CHAPTER VIII. "The moon, refulgent lamp of night, O'er heaven's clear azure spreads her sacred light, Departure of day. Rapid advance of night. Indian nights peculiar. Deserted roads. Sepoy guards and flight of the begging crowds. Mosques The cunning snake charmer. Mohammedan devotee. A poor Sudra. Large edible bat and beetles. The music of Nature. Elater Noctilucus. Infinity of living creatures. Funeral pyres. Back bay. Vultures. Covering a body. Burning it. Friends of departed. Children's indifference to the dead. Shore strewed with human bones. Hindoos on death. Government proclamations. Nizam of Hyderabad. Do the Brahmins encourage self-immolation? Dangers of the coast. Fate of the Donna Pascoa. Romantic story of Colabah. English residences. The nest of the tailor warbler. Barracks and soldiers. Predisposing causes to cholera. Contagion. Sick bungalows. English chapel and old tombs. Seashells and cowries. Land-crabs, their habits and haunts, &c., &c. Parsee property. THE great orb of day has rolled down into the far west, but its lingering glory is still reflected everywhere around us. We can trace it gilding the tops of the mosques and spires, and burnishing the green leaves of the cocoa-nut palms, as they move gently in the evening breeze. We can track it over the wide expanse of waters, as it brings out in fine relief a lone sail, homeward bound; we can see it in the rich purple haze that floats over all things. If we turn our eyes towards the east, we are surprised to see how rapidly night is advancing upon us, and how speedily the lofty mountains and the towering peak, known as the "Queen of Mahratta's needle," are becoming veiled from our view. Lights begin to glimmer here and there upon the coast, and the darkened sky over the horizon is illumined for hours after sunset, by flashes from clouds charged with the electric fluid. The transition from day to night, in those parts of India that are situated between the tropics, being very sudden, we, here, know very little of that lingering of the sun's reflected rays, which constitutes the twilight of northern climes. The heavens are for a brief space tinged with the hues of all glorious things, unutterably, indescribably beautiful, and then the brilliant picture fades away. We must now again turn our attention to earth, and take, during these quiet hours, a passing glance at the scenes around us; for an Indian night has a character of its own. The noise and bustle of the busy day are over; the crowded esplanade is all but deserted; the prayerful Parsee has quitted the sea-shore; the last carriage, with its pale and languid occupants, has passed through the gateway that leads into the Fort; the evening tattoo has been rolled at the barracks; the tired sentinel has been relieved from his post of duty; and the heavy tramp of the sepoy guard, as he paces slowly up and down before the low sallyport, halting occasionally to challenge the stray rambler with the accustomed interrogatory, quon-hie? (Who goes there?) is just heard to fall upon the dull ear of night. If we look across the battlements, we see rows of bright lamps burning in some of the high houses, which are occupied by English families, and of which the inhabitants have now thrown wide open the large Venetian shutters, in order to give free admittance to the night air; and we may even detect from our position upon the esplanade, the incessant movements of room-punkahs, and the restlessness of those who are pacing to and fro, in consequence of the excessive heat. The idle, begging crowds, that had for hours haunted the entrances to the neighbouring mosques, have now dispersed for the night; and the great Hindoo temple dedicated to Momba Devi, has echoed back the last prayers of its idolatrous worshippers. The wretched cripple, who, helpless as an infant, had lain all day upon its steps, covered with sores like a second Lazarus, has been carried home on a stretcher by his friends, to lose a few hours in sleep, but to open his eyes on the morrow, to another day of misery. The cunning snake-charmer has twisted the fangless cobra-di-capello round his neck; has rolled up his painted sticks and brass balls; has made his final salaam to the gaping multitude, and has started t off to his native village, to enjoy the profits of his day's deception, and to laugh in secret at the credulity of mankind. The Mohammedan devotee creeps into his mat-covered hut, and has strangely found again the use of the withered arm, which, during the whole past day, standing by the side of the public footpath, he has held up as an immovable member; and now counts over the many pice that the hand of charity has compassionately bestowed upon him, in accordance with the Prophet's precepts. He has made a flourishing trade of his pretended religion, and lives upon the labour of the industrious few. India is heavily taxed by these impostors, and throughout its length and breadth, groans under their numbers. There is a poor Sudra, a hard-working man, wending his way homeward, tired and weary, over the hot dusty road. His feverish day has been passed in one of those grim old buildings near the dock-yard, in packing raw cotton into bales for exportation, to be unpacked by his fellow-labourers in Manchester and elsewhere. But how superior is their lot to his; they have no suffocating heat, in which to toil; to their name there is attached no debasing caste, which will prevent shall I say for ever?-the poor Indian labourer from rising in the social scale of civilization. Life, to him, is but a season of toil and insult, of which in eternity he expects but the renewal; for, within the gates of Paradise he, as he is taught to believe, can never enter; but must still labour outside, for the benefit and luxury of the faithful chosen ones. He knows not, that the Great Proprietor has given a free invitation to all who will come unto him with a humble and a contrite spirit. His day has been a day of suffering, but it is over now; and with the few annas secreted in the folds of his ragged turban, he trudges homeward, content, if not grateful, to partake of a frugal repast of rice and plantains; and after having enjoyed his hookah, and a bath, and a half hour's communion with the red idol in the centre of his dwelling, he will sleep well by the side of his simple family, away among the cocoa-nut plantations, which are so dimly and indistinctly seen from the spot on which we stand. The large edible bat startles us in our meditations, as he hovers between us and the bright stars, like a blot upon the face of the heavens. How swiftly does he sail along upon his leathern wings, cleaving the air, unheard by us; soft and noiseless! His home is in the ruined temples of Salsette and Elephanta. Night has tempted him abroad; and his keen eyes detect the dancing insects that, (attracted by the lights within,) hum in myriads between the rows of white tents scattered near the shore. The withered grass at our feet appears to be filled with life. Large beetles are issuing from the sun-cracks in the earth, and are rattling their hard cases against the dry stubble as they rise heavily into the cool air, and add their buzzing voices to the music of the night. The firefly (Elater noctilucus) hastens to join the glowing circles that play joyously under the old jack-trees, |