MADRAS, CALCUTTA, AND BENARES

From Hyderabad we went to Madras to fulfil our promise of paying a visit to Mr. Bourke, who had now become Lord Connemara. We stayed there for over three weeks and became much interested in the Presidency. Being rather remote from the usual routes of visitors it is perhaps less known, and has been called the “Benighted Presidency,” but many of the natives are exceptionally intelligent, and there appears to be more opportunity than in some other parts of India of seeing the Hindu faith in working order and less affected than elsewhere by the influence of the Mohammedan conquerors. Lord Connemara’s Private Secretary, Mr. Rees (afterwards Sir John Rees, so sadly killed by falling from a train) was very kind in securing two Brahmins of different varieties of the Hindu faith to come and talk to me and explain their views—both spoke excellent English. One was a Munshi who belonged to the “Advaita” sect, which holds that everything is part of the Divinity; the other—an ascetic—held a refined form of what is called the “Sankhya” philosophy, which presupposes eternal matter with which the Eternal Mind unites itself. After all, such fine drawn distinctions are quite congenial to the spirit of the early Gnostics, the Schoolmen of the Middle Ages, and even to Christians of to-day who are ready to start fresh communities from differences on tenets which seem to the ordinary mind without practical bearing on the Two Great Commandments.

To return to my Brahmin friends. Both those here mentioned and others to whom I have spoken claim a faith certainly different from the vast mass of the Indian peoples. They claim to believe in One God, and say that all proceed from Him and that all effort should be directed to reabsorption into Him. Good acts tend to this result by the gradual purification in successive incarnations of “Karma,” which may perhaps be described as the residuum of unconquered passions and unexpiated sins after death. When the Munshi was explaining this theory of upward progress Mr. Rees asked him what happened to devil-worshippers and such like out-caste races. “They go to hell,” was the prompt reply. Observing my look of surprise, Ramiah hastened to add, “Oh, we have plenty of hells, twenty, thirty, forty”—evidently thinking that I was astounded not at the sweeping perdition of his countrymen, but at the probably overcrowded condition of the infernal regions.

Shiva, Vishnu, and the other gods and goddesses adored by the populace were regarded by the illuminati as embodiments of various divine attributes, or incarnations to reveal the divine will and to deliver men from evil. There seemed no unwillingness to accept Christ in some such way as this. As one said to me, “I do not know His history as well as I know my own sacred books, but if what is told of Him is true, I believe that he must have been a saint, if not a Divine Incarnation.” Another thought that each race had its own revelation. “We,” he said, “have Krishna, you have Christ. You say that your Christ was crucified—our Krishna was shot.”To an inquiry why if their own faith was so elevated they left the masses to idol-worship I had the crushing reply: “Ignorant people and females cannot at once comprehend the universal presence. We teach them first that God is in the image—so He is, for He is everywhere—and from that we go on to explain that He pervades the universe.” I asked my ascetic friend, Parthasaradi, whether in that case they might find the deity in the leg of a table—to which he retorted with Tyndall’s views about the mutability of atoms, from which he deduced that being everywhere He was certainly also in the leg of the table—and he cited Roman Catholic teaching on his side as justifying idol-worship. Parthasaradi had a marvellous store of quotations from Tyndall, Leibnitz, Matthew Arnold, and others at his fingers’ ends. He kindly said that if I were as good as my creed he would be satisfied, and hoped that I would be content if he were as good as his. He had catechised Mr. Rees about me before he would condescend to talk to me, as he did not think that “European females” were generally sufficiently interested in Hindu religion to make them worthy of his expositions. He had been a Vakil of the High Court, but had given up his position to embrace an ascetic life, and had devoted his property to founding a library, only reserving enough for himself and his wife to live upon. His wife had become a sort of nun. He was a curious-looking man with long shaggy black hair and very white teeth—rather handsome. His costume consisted of a cotton dhoti (cloth) of doubtful whiteness wrapped round his legs and a green shawl twisted about his body. There is no doubt that he was very earnest in his faith in the Almighty, and I was really touched by his appeal one day to Mr. Rees, who chanced to be present at a visit which he paid me. Mr. Rees told him that he was so eloquent that he almost converted him to the need for greater religion. Whereupon said the ascetic, with evident emotion: “Why don’t you come at once? You need not wait for an invitation as to a Governor’s breakfast.” He spoke just like a member of the Salvation Army, and I am sure with an equally genuine feeling. It would be absurd to generalise from a superficial acquaintance with India, but it seemed to me from conversation with these and other educated Indians that, while quite willing to accept the high Christian morality and also to profit from the education in Christian schools, working out a man’s own salvation appealed to them more than the doctrine of Atonement.

The Dewan Rao Behadur Kanta Chunder, a highly intelligent man whom we met later on at Jeypore, allowed that the Atonement was his stumbling-block. He had been educated in a Mission School and had a great respect and affection for the Principal, but he was not a professing Christian. He said that he believed in one God, but was obliged to continue Shiva-worship to please his mother. I hope that he received the same dispensation as Naaman! He further said that he believed in the transmigration of souls, but thought that all spirits would ultimately return to the Great Spirit whence they came.

I asked this Dewan about a point on which I was curious—namely, whether as a child, before he came under Mission influence, his Hindu faith had a practical influence on his daily conduct. “Oh, yes,” he said; “if I did anything wrong I was quite frightened of the images of the gods in the house”—so I suppose they have a real effect, but no one seemed to think that anything made the native Indian truthful! However, it is to be feared that with the majority even of Christians truth is not a primary virtue.

To return to Madras and our adventures there. I do not attempt descriptions of the cities or scenery which we visited. Much as we enjoyed such sights, they are fully described in guide books, and I keep to our personal experiences. The length of our visit to Madras was partly due to unfortunate circumstances which it is unnecessary to detail at length, though they have since in broad outline become public property. Briefly, shortly after our arrival Lady Connemara, who had been staying at Ootacamund, arrived at Government House accompanied by the doctor and one of the staff. The following day she migrated to an hotel just as a large dinner-party was arriving, and we had to conceal her absence on plea of indisposition.

After several days’ absence and much negotiation she consented to return—but Lord Connemara implored us to remain while she was away, and even after she came back, to help him look after his guests, particularly some who came to stay in the house. We were rather amused, when later on we visited the Prendergasts at Baroda, to discover that Sir Harry Prendergast and his daughters, who had stayed at Government House in the midst of the trouble, had never discovered that Lady Connemara was not there, but thought that she was ill in her own rooms all the time! I cannot help thinking that some of us must have been rather like the policeman before the magistrate of whom the cabman said “I won’t go for to say that the gentleman is telling a lie, but he handles the truth rather carelessly.” I fear that we must have handled the truth rather carelessly.Fortunately the native servants could not speak English, and the better class natives in the city behaved extraordinarily well in wishing to keep things quiet as far as possible. Anyhow, Lady Connemara came back for a time, and ultimately—some time in the following year, I think—returned to England. The end, as is well known, was a divorce. She married the doctor, and Lord Connemara a rich widow—a Mrs. Coleman. They are all dead now and the causes of dispute do not matter; they may be summed up with the old formula, “Faults on both sides.”

The delay was rather tiresome for us, as we had planned to get to Calcutta well before Christmas, but on the other hand it enabled us to see a good deal that we could not have done in the short time which we had originally destined to the Presidency, and Lord Connemara and his staff did everything for our entertainment.

Among other excursions we had an amusing visit to our ship acquaintance, Colonel Olcott, at the headquarters, or Library, of the Theosophical Society at Adyar. Adyar is a pretty place, and there are nice shady drives near it with banyan, tamarind, and other trees. As we approached we saw a large bungalow on the top of a small hill, and noticed a number of people seated in the verandah. It was evident that they saw us from their elevation, but it did not seem to have struck them that we could also see them from below. When we arrived at the door everyone had disappeared except Colonel Olcott, who was seated in an attitude of abstraction, but jumped up holding out his hands and expressing great pleasure at our visit.

We were taken into a long hall, hung round with the shields of the various theosophical Lodges in India and elsewhere. There were several rooms, and as we were shown into them the people whom we had seen on the verandah were either “discovered” or “entered” like actors on a stage, and duly introduced: “A Russian Countess”—the “Countess of Jersey”; “a Japanese nobleman”—the “Earl of Jersey.” We were shown the doors of Kathiawar wood rather well carved, and beyond there was a kind of Sanctuary with two large paintings of Mahatmas behind doors like those of a Roman Catholic altarpiece. I believe that it was behind those doors that Madame Blavatsky was supposed to have performed a miracle with broken tea-cups, but I am not clear as to details and Colonel Olcott was too cute to attempt to foist the story upon us. What he did tell us was that the artist Schmiechen painted the Mahatmas without having seen them, implying some kind of inspiration. We happened to know Schmiechen, as he had painted several of our family, so when we were back in England I remarked that I had seen the pictures which he had painted without having seen the subjects. “Yes,” said he, “but I had very good photographs of them!”

Olcott told us that he intended to have portraits of the Founders of all religions in this Sanctuary, but so far the only companion of the Mahatmas was a photograph of Paracelsus. He, however, produced another photograph from somewhere and bade me prepare to respect a bishop. The bishop proved to be black! Poor Olcott! He made another attempt to convert me while at Madras by lending me copies of a rather colourless magazine—always assuring me that his Society was in no sense anti-Christian. When he called to see the effect which this publication had had upon me I remarked that I had read not only the magazine, but its advertisements, which advertised distinctly anti-Christian books. He turned the colour of beetroot, for he had never thought of the advertisements.

While we were at Madras the then Maharajah of Travancore was invested with the insignia of the Grand Cross of the Star of India. He was a gorgeous figure wearing over a long coat of cloth-of-gold with small green spangles the pale-blue satin cloak of the Order, which cost him two thousand rupees at Calcutta. His white turban was adorned with beautiful emeralds. The right of succession in Travancore is peculiar, being transmitted to males through females. As there were no directly royal females in 1857, this Maharajah’s uncle adopted two Ranees to be “Mothers of Princes.” The elder Ranee was charming and highly educated, but unfortunately had no children, and her husband, though a clever man (perhaps too clever!) got into difficulties and was banished. The Ranee declined all the suggestions of her friends that she should divorce him, and her constancy was rewarded by his recall to her side. This marital fidelity pleased Queen Victoria so much that she sent the Princess a decoration.

The younger Ranee had two sons, of whom one, called the First Prince, was considered Heir Presumptive and was present at the Investiture. He did not strike me as much of a man, and he and the Maharajah were reported not to be on friendly terms. Ladies marry in Travancore by accepting a cloth (i.e. sari) from a man—if they do not like him they have only to send it back, which constitutes a divorce.

Sir Mount Stuart Grant Duff, when Governor of Madras, was admiring the embroidered cloth of one of these Travancore ladies and innocently said that he would like to send her a cloth from Madras as a specimen of the handiwork executed there, to which she promptly retorted that she was much obliged, but that she was quite satisfied with her present husband.

Although I refrain from descriptions in a general way, I must include some reference to a journey in the southern part of the Presidency which Lord Connemara kindly arranged for us, as it is less well known than Madras itself and other cities generally visited. Also this part of the country will doubtless change rapidly, if it has not already done so.

A long day’s journey took us to Tanjore, where the temporary District Judge, Mr. Fawcett, was good enough to receive us in his bungalow and show us the sights. The great Temple rejoices in the name of Bahadeeswara-swami-kovil and is said to have been built in the eleventh century. The GÔpuram or great pyramidical tower, 216 feet from the base to the top of the gilded Kalasum, which takes the place of our Cross, is most imposing. It is covered with carvings, and amongst them we were shown the head and bust of an Englishman in a round hat commonly called “John Bright.” The attendants point to this with pride, saying that it was put there when the temple was originally built, on account of a prophecy that the English would one day possess the land. We were struck by the wonderful foresight of the Hindu prophets in the time of William the Conqueror, as they foretold not only the advent of the English, but also their costume 800 years after the date of the prophecy.

The Sivajee dynasty had ruled that part of the country till a Rajah called Serfojee ceded his territory to the British. His granddaughter, the senior lady of his son Sevajee, was the last real Princess of the family. She was dead before the date of our visit, but some ladies of the zenana still lingered on in the Palace. Some years after our visit Lord Dufferin told me of his experiences at Tanjore. As Viceroy he was admitted to the zenana, though of course other men could not enter. He was shown into a large, dimly lighted room at the end of which was a Chair of State covered with red cloth. The attendants made signs for him to approach the chair, and he was just about to take his seat upon it when he suddenly perceived a small figure wrapped in the red cloth. He had been about to sit down on the Princess!

We did not see the ladies, but we visited the large rambling Palace, in which were three very fine halls. One was rather like a church, with a nave and two narrow side aisles, and two rows of dim windows one above the other. This appeared to be utilised as a Museum with very miscellaneous contents. There was a silver-plated canopy intended to be held over bridal pairs—and a divan on which were placed portraits of Queen Victoria and the late Ranee attended by large dolls or figures presumably representing members of the Sivajee family. All about the halls were cheap ornaments, photographs, and, carefully framed, an advertisement of Coats’ sewing cotton! Another hall contained a fine statue of Serfojee by Flaxman, a bust of Nelson, and a picture representing the head of Clive with mourners for his death.

There was also an interesting library with many Sanscrit and other manuscripts. One book in particular, full of paintings of elephants executed for Serfojee, was really amusing. Towards the beginning was a picture of angelic white elephants, and other black, red, and purple elephants all with wings. An attendant declared that elephants supported the various quarters of the globe and used to have wings, but one day in flying they fell down upon a Rishi (Saint) and disturbed his devotions, whereupon he induced the gods to deprive them of their flying powers. It is always dangerous to offend Saints.

From Tanjore a night’s journey took us to Madura, where we stayed with Mr. Turner, the Collector of the District, in an interesting and remarkable house. At the time of our visit it belonged to the Johnston family, but they let it to the Government that the rent might pay for a Scholarship at the Madras College. The principal living-room was rather like a church, having forty columns in it, and, the floor being on different levels and divided in various ways, it served for sitting-room, dining-, and billiard-room. From one corner a winding staircase led to a terrace from which opened bedrooms. Below the living-room were vaults or dungeons where wild beasts and prisoners were confined in the old days when the house was a sort of Summer Palace. In one of these vaults tradition said that a queen was starved to death.

My bedroom, a very large room, was rendered additionally attractive as having been the temporary resting-place of the heart of Montrose, enclosed in a little steel case made of the blade of his sword. Lord Napier of Merchiston, descended from Montrose’s nephew, gave this to his daughter (afterwards Mrs. Johnston) on his death-bed, 1773, in a gold filigree box of Venetian workmanship. When Mr. and Mrs. Johnston were on their way to India their ship was attacked by a French frigate and Mr. Johnston with the captain’s permission took charge of four quarter-deck guns. Mrs. Johnston refused to leave her husband and remained on deck holding her son, aged five, by one hand and in the other a large velvet reticule including, with several treasures, the gold filigree box. A shot wounded the lady’s arm, bruised the child’s hand, knocked down the father, and shattered the filigree box, but the steel case with the heart resisted the blow.

Arrived at Madura Mrs. Johnston employed a native goldsmith to make a filigree box after the pattern of that which was damaged, and also a silver urn in which it was placed and which stood on an ebony table in the then drawing-room. The natives soon started a legend that the urn contained a talisman, and that whoever possessed it could never be wounded in battle or taken prisoner. Owing to this report it was stolen, and for some time could not be traced, but at last Mrs. Johnston learnt that it had been purchased by a neighbouring chief for a large sum of money.

Mr. A. Johnston, her son, in a letter to his daughters dated 1836 and published as an appendix to Napier’s Life of Montrose, relates the particulars which he had heard from his mother, and further his own experiences, which give an impression of very familiar friendship between English and natives in days when the former were largely isolated from intercourse with home.

Young Alexander Johnston was sent each year by his father during the hunting season to stay with one or other of the neighbouring chiefs for four months together to acquire the different languages and native gymnastic exercises. On one occasion he was hunting in company with the chief who was supposed to have the urn, and distinguished himself by so wounding a wild hog that his companion was enabled to dispatch it. Complimenting the youth on his bravery, the chief asked in what way he could recognise his prowess.Young Johnston thereupon told the history of the urn and its contents, and begged the great favour of its restoration to his mother if it were really in his friend’s possession. The chivalrous native replied that he had indeed purchased it for a large sum, not knowing that it was stolen from Mrs. Johnston, and added that one brave man should always attend to the wishes of another brave man no matter of what country or religion, and that he felt it a duty to carry out that brave man’s wish who desired that his heart should be kept by his descendants. With Oriental magnanimity he accompanied the restored heart with rich presents to the youth and his mother.

In after years this chief rebelled against the authority of the Nabob of Arcot, was conquered by the aid of English troops, and executed with many members of his family. He behaved with undaunted courage, and on hearing that he was to die, at once alluded to the story of the urn and expressed the hope that his heart would be preserved by those who cared for him, in the same way as that of the European warrior.

Mr. and Mrs. Johnston returned to Europe in 1792, and being in France when the Revolutionary Government required the surrender of all gold and silver articles in private possession, they entrusted the urn and its contents to an Englishwoman at Boulogne, who promised to secrete it. Unfortunately she died shortly afterwards, and the Johnstons were never able to trace the lost treasure.

Mr. Alexander Johnston adds that he ultimately received from the French Government the value of the plate and jewels which his parents had been compelled to give up to the Calais municipality. It is, however, unlikely that he would have recovered the heart thirty or forty years afterwards—unless indeed Mrs. Johnston had kept it in its little steel case and surrendered the urn.

The old Palace at Madura is a fine building, now used for a court of justice. At the time of our visit recollections of the Prince of Wales (Edward VII) still prevailed. When he arrived at the Palace a row of elephants was stationed on either side of the court on to which the principal buildings opened. All the elephants duly salaamed at a given signal except one—perhaps inoculated with Bolshevik principles. Whereupon the stage-manager of the proceedings called out in Tamil to the mahout of the recalcitrant animal, “I fine you five rupees!”

One of the purdah Ranees still occupied a side room of the Palace, and our host Mr. Turner with another man was stationed to guard the door. The Prince, however, feeling that “nice customs curtsy to great kings,” put them aside and entered the apartment with all his suite. The Ranee was much flurried at first, but finally fascinated, and afterwards gave him a handsome necklace.

From delightful terraces on the Palace roof you get an extensive view of the town and surrounding country. There are two fine hills, one called Secundermullai, as Alexander the Great is supposed to have camped there, the other Elephantmullai, from a legend that the Chola (Tanjore) King’s magician made him a gigantic elephant, but the Pandyan (Madura) King’s magician changed it into a mountain. As the mountain bears a decided resemblance to an elephant, who will doubt the tale?

The most striking feature of Madura is the immense Temple, of which the size, the decorations, and the wealth displayed are impressive evidence of the vitality of the Hindu faith. Four gÔpurams or towers guard the entrances to the halls, galleries, arcades, and courts within the sacred precincts. One hall is called the Hall of a Thousand Pillars and is said really to contain 997. In the galleries are colossal figures of dragons, gods, goddesses, and heroes, groups being often carved out of one gigantic monolith.

The presiding deity is Minachi, the old Dravidian fish-goddess adopted by the Brahmins as identical with Parvati, wife of Siva. The Brahmins constantly facilitated the conversion of the lower races to their faith by admitting their tutelar deities to the Hindu Pantheon. The great flag-staff of Minachi (alias Parvati) is overlaid with gold. There are a thousand Brahmins and attendants employed about the Temple, which has an annual income of 70,000 rupees, and shortly before our visit the NÄttukÖttai Chetties or native money-lenders had spent 40,000 rupees on the fabric.

The Treasury contains stores of jewels, particularly sapphires, and “vehicles” for the gods in the form of elephants, cows, lions, or peacocks constructed of, or overlaid with, gold or silver of fine workmanship. Two cows, late additions, were pointed out to us as having cost 17,000 rupees.

The Chetties are an immensely wealthy caste, and lavish money in building both temples and commodious houses for themselves. At one corner of the latter they put a large figure of an Englishman attended by a small native, at another an Englishwoman in a crinoline and with rather short petticoat. They evidently like to propitiate the powers both seen and unseen.

Before the Prince of Wales’s visit the Collector asked them to contribute a specified sum towards the fund being raised for his entertainment. They refused, but offered so much less. They were then shut up in a place enclosed with palisades, while a series of notes and messages was interchanged with them. They were much amused by the proceedings, which they evidently regarded as the proper method of negotiation, and kept refusing with roars of laughter, till feeling that they had played the game long enough, they consented to give the sum originally asked and were released.

Among the many objects of interest in the temple one of the quaintest was a door dedicated to a former Collector called Rous Peter. He used to worship Minachi in order to obtain any money that he wanted from the Pagoda Treasury for the repair of the roads and other public purposes.

After his death the Brahmins placed him among their devils, and used to light little lamps round the door in his honour. A devil was quite as much respected as a beneficent deity, indeed it was even more necessary to keep him in a good humour. Mr. Peter unfortunately did not always distinguish between his own and the public funds and finally poisoned himself.

He had a great friend, one Colonel Fisher, who married a native woman, and he and Peter were buried side by side near the Pagoda. Colonel Fisher’s family were, however, not satisfied with this semi-heathen arrangement and later on built a Christian church destined to include their remains. There was some little difficulty with the Christian authorities about this, but ultimately it was amicably settled. When we were at Madura a screen behind the altar shut off from the rest of the church the part where they were buried, to which the natives came with garlands to place on Peter’s tomb.As is well known, such semi-deification of Europeans who had captivated Indian imagination was not uncommon. We heard of a colonel buried in another part of the Presidency on whose grave the natives offered brandy and cheroots as a fitting tribute to his tastes.

A twenty-three hours’ journey brought us back to Madras on the afternoon of December 16th. We had greatly enjoyed our few days in the new world of Southern India, and were impressed with the hold that the Hindu faith still had on the population.

During the whole of our stay at Madras Lord Connemara and his staff made every effort for our enjoyment. Mr. Rees (Private Secretary) was especially kind in arranging that I should see, not only the Public Museums and other Institutions, but also some of the private houses to which Europeans were not generally admitted. Among the excellent representatives of the British Government were the Minister of Education, Mr. Grigg, and Mrs. Grigg. Madras owes much to them both—the native girls particularly to Mrs. Grigg. Their son, who acted as one of Lord Connemara’s pages at the Investiture of the Maharajah of Travancore, is now Sir Edward Grigg, whose knowledge of the Empire has been invaluable to the Prince of Wales, and who is now Secretary to the Prime Minister.

One of the most prominent educational institutions at Madras was the Scottish Free Church Mission which had a College for boys and Schools for girls of different castes. These included some Christians, but there was no claim to any large number of conversions. All scholars learnt to read the Bible, and no doubt a good system of morality was inculcated. I believe that had we gone to Trichinopoly we should have found many more Christians. It is much easier to convert pariahs and low-caste natives, numerous in Southern India, than those of the higher castes, who have to give up social position and worldly advantage if they change their faith. Lord Connemara often received very amusing correspondence. One letter was from a luckless husband who wrote: “Nothing is more unsuitable than for a man to have more than one wife. I have three, and I pray your Excellency to banish whichever two you please to the Andaman Islands or some other distant country.”

When we first visited India at all events the natives had implicit faith in English power and justice even when their loyalty left something to be desired. An Englishman was talking to a man suspected of pro-Russian sympathies, and pointed out to him the way in which Russians treated their own subjects. “If Russia took India,” he said, “what would you do if a Russian tried to confiscate your property?” “In that case,” was the prompt reply, “I should appeal to the High Court.” For the most part, however, they were intensely loyal to the person of the Sovereign.

When Queen Victoria’s statue was unveiled at the time of the First Jubilee the natives came in thousands to visit it, and to “do poojah,” presenting offerings of cocoa-nuts, etc. The statue was in bronze, and they expressed great pleasure in finding that their Mother was brown after all; they had hitherto imagined her to be white!

We had arranged to sail from Madras to Calcutta by a British India named the Pundua, which ought to have landed us there in good time for Christmas, but our voyage had many checks. First the hydraulic unloading machinery of that “perfidious bark” went wrong, and we were only taken on board three days later than the scheduled time for starting. Starting at all from Madras was not particularly easy in those days, for the harbour had been constructed on a somewhat doubtful principle; nature had not done much for it, and the results of science and engineering had been seriously damaged by a cyclone. As Sir Mount Stuart Grant Duff had sagely remarked, “Any plan is a good one if you stick to it,” but the damaged walls were being rebuilt somewhat tentatively and there was no conviction as to the ultimate outcome. Probably there is now a satisfactory structure, but in our time there was not much protection for the boat which carried us to the Pundua. Mr. Rees was to accompany us to Calcutta, and Lord Connemara and Lord Marsham took us on board. We had taken tender farewells of all our friends ashore and afloat—the Governor had gone back in his boat, when we heard an explosion followed by a fizzing. A few minutes later the captain came up and said, “Very sorry, but we cannot start to-day.” “What has happened?” “The top of the cylinder has blown off.” Much humiliated we had to return with our luggage to Government House, and to appear at what was called “The Dignity Ball” in the evening.

Next day (December 22nd) we really did get off; the wretched Pundua possessed three cylinders, so one was disconnected, and she arranged to proceed at two-third speed with the others. This meant something over nine knots an hour, and, after sticking on a sandbank near the mouth of the Hoogli, we ultimately reached the neighbourhood of Diamond Harbour on December 26th, and by means of a Post Office boat, and train, reached Calcutta and Government House late that evening.

When I went on board the Pundua I was shown into the good-sized “Ladies Cabin” and told that I could have that and the adjoining bathroom to myself. In reply to my inquiry as to whether the other ladies on board would not want it, I was told that there was only one other lady and she was not in the habit of using the bath! This seemed queer, till I discovered that she was the heroine of one of the tragedies which sometimes occur in the East. She was the daughter of a family of mixed European and Indian parentage. The other children were dusky but respectable. She was white, and rather handsome, and fascinated a luckless young Englishman of good family, who married her, only to discover that she was extravagant and given to flirtation. They were on their way to a post—tea-planting if I remember aright—somewhere to the North of India. When they first left England the husband was very sea-sick, and the wife carried on a violent flirtation with another passenger and was also described as swearing and drinking. When the husband recovered she insisted on his shooting her admirer, and on his declining tried to shoot her husband. The captain, however, seized the revolver and shut her up in a second-class cabin. She was only allowed to dine with the first-class passengers on Christmas evening. Poor husband! I believe that he was quite a good fellow, but I do not know their subsequent fate.

We also had on board an orchid-hunter who had given up the destination which he had originally proposed to himself, because he discovered that a rival was going to some new field for exploration, and as he could not let him have the sole chance of discovering the beautiful unknown flower of which there were rumours, he set off to hunt him. All the material for a novel, if only the lady with the revolver had formed an alliance, offensive and defensive, with the orchid-hunter. Unfortunately we did not learn the after-history of any of these fellow-passengers.

We were warmly welcomed at Government House, Calcutta, by Lord and Lady Lansdowne. Lord Lansdowne, an old school and college friend of Jersey’s, had just taken over the reins of Government from Lord Dufferin. Lord William Beresford, another old friend of my husband’s, was Military Secretary, and Colonel Ardagh Private Secretary. Sir Donald Mackenzie Wallace, who had been so eminently successful as Private Secretary to the late Viceroy, was staying on for a short time to place his experience at the service of the new rulers. The aides-de-camp were Major Rowan Hamilton, Captain Streatfeild, Captain Arthur Pakenham, Captain Harbord, and Lord Bingham.

We found that the tardy arrival of our unfortunate Pundua had not only been a disappointment to ourselves, but, alas! a great grief to many of the Calcutta ladies, as it was bringing out their new frocks for the Viceroy’s Christmas Ball. I hope that it proved a consolation to many that the Lieutenant-Governor of Bengal gave a ball at Belvedere two days after the ship came in, when no doubt the dresses were unpacked. Lady Lansdowne’s pretty daughter, now Duchess of Devonshire, was just out and therefore able to attend this ball.

We spent a few very pleasant days at Calcutta and met various interesting people. Amongst them was Protap Chunder Mozoondar, Head of the Brahmo Somaj (i.e. Society Seeking God). He paid me a special visit to expound the tenets of his Society, which, as is well known, was founded by Babu Chunder Sen, father of the (Dowager) Maharanee of Kuch Behar. Briefly, the ideas of the Society are based on natural theology, or the human instinct, which tells almost all men that there is a God. The Brahmo Somaj accepts a large portion of the Holy Books of all nations, especially the Vedas and the Bible. It acknowledges Christ as a Divine Incarnation and Teacher of Righteousness, but again it does not regard His atonement as necessary to salvation. My informant’s view was that Christian missionaries did not sufficiently take into account Hindu feelings, and enforced unnecessary uniformity in dress, food, and outward ceremonies. This is quite possible, but it would be difficult for a Christian missionary not to insist on the Sacraments, which form no essential part of the Brahmo Somaj ritual.

Babu Chunder Sen’s own sermons or discourses in England certainly go beyond a mere acknowledgment of Christ as a Teacher and express deep personal devotion to him and acceptance of His atonement in the sense of at-one-ment, or bringing together the whole human race, and he regards the Sacraments as a mystical sanctification of the ordinary acts of bathing—so congenial to the Indian—and eating. However, in some such way Protap Chunder Mozoondar seemed to think that a kind of Hinduised Christianity would ultimately prevail in India.

It is impossible for an ordinary traveller to form an opinion worth having on such a point, but the Brahmo Somaj, like most religious bodies, has been vexed by schism. Babu Chunder Sen among other reforms laid down that girls should not be given in marriage before the age of fourteen, but his own daughter was married to the wealthy young Maharajah Kuch Behar before that age. This created some prejudice, though the marriage was a successful one, and she was a highly educated and attractive woman. She had a great reverence for her father, and in after years gave me some of his works. Another pundit, later on, started another Brahmo Somaj community of his own. The explanation of this given to me by Kuch Behar himself was that he was a “Parti” and that this other teacher (whose name I have forgotten) wanted him to marry his daughter, but he chose Miss Sen instead! I fear that this is not a unique example of church history affected by social considerations.

While at Calcutta we received a telegram to say that Villiers had reached Bombay and we met him at Benares on New Year’s Day, 1889. He had come out escorted by a Mr. Ormond, who wanted to come to India with a view to work there and was glad to be engaged as Villiers’s travelling companion. Rather a curious incident was connected with their voyage. A young Mr. S. C. had come out on our ship the Arcadia—on Villiers’s ship a youth travelled who impersonated this same man. The amusing part was that a very excellent couple, Lord and Lady W. (both now dead), were on the same ship. Lady W. was an old friend of Mrs. S. C.—the real man’s mother—but, as it happened, had not seen the son since his boyhood. Naturally she accepted him under the name he had assumed, and effusively said that she had nursed him on her knee as a child. The other passengers readily accepted him as the boy who had been nursed on Lady W.’s knee, and it was not until he had landed in India that suspicion became excited by the fact that there were two S. C.’s in the field and that number Two wished to raise funds on his personality. This assumption of someone else’s name is common enough, and every traveller must have come across instances, but it was rather funny that our son and ourselves should have travelled with the respective claimants.

At Benares we were taken in hand by a retired official—a Jain—rejoicing in the name of Rajah Shiva Prashad. We stayed at Clark’s Hotel, while Shiva Prashad showed us all the well-known sights of the Holy City, and also took us to pay a formal visit to the “Maharajah of the people of Benares.” It is curious that the Maharajah should have adopted that name, just as Louis Philippe called himself “King of the French” rather than “of France” to indicate less absolute power. The Maharajah’s modesty was due to the fact that Shiva is supposed to uphold Benares on his trident, and bears the name of “Mahadeva”—Great God, or Ruler of the City—so the earthly potentate can only look after the people—not claim the city itself.

The Maharajah’s Palace was on the river in a kind of suburb called Ramnagar, to which we were taken on a barge. We were received at the water-steps by a Babu seneschal, at the Castle steps by the Maharajah’s grandson, and at the door of a hall, or outer room, by the Maharajah himself—a fine old man with spectacles. It was all very feudal; we were seated in due state in the drawing-room, and after some polite conversation, translated by our friend the Rajah, who squatted on the floor at the Maharajah’s feet, we were entertained with native music and nautch-dancing. After we had taken leave of our host we inspected his tigers, kept, I suppose, as an emblem of his rank. Shiva Prashad told us a romantic tale of his own life, according to which he first entered the service of the Maharajah of Bhurtpore, but was disgusted by the cruelty which he saw exercised—prisoners thrown into miserable pits, and only given water mixed with salt to drink. He left the Maharajah, and thought of becoming an ascetic, but being taunted by his relatives for his failure in life, he (rather like St. Christopher) determined to enter the service of someone “greater than the Maharajah.” He discovered this superior power in the British Government, which gave him an appointment in the Persian Department.

While there he somehow found himself with Lord Hardinge and three thousand men arrayed against sixty thousand Sikhs. The Council of War recommended falling back and waiting for reinforcements, “but Lord Hardinge pronounced these memorable words—‘We must fight and conquer or fall here.’” They fought—and first one three thousand, then another three thousand friendly troops joined in, so the Homeric combat ended in their favour, and Prashad himself was employed as a spy. Afterwards he retired to the more peaceful occupation of School Inspector, and when we knew him enjoyed a pension and landed property.

He posed as a perfect specimen of a happy and contented man, and had much to say about the excellence of the British Raj and the ignorance and prejudice of his own countrymen, whom he said we could not understand as we persisted in comparing them with Europeans—that is, with reasonable beings, whereas they had not so much sense as animals! All the same I think a good deal of this contempt for the Hindu was assumed for our benefit, particularly as the emancipation of women evidently formed no part of his programme. He gave an entertaining account of a visit paid by Miss Carpenter to his wife and widowed sister. Miss Carpenter was a philanthropic lady of about fifty, with hair beginning to grizzle, who carried on a crusade against infant marriage and the prohibition of the remarriage of widows. “Well,” was the comment of Mrs. Prashad, “I married when I was seven and my husband nine and I have been happy. How is it that this lady has remained unmarried till her hair is growing grey? Has no one asked her? There ought to be a law in England that no one shall remain unmarried after a certain age!” The sister countered an inquiry as to her continued widowhood with the question, “Why does not the Empress marry again?”