustion.
The carriage turned the corner of a lane and
disappeared. He gazed after it for a moment,
and then exclaiming, " What have I been
doing ! What is the object of all this !" looked
around, and found himself in a silent part of the
city, and far from the quarter to which he had
intended to go on quitting tIte opera-house.
2

THE DELINQUENT. 193
The watchmen were suspiciously observing his
agitated motions, and he began to walk at a
more sedate pace towards Blackwall.
Owen's arrangements were already made.
He had engaged a passage in a ship bound for
Jamaica. She was now lying in the river, in
readiness to proceed to sea at au early hour
next morning. Under the fictitious name of
Linder he hoped to escape detection and public
disgrace, and, by a new and respectable course
of life, to make an amende for the crimes and
follies of the past.
He now hurried towards the Thames, that
he might embark before daylight should expose
him to observation. The streets were silent and
deserted, and he pursued his way without inter
ruption, and reached Blackwall as the bell of St
Paul's tolled three. However, there was no
boat to be had at that early hour, and he found
that he would be obliged to defer goirtg on
board of ship till some watermen made their ap
pearance. The morning was dim, hazy,, and
chill, and the light no more than sufficient to
VOL. II. N

194 THE DELINQUENT.
enable him to discern his vessel, which lay at
anchor in the midst of the river. Owen now
looked for a place where he could seat himself,
and entered a ruined building near the bank of
the Thames. The walls were scorched and
blackened ; part of the roof had fallen in, and
the quantities of rubbish and half-burnt timber
that lay inside, shewed that the house had been
destroyed by fire. The gloominess of this deso
late abode was congenial to his feelings ; and he
went into an inner apartment, and stretched
himself upon some planks, resolving patiently to
await the approach of dawn.
He had not continued long in this situation,
when he heard the roll of a carriage, which
seemed to be approaching in the direction of
the house. When pretty near, it suddenly
stopped, and Owen could soon after distinguish
footsteps coming towards his retreat, and whis
pering voices- He kept perfectly quiet ; and a
female figure, wrapped in a long mantle, and
attended by a man of fashionable appearance,
entered the building, but did not proceed beyond

THE DELINQUENT. 195
the outer apartment. Owen therefore remained
undiscovered ; and the two strangers began tO
converse, not suspecting that they could be
overheard. " Look at me for the last time,"
said the lady, in a tone of calm despair. " It is
impossible we can ever meet again. I have
only to ask, that you will nightly pray that our
ship may perish in the midst of the ocean, far
from the abode of him whom I have so cruelly
injured," — " Caroline, my love," returned her
companion, " you talk distractedly. Oh, in
fatuated girl ! would you but remain in Eng
land till  " " Hush, hush," cried she, " do
not attempt to persuade me. What ! would
you v/ish my fatal error to become public .''
Would not your projected plan of seclusion be
an acknowledgment of it ? Secrecy would be
impracticable. But you mistake me. My
honour is in my own hands, and shall be saved.
On some dark stormy night at sea I wUl Jiude
the present and forthcoming tempests." — " This
is madness," interrupted he ; " did I suspect
.that you were bent on self-destruction, you

196 THE DEIJNQUENT.
should never leave these shores till you had re
nounced the idea. But come, let us fly toge
ther to some distant part of the world. I will
give up every thing for your sake." — " No," re
turned the lady vehemently, " my determina
tions are unalterable. Though guilty, I am not
selfish. Return to your wife, and, in making
her happy, try to forget what misery you have
occasioned me."
At this moment the carriage began to move
down the lane, and the noise of its wheels pre
vented Owen from hearing the reply. However,
a flash from the lamps of the vehicle, as it drove
past the building, fell upon the female, and
shewed her dress to be a blue mantle, edged
with white fur. The voices of watermen, and
the dashing of their oars, were now distinguish
able ; and the mysterious couple hastily left the
house, and Owen fancied that he heard the lady
sobbing as she went out. He watched their
movements, and saw them proceed to the side of
the river and embark in a boat, which imme
diately shot off in the direction of the West In-

THE DELINQUENT. 197
diaman ; but, owing to the dimness of the morn
ing, the mists that floated upon the water, arid
the number of vessels that lay at anchor, he soon
lost sight of the party. He waited a consider
able time, in hopes that the barge might return,
and afford him her services, but to no purpose;
for he found it necessary to engage another to
convey him to the ship, which began to unmoor
at sunrise. On going on board, he found every thing in
that state of confusion and disarrangement that
always occurs at the commencement of a voyage.-
The captain received him with cold courtesy,
and had a degree of reserve and disguise in his
manner, which made Owen almost suspect that
he knew his history and peculiar situation. He
was haunted by a vague idea, that the lady,
whose conversation he had overheard in the
ruined house, was his fellow-passeiiger ; but he
observed every one so busy, that he did no't ven
ture to make any inquiry whether or not there
was a female on board.
During the first day the weather was sullen

198 THE DELINQUENT.
and cold, and Owen spent most of his time in
his cabin, reviewing his past life, and forming
unsatisfactory anticipations about the future.
A deep gloom involved his mind, and the society
of Captain Harman was not calculated to dispel
it ; for he scarcely ever spoke, except when com
mon civility required his doing so. The party
at the breakfast and dinner table consisted of
himself, Owen, and the first officer of the ship ;
and as the succeeding day made no addition to
the number, it seemed evident that the vessel
carried no other passengers.
However, at night, when Owen was going
to his cabin, he unexpectedly encountered a
negro woman of extraordinary appearance, car
rying a lamp. He started back half alarmed ;
and she seemed a good deal disordered, and
stood still for a few moments, and then passed
hurriedly on to the gangway. Her person was
remarkable for its shortness, clumsiness, and de
formity ; and her features were of the coarsest
kind, and almost concealed by a profusion of
lank black hair, through which her dark, though

THE DELINQUENT. 199
small eyes, sparkled with peculiar brilliancy and
intelligence. Owen's curiosity was much ex
cited, and he lingered near the spot, endeavour
ing to conjecture who she could be, and to whom
she belonged. She soon returned, carrying-
some wine, and cautiously opened the door of one
of the stern-cabins, and having entered, closed
it softly behind her ; but not before Owen had
observed the shadow of a female figure upon the
walls of the apartment.
He was now convinced that the ship had, at
least, one lady on board, and there was a mys
tery about her seclusion, that awakened a power
ful interest, and made him feel anxious to see
her. The vessel had two after-cabins, one of
which was occupied by Owen, and the other by
the unknown female. Between them ran a nar
row passage, which terminated in a window that
opened close to the rudder, and about four feet
above the surface of the sea. Both cabins
entered from this passage, and nearly opposite
to each other. In front was the dining-room,
extending the whole breadth of the ship, and

200 THE DELINQUENT.
separated from the passage above described by
a door, which was closed or kept open at the
will of the inmates of the cabins, who could thus
shut themselves up from all intrusion or comr
munication with any other part of the ship.
Owen was at first astonished that he never had
heard the least noise in the apartment of his
neighbour ; but it soon occurred to him, that, as
they had during the two preceding nights been
sailing very rapidly, the dashing of the water
around the rudder must have drowned all other
sounds. On going upon deck, the foUowing evening,
he observed a lady leaning against the bulwarks
near the ship's stern. It was bright moonlight,
and he could distinctly see her countenance.
She wore a very large shawl, which hung in
folds around her figure, and entirely concealed
its proportions ; but her attitude and stature
displayed a grace and a dignity that could not
belong to any but a fine form. Her face,
though pale, was lovely and expressive, with an
air of imperiousness and hauteur, and a dark-

THE DELINQUENT. 201
cning and flushing of the forehead, that indicat
ed tempestuous passions. Her temples and
chin had in them a marble sternness, which
seemed uncongenial to the existence of the softer
affections, and infused something almost repel
ling into her otherwise noble and beautiful coun
tenance. Owen could not resist gazing upon
her, though a sentiment of aversion and awe
mingled itself with his admiration. However,
she soon evaded his scrutiny, by drawing a
white lace veil over her face and neck, and look
ing towards the sea. The negro woman stood a
little way off, and continued in the same position
till her mistress left the deck, and descended to
her cabin.
Next day, the lady, whose name was Mrs
Marburn, appeared at meals. However, her
presence did not in the least degree diminish the
reserve and unsociableness of the party ; for she
neither spoke nor smUed, and left the table as
soon as common politeness would allow. She
had an air of deep dejection and constant pertur
bation ; and her griefs seemed to be more con-

202 THE DELINQUENT.
nected with the future than with the past. Owen
could not but observe she hated and feared
Captain Harman, and that he conducted him
self towards her in a style of assurance and im
plied control, which evidently had its origin
from the consciousness of power, and from the
privilege of employing it. They used a dis
tant civility towards each other, mingled with a
degree of bitterness and impatience ; and, in the
course of their little interchanges of manner, the
lady's countenance was sometimes overspread
with a deadly glossiness, and an expression of
calm malignity, that made Owen shudder.
When evening came, Faulconveer took his
station upon deck, in hopes that Mrs Marburn
might appear there also; for, though her pre
sence was almost painful to him, he felt a wild
and agitated interest in every thing connected
with her, and loved to gaze upon her, even when
her looks and manner made his blood thrill.
A vacant chair stood on the quarter-deck, and
the negro woman was employed in spreading a
shawl over it. Owen heard footsteps ascending

THE DELINQUENT. 203
the gangway stairs, and presently Mrs Marburn
stood before him, dressed in a blue mantle
edged with white fur. He involuntarily started
back, at once recognising the figure and costume
of which the passing carriage-Ughts had afforded
him a glimpse while in the ruined house at
Blackwall. The lady bent her eyes keenly
upon him for a moment, and then passed on
to her seat, and became absorbed in thought.
Owen began to pace backwards and forwards,
and every time he looked at Mrs Marburn he
became more convinced of her identity with the
female whose conversation he had overheard
before embarking. He tried to recall every
word she had uttered, and to conjecture what
was her history, and how the mysteribusness of
her situation could be explained. In the mean
time, the lady was not regardless of Owen, but
at intervals directed penetrating glances towards
him, as he passed and repassed the place where
she sat ; the emotion he had betrayed on see
ing her rendered him an object of curiosity ;
and they mutually felt anxious to know more of

204 THE DELINQUENT.
each other, though equally without the means
of gratifying that desire.
Owen remained on deck till a late hour, and
fell into conversation with the first officer of the
ship. In the course of their talk, he inquired
of his companion, if he could give him any in
formation respecting the lady they had on
board. " No," returned the young man, " that
is quite out of my power; however, when we
were last at Jamaica, a singular circumstance
occurred, that seems to have some connexion
with her history. We had got up our anchor,
and were putting to sea in a rainy and blowing
night, being about two miles from shore, when
those on the look-out a-liead gave notice that a
boat was approaching. It presently came along
side, and a man, wrapped in a large cloak, and
drenched with wet, leapt on board, and inquir
ed for Captain Harman. They seemed to know
each other very well, and went down to the
cabin, and continued talking earnestly together
for nearly half an hour. The stranger, on
coming upon deck again, seemed agitated and

THE DEIilNQUENT. 205
distressed ; and when he took leave, which he
did almost immediately, I heard the captain call
him Marburn, and assure him that he would
effect what he desired. Our untimely visitor
then jumped into his boat, which carried a sail,
and was out of sight in a moment. This occur
rence soon dropped from my memory ; but the
name of the lady in question recalled it a few
days ago, though I dare say it has no reference
to her or her affairs."
Things passed on in the usual way for more
than a week. The party on board continued as
unsociable as ever, and wore such a gloomy
aspect, that Owen ardently wished the voyage
at a termination. No intimacy took place be
tween him and Captain Harman, and he led a
life of solitude and seclusion.
Several days of tempestuous weather had
confined Mrs Marburn almost entirely to her
cabin, and when she had appeared, her looks
were more than usually desponding and agitated.
It blew a gale of wind on the fourth evening,
and the sea ran very high, and sometimes broke

206 THE DELINQUENT.
over the vessel, which rolled and pitched in a
violent manner. Owen remained upon deck,
watching the storm, and the captain and sea
men were actively engaged in their respective
duties. A succession of loud shrieks were sud
denly heard amidst the tumult of the wind and
waves. Every one immediately abandoned his
employment, and stood still awaiting their repe
tition. After a short interval they recurred,
and seemed to- proceed from the stern of the
ship. Captain Harman rushed down the gang
way stairs, followed by Owen, and entered the
narrow passage that divided the two cabins, and
stopped at the door of that occupied by the
lady. They listened ; but the dashing and
bursting of the waves round the rudder pre
vented them from distinguishing any other
noise. Captain Harman tapped at the door
several times without effect, and then called
Mrs Marburn by name, and requested to know
what had been the cause of her cries. No re
ply was made ; but Owen thought he heard a
bustle within the apartment, like the closing of

THE DELINQUENT. M^
curtains, and a sound similar to that of the lid
of a chest hurriedly shut and locked. The cap
tain repeated his inquiries, and the negro wo
man answered, " My mistress has been ill.
She has had a fit, but is better now." " Un
less Mrs Marburn speaks herself," cried he, " I
will not be satisfied. Open the door immediate
ly !" " No, no," returned the attendant ; " my
lady is talking to you, but you cannot hear her
voice for the roaring of the sea." Captain Har
man burst the door of the cabin at one effort ;
but he scarcely caught a glance of its interior
before the light was dashed from the table, and
every thing involved in darkness. Owen, how
ever, short and imperfect as had been his op
portunity of observation, had seen the lady lying
on her cot in a state of death-like exhaustion,
and with a countenance full of dismay, and her
black servant standing near her, and glaring at
them in a paroxysm of rage and terror. Mrs
Marburn now exclaimed faintly, " Captain
Harman, what does this intrusion mean.'' Is
it for the purpo.se of insult ? Beware ; do not

208 THE DELINQUENT.
think that I am wholly unprotected." He was
immediately abashed, and, after attempting an
apology, and pleading his anxiety respecting her
health, went upon deck again.
Owen did so likewise, though the bells of the
watch warned him that it was midnight ; but
he was too much occupied by the scene he had
recently witnessed to feel disposed for sleep.
The storm had now somewhat subsided ; but the
sky and ocean were still gloomy and turbulent,
and the waves continued to burst fiercely around
the bows of the vessel, or to thunder against
her sides, and make her tremble under their
violence and impetuosity. While he sat alone
he dropped asleep, and a succession of dark,
wild, and gloomy images obtruded themselves
upon his mind. Guilt, fear, and danger, seem
ed to encompass him, and he felt a mysterious
presentiment that he was doomed to commit
some dreadful crime, or be a partner in some
atrocious deed. The ghastly countenance of
Mrs Marburn sometimes glimmered through
the surrounding obscurity, — sometimes he fan-

THE DELINQUENT. 209
cied he perceived Captain Harman watching
for an opportunity of forcing him overboard, —
and sometimes persons, whom he had never be
fore seen, evolved themselves from the darkness
with upbraiding looks, and vanished frowningly
away. He then fancied himself wandering in
an immense and desolate plain, whitened with
human bones, which lay bleaching beneath the
copper-coloured glare of a fiery and unclouded
sun. Suddenly vast groves of cocoa-nut and
mango trees sprung up around him, and he
forced his way through thickets of noxious,
prickly, and venomous plants, and breathed an
atmosphere pregnant with their suffocating and
pestiferous exhalations, and tried in vain to
escape from the bewildering labyrinth of dis
mal vegetation. He waded through pools of
stagnant water, on which half-decayed human
bodies were floating, and often was hurried into
contact with their cold, dank, and livid limbs,
and forced to disentangle himself from the
twining embraces. At a distance he saw a long
succession of coffins carried by negroes, who
VOL. II. o

210 THE DELINQUENT.
wound their way through the shadiest part of
the forest with frightful rapidity, and with a
sound like the hollow trampling of innumerable
feet. Bats, ravens, and vultures, hovered noise
lessly over their path ; and indistinct sobbings,
murmurs of terror, and the tolling of bells, fill
ed the dense misty air, in which immense black
palls waved to and fro with slow and funereal
motion. Owen started awake, shuddering with hor
ror, and hastily sought his cabin ; but he found
the door of the passage that led to it firmly
fastened inside, and his efforts to open it did not
appear to attract the attention of those within.
Supposing that Mrs Mai-burn had used this
precaution against the intrusions of Captain
Harman, he was unwilling to disturb her, and
therefore retired without obtaining admission.
However, it soon occurred to him, that he might
enter his apartment by another way ; for he
had an impression that the stern-window at the
end of the narrow passage was open, notwith
standing the roughness of the sea. He ascer-

THE DELINQUENT. 211
tained this to be the fact, by going aft and look
ing below, and immediately determined to swing .
himself down under the jolly-boat, and on a
level with the window, and to leap through it.
Seizing a moment when no one appeared to ob
serve him, he effected this, and found himself
safe in the passage between the two cabins. He
had just entered his own, when the door of Mrs
Marburn's was cautiously opened. A stream of
light flashed through the door-way, and shewed
the negro woman with something in her arms.
Owen staggered back as she rushed past him,
for she carried a chUd. It was instantly preci
pitated from the window into the sea, and the
tumultuous waves closed with sullen roar over
its body. Narna recoiled a little way, and ad
vanced again, and looked at the sea under the
stern several different times, and then cautiously
shut and fastened the window. The door of Mrs
Marburn's cabin had been open all this time.
Owen was too much engrossed by the horrible
act of her attendant to observe any thing else, or
to be aware that the rays of light from the apart-

212 THE DELINQUENT.
ment fell upon him. Narna, when returning to
it, saw him standing near her. She uttered a
shriek, and sprung into her mistress's chamber,
and closed the door violently behind her.
Owen entered his cabin, bewildered and agi
tated. His lamp had gone out, and he stretched
himself upon his bed, Mrs Marburn's myste
rious behaviour and unhappy looks were now
explained ; and it seemed evident, that the per
son who had embarked with her in the boat at
Blackwall was her paramour, and the guilty fa
ther of the child which her confidante had inhu
manly thrown into the sea, for the purpose of
concealing its birth. Owen could not be certain
that the babe was alive when he saw it in
Narna's arms ; but he was constantly haunted
by the image of its pale little face, its half-closed
eyes, and its outstretched arms — ^by the horrible
and perturbed countenance of the negro wo
man, and by the fierce rushing and bursting
and roaring of the waves, that foUowed its pre
cipitation into them. What was to be done ?
Must he turn informer against Narna ? That

THE DELINQUENT. 213
was impossible ; for it would implicate Mrs
Marburn, and serve no good or useful purpose.
He determined to remain secret, and to spare
the guilty mother's life and reputation. The
child had perhaps been born dead; and if so, the
concealment of its birth was all that cOuld be
urged against the unhappy parent. With her
errors and her criminal attachment he had no
thing to do. He recollected that he was flying
from the arm of justice and of punishment, and
how could he consistently bring down upon
others those inflictions which were so much
feared and deserved by himself ?
WhUe occupied with these thoughts, he
heard his door gently opened, and a stream of
light from a dark-lantern illuminated the cabin.
A figure, wrapped in white drapery, approach
ed with languid steps, and the reflection from
the opposite wall shewed him Mrs Marburn.
She was pale and exhausted, and could scarcely
support herself, but a despairing and energetic
boldness flamed in her dark and sunken eyes.
Her hair hung down upon her neck and

214 THE DELINQUENT.
shoulders, and was parted on her forehead, the
contortions and frequent flushing of which shew
ed what a variety of emotions were conflicting
in her mind. She looked at Owen with an ex
pression of fear, doubt, and hesitation, while he
raised himself from his couch and involuntarily
recoiled from her. " You may well view me with
horror," said she, in a suppressed tone : " I am
aware that you know my secret and my crime.
I am in your power — but hsten ; think not that
I have risen from the bed of guilt and death
for the purpose of entreating your compassion
and your mercy. Answer me this ! — WiU you
bind yourself never to disclose the events of this
evening ? Your life is safe, whatever may be
your decision. I do not wish to terrify you
into acquiescence and submission. I could not
stoop to that." She paused for a moment, and
Owen replied, " My secrecy, shall be inviolable.
You may trust your reputation in my hands."
" And can you suppose," returned Mrs Mar
burn, " that I will be satisfied with a promise —
an idle promise ?¦: — I know what promises are !

THE DELINQUENT. 215
I have broken them again and again, and so,
perhaps, have you. Swear a solemn oath,
which I wUI dictate. If you refuse, I will not
outlive the morning's dawn. Do not suppose
that this is a vain threat, or doubt that I have
courage to put it into execution. Let what I
now do bear witness." She drew forth a knife,
and made a wound in the upper part of her
bosom. The blood sprang from it, and stream
ed down her white garments. She attempted
to speak, but her face grew deadly pale, and
her eyes became fixed and glassy, and she would
have faUen to the ground, had not Owen start
ed up, and caught her in his arms. Her head
rested on his shoulder, and life seemed to be
ebbing away. He thought she was dying, and
horror-struck lest she should expire, without
witnesses, in his cabin, he caUed Narna.
Mrs Marburn instantly revived a little, and
hurriedly and faintly said, " Hush ! hi^h ! I
want no assistance. I have been too desperate.
Such are the consequences of crime ! Look on
me now ! Whether do I appear to value life or

216 THE DELINQUENT.
reputation most ? Will you take the oath .^"
Owen assented almost inarticulately. She turn
ed the lantern, which she had before placed on
a table, full upon the spot where they stood,
and, taking a cross from her bosom, motioned
him to kneel down. He obeyed, and she drop
ped on her knees opposite to him, and pro
nounced the words of a dreadful and solemn
oath, having previously desired him to repeat
them after her. A shuddering passed over her
frame, and her countenance had a bewildered
expression, and looked dazzlingly white, amidst
the braids and clusters of black hair which hung
in profusion around it. Her beautiful arms
were specked with blood, and drops fell from
the hand which held the crucifix. Owen utter
ed the words, but neither heard them nor knew
their meaning. His respiration became hurried,
and his eyes dim, and he feh a death-like faint-
ness at his heart. When the awful ceremony
was over, the lady rose with a sort of smile,
and, taking up her lamp, drew a long deep sigh,
and muttered, " All wUl yet be well." She

THE DELINQUENT. 217
then folded her garments around her head and
bosom, and, with slow and tottering steps, left
the apartment.
Next morning found Owen stretched upon
the floor, & prey to the tremours that succeeded
a night of fearful dreams. It was some time
before he could recoUect the circumstances that
had brought about the situation in which he
found himself ; but they gradually rose in his
memory, at first with shadowy indistinctness,
and afterwards in all the vividness of reality.
The drops of blood that stained the planks upon
which he lay formed hideous memorials of his
oath, and of Mrs Marburn's desperation. While
contemplating them, his eye fell upon the cruci
fix, which she had used in the solemn ceremony.
He hastUy picked it up and concealed it, and,
endeavouring to appear as calm and undisturb
ed as possible, entered the public cabin.
No one was there, and he went upon "deck.
Captain Harman, who was taking his morning
walk, looked at him attentively, and then ex
changed salutations, with more politeness and

218 THE DELINQUENT.
cordiality than he had ever before shewn. Owen,
glad to escape from his own gloomy thoughts,
entered into conversation with him, and they
became mutually communicative and cheerful.
The captain made no allusion to the noises
that had summoned him below the preceding
night, and Owen cautiously avoided saying any
thing that might lead to a subject of such fear
ful and agitating interest. Mrs Marburn, as
may be supposed, did not appear at the break
fast-table, and Owen heard nothing of her dur
ing the whole of that or the succeeding day.
Captain Harman continued to treat him with
politeness and attention, and seemed anxious to
gain his confidence; and though Owen was
struck by the new style of manners assumed by
the latter, he did not suspect him of any sinister
designs. One evening, after a good deal of
general conversation. Captain Harman asked
Owen if he had seen Mrs Marburn before he
came on board. " I possibly may," returned he ;
" but cannot say with certainty. I was not in
the least acquainted with her, howe;'er." " She

THE DELINQUENT. 219
is a singular woman," said his companion.
Owen made no reply. " I am rather delicately
and peculiarly situated with respect to her,"
continued he. " To explain this, I must tell
you a little of her history. Mr Marburn, her
husband, has a fine estate in Jamaica. She
came to the island about six years ago, and re
sided with an uncle, who died not very long
since, leaving her a considerable fortune. She
was a friendless, unprotected orphan, and Mr
Marburn paid his addresses to her, and she
married him, rather as a matter of convenience,
it is believed, than from any particular affection
she had for his person. They did not live hap
pily together ; and she soon fell into such a bad
state of health, that a voyage home, and a re
sidence in England, were deemed necessary for
her recovery. The nature of her husband's
affairs prevented him from accompanying her
across the Atlantic, and she went alone and in
this ship. After some time, Mr Mairburn
heard, through various channels, a variety of
reports alike injurious to his wife's reputation

220 THE DELINQUENT.
and to his own honour. He at first doubted
the truth of them, but they every day received
confirmation from different sources, and he at
length determined that his -lady should imme
diately return to Jamaica. I happened to be
then laying in Kingston harbour, and on the
eve of sailing for London, and I was one night
surprised by his coming on board just as we
were putting to sea. He explained his suspi
cions, and gave me peremptory letters for the
lady, and requested that I would bring her out
with me, and endeavour to ascertain in what
degree she had gone astray. He wishes for a
separation, and would be glad to obtain proofs
of her guilt and infidelity. I have not been
able to collect any, though I believe she is even
more criminal than he supposes ; but she is very
deep, mysterious, and designing." Here Cap
tain Harman paused. " You tell rae an inter
esting story," said Owen, in a tremulous tone.
" Did Mrs Marburn seem unwilling to obey
her husband's commands .''" " Yes, particularly
so," repUed the captain. " She started a thou-

THE DELINQUENT. 221
sand objections to going in my ship, and a few
days before we sailed said, that her future hap
piness depended upon her being permitted to
remain in England two months more, but that
Mr Marburn's injunctions were too peremptory
to be disregarded ; however, she deferred her
embarkation to the last moment. Her beha
viour has been very strange since she came on
board. She has, you know, secluded herself
almost entirely, and without any apparent rea
son." " I have observed all this," returned
Owen ; " but perhaps she suffers from ill
health." " Not so," answered Captain Har
man ; " that plea never will do. What could
be the cause of those shrieks that we heard in
her cabin three nights ago ? Why did her wo
man extinguish the light when I opened the
door ? Can you explain these circumstances ?
To be sincere with you, Mr Linder, I suspect
that you know more than you choose to tell,
and that you actually have discovered some
secret connected with Mrs Marburn. If so,
you may safely confide it to me, and the dis-

222 THE DELINQUENT.
closure will benefit us mutually. You are go
ing to Jamaica, where, I presume, you have
few friends, _and would ' not be the worse of a
wealthy and respectable one. Could you fur
nish Mr Marburn with any private information
respecting his wife, you would serve him essen
tially, and he would not fail to return the obli
gation tenfold, and in a way that might' be of
incalculable advantage to you ever after."
Owen was startled by this proposal, and by
the manner in which it was pressed upon him.
He felt indignant at being supposed capable of
selling his honour, and for a moment forgot that
Captain Harman could have no suspicion that
he was under an oath of secrecy. But, recollect
ing himself, and disguising his feelings, he re
plied,^—" Were I in possession of any facts in
jurious to Mrs Marburn's reputation, can you
suppose that I would make her ruin the foun
dation of my own prosperity ? What have I to
do with her imputed frailties, or with her hus-
band's projects of bringing about a separation
or divorce .-' Even you. Captain Harman, would

THE DELINQUENT. 223
do well to be cautious how you move in this
business, lest you should involve your own char
acter, and that of the unfortunate lady, without
producing any real good to either party." He
ceased, and his companion, looking inquisitively
at him, said, — " Mr Linder, you have misun
derstood me. I do not believe you capable of
unjustly calumniating any one. I proposed no
thing dishonourable. You seem to take a great
interest in our female passenger, and I thought
you might have observed her more minutely
than I have had an opportunity of doing. Per
haps you will think of this hereafter. Good
night. — It is time to retire."
Owen now perceived, that Captain Harman
entertained suspicions that some extraordinary
transactions had taken place below decks on the
night of the tempest ; but he could not imagine
from what they had originated. It seemed un
likely that Narna would betray her mistress;
and no one could have witnessed the occurrences
in question, except the three individuals who
were implicated in them. Owen determined to

224 THE DELINQUENT.
be upon his guard against the snares of Captain
Harman, and to endeavour to quiet the suspi
cions which were then operating upon the
mind. Mrs Marburn had not left her apart
ment since the fatal night of the oath ; and Owen,
though very anxious to learn how she was, did
not venture to make any inquiries of her negro
attendant^ lest he might be observed or over
heard by Captain Harman, who watched him
constantly, and with looks that were any thing
but benignant.
They were now within three days' sail of
Jamaica, and had a favourable wind. In the
evening, Captain Harman took Owen aside, arid
addressed him thus : — " Mr Linder, have you
been considering of what I proposed to you
some time ago ? Are* you now wUling to give
me the information I desire ?'" — " I am at a
loss to understand you," said Owen. " If you
allude to Mrs Marburn, I must again positively
decline having any concern with her affairs." —
" You may repent this decision," repUed Cap
tain Harman ; " and the more so, as I know
2

THE DELINQUENT. 225
that you are well acquainted with them. Do
you deny that you have had any private conver
sation with her, or that you are in possession of
a crucifix which once belonged to her.'' What
marks of blood are those on the floor of your
cabin .'' I do not pretend to guess the meaning
of any of these circumstances, but I wish to hear
them explained If you do so, you will consult
both my interest and your own." — " Let me
have no more of this !" ciried Owen passionately.
" It is insulting ! I am unaccustomed to be
questioned so freely by persons of your rank !"
" Then hear me, Mr Faulconveer," returned
Captain Harman, in a sarcastic tone. Owen
started back. " How ! — Faulconveer !" exclaim
ed he. — " Yes, yes, Faulconveer !" replied
Captain Harman, bowing derisively. " Allow
me to apologize for not having hitherto address
ed you by your real name. Are you aware
that you are in my .power.'' I know your his
tory and your crimes, and have proofs of your
identity with the defaulter of — ¦ — but I will not
commit myself. Listen to me. If you do not
VOL. II. 1'

226 THE DELINQUENT.
tell all you know respecting Mrs Marburn be
fore our ship enters the port of Jamaica, I wUl
deUver you up to the public authorities there.
I need not describe what would be the conse
quences of this. Now my terms are before you.
Make a choice. Don't say any thing; for I
will not attend to it at present,"
Captain Harman walked hurriedly away,
leaving. Owen equally astonished, alarmed, and
perplexed. His first impulse was to go to his
cabin, to obtain the crucifix which Mrs Mar
burn had formerly dropped there ; but the box
that contained it was gone. This circumstance
at once explained how the captain had discover
ed his real name, and his being in possession of
the trinket ; for it was deposited among several
letters that were superscribed Faulconveer, and
were filled with details connected with his pri-
vate affairs and personal involvements. Owen
never had missed the box till now ; and he enter
tained no doubt that Captain Harman had
either carried it away himself, or caused it to be
secretly abstracted from the cabin. His ruin

THE DELINQUENT. 227
seemed inevitable ; for he never once thought
of sacrificing Mrs Marburn to secure himself.
It was not the oath alone that made him resolve
to keep her secret; for he would have been
equally firm in his purpose of doing so, even
had he not been under any promise or obligation
whatever. He revolted at the idea of injuring
a woman by his testimony, whatever might be
her crimes and errors, unless the guardians of
justice insisted upon his coming forward as a
public evidence. Besides, he was not certain
that the measure of Mrs Marburn's guilt was
as great as he at first had supposed it to be.
He could not affirm that the child was alive
when he saw it thrown overboard ; and it seem
ed rather probable, from the previous alarm and
agitation which the mother had experienced,
that it had been dead.
The vessel entered Jamaica harbour on the
evening of the third day, and immediately. drop,
ped anchor. The state of the weather, the
darkness of the night, and the lateness of the
hour, alike prevented any one from attempting

228 THE DELINQUENT.
to go on shore till next morning. The rainy
season had commenced in the western tropics,
and the wind blew in violent and irregular gusts,
accompanied with transient and dashing showers.
The whole sky was covered with black clouds,
which had an opaqueness, heaviness, and soli
dity, in their aspect, that shewed them to be
surcharged with the elements of a tempest.
The tide was coming in, and the ship, as the
rushing waters diverged from her bow and
beat against her sides, seemed moving rapidly
forwards to the town of Kingston, which appear
ed an undefined mass of buildings, specked with
twinkling lights.
Owen paced the deck in a fearful anticipa
tion of the events of the morrow. He endea
voured to summon up resolution to meet his ap
proaching fate with composure, and without com
promising his honour, or Mrs Marburn's repu
tation. He was too well aware of the nature of
the proofs against him, which Captain Harman
had in his possession, to believe that he could
escape the inquiry and examination of the civil

THE DELINQUENT. 229
authorities, should his enemy inform them of his
arrival in the island. He determined not to
practise any evasion, nor to attempt any conceal
ment, but at once to acknowledge his guilt, and
to submit himself unresistingly to their power.
He felt a satisfaction in making this resolution,
which seemed a sort of atonement for his past
errors, and an evidence that they were not the
result of a constitutional and deliberate perver
sion of principle. And this was true ; for he had
been seduced into a system of defalcation by the
combined influences of love, delusion, and plea
sure. Owen, when he went to his cabin, found a
small billet on his couch. The contents ran
thus : — " It is to be hoped that we may never see
each other again. Though I confide in your
honour, I cannot but hate one who has witness
ed my guilt and degradation. Beware of Cap
tain Harman. He is my enemy. Do not let
him seduce you from your oath. Remember
that my life and reputation are in your hands.
Farewell." Owen, as he destroyed the note,

230 THE DELINQUENT.
exclaimed, " You are safe to the last moment
of my existence! I wUI be secret, come what
may." It appeared to him, from the billet, that
Mrs Marburn had some knowledge of Captain
Harman's intentions with respect to him ; and
he began to think her rather selfish, unfeeling,
and distrustful, in pressing her own situation
upon his remembrance under such circum
stances. However, he endeavoured to dismiss
•these ideas, and lay down to sleep. On awaken
ing next morning, he recollected having, in the
course of the night, either heard, or dreamt that
he heard, the roUing of a boat against the ship's
side, and soon afterwards the noise of receding
oars. He went upon deck, and inquired if any
person had gone ashore since their arrival in
port, and was told, that the lady-passenger had
left the vessel about an hour before sunrise,
under the protection of a stranger. Satisfied
with this inteUigence, he turned his undivided
attention to his own affairs.
Owen had not spoken to Captain Harman
since the conversation last related ; and the lat-

THE DELINQUENT. 231
ter did not seem inclined to oppose his landing,
or to molest him in any way whatever. He
therefore hailed a boat that was passing near
the ship, and having put his baggage into it,
went on board himself, and ordered the men to
take him ashore. On disembarking, he went to
the hotel usuaUy frequented by strangers, and
secured accommodations there. He shortly after
met Captain Harman in the veranda. They
saluted each other with distant civility ; and
Owen found, on inquiry, that the captain had
taken up his residence in the house, and occu
pied an apartment very near his own.
In the evening, all the inmates of the esta-
blishment dined at the same table, and, among
others, Owen and Captain Harman. The party
consisted of a variety of characters, some of
whom seemed rather disreputable. Their con
versation was noisy and boisterous, and their
manners rude and untutored; and Owen,* who
had been accustomed to good society at home,
was disgusted with his associates, and maintain
ed a quiet reserve, and listened to all that pass-

2.32 THE DELINQUENT.
ed with silent contempt. Captain Harman, on
the contrary, seemed quite in his element, and
appeared to understand all the jests and vulgar
wit- that were in circulation. But, in the midst
of his conviviahty, he had not failed to remark
Owen's behaviour, and the supercUious expres
sion of his countenance, and to feel a strong in
clination to resent what he conceived to be open
dislike and insulting hauteur.
In the course of the evening the conversa
tion turned upon the mortality among Euro
peans in the West Indies, and the numbers of
them that came to Jamaica for the purpose of
bettering their fortunes. " I should like," said
one of the company, " to see registered in a
book the names, objects, and previous histories,
of all the adventurers who have ever arrived
here ; what disclosures would then be made !
How various and substantial would be the rea
sons given for emigration to the tropics ! Of
what strange materials would we find our society
composed !" — " Yes," replied another, " many
men in the island, who now hold themselves

THE DELINQUENT. 233
very high, could make confessions which would
cause them to be shunned even by their slaves.
Every person that goes abroad, without having
any professed and evident object in view, is to be
regarded with distrust and suspicion." " Take
care," said Captain Harman, glancing at Owen ;
" your remark may apply to some of the present
company." — " To prevent the possibility of
that," cried a third, " let every one of us give
an account of himself, and explain what brought
him here. This will be realizing the idea of
registry proposed by the gentleman who turned
the conversation to this subject. But, should
we betray our vices or follies in the course of
our respective narratives, let them be treated
leniently. I, for one, am ready to be sincere on
such points, and will therefore commence my
deposition." — " Pardon my interrupting you,"
said Captain Harman, " who was now very
much exhilarated with wine, " but I would pro
pose that my respected friend and passenger
should first favour us ; he arrived only this
morning, and therefore is the greatest stranger

234 THE DELINQUENT.
in the company. Let us now hear the life and
adventures of Mr Linder, alias  ." Owen
started from the table ; " Dare to attempt to in
sult me again," cried he, " and you will — but I
see you are intoxicated — I must stifle my pas
sion. This shall be recalled to-morrow morn
ing. I hope I am among gentlemen." — " What
do you say .?" exclaimed the person at the head
of the table ; " do you doubt that we are gen
tlemen ? First prove yourself one, sir, and
we may then perhaps satisfy you respecting
ourselves." This speech created a laugh ; and
Captain Harman, encouraged by the feeling
which it manifested, again addressed Owen, and
said, " Allow me to apologize for my mistake
in . giving you a name that does not belong to
you. Gentlemen, permit me to introduce Mr
Faulconveer to your acquaintance." Owen
could listen no more. He sprung towards
Captain Harman, under the impulse of unre
flecting rage, and would have seized him had
not the company interfered, and kept them
asunder. Ashamed of his violence, he checked

THE DELINQUENT. 235
his impetuosity, and stood still. Every eye was
turned upon him with an expression of distrust
and hostility ; and the party seemed to expect
that he would explain and refute the mysterious
hints that had been dropped by his calumniator.
He could not do this. He lost all self-posses
sion, and even the power of utterance, and, cast
ing a look of agony on the strangers around
him, rushed from the apartment.
He hurried up stairs to his chamber, and
took refuge in its darkness. A succession of
desperate feelings careered through his bosom,
and gave birth to the most horrible phantasies.
He had never till now been fully alive to the
miserableness of his peculiar situation, nor sus
pected to what cruel insults it might expose him.
Of what avail would it be to resent imputations
which he could not prove to be false .¦" Was he
daily liable to be branded as an impostor, and to
feel that the accusation was a true one ? Were
his happiness arid good fame to be at the mercy
of every idle tongue ?_ It was impossible to sub
mit to all this. Something must be done imme-

236 THE DELINQUENT.
diately. He left his apartment, and entered a
long open veranda that extended in front of a
range of bed- rooms, one of which was his own.
Here he paced backwards and forwards, some
times looking down to the street, and sometimes
listening to the undisturbed merriment of the
convivial party in the dining-hall below. He
once or twice fancied that he heard his own
name pronounced, and became convinced that
Captain Harman was exposing him to his com
panions, and deliberately blasting his character.
In the course of an hour they broke up, and
Owen watched them as they successively went
to their sleeping-rooms; but Captain Harman,
for whom alone he waited, did not appear, in
consequence of his having returned on board
ship and slept there.
Next morning Owen, after a perturbed and
miserable night, left his own room, and de
scended to the hall. He there found several of
the party of the preceding evening assembled at
the breakfast-table. They received him with a
degree of insolent composure and suspicious

THE DELINQUENT. 237
contempt, that sufficiently proved to him that
they were well acquainted with his situation and
circumstances. He took his seat amongst them
in sUence, and with a quivering brow ; and they
continued their conversation, which related to
a pestilential disease that then prevailed in the
towns of Kingston and Port-Royal, and was de
stroying immense numbers of their white popu
lation, and particularly those individuals who
had recently arrived in the island- The people
considered it very contagious, and it usuaUy
ran its course in eight or nine hours. The
legislature had ordered that the dead bodies,
instead of being buried in the usual ground,
should be carried in boats to a retired spot,
about three miles up the bay, and interred there.
Owen was more shocked at the levity with which
these circumstances were detailed and comment
ed upon, than startled by the danger of infec
tion which evidently threatened himself. He
was occupied by too many bitter and harassing
reflections to feel any anxiety about his health.

238 THE DELINQUENT.
and too miserable to place much value upon
life. Humiliated, oppressed, and unhappy, he
wandered from room to room during the greater
part of the day, and every moment expected to
see the officers of justice enter the hotel, and
present their warrant for his arrest. While a
prey to such thoughts, he suddenly heard a
slight tumult of footsteps and voices at the door
of the house, and next moment saw a number
of negroes enter, carrying a sort of litter with
some one in it. On inquiry, he found that the
individual was Captain Harman, who had that
morning been seized with the prevailing malady
while on board of ship. They were now bearing
him to his apartment in the hotel, in order to
ensure him every care and attendance, though
the violence of the attack seemed to leave little
chance of his recovery. Owen was strongly
affected by this information, which suddenly and
entirely changed the nature of his sentiments
towards the sick man. He had intended to have

THE DELINQUENT. 239
called him to account for tlie insults he had
offered, and to have made him the victim of un
relenting hostility and revenge; but he now
viewed him with compassion and sympathy,
and began to consider how probable it was that
he himself miglit be reduced to a similar condi
tion. He, however, could not altogether repress.
a feeUng of satisfaction, at the prospect of the
dissolution of a man who had the power and in
clination to torment and cruelly injure him.
Owen remained in his apartment during the
latter part of the day. Captain Harman's
chamber was next to his but one, and he often
heard the moans and deUrious mutterings of the
sick man, and had frequent opportunities of
inquiring of his attendants how he did. Their
reports were more unfavourable every time they
deUvered them, and his recovery seemed impos
sible. It now occurred to Owen, that he ought
to seek an interview with Captain Harman in
his last moments, and endeavour to obtain from
him the box which he suspected him of having
abstracted from his cabin while on board ship.

240 THE DELINQUENT.
The captain could have no object in dying with
it in his possession ; and Owen knew, that if the
papers which it contained should fall into other
hands than his own, disclosures, even more fatal
to his prosperity and reputation than those that
had already occurred, might probably be the
consequence. It was now about six in the evening, and
Owen, when on the point of entering Captain
Harman's apartment, met the master of the
hotel in the adjoining veranda. " Allow me a
moment's conversation with you, sir," said the
latter ; " I come upon a very unpleasant piece
of business ; but I hope you wUl not think me
insolent in mentioning it ; for my own interest is
nearly concerned in its issue. The gentlemen
residing and boarding in this house have inform
ed me, that you are not what you appear and
profess to be, and that they will not admit you
into their society again, nor patronize me any
longer, unless you are made to quit the house.
This hint, sir, I suppose, will be sufficient. I
am distressed and ashamed to give it, and have
2

THE DELINQUENT. 241
no doubts whatever about your respectability,
but the character of my house must be kept up,
and  " " Say no more !" interrupted Owen,
almost breathless with indignation ; " I will
leave your house this very night. Begone !
Tell the villains who sent you, that I will meet
every one of them, and defend my character. —
Heaiven grant me patience to bear all this ! — -
Away, away with you !" The hotel-keeper retired;
telling him that every thing he left behind him
should be carefully preserved till he sent for it,
or claimed it. Owen continued in the same
spot some moments, struggling with a chaos of
emotions. " Such," cried he, " are the conse
quences of deception ! Yes, threats, insults,
oppression, infamy ! — Miserable fool that I am !
had I remained at home, and delivered myself
up to justice", I would have been a thousand
times less degraded and contemptible than I
have made myself by attempting to conceal my
guilt under a borrowed name, and in a foreign
country !" He resolved that he should that very
night seek an asylum in Port-Royal, where he
VOL. II. Q

242 THE DELINQUENT.
was unknown ; but he did not abandon the
design of obtaining an interview with Captain
Harman, towards whom all his animosity was
revived by the humUiating incident that had
just occurred.
The evening was pretty far advanced before
Owen found an opportunity of accomplishing
his object ; at length, when the sick man hap
pened to be left alone, he entered his apart
ment, in a frame of mind that did not dis
pose him to assume those soothing and con
ciliating manners which are congenial with the
solemnity of a deathbed, and adapted to calm
the irritable feelings of the sufferer upon it.
Captain Harman did not appear to be aware of
Owen's presence for some moments. Though
his dissolution was evidently approaching, his
frame retained a morbid vigour and activity,
and he tossed restlessly from side to side, and
sometimes sat upright in his bed, waving his
arms to and fro, and muttering broken sen
tences. " Captain Harman," said Owen, " I
am unwilling to disturb your last moments ;

THE DELINQUENT. 243
but I come to request that you will make some
shght reparation for the evil you have done me.
You will not live long. You cannot now have
any interest in ruining my character. On
board of ship you robbed me of a box of papers.
Restore it, and I will try to forgive all that has
since passed." — " What do you say .?" said the
dying man, starting up and gazing intently
upon Owen. " Who are you .? O, now I recollect,
Mr Faulconveer. This, sir, is quite in charac
ter. You attack and insult me when at the
point of death. You had not courage to do so
before, when I could have met you on equal
terms. Begone ; I will not answer your inso
lent questions. Leave me, or I will call for as
sistance." — " Hear me," exclaimed Owen, al^
most speechless with passion ; " you mistake
my purpose. All I require is, that you will
deliver up the box and papers, which you must
acknowledge to have been abstracted by your
self from my cabin." — " You are right," said
Captain Harman ; " that would be a great
point— but I cannot agree to it. I did take the

244 THE DEIJNQUENT.
box, or stole it, if you please. Was I not
bound to secure the means of bringing to
punishment a vUlain like yourself .?" — " Do not
make me desperate," said Owen, in a smothered
Voice. " I may forget myself, and then your
present situation will be no. protection to you.
Time is precious to both of us. I will not
longer be tantalized and maddened in this way.
Shew me where the box is deposited ; but if
you give any alarm, I swear that your life shall
be the forfeit. I am not now in. a humour, to
temporize." — " Foolish boy !" returned Captain
Harman: " Life is worth little to. a man with
in a few hours of dissolution; but you shall
use no violence." He made an attempt to
alarm the attendants, but Owen placed his
hand on his throat ; and, having silenced him,
again demanded the box. Captain Harman as
sented with a stern smile, and desired him to
close the door of the apartment ; which, being
done, he pointed to a chest, and motioned that
Owen should open it. The latter complied,
and searched every part of it without finding

THE DELINQUENT. 245
the article he wanted. He went to another,
but had no better success; however, he dis
covered his box in the bottom of the third, and
immediately drew it forth, and was on the point
of hurrying out of the apartnient, when Captain
Harman, who had been intently watching, his
motions, shouted loudly to the servants below.
Owen rushed back, and forced him down upon
his bed, from which he was endeavouring to
rise. " It is of no use," cried he, trying to re
lease himself from Owen's grasp. " You may
now do your worst. You will be caught here
attempting to rob me. "These open trunks, and
their scattered and disordered contents, wiU be
damning witnesses against you. Hark ! I hear
the people coming !" Owen was astonished and
horror-struck at this unexpected suggestion ;
and the more so, as the perilousness of his
situation increased every moment. During his
perturbation he had relaxed his hold, and his
victim again repeated his cries. What was to
be done ? Were the servants approaching .'' He

246 THE DELINQUENT.
listened. — No, all was quiet. He placed his
hand on Captain Harman's mouth. — A struggle
ensued, and they both fell upon the floor, and
upset a lamp which had stood near the bed ; the
gauze-curtains of which instantly caught fire,
and the blaze illuminated the whole room.
Owen saw his adversary's face grow li-vid, and
felt his limbs becoming cold and stiff. He
sprung up with a violent effort, and raised
Captain Harman likewise, who clung to him so
firmly that he could not disengage himself from
him- The flames had now communicated to
the bedclothes ; the heat was intense, and every
thing was involved in smoke. Owen, by a
movement of convulsive desperation, dashed
the expiring man from his embrace, and saw
him reel backwards, with a visionless, ghastly,
and upturned countenance, and disappear
amidst the thick and suffocating smoke. An
impulse of terror, as sudden and impetuous
as a whirlwind, made Owen burst from the
apartment, and hurry along the veranda, and

THE DELINQUENT. 247
descend to the street by a staircase that com
municated with the second floor of the house
only. He did not venture to cast one look behind
him, but pursued his way through the darkest
and most unfrequented lanes and alleys. He
met almost no one, and was allowed to pass on
without interruption ; the people in the streets
being chiefly negroes and common seamen.
The lights in the hcfuses were extinguished,
and a gloomy silence prevailed, except when
the deep hoUow rumbling of the carts, employ
ed in carrying away dead bodies, was heard
echoing among the lofty buildings. Owen did
not stop till he reached the side of the harbour.
The place happened to be a retired one, and
he seated himself on a stone, and tried to calm
his agitated spirits, and determine upon some
plan of action. He had made but little pro-
gress in accomplishing either of these objects,
when his attention was attracted by a tumult of
voices at a distance, and by a glare of light
over the town. Observing a high waU near

248 THE DELINQUENT.
him, he clambered to the top of it, and from
thence beheld the upper part of a house in
flames, which he knew to be that from which
he had so recently fled. A multitude x)f ne
groes were collected round it; some carrying
water ; some working fire-engines ; and some
dismantling its roof. Their shouts mingled
with the crackling of falling timber and the
hissing of the water, and Owen felt suffocating
blasts of the hot and smoky air blowing upon
him, and scorching his brows. " What demon
of horror pursues and persecutes me !" cried
he. " Danger, mystery, < fear, murder, and
conflagration, have attended my steps ever
since I left home. Where can I go "f Who is
safe when I am near .'' Men will soon shun me
as an omen and a cause of evil. Something
tells me that my destiny is already marked out,
and I must hasten to fulfil it. Yonder boat
will serve to convey me hence."
He now descended to the place where the
boat lay, having first looked towai-ds the fire,
and observed that it was nearly extinguished.

THE DELINQUENT. 249
and that the people were beginning to disperse.
A negro stood by the water's edge, and Owen
told him that he wished to go across with him ;
and, giving him a couple of dollars, asked
when he intended setting out. The fellow
seemed a good deal surprised at his request ;
but, after a short pause, said, " Yes, sir, we
wiU take you with us since you desire it. My
companions are in that house. We shall start
soon." He looked attentively at Owen a second
time, and then went towards the building which
he had pointed out, and entered it.
Owen seated himself in the boat ; and, after
remaining there nearly an hour, was beginning
to feel impatient at his detention, when he saw
four men advancing towards him. Three of
them carried a large and apparently heavy
box, loosely covered with coarse matting ; and
the fourth, who was the person to whom h^ had
recently spoken, walked before his companions,
as if to clear the way. Their conversation, at
first indistinct, became perfectly audible as they
approached, and Owen heard one of them say.

250 THE DELINQUENT.
" Who can he be .'' What can he mean by go
ing with us .?" — " That matters little," return
ed another ; " he has paid well for his pas
sage, and we have no right to make any in
quiries." - Having deposited their burden in the boat,
they unmoored her, and began to work their
oars in silence, and often looked scrutinizingly
at their passenger. " What fire was that ? Did
it do much damage ?" said Owen, anxious to
divert their attention from himself, and also to
learn the particulars of the accident of which
he had been the unhappy origin. " The fire,
sir," returned one of the negroes, " was no
great things. It took place in a hotel, and they
soon got it under without much loss." — " How
did it happen V demanded Owen, a good deal
relieved by this intelligence. " That is not so
easily told," answered his informant ; " but it
is said that a stranger robbed and murdered
the captain of a ship, who lay ill in the house,
and then set fire to the bed, that he might hide
the manner of his death, and also made his

THE DELINQUENT. 251
escape in the confusion. But some people say
that the captain himself brought about the ac
cident, by upsetting a lamp." — " It may be so,"
interrupted another negro ; " but I think not ;
for the captain's trunks were broken open.
Who could have done this, except the young
man that left the house immediately before the
fire was discovered.-' He is the murderer, and
the officers are looking for him." — " All I
know," said his companion, " is, that the dead
body had no suspicious marks upon it." —
" How !" interrupted Owen ; " did you see
the dead body of Captain  .?" — " Yes," re
plied the negro; " and prepared it for the
grave too. It is close beside you now." Owen
started from his seat, and pulled away the mat,
and disclosed a coffin underneath. He drew
back shuddering, and retired to the stern of the
boat. " Thank God I am not his murder^!"
exclaimed he to himself. " No, he died from
disease. The hand of death was upon him. If
he perished amidst flames and smoke, what is
that to me ? I did right in saving my own life.

252 THE DELINQUENT.
He could not have survived many hours ; — but
what mysterious fatality has again brought me
into contact with one whom I so much and so
justly hated .-*" He turned his eyes towards the
sea, and tried to dispel the hideous images that
began to embody themselves in his imagina
tion. " But how came this body here .?" said
Owen to the negroes. " Where are you carry
ing it .-"' — " To the churchyard," replied one
of them. " All persons that die of the fatal
distemper are buried , on yonder shore, four
miles from town. We are employed to bring
over the corpses ; for no white man will touch
or approach them, from fear of being infected.
We were sent for, as is the law in such cases,
the moment they found that the captain was
dead. His body was dragged from the room
where the fire began, and we instantly put it
into a coffin, and removed it from the house,
and brought it down to the beach. We had
just arrived with it a little time before we set
sail." — " What do you tell me.''" exclaimed

THE DELINQUENT. 253
Owen. " Then you are not on the way to
Port-Royal.?"—" Port-Royal!" returned the
man, with a look of astonishment. " No, no ;
we must keep far from that. How could you
think that we were going there ? I would have
told you not had you asked me." — " All is
over," said Owen, calmly ; " I rejoice that it is
so. I have not long to live. I must already
have caught the fatal disease. Nothing can
now save me !" The negroes made no reply,
but looked expressively at each other, and re
sumed their oars, which they had dropped dur
ing the conversation. The sea was calm ; and
the boat moved swiftly onwards, and soon
gained the shore where lay the burying-ground.
Her crew immediately disembarked with the
coffin ; and, followed by Owen, proceeded
through an open field, till they came to a new-
made grave. The narrow crescent of a waning
moon shed a dim and sickly light through a
cleft, in one dark and otherwise unbroken
cloud, that extended over nearly the whole sky.
The atmosphere was calm to oppressiveness.

254 THE DELINQUENT.
and was loaded with dank and heavy dews,
which communicated a chillness to every thing
they touched, and seemed to absorb the rays of
light before they reached the earth. There
was no sound or motion any where, except
when a large bat flitted past, or when the buU-
frogs groaned in concert in a neighbouring
marsh. Lizards, with small eyes ghttering in
the moonbeam, lay under the stones, and sat
half erect upon the heaved-up graves ; and un
seen reptiles were heard creeping lazily among
the rank and coarse herbage that covered the
ground. The place was surrounded by groves
of tall trees, with a thick underwood beneath
them, except towards the sea-beach, where all
was open and unsheltered. As no road led
from this cemetery in any direction, and as no
one could see what lay beyond it, its situation
seemed emblematic of the shrouded isolation of
death and the grave.
The negroes, after a little preparation, low
ered the coffin into the earth, and hastily
shovelled the soil over it. They then told

THE DELINQUENT. 255
Owen that they were about to depart, and
asked if he wished to return with them. " No,
no," said he ; "I must remain here yet awhile.
I think I am dying. Leave me alone." He
sat down upon the grave. A cold perspiration
bedewed him, and he felt a suffocating oppres
sion, which almost deprived him of the power
of speaking. The men looked at him with
pity, and walked away, muttering, that he soon
would require those offices which they had just
been performing for another person.
Owen did not rise tUl he heard the sound of
their oars. He then felt a pleasure in knowing
that he was utterly alone, and in a spot which was
not likely to be visited by any one. He had
formed no resolution about the future. Of
what avail would it have been ? He was de
nounced as a robber and a murderer, and could
be proved to be a public delinquent. Every
place now seemed alike to him. He opened
the box, which he had almost unconsciously
kept in his possession since his interview with
Captain Harman ; but his papers and the cruci-

256 THE DELINQUENT.
fix were gone. The deceased, he supposed,
had removed them ; and a disappointment was
the result pf all the dangers and difficulties he
recently had encountered. He threw down the
box, as a thing of no interest or value, and en
tered a clump of mango-tress on one side of the
burying-ground. He had not been long there, when he saw
a white figure winding through the wood, at
some distance. It advanced with slow and
languid steps, and sometimes stopped for a few
moments, as if irresolute whether to advance or
return. Owen was too far off to observe its
countenance or dress with any distinctness ; but
he had no doubt, from its general appearance,
that it was a female. He was struck with awe
and undefined apprehension, as he watched the
motions of the mysterious being, whom he
could hardly regard as an inhabitant of the
earth. The lateness of the hour, the solemnity
of the burying-ground, and the solitariness of
its situation, seemed to render it almost impossi
ble that any one but a spirit should wander there
2

THE DELINQUENT. 257
alone and unprotected. The graves were fresh
and numerous, and most of their inmates had
perished suddenly and unexpectedly; perhaps
in the midst of a career of misery, remorse, or
crime. The pUlows of their deathbeds had
not been smoothed by the hands of friends, or
by offices of domestic affection ; and they had
been carried to, their graves by hirelings of a
race different from their own. They were out
casts and exiles, even after death had levelled
all other distinctions ; and the demon of pesti
lence protected them from invasion and dis
turbance, instead of the sacred influences of
pious awe and reUgious associations. Where
could an apparition find a more congenial
haunt, or be more likely to shew itself .-'
Owen, during these reflections, had shrunk
behind a large tree, from whence he continued
to watch the figure, which had now advajiced
within a few yards of the outskirts of the grove.
Here its caution seemed to increase, and it look
ed towards the burying-ground in various di
rections, as if anxious to ascertain if any one
VOL. II. R

258 THE DELINQUENT.
was there. At length, after a minute scrutiny,
it came forward beyond the trees, and into the
dim moonlight, and stood motionless gazing
upon the sky. Owen uttered a cry of affright
and astonishment, and rushed from his place of
concealment. He staggered forwards with out
stretched arms, and saw before him the figure
of Mrs Marburn ! A loud shriek from ber
told him that it was not a vision, and he caught
her in his arms as she was falling to the
ground, A few moments elapsed before either of
them became sufficiently composed to speak.
They then gazed upon each other with fixed
eyes, pale lips, and ghastly cheeks, and mutual
ly shuddered as they recollected the circum
stances under which they had last met. ^' How
comes it," inquired Owen, " that you are wan
dering in this wild and fearful place .>"' — " Alas !
I hardly know," repUed Mrs Marburn, deject
edly. " I believe it is because I wish to be
numbered with its sUent occupants. My hus
band resides in the vicinity of this burying-

THE DELINQUENT. 259
ground. Our house is concealed by the trees.
I often walk alone at night. But how much
more wonderful is it that I should meet you
here !" — " My mind is in a tumult," returned
Owen. " I can hardly tell you any thing about
myself, only that I am persecuted, ruined, and
miserable !" — " Then we are fit companions
for each other," said Mrs Marburn. " You
know too much of my history to suppose that
I can ever again be happy. You are the de
pository of my secret, — ^and I thank you for
preserving it inviolate."
Owen now mentioned that Captain Harman
had expressed suspicions upon the subject, and
related all that had passed between them in re
ference to it ; and described the persecutions to
which he had been exposed from his having re
fused to betray her confidence. " Ah !" cried
Mrs Marburn, with agitation, " I now per
ceive what object has brought you here. You
wish me to relieve you from your oath. Nay,
perhaps you are hastening to my husband to

260 THE DELINQUENT.
disclose my guilt and shame. Go then ! take
your own course; I also can follow mine." —
" Hear me !" cried Owen. " Do not insult
my nature by such unjust suspicions. Your
reputation is safe. By telling you who I really
am, have I not trusted my own in your hands ?
My tempter and persecutor is no more. Cap
tain Harman died last night." — " Can it be
so .''" exclaimed Mrs Marburn, incredulous and
astonished. " Are not you deceived .-"' —
" Look to yonder new-made grave," returned
Owen. " Not an hour has elapsed since he
Was laid in it." — " 'Tis well," said she, after a
pause. " Peace be to his soul, though he
wished none to mine. He was my bitter ene
my. He sought my ruin. But I cannot curse
or hate him in death. How did he die?" —
Owen hesitated. " By pestUence," said he ;
" I did not kill him. You will, perhaps, ejce
long, hear me caUed his murderer; but it is
false as I live !" Mrs Marburn looked upon him
keenly and fearfully, while he related all that

THE DELINQUENT. 261
occurred to him, from the time of his entering
the hotel down to the moment of their unex
pected meeting.
When he had finished, she took his hand
and said, " Mr Faulconveer, we are under the
influence of the same unhappy star, — we were
born to be the children of infamy ; but come
and hear my story. Perhaps you think me
more guilty than I really am." Owen proceed
ed with Mrs Marburn in silence to the foot of a
large tree, upon the projecting roots of which
they seated themselves, having the chiirchyard
in front ; and she immediately commenced her
narrative. " I came to Jamaica at the age of fourteen.
While in England my life was passed at a
retired boarding-school, and I had no opportu
nity of acquiring any accurate knowledge of the
country, or characters or manners of its people.
It is needless to relate the circumstanced which
brought about my removal to this island. I
was placed under the care of an uncle, with
whom I lived happily for five years ; however.

262 THE DELINQUENT.
he died at the expiration of that time, leaving
me totally unprotected and friendless, but mis
tress of a considerable fortune."
" Mr Marburn soon afterwards began to pay
his addresses to me. He was much older than
myself, and — ^but let me pass on to other mat
ters. In short, we were married, and continued
to live contentedly enough together, till some
groundless feehngs of jealousy, excited by the
visits and attentions of a military man, who was
quartered at Kingston, destroyed all harmony
and confidence between us. I can solemnly
aver, that I gave this person no encouragement
whatever, and that he was an object of total in
difference to me in any point of view, except as
a pleasant acquaintance. But Mr Marburn ir
ritated me with insulting innuendos and sus
picions, and my temper being naturally warm
and impetuous, I was in the habit of repeUing
his insinuations with a violence that was any
thing but conciliating, and which, so far from
convincing him of my innocence, rendered him
doubly sceptical upon the subject. It may

THE DELINQUENT. 263
easily be supposed, that we daily became more
and more estranged from each other. I impru
dently treated him with contemptuous indif
ference, and he avoided my society, and began
to show the greatest dislike to my person.
" Things continued in this state for several
months. During that time I had gradually
been getting into bad health ; I suppose, from
the effects of irritation, disappointment, and
anxiety, conjoined with those of a bad climate.
My illness at length a.ssumed so formidable an
aspect, that the physidans declared that my only
chance of recovery lay in a voyage to England.
My husband consented to this, and I joyfully
hurried the preparations for my departure ; but
it unfortunately happened, that the young offi
cer, to whom I have already alluded, engaged
his passage in the ship that was to convey me
home, instead of taking advantage of a transport
that was about to sail. Mr Marburn, on hear
ing this, supposed that the arrangement had
been concerted between us, and forbade my
going in the vessel- He proceeded on his voy-

264 THE DELINQUENT.
age without me, and I waited some weeks till
another opportunity of the same kind occurred.
My husband intrusted me to the care of Cap
tain Harman, with whom he seemed to be inti
mately acquainted. This wretch had the inso
lence to express a passion for me while we were
at sea; but I repulsed him with indignation,
threatened to mention his conduct to my hus
band, and did not afterwards permit him even
to speak to me. This excited his hatred, and
he became my bitter enemy.
" On arriving in England, I took up my abode
with a female relation, who was a widow, and
very rich, agreeable, generous, and accompUsh
ed. She lived at a charming seat of her own,
in a very beautiful part of the country; and
her house was constantiy full of visitors, and
enlivened by every species of amusement and
gayety. Here I met with my former admirer,
Derwent, who had contrived to discover my
place of residence, and to cultivate an acquaint
ance with my female friend. What a new
world was opened to me at her villa ! Into how

THE DELINQUENT. 265
many previously unknown pleasures was I
initiated ! The society, the scenery, the climate,
and the mode of life, at Felham Park, were all
equaUy captivating and seductive. The elegance
of manners, the liveliness -of ideas, and the taste
and accomplishments that distinguished the cir
cle there, formed a strong contrast with the
plainness, coarseness, and vulgarity, that pre-
vaUed in the society to which I had been accus
tomed in the West Indies. The men, in par
ticular, seemed a different species of beings ; and
their graceful attentions, brilliant powers of con
versation, and refined sense of the polite, were
little calculated to make me recoUect with any
complacency the slender pretensions of my male
acquaintances in Jamaica. Mr Marburn was
not in the habit of seeing much company, and
what we did see was far from being the best
that the island afforded. Our dinner-parties
were usually composed of new-arrived adven
turers, rank with provincialism, ignorant of the
world, and brimful of rusticity, boisterous ship
masters, petty money-making mei-chants, and

266 THE DELINQUENT.
now and then a planter of the third class. We
had no intercourse with the polished and liberal-
minded society of the island ; their style of en
tertaining being, in my husband's opinion,
foolishly expensive and ceremonious, though his
wealth was sufficient to admit of his coping
with them in point of luxury and hospitality,
had he been so inclined. Is it to be wondered
after this, that the fascinations of Felham Park
should dazzle and intoxicate me, and that I
should nearly forget my husband, and feel un
willing to return to Jamaica .''
" But the society in which I lived had even
less influence upon my heart than the scenery and
climate of Britain. I had always been an enthusi
astic admirer of the beautiful in nature ; but how
could my taste be gratified in the West Indies ?
They alone who have resided long in tropical
countries can well appreciate the exquisiteness
of European scenery, and be fully alive to the
interesting associations which are connected with
almost every one of its features. Can the un
changing skies, the hot atmosphere, the fiery,

THE DELINQUENT. 267
unrelenting sun, the turbid rivers, and the
coarse, exuberant, and gaudy vegetation of the
torrid zone, be compared with the variously-
clouded heavens, the soft air, the gentle light,
the transparent streams, the delicate verdure,
and fragrant flowers of northern climates, where
nature is constantly administering to the enjoy
ments of life in some form or other ? Poets
may deceive themselves, and travellers may
impose upon people, by describing tropical
countries as the seat of innumerable pleasures
and luxuries, and as regions in which love
exists in its greatest strength and purity, and
where aU the best affections of the human heart
are developed and brought into play. I have
not found such to be the truth. It seems to
me, that the Europeans who live in hot climates
are, generally speaking, a selfish, unfeeling,
and unrefined, set of people, and that their lives
are as barren of real enjoyment as they are
fruitful in causes of suffering, irritation, arid
discontent. " These feelings, it may be supposed, at-

268 THE DELINQUENT.
tached me not a little to England and to Fel
ham Park, the neighbourhood of which abound
ed with the finest scenery. Derwent's atten
tions were unceasing. We walked together
through lonely woods, explored sequestered
valleys, ascended hills and eminences, contem
plated ancient ruins, and watched the setting
sun and rising moon, and the accompanying
gorgeous drapery of the heavens. My female
friend prolonged her stay in the country tUl
the end of autumn ; and I had an opportunity
of observing the changeful beauties of that di
vine season. I marked the green of the lea-ves
fade into the various diversities of tint that
precede their decay, and heard the temperate
storms of England blowing through the woods,
and scattering the withered foliage. In the
evenings we closed the shutters and window-
curtains, and assembled round a large fire, and
enjoyed all the social pleasures in perfection.
When our party happened to be numerous
we had concerts of music ; and when small, we
*
passed the hours in light gay conversation.

THE DELINQUENT. 269
stofy-teUing, games, and pastimes. My spirits
were always buoyant and elastic ; and I used
to regret when the clock announced midnight,
and wish to prolong our vigils almost till
dawn. " But, on going to bed, I usually yielded to
regret and despondency, and anticipated with
dread the period when it would be necessary for
me to return to Jamaica. I contrasted the life
I had led there with what I now enjoyed, and
the comparison attached me more and more to
England. I could not bear the idea of again
encountering my husband's untutored compa-
nions,^-of spending the day in the monotonous
seclusion imposed by a tropical climate, — of
passing my languid evenings in a lonely and
-comfortless apartment, without the blazing fire,
the social countenances, and the ever-varying
sources of amusement that enlivened my friend's
parlour, — and of knowing that every day was
to bring the same tiresome routine of heat,
and sunshine, and idleness, and bodily ex
haustion.

270 THE DELINQUENT.
" Derwent had all this time remained at
Felham Park, and paid me devoted attention.
My affections were entangled before I was
aware. I tried to resist and overcome the cri
minal attachment; but the struggle was quite
uncongenial to my character, which had not
been formed upon moral principles, or consider
ations of right and wrong. My friend was too
much engaged with her amusements and numer
ous acquaintances to perceive the dangerousness
of my situation ; while the pecuUar tone of my
feelings, as already described, tended to make
me desperate, impetuous, and careless about
the future. I yielded myself up to Derwent,
and sacrificed my honour.
" Shortly after our guilty intercourse had
commenced, I received a letter from Mr Mar
burn, desiring that I should immediately return
to the West Indies, as he had heard that my
health was completely re-established. His sum
mons came unexpectedly, and brought fear,
shame, and humiliation with it. I was irreso
lute what to do ; and, while deliberating upon the

THE DELINQUENT. 271
subject, lost several favourable opportunities of
setting sail for Jamaica. Derwent used every per
suasion to induce me to defer my departure for
some months ; and though I positively refused
to comply, the weeks that glided away, and
saw me stUl at Felham Park, were evidences of
the infirmity of my purposes, and of my disin
clination to join my husband. The conse
quences of our intimacy were now apparent.
I was within two months of bearing a child.
My female friend, with all the coolness of fa
shionable feeling, hinted that I should now go
into retirement, as her own reputation would
be involved with mine were I to remain any
longer under her protection."
" I had not another asylum to which I could
fly. Derwent proposed that I should go into a
distant part of the country, or upon the conti
nent ; and I was upon the point of resorting to
one of these alternatives, when I was alarmed
and astonished by a visit from Captain Harman.
He explained his business without much pre
amble, teUing me, that, when last in Jamaica,

272 THE DELINQUENT.
he had received positive orders from Mr Mar
burn to bring me out in his ship, as the letters
which he presented would shew. He then -de
parted, requesting that I would commence pre
parations for the voyage, as he intended to sail
in two or three weeks.
" My wretchedness and agony were now
extreme, and I several times almost determined
upon committing suicide. However, I soon
sunk into a state of torpid despondency, and
became careless of reputation, and of every
thing else. Derwent had been called away from
Felham Park to London, where his father, a
man of rank, forced him into a marriage with a
lady to whom he had formerly engaged himself,
but who had been in a fair way of being entire
ly neglected and forgotten from the time that
our attachment had commenced.
" I was now without a single friend or pro
tector ; for, though Derwent offered to assist me
in every possible way, I was not ungenerous
enough to allow him to injure himself and his
wife, by having any further intercourse with me

THE DELINQUENT. 273
whatever. I hired lodgings in town, ardently
hoping, that my confinement might take place
before Captain Harman saUed, and intending to
go into concealment if it did not. But he watch
ed me continually, checked my drafts for money,
and used every precaution to prevent my elope
ment. At length I received an intimation that
it was time for me to embark, and I obeyed it.
Derwent insisted on attending me to Blackwall,
and we there took a last farewell of each other,
in a ruined house by the side of the Thames.
The rest of my story is known to you. I can
not dwell upon it. Only let me assure you,
that the child you saw precipitated into the
ocean was born dead. Heaven is my witness
that I am not a murderess ! That is a depth of
guUt into which I would not have plunged my
self to save either my life or reputation."
Here Mrs Marburn finished her narrative ;
aud Owen could not help viewing her with more
forbearance and sympathy than he had hitherto
done. They both sat silent for some time, with
eyes fixed upon the burying-ground, from the
VOL. II. s

274 THE DELINQUENT.
surface of which a dark mist was evolving itself,
and condensing into a stratum of vapour, that
concealed and rested upon the graves.
" Where do you now intend to direct your
steps .?" inquired Mrs Marburn. — " Alas ! I
know not," answered Owen ; " every place of
refuge is closed against me. If I return to
Kingston, I have every chance of being seized
and put in confinement. I think I will proceed
to Port-Royal, where I am as yet unknown ;
but it is of little consequence ; for, beUeve me,
I am indifferent to what may befall me." The
lady reflected a little, and then said, " No, Mr
Falconveer, you shall come with me. I can pro
vide you with an asylum tUl to-morrow morn
ing. You must then go to my husband, and
tell him that you have left Kingston to avoid
the pestilence, and that you wish to be permit
ted to occupy the small house on his estate
that is at present untenanted. He will not ob
ject to this, and you can send privately to King
ston for the articles which you have left there."
Owen, after a pause, replied, " I thank you for

THE DELINQUENT. 275
the interest you take in my safety and welfare,
and would, without hesitation, adopt the plan
you propose, were I certain that there was no
chance of your being involved in any difficulty
on my account," — " None, none," returned the
lady in a faltering voice ; " but let us leave these
regions of death. Follow me in silence."
They now rose from the foot of the tree ;
and Mrs Marburn, after passing through the
darkest part of the grove, struck into a narrow
winding path, and quickened her pace consider
ably. Palm and mango trees of the largest
size grew on every side, and intermingled their
gigantic boughs overhead, and nearly excluded
the faint and hazy moonbeams. The forest was
perfectly motionless and silent, there not being
a breath of wind to agitate the foliage. Some
times, however, a snake was heard stealing along
among the dry grass; and sometimes a bird,
scared by the approaching footsteps, would
burst with a loud rustling from its perch among
the boughs, and take flight to a distant part of
the grove. Mrs Marburn occasionally looked

276 THE DELINQUENT.
round at Owen, who followed close behind ;
and a ray of light fell upon her countenance
once while she was doing so, and shewed its
expression to be that wild and fearful one
which had formerly excited his shuddering dis
like. The strangeness of his situation, and his
uncertain fate, filled his mind with the darkest
forebodings. He almost began to suspect that
his female guide was the apparition of Mrs
Marburn, and that it was conducting him to
some unearthly spot, where a horrible fate await
ed him. They had walked nearly a quarter of a
mile, when Owen discerned a white mansion
glimmering among the trees. His conductress
stopped for a few moments, and looked cau
tiously round her, and then directed her course
along the outskirts of the grove, till they came
to a small half-ruined building, in the midst of
a clump of orange-trees. It seemed to have
originally been intended for a summer-house ;
but the roof was now decayed, the windows
were broken, and the old shackling door would

THE DELINQUENT. 277
scarcely turn upon its hinges. Mrs Marburn
entered in silence, and Owen followed her with
anxious steps. The apartment inside contained
only two chairs and a small table ; and its at
mosphere was dank, oppressive, and chilly.
" Good night ! Mr Faulconveer," said the lady.
" Remain quietly here tiU morning. Do not
stir till I give you notice." She then waved
her hand, and was out of sight before Owen
had time to make any reply.
He seated himself in one of the chairs, and
tried to compose his spirits ; but, finding this
impossible, he began to walk backwards and
forwards, and to examine the apartment as nar
rowly as the dim moonlight would admit. He
felt wakeful and agitated without knowing why,
and was haunted with fears of some secret evil
and impending danger. Every noise startled
him, and he scarcely dared to look from the
window, lest some frightful object should pre
sent itself.
He once or twice determined to leave the

278 THE DELINQUENT.
summer-house, and to spend the night in the
neighbouring grove; but the recollection of
Mrs Marburn's parting injunctions, and the
risk of being discovered by any one, made him
abandon this design as often as he had formed
it. He endeavoured to conquer his alarm, and
lay dotvn on the floor, and covered his face
with his hands. He sometimes fancied that he
heard footsteps pressing the floPr above him,
and sometimes thought he could distinguish
voices whibpering in the lower part of the build
ing. He raised his head fedrfully, but could
see nothing ; for the moon was now setting, and
only a few sickly yeUow rays struck through
the wiridow of the summer-house, and fell upon
the upper part of the wall. WhUe anxiously
Watching the departing light, he heard a small
pebble hit the window, and immediately after
wards soraethihg fell close beside him, and roll
ed along the floor. He did not move, and
scarcely breathed, for some minutes. The sig
nal was not repeated ; and he began to grope

THE DELINQUENT. 279
about in search of the object that had been pro
jected towai-ds him ; but the darkness prevented
him from finding it.
Exhausted by the agitating events of the
last twelve hours, he at length fell asleep, and
did not awake till the sun was blazing high in
the heavens. The first object that attracted
his attention was a small piece of wood lying
near him, with a note tied to it. He hastily
opened the paper, and found that it contained
instructions for him, in Mrs Marburn's hand
writing, directing at what hour he should visit
her husband, and in what manner he should
prefer his request respecting the house which
she wished him to occupy.
Owen adjusted his dress as weU as possible,
and set out for Mr Marburn's mansion, which
stood about a quarter of a mile from the sum
mer-house, in the midst of a grove of palm-
trees. It was an old gloomy-looking buUding,
partly decayed, and had an air of solitariness,
seclusion, and melancholy, about its exterior.
Owen was introduced into a large apartment.

280 THE DELINQUENT.
scantily furnished. The rain had dropped
through the ceiling in some places, and stained
the walls, on which hung several portraits ; and,
among them, one of Mrs Marburn, evidently
taken in her early life, but yet exhibiting much
of that wild peculiarity of expression which now
predominated in her countenance.
In a few minutes Mr Marburn entered the
room, and bowed coolly to Owen, and request
ed him to be seated. He was a man of slovenly
appearance, ungraceful manners, and austere
visage. Owen explained the object of his visit
as concisely as possible, and Mr Marburn made
no remark whatever till he had done speaking.
" How did you come across from Kingston,
sir .?" said he ; "I have not seen any boat near
the beach this morning." — " I landed very
early," replied Owen, with some hesitation and
embarrassment. — " Pardon me," cried Mr Mar
burn, after a pause ; " but you have not fa
voured me with your name." — " My name is
 Linder," returned Owen. " Ha ! Mr
Linder !" exclaimed the former, in a tone of

THE DELINQUENT. 281
astonishment. " Do I see you here ? Forgive
my surprise," continued he, apparently recol
lecting himself; " but I yesterday heard that a
person of your name had died of the fever.
This was the cause of my emotion. Yes, Mr
Linder, you may take possession of the house
when you please.. I will order some furniture
to be put into it to-day, and dinner shall like
wise be sent to you, as I suppose your servants
and baggage have not yet arrived. I would
request your company here, that I might intro
duce you to Mrs Marburn, but she is rather
unwell at present." Owen thanked him, and
took leave, attended by a negro, who was to
conduct him to his new habitation.
The house intended for him was situated
near the sea, on a range of cliffs, about sixty
feet above the level of the beach. Within a
little distance of the building these cliffs were
indented and divided by a large chasm, which
extended inwards, in a straight line, about three
hundred yards, and narrowed gradually towards
its termination. The bottom of it was covered

282 THE DELINQUENT.
with loose fragments of rock, and was on a
level with the beach ; and the sea, at full tide,
rushed into it with a loud roaring, and ad
vanced to its very extremity. Its sides, which
rose about eight feet perpendicular, were almost
covered with prickly-pear and other thorny
plants. The path which led from Mr Mar
burn's mansion, to the dwelling now tenanted
by Owen, was sheltered on one side by several
rows of lime-trees, and wound along the edge
of the chasm, and was rather dangerous, the
ground under it having shot in several places.
Owen remarked all this on his way to the
house, which he found to be in a very decayed
and uncomfortable state. However, several
negroes, bringing some articles of furniture,
soon arrived ; and these, when arranged in one
of the upper apartments, improved its appear
ance very much. But personal- convenience
was a consideration of no moment to Owen at
such a time ; and he sat at a window the whole
day, looking at the sea, and a prey to all sorts
of vague apprehensions and fearful uncertain-

THE DELINQUENT. 283
ties. No provisions were brought him, though
twenty hours of abstinence would have render
ed a meal both acceptable and reviving.
Owen continued at the window till the last
glow of sunset was fading from the sky, and
every object was becoming dim and undefined.
But the thickening twilight did not prevent his
discovering several negroes lurking in the cavi
ties and recesses of the rocks, immediately under
the back of the house, from which a narrow
path, winding along the face of the precipice,
afforded the means of descending to the beach.
Every circumstance that does not admit of im
mediate explanation awakens alarm and distrust
in the minds of the guilty, Owen was at a loss
to imagine what these men could be doing in
such a situation. Were they smuggling ? Were
they trying to escape from their master ? Were
they Jilaced there to watch him ? All these
questions suggested themselves by turns; but
he could not frame a satisfactory answer to
any one of them, nor had the means of obtain*

284 THE DELINQUENT.
ing any information that might enable him to
do o.
While any light remained, he at intervals
perceived the negroes looking from their hiding-
places, and then quickly withdrawing their
heads again, as if watching for something, and
at the same time afraid of being observed by
any one. " Would to God I were dead !"
cried Owen. " What a life of fear, anxiety,
and agitation, have I led since I landed on this
accursed shore ! But it cannot last. "Things
must come to a crisis soon. Let me be pas
sive, for resistance can avail me nothing."
He was about to lay down on the bed that
had been prepared for him, when he heard the
door of the house gently opened, and footsteps
ascending the stairs, and the next moment Mr
Marburn stood before him. He motioned to
Owen to remain quiet ; and, having seated him
self on the couch, spoke thus : —
" Mr Linder, let us throw aside ceremony.
I have come here on business of life and death.

THE DELINQUENT. 285
At once, then, I tell you, that I know who you
are, and am acquainted with the circumstances
that have driven you to seek refuge here. You
came from England in the ship with my wife
and Captain Harman, who died yesterday ; but
in what manner, you can perhaps inform me
better than any other person. He was a de
voted friend of mine ; and the very day he en
tered port, he sent me some papers, which prove
you to be Faulconveer the defaulter ; and also
a crucifix, which once belonged to my wife, but
which had been in your possession for some
time. He told me that some mysterious and
guUty transactions had taken place in Mrs
Marburn's cabin, and that you were either im
pUcated in them, or were acquainted with their
nature ; but would not disclose any thing con
cerning them. I have this day been informed that
you are suspected to have robbed, and perhaps
murdered, Captain Harman ; and that a box,
formerly belonging to him, has been found in
the burying-ground near this, and bears damn
ing evidence against you. The officers of jus-

286 THE DELINQUENT.
tice are now in search of you, but do not as yet
know where you are concealed. Don't you per
ceive the terribleness of your situation ? Your
life is in my hands ; but you may purchase it at
an easy rate. Tell me all you know about Mrs
Marburn, that I may obtain the means of get
ting rid of her for ever. If you agree to this,
I will pledge myself to provide you with the
means of quitting Jamaica in safety. If you
refuse to comply, infamy, imprisonment, and
perhaps a scaffold, await you. Did not Mrs
Marburn bear a child when on board of ship ?"
Owen made no reply. " Fool ! fool !" ex
claimed his impetuous questioner ; " Is not your
silence a virtual acknowledgment of her guilt ?
But I must have something more. Make your
decision I Escape from hence is impossible ; for
I have posted a guard of slaves on the cUffs be
low. If you hesitate to speak from concern for
Mrs Marburn, let me tell you, that she is unwor
thy of so much consideration. She has long
embittered my life. I love another woman. —
Furnish me with the means of obtaining a di-

THE DELINQUENT. 287
vorce, and I will save you now, and make your
fortune afterwards." — " God keep me from
breaking my oath !" cried Owen, almost in
voluntarily. " Oath !" returned Mr Marburn.
" Oath ! ha ! — I have it now. She has bound
you by an oath ! You now have made half the
confession which I require, and it would be
useless to hesitate to complete it. Speak on !"
—'^ Away ! away !" cried Owen ; " you dis
tract me ! I know not what I have been utter
ing." He put his hand on his brow, and, after
a short pause, said, more calmly, " Mr Mar-
bum, aUow me time for consideration. One
hour — ^two hours ! — There can be no objection
to this ; for you know that I cannot escape."
Mr Marburn paced the room for some time,
and then answered, '^ Well, be it so ! I will
give you time to prepare your confession. I
wUl return at midnight." He departed; and
Owen was once more left entirely alone.
Darkness and silence now encompassed his
dweUing, except when a flash of lightning

288 THE DELINQUENT.
glared upon the heavily-clouded horizon, or a
gust of wind swept with wild moanings along
the beach. Sometimes a few large drops of
rain were dashed against the window, and every
thing portended the approach of a tempest.
The murmuring of the waves gradually in
creased in loudness, for the tide was fast rising.
It at length reached the mouth of the chasm,
and began to rush into it with a tremendous
roaring. The noise of the water beating against
the fragments of rock that covered the bottom
of the ravine, and a confused dashing and
bursting, like that of conflicting currents, rose
from its dark abyss, and mingled with the sighs
of the blast that now careered impetuously
through the neighbouring groves.
At this time the door of Owen's apartment
was slowly and hesitatingly opened, and a figure,
wrapped in a large cloak, and followed by
another, carrying a basket, entered with cau
tious steps. The former threw aside the cloak,
and Mrs Marburn stood revealed before him.
2

THE DELINQUENT. 289
She was pale and agitated, with disordered
dress, and hair dripping wet, from exposure to
the wind and rain.
" IMr Faulconveer !" said she, hurriedly,
and in a half-whisper, " you must think me
very unfeeling, in not having visited you or
sent to you before this; but I could not do
either consistently with our mutual safety.
My presence here in this tempestuous night
wiU, however, I hope, redeem my neglect in
your eyes. You must be exhausted with want.
Here are refreshments. Let me entreat you to
partake of them." She now took the basket
from her attendant, who proved to be Narna,
and placed its contents upon the table, and mo
tioned Owen to seat himself before them.
" No, no I pardon me," said he, in a faint
voice ; " I cannot eat now ; but I will drink
some wine." She poured out a large glassful,
and presented it to him without speaking, and
when he had finished it, gave him a second.
She then put aside the bottle, with a long,
deep, shuddering sigh, and became pale and
VOL. II. '^

290 THE DELINQUENT.
apparently terror-struck, and leant upon her
woman. " My husband has been here," said she.
" I have watched his motions; and I know
what was the object of his visit. He is in pos
session of evidences against you which may cost
you your life. Did he not threaten to deliver
you up to justice, if you refused to betray me .'"
— " You say true," returned Owen ; and re
lated, as quickly as possible, all that had recent
ly passed between Mr Marburn and himself.
" When does he return to hear your decision .?"
cried the lady eagerly. " WiU you indeed
sacrifice me .?" — " You are safe !" answered
Owen. " Did I not swear?" — " When wiU
he return.?" demanded Mrs Marburn again.
" At midnight, I believe," repUed Owen.
« 'Tis weU!" exclaimed the lady. « 'Tis
well ! I have nothing to fear ! But you are
pale, Mr Faulconveer. Do you suffer pain ?"
" It is not pain," said Owen falteringly.
" I grow faint ! I can scarcely stand ! How is
this ? Give me some more wine. Do not look

THE DELINQUENT. 291
upon me so wildly. I saw you thus in a dream
last night. I fancied that I lay in your arms,
and that you first smUed, and then looked as
you do now, and next moment stabbed me in
my back. But this surely is no dream !" He
staggered forwards, and dropped on one knee.
" Ha ! now a light breaks upon me. Woman !
woman ! — ^you have given me poison ! I feel
myself dying I Is it so ? Do not deceive me !"
Mrs Marburn clasped her hands, and uttered a
wUd shriek, and attempted to rush from the
apartment. Owen sprung forwards, and seized
her, and held her firmly in his arms. " You
shall not depart," cried he, " tiU you have satis
fied my doubts. Am I to live or not .? Answer
me, or I wUl shout forth your crime tUI it
reaches the ears of your husband !" — " Hush !
hush !" murmured the lady, in shuddering af
fright. " Yes ! — ^yes ! — You are poisoned !
Do you ask what fiend tempted me to be guilty
of such ingratitude .? I could not feel myself
safe whUe you were in Ufe ! KiU me !— but do
not upbraid me!" Owen dropped upon the

292 THE DEIJNQUENT.
floor, and she started from him with a look of
dismay, and hurried from the house.
Owen rose slowly and languidly from the
ground. Cold thrillings pervaded every limb,
and his ears rung with unearthly sounds. A
multitude of dreadful shapes seemed to be
hurrying about the apartment, and throngs of
\ frightful faces looking in upon him through the
window. A sensation of fiery heat and suffocat
ing oppression suddenly urged him to seek the
open air, and to face the tempest. On leaving
the house, he hastened along the side of the
chasm, regardless of danger, and indifferent to
the rain, wind, and appalling darkness. He
had not proceeded far, when he heard a sudden
shriek near him, and a flash of lightning shew
ed a white figure rushing across his path. The
unknown being darted away before him, and he
pursued it to the edge of the chasm, and, seiz
ing it, found that he again held Mrs Marburn
in his arms. She faintly and convulsively
muttered, " Save me ! — Save me !" and strug
gled to get free. The loosened earth shot away

THE DELINQUENT. 293
under their feet, and they disappeared from the
brink of the precipice.— Next morning neither
Caroline Marburn nor Owen Faulconveer could
be found ; but fragments of a female dress, and
streaks of blood, and torn shrubs, were observed
among the thorny brushwood that covered the
face of those cliffs, on the top of which the
guUty pair had last met.

THE END.

paiNTED BY OLITEE & BOYD.

NEW WORKS,
PREPARING FOR PUBLICATION,
By OLIVER & BOYD, Edinburgh.

1.

It is proposed to produce, under the title of Janus, an Annual
Volume, formed in so far upon the same general plan with those
imitations of the German " Literary Almanacks," &c. which
have appeared within the last few years in England, but entirely
differing from any of these as to the character of its execution. As
the name hints, this "Work will present its readers with glimpses
both of the darker side of things and of the brighter one. Tales,
original and translated, occasional Essays, popular Illustrations of
History and Antiquities, Serious and Comic Sketches of Life and
Manners — in Verse and in Prose — will make up the main body of
the materials ; and each volume will, most probably, open or close
with a brief, but comprehensive Essay on the Literary History of
the previous year. The Editor has been fortunate enough to en.
gage the steady and effectual support of several of the most dis
tinguished Men of Letters 'm the country.
The plan of Janus does not exclude Illustrative Etchings or
Engravings, when they may seem useftil to any subject introduced

2 NEW M^ORKS
in its pages ; but it rests its claim to public support on the real
excellence of the Literary Materials which it undertakes to pro
duce. The Volume for January 1826 will be ready for delivery some
weeks before the termination of 1825. It will be a handsome,
but closely-printed post 8vo, of from 450 to 500 pages ; and the
price will not exceed 10s. Gd. oi 12s.
2.
WILLIAM DOUGLAS; or. The Scotish Exiles.
A Historical Novel. In 3 vols 12mo.
3.
PAUL JONES ; a Romance ; by Allan Cunning
ham. In 3 vols post 8vo. 4.
POPULAR QUESTIONS POPULARLY TREAT
ED ; by Frederick Coventry, Esq. In one volume
post 8vo. 5.
The CONSTITUTION of the HUMAN FAMILY ;
with the Duties and Advantages wMch are involved in that
Singular Constitution. By Christopher Anderson.
PART FIRST. — Of the Constitution of the Human
Family. Sect. 1. Introductory Remarks. 2. The Constitu
tion itself. 3. The Connexion of its Parts. 4. The Descend
ing. 5. The Blessing descending. 6. The Moral Power of
the Domestic Constitution displayed in the singular Influence of
the Parent over the Child ; the Parental Power in forming to
future Usefulness, or Greatness of Character ; and the Power
of Resistance to Evil inherent in the Constitution itself. ^. The
Danger and Vanity of Interference. 8.. Concluding Reflections.
PART SECOND.— The Duties and Advantages in-
VO^LVED IN THE DOMESTIC CONSTITUTION. Sect. 1. The
Source or Causes of FaUure. 2. Obedience and Success con
trasted with Negligence and Ruin. 3. The Means of Recovery
and Establishment. 4. The Manner of Procedure with regard
to a Family. 5. Family Government. C. Family Religion.
7. Family Maxims.
PART THIRD.— The various Branches of the Family Consti
tution particularly addressed.

PREPARING FOR PUBLICATION. 3
6.
The CONTEST of the TWELVE NATIONS ; or,
a Comparison of the different Bases of Human Character and
Talent.",* This Work consists of Twelve Chapters ; in each of which
a different kind of genius, oi turn of mind, is brought into view,
described, and copiously illustrated by an enumeration of its dis
tinctive qualities, and their modifications, which are rendered ob
vious to the reader by the frequent citation of examples found in
history, and in the lives and works of celebrated public characters,
men of science, poets, artists, eccentric persons, criminals, &c. —
The object of the Work is to show, that the peculiarities of char
acter observable in every individual may be traced to some one or
another of the twelve departments, and that he may have his place
assigned him in a classified vie-a> of the diversities of human nature.
— Chapter I. Investigates the Nature of the Irish Character. —
II. The Scottish Highlanders or Celtic Race. — III. The Egyptians
and Chinese. — IV. The English. — V. The Greeks and Venetians.
— VL The Germans and Dutch.— VIL The ItaUans. — VIII.
The Lowland Scotch. — IX. The Etrurians. — X. The Spaniards.
—XI. The French.— XII. The Spartans and Danes.
7.
The MAGIC RING ; a Romance, from the German
of Frederick, Baron de la Motte FouauE. In 3 vols
12mo.
"»" The highly eminent Author of this Work has been hither.
to but little known in our country. — Distinguished, however, botli
as a soldier and as an author, he has been long admired in Ger
many, where his name first appeared in the literary world conjoin
ed with that of Augustus William Schlegel. The " Blagic Ring"
(according to the opinions published by many eminent critics)
^ffords one of the most perfect delineations that has ever been
drawn of the chivalrous ages ; while, at the same tiBie, the story
cannot fail to awaken the sympathies of the modern reader ; and
die whole is written with such a degree of imaginative warmth
and enthusiasm, as has been rarely equalled. To this enthusiasm
certain historical theories and religious principles, which the author
wishes to illustrate, have greatly contributed, without detracting,
in any degree, from tlie character of the work as an entertaining
romance.

BOOKS PUBLISHED
By OLIVER & BOYD, EDINBURGH.

1.
SKETCHES of the PHILOSOPHY of APPARI-
TIONS ; or, an Attempt to trace such Illusions to their Phy.
sical Causes; by Samuel Hibbert, M.D., F.B.S.E., Se
cretary to tlie Society of Scottish Antiquaries, &c. Second
Edition, enlarged ; post 8vo, 12s. bds.
 " We have read this interesting volume with much plea
sure. The account of the opinions formerly entertained of the
origin, nature, and power of spirits, is partirularly valuable."—
Westminster Review.
" The view taken of the subject is general and comprehensive,
and the plan of elucidation, such as is well calculated to undeceive
the weak and credulous, and confirm the opinions of the most sen
sible part of mankind. On this ground, to say nothing of the
amusing features of the work, we recommend Dr Hibbert's book
to public attention, convinced that, in order to its producing much
good, it is only necessary that it should be much read." — Month.
ly Magazine.
— ^ " Viewed in the light of a medical guide, it cannot fail
to prove of great advantage as well to the professional student as
to the general reader. We are now reluctantly compelled to leave
this amusing and most instructive volume ; but we cannot permit
ourselves to finish our very imperfect review of it, without recom
mending to our readers, not only the book itself, but more parti.
cularly the principle upon which it is written, the attempt to trace
all spectral illusions to their physical cause." — British Critic.
" That a subject of universal interest has been treated in such
a manner as to make a book of instruction and entertainment, of
learned and pleasing literary illustration, of judicious remark, of
anecdote and of story, need only be known to become popular." —
Literary Gasette.

YALE UNIVERSITY t