In December, eighteen hundred and forty-nine, the road between Saharumpore and Umballah was infested by a gang of thieves. Several officers had been stopped, robbed, and plundered of their money and valuables. I had been invited to Lahore, to witness the installation of Sir Walter Gilbert and Sir Henry Elliot as Knights Commanders of the Bath. The danger, near a place called Juggadree, was pointed out to me by a mail contractor, who, finding me determined to proceed, recommended me to dress as a lady for a couple of stages. I did so. I borrowed a gown, a shawl, and a nightcap; and, when I came near the dangerous locality, I put them on, and commanded the bearers to say I was a "mem-Sahib," in the event of the palkee being stopped. Sure enough, the palkee was stopped, near Juggadree, by a gang of ten or twelve armed men, one of whom opened the door to satisfy himself of the truth of the statement made by the bearers. The moment the ruffian saw my nightcap--a very prettily-frilled one it was, lent to me by a very pretty woman--likewise a small bolster, which, beneath my shawl, represented a sleeping baby, he closed the door, and requested the bearers to take up the palkee, and proceed; ay, and what was more, he enjoined them to be "careful of the mem-Sahib!"
I have incidentally spoken of the installation of Sir Walter Gilbert and Sir Henry Elliot, in December, eighteen hundred and forty-nine. Eight years have not yet elapsed, and how many of the principal characters in that magnificent spectacle have departed hence! Sir Walter is dead; Sir Henry is dead. Sir Charles Napier and Sir Dudley Hill, who led them up to Lord Dalhousie, are dead. Colonel Mountain, who carried the cushion on which was placed the insignia of the order is dead. And Sir Henry Lawrence is dead; and poor Stuart Beatson. Alas! how many of that gay throng, men and women, husbands, fathers, wives, and daughters, who had assembled to witness the ceremony, have perished during the recent revolt in the Upper Provinces of India! Those who were present on that sixth of December eighteen hundred and forty-nine, and who, in eighteen hundred and fifty-seven, quietly reflect on what has occurred since, will scarcely believe in their own existence. It must appear to them--as it often appears to me--as a dream; a dream in which we saw Sir Charles Napier, with his spare form, his eagle eyes, his aquiline nose, and long grey beard, joking Sir Dudley Hill on his corpulence and baldness, and asking him what sort of figure he would cut now, in leading a forlorn hope? and Sir Dudley, proudly and loudly replying, that he felt a better man than ever. Presently, a meek civilian, in a white neckcloth, and ignorant of Sir Dudley's early deeds, was so unfortunate as to put the question:--