from lahore hither is an almost uninterrupted series of encampments—english and native regiments established in huts in the open fields far from every town, close only to the railway line. at one station a detachment of indian guards were drawn up, and abibulla declared from the number of men that they must be expecting a general at least; but nothing was discharged from the train but some cases of rupees, checked off by two english officers, and then carried to the barracks under the escort of sepoys.
this rawal pindi is an english town of cottages surrounded by lawns and shrubberies; about two streets of bazaar, and red uniforms everywhere, highland soldiers in kilts, white helmets, and the officers' and sergeants' wives airing their sunday finery in their buggies. the ladies drive themselves, under the shelter of a sunshade on an all[pg 239] too short stick, painfully held by a hapless native servant clinging to the back of the carriage in a dislocating monkey-like attitude.
a regiment of artillery was marching into quarters. the highlanders' band came out to meet them: four bagpipes, two side drums, and one big drum. they repeat the same short strain, simple enough, again and again; in europe i should, perhaps, think it trivial, almost irritating, but here, filling me as it does with reminiscences of brittany, especially after the persistent horror of tom-toms and shrill pipes, it strikes me as delightful—i even follow the soldiers to their quarters.
among the officers was a young lady on horseback, her black habit covered with dust. instead of the pith helmet that the english ladies disfigure themselves by wearing, she had a straw hat with a long cambric scarf as a pugaree. she was pretty and sat well, and at the last turning she pulled up and watched the men, the ammunition and the baggage all march past, saluted them with her switch, and cantered off to the town of "cottages." i saw her again in the afternoon, taking tea in her garden as she sat on a packing-case among eviscerated bales, and giving orders to a mob of slow, clumsy coolies, who were arranging the house.
all round the post-office there is invariably a crowd of natives scribbling in pencil on post-cards held in their left hands. their correspondence is lengthy, minute, and interminable; in spite of their concentration and look of reflection i could never bring myself to take them seriously, or feel that they were fully responsible for their thoughts and acts—machines only, wound up by school teaching, some going out of order and relapsing into savages and brutes.
stones flying, sticks thrown—at a little pariah girl, whose shadow as she passed had defiled the food of a brahmin. he merely threw away the rice, which the dogs soon finished; but the bystanders who had witnessed the girl's insolence in going so near the holy man—she so base and unworthy—flew at the unhappy creature, who ran away screaming, abandoning a load of wood she was carrying on her head.
