REFLECTIONS OF A RETURNED EXILE. Φεύγωμεν συν νηυσι φίλην ες πατρίδα γαιαν 66 ILIAD II. 140. THERE are few books in the present day more deservedly popular than those of travels, and there are few departments of literature in which the scanty information of our ancestors forms a more striking contrast with the immense extent of modern knowledge. Three centuries ago, a traveller even to a neighbouring country was a sort of wonder, and a narrative of a journey formed a kind of era in literature; but now my picked man of countries" is grown so common a character, that it is impossible to look over the advertising sheets that form the antecedent and consequent of a Review or Magazine, or to cast the eye over the first and last pages of a newspaper, without learning the names of a multitude of such performances to all parts both of the known and unknown world, by natives and foreigners, by soldiers and divines, by antiquaries and exquisites, by conservatives and utilitarians, by misses, mistresses, and ladies. Yet it is surprising that, among all this variety, no one has thought of writing travels in one's own country by a long absentee. Scarcely any narrative would be more interesting than that of the contrast which such an individual experiences, between what he sees and what he remembers. Young, when near his death, put the affecting question, "At the age of eighty, where is the world into which we were born ?" and so, in this age of change and improvement, may an absentee of twenty-five or thirty years exclaim, on returning," where is the country which I left in my youth ?" What are the reflections that arise in the mind of such an individual on revisiting the scenes of early recollections? Much, undoubtedly, that is pleasurable, but also much that is melancholy,—the dreamy recollection of what was, overpowered by the stronger perception of what is; the mixture in the mind of old and new; the violent disruption of ancient associations by present facts; the perpetual efforts to connect the one with the other, and to trace out whatever links in the chain may be broken or lost; the involuntary confession of improvement joined to the irresistible regret at change, and the consciousness that what we have long known is impressing us as new, and what is familiar is at the same time felt to be strange. It is to give a few examples of this that I sit down to make some memoranda of my feelings, on returning to Europe, after a residence in India of twentytwo unbroken years. That is, of the contrast experienced by one who left his country in the warlike times of the Prince Regent, to return in the peaceful reign of William the Fourth; who, on his passage out, was in a fleet convoyed by ships of war, saw the crew of his own vessel regularly exercised for action, and with the other passengers was, on an alarm of suspicious sails in sight, stationed on the poop with a musket in his hand. On my passage home, there was not an enemy to be prepared for, nor a port in the civilized world to which we might not have gone with assurances of safety. My departure from Europe was in that memorable period, between the termination of Bonaparte's tremendous Russian expedition, and the deliverance of Europe at the great battle of Waterloo, the only battle of modern times fit to furnish a subject for an epic poem. At that time, the whole Continent was, as it were, hedged round with walls of brass; all entrance was denied, and Paris was as inaccessible as the magnetic pole. On my return, I find hardly one acquaintance who has not made half the circuit of the Continent, including both European and Asial. Journ.N S.VOL.22.No.85. K Asiatic Turkey. This immense contrast excites something like the feelings that must have been experienced by the Seven Sleepers, in passing at once from the reign of Decius to that of Theodosius, and I may, perhaps, after due allowances and deductions, venture to quote, as a summary of my experience, the words of the great historian of the latter ages of the empire: "We imperceptibly advance from youth to age, without observing the gradual but incessant change of human affairs; and even in our larger experience of history, the imagination is accustomed, by a perpetual series of causes and effects, to unite the most distant revolutions; but if the interval between two memorable eras could be instantly annihilated; if it were possible, after a momentary slumber of 200 years, to display the new world to the eyes of a spectator who still retained a lively and recent impression of the old, his surprise and his reflections would furnish the pleasing subject of a philosophical romance." Such, in a less degree, must be the case with an Indian absentee, returning after a long interval to the country of his youth; for, notwithstanding all the pains he may take, by correspondence and reading, to keep up his knowledge of European affairs, and to go along with their course, his ideas will be by far too faint to furnish any adequate preparation for the reality of the changes he will meet on his return. To begin at the beginning, I shall say a little respecting the steam-passage from Calcutta to the ship at Saugor. The reader,-if he be an European reader, -may, perhaps, require to be told, that the all-changing power of steam has performed its metamorphoses in India as well as in Europe. Formerly, a ship, on arriving at the mouth of the Hoogly, had the choice either of continuing there and sending up her passengers and goods to Calcutta by Bujraus, Patailas, Ulauks, &c., that is, "in the dialect of men, interpreted" by pinnaces, lighters, and barges,—or of coming up herself. It is difficult to say which of these methods was productive of most annoyance to all parties. The first involved a heavy expense in freight, insurance against loss, and a hundred other items, including the risk of ruining the health of the crew by remaining in the noxious exhalations of the alluvial shores of the mouths of the Ganges; the last required a voyage of sometimes fifteen or twenty days, before the ship could get up a distance of a hundred miles from Saugor to Calcutta. I well remember the disappointment we all experienced when, after five months, without seeing land, we at last attained the sight of the low jungles of Saugor, and fondly thought we had nothing to do but to step on shore, and "take our ease at our inn." How mortifying it was to find, we had either to travel three days in a wretched native boat, starving with hunger and broiling with heat, or stay three weeks more in our wearisome ship! All this is now changed; the moment a vessel arrives at Saugor, a notice by telegraph is made to Calcutta; a steamer proceeds down to take her in tow, and she is brought to her anchorage, above Champaul Ghaut, in two or three days; so that, independently of the saving in trouble, expense, and risk, the voyage out and home is really shortened by a month or six weeks. In the same manner, in former times, when a ship departed from Calcutta, the passengers had no alternative but either to embark there, and have the tedious passage down to Saugor, or to allow the ship to get to Saugor, and follow as they best could, in native or European craft; all which, especially for invalids, was exceedingly annoying. The general plan now is, for the passengers to embark and establish themselves comfortably in their cabins before their vessel quits Calcutta. A steamer then takes the ship in tow, and in two days they are at the Sand-Heads. Sometimes, however, there is a prospect of the vessel being detained at the river's mouth. In this case, the passengers generally allow her to get down by herself; they then club together to engage a steamer, which in one day carries the whole party to the ship, the expense being Rs. 25 or Rs. 30 (about £3.) a-head: much the same sum that the absentee will find himself charged from London to Edinburgh, a distance at least three times as great, and in a vessel of incomparable superiority in point of comfort and accommodation. If such be the difference in the boat, how much more marked is that in the passengers! A curious speculator on life and manners might receive much both of instruction and amusement, from a contemplation of the variety of feelings by which they are affected. The first class he would probably note among them, consists of Europeans proceeding to revisit their native country; among these is easily to be distinguished the independent satisfaction of the man whose fortune is made, and who returns to India no more, and the careless indifference of those who are merely taking a three or five years' trip to Europe on business or pleasure, and are, after that, to resume duties in Bengal: these latter being, as it were, denizens of two hemispheres, and standing between both, are more indifferent to either. Another is the more sombre set, easily distinguished by their sallow cheeks and haggard features, of invalids. seeking renovation to their broken constitutions and harassed minds, by this visit to their own country. There are also generally to be found one or two widows, sometimes in the very bloom of youth, and whose dearest affections have been snapt asunder by the fatal climate of India; at others, tolerably reconciled to their deprivation by the possession of a reasonable share of Company's paper and claims upon Savings-funds. In the minds of these returning emigrants, there is a strange struggle of contradictory feelings. On the one hand, there is the inexplicable satisfaction which every one, rich or poor, sick or well, fortunate or unfortunate, old or young, irresistibly feels at the idea of returning to their native land, and of mixing again in the scenes which were familiar to their youth; and, again, there is the equally irresistible and often most acute regret, at quitting the friends and connections they may have formed in India. India, it must be confessed, has many faults and many disadvantages, and there are innumerable sources of dissatisfaction in its climate and its exile; but still it has some redeeming properties; and, among these, one certainly by no means the least important, which makes up for many evils, and hides a multitude of sins, is the warm feelings of friendship which a residence there has a tendency to generate, and which frequently exists as strongly between what Europeans would consider mere common acquaintances, as here between nearest relations. It is Goldsmith, I believe, who observes that, were a Spaniard and a Swede to meet in China, they would feel themselves drawn to each other, as being both Europeans; and if a European and a Chinese were to meet in Jupiter, they would have the same feeling, as being both of the same planet; and were an inhabitant of Mercury and one of Herschel to meet in Sirius, they would think themselves Jaut Bhaees, as brothers of the same system. Something of this takes place with Europeans in the East. In that country, amidst a race of men with whom we have no intercommunity of language, of manners, or of ideas, we naturally cling to each other for support against the overwhelming influence of the immense population by which we are surrounded, and however distant may have been our birth-place in the British empire, we consider ourselves as natural friends. Nor are such feelings transitory; the friendships thus formed are generally firm and lasting, and so far from being dissolved by a return to Europe, are frequently strengthened and increased. For then principles exactly the reverse, but equally strong and favourable to kindly feelings, begin to operate. Old Indians, returning after a long absence, find themselves almost as much estranged, and as much a particular caste among their countrymen, as they were at first among the natives of India. They are, therefore, led to each other, and the circumstance of having been acquainted in a distant land, and having common topics of interest and intelligence, converts what may have been mere casual acquaintanceship into warm intimacy. Still, at the moment of quitting India, these feelings, if not overpowered, are at least counterbalanced, by the strange delight which is universally experienced at the idea of returning to our native land. The thought of once again treading British ground, gives an animation to the spirits, which for the time is irresistible. And here it is difficult to avoid a question, which this universal feeling among the passengers tends to excite, and which, to use a favourite continental phrase, is a striking phenomenon in psychology. Whence, it may be asked, arises this mysterious affection of mind, which connects every child of Adam with one particular spot of earth? Whence is it that, throughout every nation, powerful or weak, civilized or barbarous, peaceful or warlike, this sentiment is universal; that, whatever may have been our privations or poverty, in the residence of our youth, however harsh or uncongenial its climate, however ungracious its soil and scenery, however obscure and confined its situation, and with all this, whatever may have been our success in after-life, however delightful may be our after-abode, still, in spite of every advantage, our heart yearns after the scenes of youth with desire increasing the longer has been our separation; that, under every form of prosperity, we still feel an unsatisfactory banishment in being excluded from thence? There is, perhaps, no human being who does not propose, as the reward of his labours, the privilege of returning to terminate his existence where he earliest remembers it to have begun. There he can put up with privations and submit to inconveniencies which elsewhere would provoke his loudest complaints, and can receive satisfaction from objects which elsewhere would excite his indifference, contempt, or disgust. Such are the feelings which prevail through all nations and through all ages; which appear to form an elementary part of human nature, and are attributed with equal propriety to the many-wiled Ulysses at the court of Antinous, and to the brave Sir Huon on the banks of the Euphrates : Ως ουδεν γλύκιον ης πατρίδος ουδε τοκήων No sweeter lot than this our heart desires, In foreign soil from these exiled away, No joy the palace and the feast convey. Odyss. Ix. 34. Du kleiner Ort, wo ich das erste Licht gesogen, Oberon, 4r Gesang. Thou dear loved nook, where first Heaven's light I viewed, Still longs the haunts of childhood to explore, For these, in Eden banished, pants unblest; Oh grant me, Heaven, when life's fond dream is o'er, In native earth beside my sires to rest! A speculator on the structure of mind, who holds the doctrine that nothing, either in the physical or moral world, is made in vain, might exercise his sagacity in discovering the final cause of this mysterious feeling; in determining what advantage the human race derives from this principle in their nature, and what would be the loss were it extirpated from the breast, and no predilection felt for the place of our birth beyond any other spot. To this, perhaps, it may be replied, that the feeling is intended as a provision for the equal population of the globe. Had mankind no attachment to the place of their nativity, it is not improbable that, on feeling its disadvantages, they might generally be induced to migrate to more propitious climates, and that the whole progeny of Adam might be again congregated in one crowded Shinaar, leaving other countries unpeopled. Such an event is effectually counteracted by the feelings of which we have been speaking: as it is, every one is unwilling to leave his birth-place, whatever may be its disadvantages, and when compelled to do so, that place becomes a magnet to draw him perpetually back, like a body revolving round the centre of an eclipse, with a force increasing directly as the distance. Yet universal as is this sentiment, it is, like the opposite principles of attraction and repulsion, wonderfully counterbalanced by an antagonist principle, the love of emigration. How powerfully this acts, is known to every tyro in ancient history, who has read of the swarms that the populous North Poured ever from her frozen loins, to pass And the accounts of modern colonies equally demonstrate that there is in the human mind an inherent love of travel. These contradictions are rendered the more perplexing by the changes that seem occasionally to take place in national manners and character. Thus, were we to look through Europe for a nation more than ordinarily attached to its home, we should probably fix upon the Swiss, among whom the affection of Nostalgia is so strong and prevalent, that it is said whole regiments of their soldiers have, in foreign countries, been known to lay down their arms, that they might follow the irresistible desire of returning to their native mountains. Yet these are the very people who, in the time of Julius Cæsar, under the name of Helvetii, in a body, burned their homes and left their beloved birth-place to seek a more propitious dwelling in Gaul. How are we to reconcile such opposite affections in the human breast? Are we to conclude man to be so capricious a being, as to defy all speculations on his nature; or are we to adopt the old Aristotelian doctrine, that all things subsist by contraries? The next class of passengers that appear in a Calcutta and Saugor steamer, present a marked contrast to the preceding. They are friends and relatives, who are going down to accompany the departing, as far as the limits of the pilot-boats will permit. Among these are many shades of difference. The first are common acquaintances, who look forward to follow in a year or two themselves. They go down the river on this occasion merely as a party of pleasure; their conversation rolls chiefly on a calculation of the time when they also may |