FULL of romantic vicissitudes is the story of Calcutta-a story of strange events, much heroism and not a little of that "blundering through" that has marked British enterprise in all parts of the globe. The very names around us have each their adventure to tell: Fort William called, like its predecessor, after the Dutch King of England, and linked imperishably with the fame of Clive, and the crowning mercy of Plassey: Garden Reach, once studded with the riverside villas of merchant-princes; Park Street, the deer-park of old Sir Elijah Impey, whose name, thanks to Nuncomar and Macaulay, will never be forgotten; Kalighat, the landing-stage of the grim goddess of the city; the Mahratta Ditch, eloquent of wars and rumours of wars; Writers' Buildings, the nur-sery of pro-consuls; Ochterlony's Column to the honour of an American born Sepoy-General; and latest, but not least, the marble replica of Holwell's monument to his fellow-sufferers in the Black Hole. Other memories of the past have perished, whether from the ravages of time or the incuriousness of those in office. Gone is the forest glade at Belvedere, for all that it deserved to live as the stage whereon Hastings and Francis met in mortal encounter. Nor may posterity gaze upon the great Boyta-connah tree where the founder of Calcutta sat pulling at his hookah and pondering upon the possibilities of a settlement amid the marshes. Wellesley the magnificent lives again in his Government House, but we shall look in vain for the adjutant birds, once a familiar feature of the Calcutta landscape and bold enough to annex even the lion and unicorn on the stately facade. The name of Creek Row is all that is left of the Creek which ran a hundred yards from Dalhousie Square and upon whose banks an Armenian centenarian, who died a few years ago, remembered seeing boats. Not a vestige remains of the old Fort: like the good men and true who defended it against Seraj-ud-Dowlah, it has faded away into nothingness.
And as with men and things, so with manners. Life in Calcutta is no longer what it was in the "good old days."
Then the Capuas of "Semlah" and "Whotakamund" had not been invented, and our forbears toiled year in and year out without thought of flitting to the hills or escaping to Europe on privilege leave. Then was the Augustan Age of John Company. Then sahibs were sahibs, veritable lords of creation, and interlopers were interlopers : and the exile in India made the country his home. There are so many sahibs nowadays that they have ceased to be venerable or wonderful and the baboo has been to England and back again. Could we only shut our eyes and people Calcutta with the denizens of a century and a quarter ago, what a procession of heroes and heroines would file before us. There goes Hicky, the "true-born Englishman," father of the Calcutta Press, hurrying to the coffee house to catch the latest scandal for to-morrow's Gazette. Hard upon his heels there comes into sight portly self-satisfied "Padra" Johnson, rolling in his pocket the gold mohurs he has earned by celebrating a wealthy marriage. He is meditating, no doubt, some soft speech for that great lady, the Begum, who owns him as her fourth husband, for he hardly heeds the salutation of honest Cudbert Thornhill, the eighteenth century Sinbad who is ending his days as Master Attendant of the Port. There speeds to the Assembly-rooms along Tank Square the lacquered palankeen of beautiful Miss Sanderson, the belle of the settlement, escorted by sixteen attendant beaux in her livery colours: there hobnob in Mission Row the triumvirate of East Indian nabobs, Francis, Clavering and Monson. In Bhowanipore the Barwells sit at dinner with the whole house of Chambers, and the ladies are pelting the gentlemen with bread pills à la mode de Bengale. Zoffany is at his easel finishing his canvas of the Last Supper and borrowing with impartial hand the features of friend and foe: while his brother artist Hodges is off to "eat the air" in his country-built chariot with the boy-collector Clevland, dulce decus of the early civil service. There Macrabie, incomparable diarist and faith-ful friend, is deep in converse with Charles Weston, the generous and the good, whose portrait hangs to-day in St. John's vestry-room and challenges attention by reason of its strange headgear. There missionary Kiernander, if that sad jade Rumour says true, is "ogling from the pulpit with two rich and fat ladies of his congregation." A hundred other shadows beckon to us across the dim veil of years. We seem to see Dr. Tysoe Saul Hancock with gold cane and snuff-box listening to George Bogle's stories of newly explored Tibet, and Tiretta of Tiretta's Bazar fame drawing his great lottery and praying that he may win the gros lot himself. "Bibby" Motte from her house in Post Office Street sends chit after chit to Mrs.
Hindu (935)
Agriculture (118)
Ancient (1086)
Archaeology (753)
Architecture (563)
Art & Culture (910)
Biography (702)
Buddhist (544)
Cookery (167)
Emperor & Queen (565)
Islam (242)
Jainism (307)
Literary (896)
Mahatma Gandhi (372)
Send as free online greeting card
Email a Friend
Manage Wishlist