A voyage to India: containing reflections on a voyage to Madras and Bengal, in 1821 ...; instructions for the preservation of health in India climates, etc

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A VOYAGE TO INDIA, fye. SfC. A VOYAGE TO INDIA: CONTAINING REFLECTIONS ON A VOYAGE TO MADRAS AND BENGAL, IN 1821, IN THE SHIP LONACH ; INSTRUCTIONS FOR THE PRESERVATION OF HEALTH IN INDIAN CLIMATES ; AND HINTS TO SURGEONS AND OWNERS OF PRIVATE TRADING-SHIPS. BY JAMES WALLACE, SURGEON OF THE LONACH. *Ni The dullest writer, if he holds, up virtue and liberty, and benevolence and esteem ; if he fills his story with good and wholesome advice; and dresses up his little magazine of knowledge or entertainment, at least with a good intention ; he may make himself useful. ClTIZSN OF THE WOULD. LONDON : PRINTED FOR T. AND G. UNDERWOOD, 32, FLEET STREET AND CHALMERS AND COLLINS, GLASGOW. MDCCC'XXIV. LONDON : Printed by Will. t-H Clowes, Norllmniberhud-ronvi. DEDICATION. IN MEMORY OF THE LATE JOHN PEARSON, Esq. Commander ofthe Lonach : AND TO THE OFFICERS, PASSENGERS, AND CREW OP THAT SHIP.

A considerable time before these "Reflections" were given to the press, he under whose auspices they were written, and who would have patronised them, had he been living, was numbered with the dead. I can now, therefore, only dedicate them to his me mory; and well indeed does it deserve the tribute at my hand. This is not the place to speak of his good ness — of the ties that were between us ; to tell how much he did for me — and how much I owe him ; yet I may be allowed to state, that it is for the kindnesses he heaped upon me, from the first moment I came VI DEDICATION. under his command, till the hour when I saw his eyes closed in death, that I now sorrowingly bring forward his name. Nor is it I alone that regrets him ; all who sailed with him — all who knew him — will, I am con fident, when they remember Captain John Pearson, remember him with affection and respect, and shed a warm tear at his early fate.

To my other shipmates in the Lonach I also dedi cate the volume. They are now scattered far and wide ; but it probably may meet the eye of some, and possibly may awaken in their bosoms some fond re collections. It, at all events, carries to them my affection and regard unabated. JAMES WALLACE. CONTENTS.

Preface

. It may be a matter of surprise to some, the appearance of " reflections'' on a voyage so common as that to Madras and Bengal. We have of late, however, had " Travels," and " Voyages," and " Tours," given to the world in abundance, speaking of parts and things perhaps not more interesting or new than an Indian voyage. Nor do I think, for all this travelling and publishing, that the ground is yet wholly occupied, or even the most common of subjects altogether exhausted ; there seems still to be a little room left, though so many have been already forward to tell their stories, for another straggler yet to step into and tell his. But indeed I pretend not to give much new in what I now present; the reflections, I b X

PREFACE.

. believe, being just such as must naturally occur to the majority of those who embark on a sea voyage. None, however, that I know of, had before thrown them into the form which I have here adopted. When I entered on my first voyage, like many others, I meant to have kept a private journal of daily occurrences, merely for my own satisfaction and amusement. But it soon occurred to me, that a volume such as the present, might be acceptable to a few out of the many who annually take their de parture from England for India. It occurred to me, that a thing which would give the tra veller to India some idea of what he is to meet with on his journey to it, as well as on his arrival ; a thing which might instruct as well as amuse, might be useful. I therefore relinquished my first intention, and set about the present work.

And though in writing it, I kept India and my Indian voyage principally in view, I wrote what I thought might also apply to any voyage. My object has been, to give an idea of some of the most striking cir-

PREFACE.

. XI cumstances to be met with at sea ; to paint the feelings of the traveller journeying to a foreign land ; and I hope though the Indian voyager will find what has been said especially to apply to him, even the voyager to any coun try will find something in it worthy of his perusal. The first part of the work, " The Reflec tions," I have divided into four chapters. In the first chapter, " The Departure," I have at tempted to describe the varied feelings experienced at our first entering upon a voyage; the thoughts called up at bidding adieu to our native soil ; with some of the miseries of an embarkation, &rc The second, "The Voyage," contains a detail of some of the most obvious and interesting occurrences which are presented to the notice of the traveller on the deep ; a history of some of the circumstances best calculated to instruct and amuse in the profession of the mariner. In the third, " The Approach to the Indian Shore," besides other bs

PREFACE.

. XII allusions, I have touched chiefly on the state of mind we are likely to possess as we draw to the foreign coast. I have attempted to shew what are, and, perhaps still more, what ought to be, the feelings at such a period. The fourth, and last, " The Arrival," is taken up with what is experienced actually on reach ing the foreign shore ; with some few remarks on India and its inhabitants, allusions to home, fre. And I hope what I have touched upon, I have portrayed tolerably correctly. It will be seen that I have attempted to vary the matter a little ; that I have not attached my self alone to the serious, but have endeavoured to mix up a little of the gay with it. And in all parts, I have made it my object to impress morality and proper conduct; wherever I could, I have brought before the reader the lesson of religion, and pointed the mind to the Great First Cause. The poetry intermixed with the volume, taken from some of the most

PREFACE.

. XIII esteemed authors, and adapted as appropriately as I could to the subjects, will also add some thing to its interest. In the second part of the work, " Observa tions for the Preservation of Health in Indian climates," I have given such directions, I think, as will be quite sufficient for any one taking up his residence in these climates. They are plain and few ; but they are the most import ant ; and he who has them impressed properly on his mind, I should hope will find them in some degree advantageous to him. They apply, as the reflections do, chiefly to India; but of course they must apply also to all climates like it; to the west as well as to the east; the advice given in them I trust may be worthy a remembrance almost in any climate; for in no situation is health to be preserved without care. At the commencement of this division, I have thrown in, by the way, a few observa tions relating to consumptive patients. They

PREFACE.

. may call the attention of some to the remedy advised, who otherwise might neglect it. The third and last part, " Hints to Surgeons and Owners of Private-trading ships," I should also hope will have its use. It will give the young man entering upon that employment some considerable idea of what he is to meet with, and prepare him for it ; it will give him a few hints which perhaps may be of some little service to him. The remarks, too, which apply to the owners of these ships, may not be altogether lost. It will be to the advantage of themselves, as well as to the advan tage of every one else, that what I have spoken upon be attended to and remedied. And I am satisfied it needs only to be stated, to have the remedies applied. In short, as it is I give it to the world. If it has any thing to recommend it, the public will find it out, and give it its due. If it be undeserving of attention, and if I have judged wrong in ever letting it see the light, it will

PREFACE.

. XV of course be allowed to sink into the mass of idle tales that have gone before it, and be for gotten. Nor will I be a great sufferer by the sentence ; for as a writer I have no reputation to lose ; a mere adventurer as yet upon the sea of authorship, should the wind prove at once unfavourable, I can easily put " about ship," and get back to my old port again. A VOYAGE TO INDIA, Ssc. 8ix.

Part I. Chapter

I. THE DEPARTURE. The pilgrim on his journey bent, — Oft will he pause, and gaze the journey'd plain ; Oft pause again, the valley to survey, Where food or slumber sooth'd his wand'ring way. SOUTHBT. On Friday, the 9th of March, 1821, the pre parations for sea being finished, and crew and passengers on ' board, the Lonach sailed from Gravesend for Madras and Bengal; and on Sunday, the Ilth, anchored in the Downs. When we enter upon a new scene, and get introduced amongst a people altogether strange to us, we naturally feel a little gloomy, even though it be a scene of our own choosing, and the people we get amongst, in every respect, B as suitable as strangers can be. It takes a time ere the mind can accommodate itself to any change it may experience; even allowing the change to be from worse to better.

It takes a time after our introduction to strangers, how ever affable they may be— although, indeed, they may have dispositions exactly suited to our own— before we can find out what the disposi tion really is, or feel ourselves altogether at home in their presence. And thus it is, that for the few first days, on board ship, the young adventurer is by no means so happy as he could wish to be. He stalks about in the midst of confusion; unable, though he may be willing, to apply himself in earnest to any thing. There are many others around him, but he scarcely knows them yet; the formality and distance of a first introduction have not yet given place to the cheering familiarity of ripened friendship; and, even in the midst of them, he feels lonely. And thus left, as it were, to himself, his thoughts naturally turn to that which interests them most.

He looks back on happier days; he ponders on the friends he is leaving ; he glances forward to the future — but he sees not there, to cheer and comfort, what he finds in the past; doubts and fears fill his bosom; and if in his disposition there exist much sensibility and ten derness, he is indeed apt to become melancholy. But with every evil there is an accompanying good; there is no situation of distress without its accompanying circumstances of alleviation. The great object to be attained, when the mind is tending to a desponding subject, is properly to occupy and divide the thoughts: and, fortunately, the very confusion we get amongst when we go first on board ship, though it interests us but little — though, indeed, we may think it rather tending to our annoyance — serves as a kind of stimulus to the drooping mind; it arrests and feeds, though we may not be aware of it, the then depraved thoughts, as we may well term them — thus preventing them from settling too steadily on any one subject, and drawing us insensibly away from the desponding revery.

B Very soon, too, we meet with some one, who, feeling as we do ourselves, is inclined to shake off melancholy, by a participation of thoughts and cheerful conversation ; and this, at any rate for a time, enlivens not a little the feelings. And, as we every day get rather more ac quainted with the people, we every day get a little more reconciled to the place; the spirits gradually rise, and we soon begin to think our situation may not be so intolerable as we at first imagined. But it is not at the very first that the tender feelings are most powerfully aroused. Although he who embarks for a far country, may be melancholy enough at the very time of embarka tion, yet, if he supposes that at this time his feelings are at the worst, he mistakes; he has still severer pangs to experience. The tie which binds him to his home, though it may be stretched, is not yet broken.

A little time must elapse ere this takes place; and it is just at the breaking of it, that his feelings of sorrow are wound up to the highest. On the morning of Tuesday, the 13th, the wind, which, from the period of our reaching the Downs, had continued unfavourable, came round ; and early the following morning we weighed, and with fine weather stood down channel ; — and it was then that I experienced my saddest moments. It is when we feel ourselves fast leaving the happy land of our nativity, and fairly out of the reach of all its enjoyments, that the mind, in spite of every effort we can use, feels the touch of melancholy. It is then that the value of a home is found out — that we ascer tain what a blessing it indeed is, to have kindred and companions to associate with — that we get fully convinced of the truth of the saying, " it is only when our comforts are gone we learn the value of them."

By a law of nature our affections are entwined around the place of our birth. Where we have been born and brought up, where we tasted our earliest, sweetest joys, and where those who are dearest to us remain, there our affections cling, and from thence there is no tearing ourselves without suffering many a pang. Cold indeed must the heart of that man be, who, as the vessel, borne along by the steady breeze, is carrying him farther and far ther from his native shore, can refuse to it his constant lingering gaze, or stand to see it re cede without emotion. At such a time the man of feeling is melted into grief. When he calls to mind the days of playful youth — the parents and brothers and sisters, who had so long fondly loved, and anxiously tended and watched over him — the companions he associated with — the happy scenes he mixed in, — and feels, that now for a long time, perhaps for ever, he is leaving all — his bosom becomes the seat of many a rending passion, and the sigh that is struggling in his breast, and the tear that is bursting from his eye, he finds it impossible to restrain.

Ay, and even he who never thought he possessed such kindly and patriotic feelings — he who, up to the hour of trial, may imagine he has a heart quite stout enough, to give up all its pleasures, and break with all its associations, without regret, will find, when the hour comes, he has calculated wrong ; and this man, with all his hardihood, will be seen, like others, as the vessel is fast speeding along, and the high sum mit of the land has almost sunk into the wave, eagerly endeavouring to catch another glimpse of that which probably by him shall be seen no more. Come hither, hither, my little page, Why dost thou weep and wail ? Or dost thou dread the billow's rage, Or tremble at the gale ? Let wind be shrill, let waves roll high, I fear not wave nor wind ; Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I Am sorrowful in mind : For I have from my father gone, A mother whom I love, And have no friend, save — Enough, enough, my little lad, Such tears become thine eye-^- If I thy guiltless bosom had, Mine own would not be dry.

Yet, though it is pleasing and amiable to indulge in these feelings to a certain degree, it is not right to carry them too far. There is an apathy — a cold-heartedness — that would teach us to stand unmoved under every circumstance ; and there is an over-great sensibility, which would unman, and make us sink at the most trivial afflictions; neither of which is it neces sary to acquire. But there is a medium state, which it is possible to find, and which enables him who finds it to stand firm ; while at the same time, he sympathizes, to feel, in their proper force, his own or his neighbour's sorrows — ■ while, at the same time, he is capable, if ne cessary, of withdrawing his mind from the sub ject of sorrow, and fitting it for the performance of other duties. And, if we examine, we will find, how natu ral, and how happy it is,, for the wanderer to gain such a state of mind.

No doubt, when he feels himself taking leave of all his comforts ; parting with those that are dearest to him on earth — with the nearest and the kindest of his kindred — with the friends and companions of his earliest days; in a word, bidding a long, perhaps an eternal, farewell, to all that ever in terested his affections,— his heart must be filled with many an anxious and distressing thought. He possesses something more than firmness — something not so amiable as firmness — if be does not find his spirit bend, and sink in some degree, at such a separation. If there be much affection and kindness in his nature, he is indeed apt to bend too much to the afflicting load, and shew that he wants even that degree of firmness which it is right he should have. But when, again, he remembers, that after a time has elapsed, he may return to his happy home and the bosom of his friends, — when he thinks that absence will only ripen and increase the affection, and that when again he meets those he is now parting with, and tastes those pleasures he is now forsaking, his happiness will be tenfold ; when he feels assured, that wherever he goes, the prayers and affections of many go with him, and that, should it be his lot to return, his re turn will be greeted by many a fond and anxious heart — there is much consolation given to the mind — much of its anxiety is removed.

By proper reflections, the feelings are gradually balanced, and the mind comes to gain just the strength that is wanted. Hope administers to the wanderer under all his troubles. Her taper, burning to the last hour of life's pilgrimage, mixes up with the darkest of his feelings a gleam, which ever keeps despair from the borne down spirit — which cheers and supports him in all his wanderings. These, however, are only the troubles of the mind; and though they are quite enough, yet, as they generally wear off, or at least lose much of their poignancy, as soon as the parting is fairly past, and even while they last are pleasing though painful, if there were no others, there would not be much cause for complaint. But there are also troubles of the body, as well as the mind, to be endured; and these, unfortu nately, are all pain, without the least intermix ture of pleasure.

Just as we are getting over the sorrow of parting — just as our spirits are on the move to their wonted level, and we are beginning to promise ourselves something like enjoyment and cheerfulness again, there comes upon us a sickness, a most deadly sickness, which, at once, sinks the spirits still lower than before, and reduces the body still lower than the spirits, and most cruelly puts an end to every hope and prospect of comfort. During the whole of Wednesday, the day we left the Downs, the wind continued fair and mo derate, and there was no appearance of com plaint amongst us. On Thursday, the weather was still fine, and for that day also, I may say we were all well enough. Towards evening, indeed, some felt a little lightness of head, and rather a dimunition of appetite, but they did not think it a matter of much importance, and ima gined a sleep would put all to rights.

In the course of the night, however, the breeze in creased considerably, and the swell of the sea, and the motion of the ship along with it, and those who in the evening had their spirits tole rably well up, had them miserably enough de pressed in the morning ; those who in the even ing were promising themselves an early start, found, when the morning came, they had neither inclination nor ability to get upon their legs. I felt, I believe, about as uncomfortable as any of them, but I resolved to make a bold push, and get up to see what was going on above. So out of bed I got with some difficulty, and after managing, with more, to get on my clothes, I made my way to the deck, just as breakfast was ready. At the call to breakfast, I went in, al though I had little inclination for the meal, to take my seat at table along with the rest ; but I found few others there; few, out of our number, had made their appearance, and even these few, as soon as the eating articles were produced, and the caterer had commenced sending them round, got up and made their exit rather hurriedly.

I followed very soon, for I found things far from being right, and, like the others, took the way to my cot, into which I tumbled in a most pitia ble condition. All Friday it continued to blow, and all that day, I and many others, were, as we supposed, in a state of greater misery than ever mortal was in before. The moment we raised our head from the pillow, such horrible sensations ensued, that we were glad instantly to get it down again. Some who fought against their feelings, and got out of bed, had scarcely reached the floor, when a tumble of the vessel sent them tumbling to the other side of their cabin ; and before they had time to recover themselves another roll would send them as quickly and roughly back again ; and thus tumbled and bumped about, they were glad to get into their softer and safer birth again.

Others who got the length of beginning to dress, in the attempt to draw on a stocking, or in any other act which occupied both hands, and put the body on rather a ticklish balance, were thrown down with such violence, that for some days afterwards they had cause to remember it. And to increase the misfortune, the same lurch that upset the man, generally upset along with him, some of the cabin furniture, and not only did he run the risk of sustaining an injury from the fall, but it was a wonder, indeed, if he did not also get a salute from a trunk, or a dressing-box, or a basin, or something or other rather too ponderous in its nature. And some, after managing to get themselves wholly equipped, became all at once so intolerably ill, that they were absolutely obliged instantly to tumble into bed again, clothes and all.

And what added to our distress, in all our troubles, there was no one pitied us. When the spirit is sunk, from whatever cause, the voice of sympathy can do much to restore it. When the hand of disease is upon us, how enfeebled is its grasp, if the soothing attentions — the cheer ing consolations of kind friends, are aiding us ! Yet, although we imagined our situation just one calculated to excite the greatest commiseration, it drew forth no pity— it seemed not to be viewed thus by any one else. From the tried sailor, a laugh or a swear was all the comfort we could get. And even those who were as young in the life as ourselves, but who luckily had escaped the terrible malady, seemed also to be without any feeling of sympathy ; for though they came occasionally to visit us in our distress, they neither shewed that anxiety, nor gave that condolence, which we, judging from our feelings, thought we deserved.

They generally started off in a very few minutes with the excuse, that if they stayed longer they would get sick too. Burns says, in his " Address to the tooth-ach" When fevers burn, or agues freeze us, Rheumatics gnaw, or colics squeeze us, Our neebours sympatheese, to ease us Wi' pitying moan. But with thou — the hell o' a' diseases, They mock our groan. And admirably, I think, is this adapted also to sea-sickness. Neither did Saturday bring us any relief; in deed, we were fully worse that day than the one preceding. Towards the afternoon, when we thought, with sorrowful hearts, we had left the English shores for a long time behind, the wind, which, till then, had kept fair, came right against us, and increased to a gale. The swell of the sea, too, became great ; the rain descended in torrents ; the bitter unfriendly wind kept howling through the rigging ; and every now and then a big wave struck, and broke over the vessel.

The whole scene, indeed, was a most dismal and disheartening one,— just calculated to sink still far ther, our already too-far depressed spirits. I shall always remember the night well. As I lay in the evening, in my cot, wishing myself any where but where I was, quite worn out both in body and mind, and careless what became either of myself or the ship, if I was only allowed to remain at rest, a message came that one of the men was taken ill, and that it was necessary I should see him. It was a most disagreeable piece of intelligence. Much rather would I have gone twenty miles at any other time to visit him on shore, than get up that night to go twenty yards. But there was no getting off well. So up I got ; and having reached the deck, I proceeded cautiously along, groping my way in the midst of the storm, in quest of my patient.

But just as I had nearly reached the place, a tremendous sea came gush in where part of the bulwark had been carried away, and half drowned me. Says I to myself— if this be the kind of practice I am to have now, it matters not how soon I am done with it. However, that was no place for reflection ; I found out the sick man, and found the way back to my own birth again. But still the work was not done ; other misfortunes still awaited me. My patient required a little medicine ; and after I had, with no small difficulty, weighed out the different ingredients, and was just on the eve of putting past my weighing apparatus, and parcelling up my medicine, the vessel took a roll, and my cot, which was hanging up, taking one with it, struck me so forcibly that I was thrown from my seat, and away went the scales one way, and the weights another, and the paper with the medicine went off with the rest, and all my labour was to do over again.

In sorrow, I ejaculated, as I lay on the floor amid the general ruin, — if a man could be in search of such a thing as misery, let him go to sea and he '11 be sure to find it : who is it, that either for curiosity, or gain, or glory, would lead such a horrible life ? who is it that would not prefer the scantiest pittance on shore to the greatest affluence here? Let me be once more upon dry land, and if ever I set my foot on board ship again c may I never get out of it. But complaints were vain ; so after a few such melancholy reflections, I gathered up my scattered materials, and, setting to work again with rather more caution, got the business finished. All Saturday night we fought against the storm, but finding it impossible to make head against it, on Sunday morning we put about ship, and stood back for the land.

My sickness still continued as bad as ever, and had now reduced me almost to skin and bone ; but though I was scarcely able to move, when I heard the glad tidings, that we were again making for the land, and likely to get relief, at least for a time, to our troubles, I once more made my way to the deck ; and there I witnessed a most melancholy scene. I was not, I soon found, the only one that had suffered ; for there I saw the greater number of those I had left on Thursday night, in good spirits, with ruddy countenances and masculine figures, most miserably changed. The fine clothes, before so clean and neatly fitted, were now only half put on, and largely coated over with blanket-wool. The fashionabletied neckcloth, and the spruce done up hair, were no longer to be seen. The bloom of the cheek was altogether gone ; the energy of the eye had fled with it ; the features were shrunken ; and this, with the long black beard, which had evidently been allowed to grow in peace for some days, gave to the whole coun tenance, nay, to the whole man, a most wofuland haggard appearance.