  THIS city, though of some interest in many ways, is not one likely to prepossess a visitor in favour of the great Indian Empire. The anchorage is an open roadstead, and the process of landing is most abominable, though worthy of notice. As soon as the steamer drops anchor she is surrounded by hundreds of huge, unwieldy-looking boats—or rather barges—each manned by a dozen or more naked Indians, who swarm the decks, deafen one with their screams, and pester passengers to take the brass token bearing the number of their licensed ferry-boat. These extraordinary boats are built of bark—sewn together, not nailed, so that they may stand the shock of being hurled by the waves or breakers on to the strand. It needs some nerve to submit to this mode of landing, but being the inevitable, one has to submit. The seats in the boat are lower than the gunwale, and to these the passenger has to hold on as best he can; the pullers ply their paddles (not oars) vigorously towards the beach, I firmly believe in first impressions, and have no doubt that my landing at Madras “pig-a-back” on a nigger had a baneful influence on my judgment of the place. I certainly did not feel much impressed by it, and was glad to find myself once more on the deck of the Siam, and still more so to feel the motion of the screw as she veered round and shaped her course for Calcutta. When the steamer reaches the “mouths of the Ganges,” one becomes impressed with a feeling of admiration for this gigantic portion of the British Empire—all one has read or heard of India comes uppermost into one’s mind. A glance at the map now laid on the table of the chart-room of the steamer shows the immensity of that sheet of water pouring into the Bay of Bengal, arising from the melted snow of the Himalayas—that marvellous wall STEAMING up the Hooghly—perhaps the most intricate of all navigations—the ship is handed over to a pilot—not such as one is used to in other places. The pilots of the Hooghly are “swell” officers, highly salaried, clad in gorgeous naval uniforms. They come on board with bag and baggage, a retinue of black servants, and while on board—more like admiral than pilot—take full command of the ship. The intricacies of this navigation may be readily gathered from the fact that the channels of the river change almost daily—the process of silting, due to the amount of soil carried by this enormous volume of water, is constant, but erratic. It is only by the constant use of the lead that the pilot can steer a safe course. Accurate calculations have proved that the silt carried by the Hooghly amounts to 40,000 millions of cubic feet of solid earth per annum. Not only have the channels been altered from time to time, but within the memory of British settlers in India the entire beds of some of these mighty rivers have been completely displaced. For instance, the city of Rajmahal—once the Mahomedan capital of Bengal—was not many years back selected to be the spot where the railways should tap the river system. The The sanctity of the Ganges is another item of great interest. From its source in the Himalayas to the mouths in the Bay of Bengal, its banks are holy ground. Each point of junction of the main stream with a tributary has special claims to sanctity; but the tongue of land where the Ganges and the Jumna unite is the true “PraÁg”—the place of pilgrimage—to which hundreds of thousands of devout Hindus repair to wash away their sins in the sanctifying waters. To die and be buried on the river bank is the last wish of millions of natives. Even to exclaim “GangÁ, GangÁ!” on his death-bed, at a distance of hundreds of miles from that river may—in the opinion of Hindu devotees—atone for the sins of a whole life. Whilst steaming towards the great City of Palaces one has ample time to read up the history of the noble river—to learn of its birth in a Himalaya snow-bed 13,800 feet above the level of the sea, where it first assumes its course, barely 29 feet wide, and fifteen inches deep. During the first 180 miles of its course it drops to an elevation of 7,024 feet. At this point (Hardwar) it has already gained a discharge of 7000 cubic feet per second! During the next 1000 miles of its journey seawards, the Ganges collects the drainage of its catchment basin, and reaches Rajmahal, 1170 miles from its source. It has here a high flood discharge of 1,800,000 The maximum discharge of the Mississippi is 1,200,000, that of the Nile only 362,000, and that of the Thames 6600 cubic feet of water per second. I take these figures from L. D. A. Jackson’s “Hydraulic Manual,” as illustrating the great supremacy of the Ganges. The mouth we are now steaming up is 20 miles broad, with a minimum depth in the driest season of 30 feet, yet it is but one of the many openings which spread over 200 miles on the sea coast of Bengal. In endeavouring to convey an idea of the Ganges, we must dismiss from our minds any lurking comparison of its gigantic stream with other rivers we might be familiar with in any other part of the world. A single one of its many tributaries—the Jumna—has an independent existence of 860 miles, with a catchment basin of 118,000 square miles, and starts from an elevation at its source of 10,849 feet above sea-level. As a factor in the commercial welfare of India the Ganges plays an important part. Until the opening of the railways its waters formed the almost sole channel of traffic between Upper India and the sea-board. The products not only of the river plains, but even those of the central provinces, were all brought by this route into Calcutta. Notwithstanding the revolution caused by the railways, the heavier and more bulky staples of the country are still carried by water, and the Ganges still ranks as one of the great waterways Besides this, the Ganges is a river of great historic cities. Calcutta, Patna, and Benares are built on its banks; Agra and Delhi on those of its tributary, the Jumna; and Allahabad on the tongue of land where the two streams meet. I MUST now close the interesting book, “Hunter’s Indian Empire,” which I was perusing. We are nearing our destination. Steamers, tugs, sailing ships, native crafts of various sizes and design, all give evidence that we are drawing near a great emporium of trade, and a metropolitan city. As we turn the next bend a glorious panorama develops itself before us. The last rays of a tropical sun illuminate the distant city—the gilded domes, the church spires, the forest of masts, framed in gorgeous green foliage, disclose to our eyes the great Eastern city of Calcutta. A few moments more and our big ship is moored alongside the P. and O. Company’s Jetty at Garden Reach. This dÉpÔt of the great leviathan company is necessarily at some distance from the city. The great tonnage and immense length of the P. and O.’s ships, and their enormous consumption of coal, makes it imperative that they should stop at Garden Reach to land passengers, and coal prior to making their way up to town, whence they start on their outward-bound journey. All is now bustle and confusion. The wharf is full of gharrys of every class seeking fares to the city. To the uninitiated the gharry is anything When one gets used to gharrys they are all right, but it takes some time to do it. Like many other Indian “dainties,” it is an acquired taste. Besides other shortcomings, the gharry driver is not only thoroughly ignorant of English; but, to make matters worse, has not the remotest knowledge of locality. When I got my valise safely tied on one of these charming conveyances, I told the driver to take me to the Great Eastern Hotel. We made a start, and after half-an-hour’s jostling from side to side I saw that I was not getting any nearer to town, and naturally attempted to argue the point with my driver, who was in high argument with his assistant—there are always two for a two-horse gharry, one for every horse. All the reply I could elicit was “Acha, sahib,” which I have learned since means “All right.” After several stoppages, and the invariable “Achas,” I found myself at Ballygunge, one of the suburbs of Calcutta, where, by sheer luck, I met that most useful of all British institutions—a policeman!—who administered a few cuts of his cane to my drivers, and a wholesome admonition, which caused them to land me at last at the door of the Great Eastern. The first step into Eastern life—the most important, if one wishes to get on safely and peaceably in India—is the engagement of a “kitmugar.” This is the servant which one must have, even at an hotel, where food and a bed are provided, but no attendance whatever. Everyone needs this kitmugar, who makes your bed, waits on you hand and foot, and, if he be a Next to the engagement of the kitmugar comes the hiring of a “Victoria” and the two other inevitable attendants, viz., coachman and groom. I was particularly lucky in this. An Assam tea planter had just left the hotel, and at the recommendation of the manager I secured the lot—kitmugar, victoria, and coachman—who proved excellent servants during the whole period of my first stay in Calcutta. Master Hassam was a fair English scholar, as sharp as they make them, knew every hole and corner in this immense city, and was a perfect “terror” at a dinner party, when he could fight his way amongst all other servants, and secure for his “Sahib” the daintiest tit-bits of every dish, the best brands of wine, and the biggest lumps of ice. He was quite au fait at bargaining—knew the run of the bazaars—and nothing of any interest could be held within fifty miles without his being able to get us in as “dead-heads.” The amount of lying and romancing he must have had recourse to must have been something astounding. Wherever I went the natives made way, and granted me a reception which surprised me, until I discovered that Hassam was trading on the “Exhibition ticket,” which was becoming the talk of India, and Calcutta in particular. During the Doorgha Pooja and other great religious festivities, which in November keep the whole of India—but more particularly Calcutta and other cities on the banks of the sacred rivers—in a state of excitement and gorgeous displays, we had a pretty lively time of it. Day and night we had to attend processions, Nautch dances, fireworks, and gatherings the description of which would cast into the shade tales from the “Arabian Nights.” No one but those who have visited India during the period I am alluding to, can have the least conception of the scenes we witnessed. A city of upwards of a million of inhabitants—with an increase of more than double that number—all clad in gay colours, thronging the thoroughfares day and night in such dense crowds that one could almost walk on their heads; bands of music, heading hundreds of glittering pagodas; images of gods and goddesses of huge proportions being carried and paraded through the streets, followed by dancers, mimes, imps, and devils, elaborately painted Why Calcutta is called the city of palaces I never could realise. Truly the houses in Chowringhee and in the European portion of the city are large, lofty, and pretentious, but not in any way palatial. The Residence of the Viceroy, or that of the Governor of Bengal at Alipore—and, for the matter of that, all and every one of the public or private buildings—have a clean, gay appearance during the “cold season”: that is, from December till March; but as soon as the rains begin they all assume a dingy, woe-begone appearance, which casts quite a gloom over the whole place. Calcutta, during the four months above-named, is bright, lively, enchanting—the climate most charming. The Strand, after 4 P.M., thronged with carriages and horsemen—a gay crowd, which, with the gay trappings of the four-in-hands and the Oriental costume of many of the native princes quite eclipses even Rotten Row or Longchamps. But when the season is over—when vice-royalty and its cumbersome personnel have gone to Simla and Darjeeling—the gay butterfly loses its bright colouring; nothing is left but the unsightly chrysalis. The heat, the damp, with the ills which follow, renders the city anything but a desirable place of residence. British enterprise has got over the difficulty in some measure, and for those who have to stay in the plains it is now an easy matter to take an occasional run up into the hills—a truly wonderful piece of engineering having conquered the most inaccessible perpendicular walls of the Himalaya ranges. The Darjeeling railway—a 2ft. 6in. guage zig-zag line, carries a mail and passenger traffic daily from Calcutta to that sanatorium, 7000 feet above the sea level. This trip can be accomplished in sixteen hours, and is full of incidents which make it attractive. The first stage is on the broad guage railway to the banks of the Ganges, which is crossed by a large steamer, on board which dinner is served. On the other side begins the narrow guage line, which runs through tea plantations as far as Kurseong. SALIGOORI—the lowermost station at the foot of the Himalayas—gives one the first insight into the real Indian jungle, the habitat of the far-famed Bengal tigers and still more dreadful cobra, besides leopards, cheetahs, hyÆnas, wolves, foxes, and jackals, which, with the wild hog, are reckoned the “big game,” which both natives and Europeans chase for pastime. The tiger, being the noblest, has the first claim—being the characteristic beast of prey in India. The Bengal tiger is certainly the finest of all mammals—its average length from the point of his nose to the tip of his tail being twelve feet. In many districts the natives consider the tiger as a sort of protection to their crops, which it saves from destruction by the wild animals on which he feeds. But when once he develops a taste for human blood, the slaughter he works becomes truly formidable. The confirmed man-eater is generally an old beast, disabled from overtaking his usual prey, and seems to accumulate his tale of victims in sheer cruelty rather than for food. A single tiger, now in the Zoological Gardens at Alipore (Calcutta), is known to have killed 108 persons in the course of three years. He was at last trapped, and caged Many instances are recorded of even more frightful depredations. In the hills, 13 villages were abandoned, and 250 square miles of country thrown out of cultivation; in 1869, one of these dreadful animals killed 137 people and stopped all traffic on a main public road for several weeks, until the opportune arrival of an English sportsman, who killed him. Official records are kept of such matters. In 1877, 819 persons and 16,137 head of cattle were reported to have been killed by tigers; on the other hand, 1579 tigers were destroyed by native hunters, and £3777 paid in rewards, besides those killed by European sportsmen. The leopard and cheetah are smaller and less dangerous to life. The latter is often tamed for hunting purposes, as I shall explain anon. The wolf, fox, jackal, and hyÆna limit their depredations to flocks or children, but being of a timid nature, are easily kept at bay. The serpent tribe in India is numerous. They actually swarm in gardens, and often intrude into the dwellings of the inhabitants, principally during the rainy season. Certainly the majority are harmless, but the bite of others is speedily fatal. The most to be dreaded is the cobra-de-capello, or hooded snake. It seldom exceeds three or four feet in length, and is about an inch and a quarter thick. The Rupelian snake—about four feet long—is another whose bite is almost instantaneous death. Sir Joseph Fraser states that no antidote has yet been discovered to cure the bite of either of these horrible reptiles. The loss of life from snake bites in India is painful to contemplate, but the extermination of snakes is attended with grave difficulties—from their great number, the character of the country, the rapid undergrowth of the jungle; and, above all, the scruples of the majority of the people, whom caste prevents from destroying life. Something, however, has been effected by the offer of rewards. In 1877 a total of 16,777 persons are reported as having died from snake-bites, while £811 was paid for the destruction of 127,295 snakes! The last census of the Indian Empire shows a population of 252,451,210, and this may be accepted as a minimum, owing to the great difficulty existing in obtaining exact returns. Many of the natives evince a great reluctance at giving the true number of their family. The density of the population may be appreciated when a comparison is drawn from the following figures:—France has 180 people to the square mile, England 200, whilst in Bengal the population reaches the enormous number of 1280 persons to each cultivated square mile. The Famine Commissioners in 1880 reported that over six millions of the peasant holdings of Bengal—or two-thirds of the whole—averaged from two to three acres a-piece. Allowing for women and children, this represents a population of about 24,000,000 struggling to live off 15,000,000 acres—or just half-an-acre a-piece. Unlike other countries, India has few large towns, and no manufacturing centres. In England, for instance, 42 per cent.—or nearly one half of the population—live in towns, with upwards of 20,000 inhabitants; whilst in India We see, therefore, in India, a dense population of farmers. Wherever their number exceeds one to the acre—or 640 to the square mile—the struggle for existence becomes a hard task; at half-an-acre a-piece (and it is often so), that struggle is very hard indeed. When a crop fails the Government has a bad time of it to feed the starving millions. Disease and death in such periods, amongst underfed people, is simply horrible. The opening up of lines of railway throughout this vast empire, now enables the Governments to alleviate the dreadful effects of over-population, and relieve the distress. Still, the fact remains that since the establishment of British rule in India the population has increased materially. The census of 1872 shows an increase of 240,000; the production of the soil being stationary, the future becomes problematical. >THE foregoing pages are, I am afraid, rather dry and tiresome, but still, one cannot travel through a country like India with one’s eyes and ears closed; and when it is taken into consideration that we are accustomed to look upon the Indian population with contempt—entirely losing sight of the undeniable fact that when the Gaul and the Saxon were savages, clad in sheep and goat-skins, the Brahmins of India were almost as highly advanced in civilisation as the French and English of the present day—it is natural that in travelling through such a country one should spend a few hours, at least, in studying with interest a people whose history is traceable far beyond the Christian era. W. W. Hunter, in his admirable work on India, traces its history back 3000 years. Vedic temples have been found, showing an advanced state of civilisation several centuries before Christ. A collection of short lyrical poems, containing 10,580 verses, addressed to the gods, are still in existence. These people, whom we now treat with contempt, are direct descendants from a nation whose faith, after all, is not so very dissimilar from our own. Three thousand years have elapsed since the Not very far, after all, from the Creed we are so proud of in the year of our Lord, 1889. At the rate we are daily modifying and twisting it about, I doubt much if in three thousand years from this we shall have as much of the original as the poor Hindus now have of theirs. I have just come across another Vedic hymn, which I think I should record before leaving a subject which I hand over to my readers to ponder upon at their leisure. It is a translation from the Sanskrit text by Professor Max MÜller, and is in the public libraries in India:— “In the beginning there arose a Golden Child. He was the one born Lord of all that is; he established the earth and the sky. Who is the God to whom we shall offer our sacrifice? “He who gives life; he who gives strength; whose command all the bright gods revere; whose shadow is immortality; whose shadow is death. Who is the God to whom we shall offer our sacrifice? “He who through his power is the one King of the breaking and awakening world; he who “He through whom the sky is bright and the earth is firm; he through whom the heaven was established—nay, the highest heaven; he who measured out the light and the air. Who is the God to whom we shall offer our sacrifice? “He who by his height looked even over the water-clouds; he who alone is God above all gods. Who is the God to whom we shall offer our sacrifice? “The yearning for rest is God; that desire for the wings of a dove, so as to fly away and be at rest, with which noble hearts have ached in all ages. “Where there is eternal light in the world, where the sun is placed; in the immortal, imperishable world, place me, O Soma! “Where life is free, in the third heaven of heavens; where the worlds are radiant, there make me immortal! Where there is happiness and delight, where joy and pleasure reside, where our desires are attained—there make me immortal!” Is there in the whole of our Christian Creed a more simple, more beautifully expressed prayer to the Almighty power? This hymn, as I said before, was the common prayer of a people 3000 years ago. The Vedic conception of immortality is not less beautiful in its simplicity:— “Do thou conduct us to heaven, where our friends dwell in bliss, having left on earth the infirmities of the body—free from lameness, free from blindness, free from crookedness of body—there From the Vedas has arisen the great sacred Brahmin caste, which even now ranks highest throughout India. It is regarded as pure, stainless, divine, as well as human, worthy of unbounded admiration and worship. The Brahmin is the general preceptor, the guide of many millions of Hindus, residing in the vast country lying between the Himalayas and Cape Comarin. The Brahmin is not merely the thinking, but he alone is the reading, man. He possesses and reads the holy books—Vedas, Shastras, and Puranas—he knows the Sanskrit and the Hindu literature—he interprets its secrets to his countrymen. Of course the Brahminical tribes are now numerous all through India, and education is fast stripping them of their divine assumptions, and reducing them gradually to the condition of ordinary humanity. Still, as they become imbued with our modern ideas and bend to European influence, the Brahmins adhere to their studious habits. They find their way to One of the best pleaders in the courts of Calcutta, my friend Jokonanda Mookerjea, is a Brahmin of the highest caste, but like many of his ancient tribe, he has of late years forfeited the good opinion of his people, owing to his having modified somewhat, or rather relaxed, the strict rules of that caste. One who has not had much communion with Indians can hardly conceive how strictly, even after a century of close contact with Europeans, the natives keep in its integrity the observance of the caste law. A case is on record of a Brahmin felon, confined in the Calcutta gaol in 1864, who tried to starve himself to death, and submitted to most severe flogging rather than eat food, on account of his scruples as to whether the man who had cooked it was equal in sanctity to his own caste. Trades of all kinds are classified according to caste. The goldsmiths rank highest, and claim to be the nearest to the Brahmins; the Dattas, or writers, come next; then follow the bankers, merchants, &c., &c., down to the very lowest grade of menial work—barber, man-servant, cook, cook’s mate, sweeper, and, last of all, meter and dome—this last is the only one which will remove the dead, whether man or beast. If an animal—even a cat, dog, or rat—lies dead on your premises, not one of the scores of servants employed will remove its carcase. A dome has to be sought ere the nuisance can be abated. The meter is the only one who will empty the slops. The rules and regulations of caste are thoroughly well arranged, and strictly adhered to. Each caste has its guild, guild funds, charities. Indeed, in this, like in many others, “we,” the conceited civilisers of the world, are following in the footsteps of the most ancient people of the earth. I fail to see much difference between our trades and labour unions and the “caste” of India, where one man is not allowed to do any other work than that of his “caste.” Hence the unavoidable nuisance of even the humblest paid European having to employ a dozen servants. The cook is not allowed to wash a plate or carry the meal into the parlour; the kitmugar will bring your boots to your dressing room, but his “caste” forbids him to clean them. The native clerk will copy and address a letter, but he will hand it over to the “PÉon,” who alone can carry it to its destination. The “Dobbee” will wash your clothes, but you must employ a water carrier to fetch the water used in the laundry. This very interesting trade and labour union, like the “Vedic” creed, dates from an almost “pre-Adamite” period. The longer I live, the firmer I believe that there is nothing new under the sun, and that from the beginning of the world it has been the lot of humanity to “prey” on one another. My firm belief is that as it was in the beginning it is now, and ever shall be, to the end of the chapter. A while ago I put down my pen, thinking that I had allowed it to run too freely into very uninteresting matters. I find that the last few WHILST in Calcutta—being there for the sole object of initiating an International Exhibition, it became urgent to disseminate amongst the native population the purpose of such a venture. H.E. the Viceroy (Lord Ripon) and the Governor of Bengal, Mr. (now Sir Rivers) Thompson, were very doubtful as to the success of this Exhibition, owing to the prejudices of the Indian population, and the erroneous impression they would have of a thing quite beyond their comprehension, and, moreover, in direct contravention with their ultra-conservative ideas. They feared that the strict zenana laws would not permit the female portion of the people to visit my Exhibition. Whilst fully appreciating the validity of such serious obstacles, I did not quite give up hopes of overcoming them. As a rule I do not object to a few “balks”—I think that life is a kind of hurdle race—mine has been so all through. I was not born to enter into a flat one. I certainly do think that difficulties give a zest to and enhance the value of the result of one’s undertakings. In this instance I made up my mind to at once face the opposition. I sought and readily obtained introductions to the principal native notabilities of Calcutta. Maharajah Sir Jotindra Tagore, Bart.; Maharajah Bahadur of Cooch Behar, Rajah Krishna, Rajah Rajendra Mullick, Prince Mahomed, Furruck Shah, the Maharajah of Paikpara; and, above all, my worthy friend the late Kristodas Pal (the able and learned editor of the Patriot), Nawab Abdool Luteef, and last, though not least, my doctor—Kanny Lall Dey—were my friends and helpmates, as far as the Hindu portion was concerned. Amongst the Parsees my task was much easier. They are, of course, more easily approached; they live more like ourselves. But even with them I had the good fortune to meet an able coadjutor, Mr. Mettra, who did not wait for a call, but of his own accord came to me a few days after my arrival in Calcutta, and proffered a friendship which I hope will last a lifetime. A meeting was called by the Chairman of the Anglo-Indian Club. A large number of the leading natives of Calcutta and the surrounding country responded. The objects of the Exhibition were fully explained to the meeting; a number of questions asked. A unanimous resolution was adopted that every assistance should be given to me to carry out my venture, and immediate steps taken to disseminate through even the most remote parts of the empire the objects of the International Exhibition. The enthusiasm of the gentlemen present can best be realised when I say that one of the native maharajahs tendered to me a cheque for a lac of rupees (£10,000) in case I should be short of funds. At the instigation of the meeting I consented to deliver some lectures at the Hindu and Mahomedan colleges. These lectures In order, if possible, to break through the impenetrable barrier of the zenana, the Sunday afternoon was set aside for the admission of “females.” All male attendants were removed, close screens erected round the entrance gates, and invitations issued to the leading natives in the city. Several thousands responded. The number nearly doubled on the second Sunday, after which I intimated that MY caste precluded Sabbath-breaking, so that in future, if “ladies” wished to see the Exhibition, they must come on week days with the men. Although native women are not “visible,” they visit one another in the “zenanas,” and like all belonging to the fair sex, “TALK!” Those who had seen the Exhibition gave an amplified description of its wonders to their friends. Curiosity is a weakness of the sex, let the colour be what it will. In India, as it is elsewhere, women have a will of their own. They very soon persuaded their lords and masters that a thick muslin cloud might be used to hide their charms from the public gaze, without preventing them seeing the “show.” The end was that the In some instances native Princes purchased at a high figure the sole right of the Exhibition for a few hours, so that their wives or mothers might have a quiet, undisturbed ramble through it. So great came the demand for such a favour that in some instances their visits took place in the night, after the closing, and extended until near daylight. As might be expected amongst people of high refinement—as most undeniably the upper class of Indians are—such small acts of courtesy on my part had a great influence. One and all of our distinguished visitors expressed their grateful thanks personally, and expressed a wish that I should, at the close of my labours in Calcutta, visit them in their respective provinces. BEING delayed at the close of the Exhibition in settling accounts with the Government, facilities were given us to visit the interior of the country. A train was placed at our disposal, with instructions sent to the various lines to take it wherever we wished to go. Our farewell from Calcutta was such as to leave an ever-lasting impression. The kindness and hospitality of the many friends we made during our stay in that great city will never be forgotten. Our first stop was at the great sacred city of Benares, passing through Burdwan and Khana, in the province of Moorshedabad, Luckeeserai and Putna, reaching Dinapure at daylight next morning. This first night spent in a sleeping car, being a novelty, was not quite as productive of rest as might have been expected, although every comfort had been provided for us: the narrow bunks, the jolting, and last, though not least, the want of the punkah, which we had become used to in Calcutta, kept us awake part of the time, and in order to wile away the hours, we improvised sundry meals—supper, tea and coffee, and early breakfast—which, however, did not in any way prevent us doing complete justice to that which awaited us at Dinapure. Here we availed ourselves of the privilege What these plains could produce in the hands of skilled husbandmen would feed the world. When the great railway extension scheme now under consideration by the Government of India is carried out, the wheat production of the central provinces of India will materially affect the price of bread stuffs throughout the world. Indian natives have an excellent memory for faces. We had not been many minutes in the Dinapure Bazaar before we were recognised as the “Exhibition Wallahs,” and treated accordingly. Indeed, throughout the whole of our trip, we met with similar treatment, which doubtless had a great influence in the good feeling we all have, and shall ever cherish, of India and the Indians. Another train being due at 11 a.m., we caused our “caravan” to be hooked on, and proceeded to Moghal-Serai, the nearest station to the sacred city. Here dwell the celebrated artistic “potters” of Central India. From Moghal-Serai come all the black, black and silver jars, figures, and ornaments which one sees all through India. Ornaments highly valued in Europe can here be purchased for a few “pice” (farthings). I need Having left our goods and chattels and servants in the train, we drove to the river side, and were ferried across the Ganges—Benares being situated on the west bank, the native town skirts the sacred river. The Burna flows into the Ganges, just north of the Raj GhÂt, and flows between the civil station and the cantonments. Benares is the first city of the north-western provinces, and is well known as the stronghold of Hindooism. It covers an area of 3141 acres, with a population of 500,000, and stands about 270 feet above the sea level. The trade and manufactures are principally silks, shawls, cloth, embroideries in gold and silver thread, gold filigree work, and, above all, chased brass work. The wealth of Benares, however, mainly depends upon the constant influx of rich pilgrims, whose presence lends the same impetus to the local trade as that given to European watering places by the season visitors. Many of these pilgrims are rajahs, or other persons of importance, who bring considerable retinues, and become large benefactors to the Wheat, barley, pulse of various kinds, maize, oil seeds, most of the esculent vegetables of Europe, rice, and hemp are amongst the staple products of the soil; but the most important article is the sugar cane. Benares surpasses every other part of India in the abundance and excellence of quality of sugar produced. We made our way straight for Clark’s Hotel, where our old friend the Maharajah of Benares had secured quarters for us. The Residence of His Highness is some distance from the hotel, and the old gentleman, after making every apology for having located us here, said that after dinner he would come and fetch us to attend a “nautch” at the palace; but that he feared we could not be made as comfortable with him as we would at an hotel kept by Europeans. We found, however, that the Maharajah had given orders on a lavish and royal scale. In fact, the whole of the hotel was “ours”—the other residents were to be “our guests.” The meals were of such a profuse kind, the wines of At about eight o’clock carriages drove up to the door, and we were taken straight to the palace at Ramnaggar. This—the fort, garden house, and temple of the Maharajah—are well worthy of a visit. The temple is a huge building one hundred feet high, the greater part of which was built by Rajah Chait-Singh, but completed by the present Maharajah. The whole edifice is remarkable for its execution, specially as regards the sculpture. The garden house is also about a mile from the fort. A magnificent tank is attached to it. It is a square, having a temple at each corner. A handsome “ghÂt” surrounds it, where hundreds of pilgrims can bathe and dress comfortably. Ramnaggar is one of the five celebrated places of pilgrimage in Benares. Hindus dying there are sure to enter the abodes of the blessed without their souls undergoing transmigration, which, in their idea, is a far worse fate than the eternal cremation we have such a wholesome dread of. The palace—or, at least, the portion of the palace thrown open for our reception—is furnished in the European style. The rooms are lofty and well-proportioned. On this occasion they were brilliantly lit up, and filled with the elite of the native population. Our host was most attentive. He had provided every imaginable variety of refreshments, music, singers, The hospitality of Indian princes is something beyond description. They, who are most abstemious and simple both in food and drink, must look upon Europeans as a voracious and thirsty race. Whilst with Indians, we were everlastingly pressed to either eat or drink; and wherever we went—sight-seeing, hunting, boating, or riding—coolies were sent ahead of us with tents, provisions, and all the most luxurious appliances for comforting the inner man. The Maharajah’s entertainment lasted until a very late hour. I should perhaps be nearer the truth if I said an early hour on the following morning. We, however, turned out to breakfast in good time, as he had arranged to have carriages and horses to take us round the ghÂts, temples, and palaces for which Benares is famous. According to appointment, we proceeded first to the palace of His Highness the Maharajah of Vizianagram, situated in Bhelepur. This is one of the finest palaces in this city of palaces, having been specially reconstructed and decorated to receive His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales during his stay in Benares. In order to convey an idea of the magnitude of that princely residence it will suffice to say that the entrance hall is 100ft. by 50ft. The furniture and appointments in all the reception rooms are thoroughly H.H. of Vizianagram only visits this residence once or twice a year, on pilgrimage, but still keeps up the retinue and style of the place; and the officer in charge dispenses the most royal hospitality to visitors authorised by his master to have an entrÉe to this magnificent and really interesting place. Our next visit was to the Golden Temple (Bisheshan) dedicated to Siva, the presiding deity of Benares. This temple is looked upon as being the holiest of all holy places in the sacred city. The symbol of the god is a plain Lingam of uncarved stone. Prior to describing this temple I shall digress to explain this extraordinary “divinity,” termed the Lingam god, the original having, under the most extraordinary, binding, and strict conditions, been entrusted to my care to be exhibited in the Gem Gallery of the Calcutta Exhibition. I cannot do better than transcribe the printed form which was handed to me for distribution by the special attendants who were placed in charge of this valuable exhibit, and never lost sight of it during the whole period of the Exhibition. “This unique object of interest, the original “This extraordinary historical relic has a two-fold interest, principally on account of its great antiquity and repute, and, secondly, as containing one of the most curious and brilliant cat’s-eyes known. “The Lingam god is well known to all who have visited the East, as representing the deity to whom the Hindoo ladies pay devotion, with the object of obtaining lineal descent, and this identical god is the original one, to whom annually thousands of devotees of every rank journeyed from all parts of India to pay their devotions for a period of upwards of 1000 years, until about the year 1193, when the Mahomedan conqueror, Kulb-ud-din, having wrested Delhi from the Hindoo kings, destroyed twenty-seven temples to obtain the materials to build the great Mahomedan mosque of Kulb-Musjid, which to this day perpetuates his name. “On the destruction of the Hindoo temples above referred to, this relic was placed for safety in the Mogul Treasury, and carefully preserved as an unique specimen of a gem which is credited, independently of its sacred “The Lingam god remained in the Mogul Treasury for a period of 664 years, until the outbreak of the Indian Mutiny in 1857, when it was removed, with other valuables, by the Queen of Bad Shah Bahadoor Shah, the last King of Delhi, who was exiled by the British Government, and died at Rangoon. It was subsequently parted with by her during the unsettled period of the Mutiny. “It is estimated that the number of Hindoos who have actually prayed to this same god number many hundreds of millions.” To return to the Golden Temple in which this “precious deity” is located. It was erected by Ahalya Bai, the Maharatta Princess of India, and has a central spire, each corner of the building being crowned by a dome. Maharajah Ranjeet Singh of Lahore had the spire and dome covered with thin plates of gold, and hence its name of Golden Temple. In the temple there is a reservoir about 3ft. square and 1-1/2ft. deep. In this reservoir the pecuniary offerings of wealthy and distinguished worshippers are thrown. Maharajah Ranjub Singh filled it on one occasion with gold mohurs, but it is often filled with rupees, and almost daily with copper coins. Close to the Golden Temple is the Gyan-gapi, or well of knowledge, where the natives believe Siva resides. The legend says that during a drought, which extended over twelve years, a priest (Rishi) dug up the earth on this spot with the trident of Siva, and at once came a flow of A colonnade of forty pillars was built over it in 1828 by Maharani Iri Mout Baija Bai, widow of Dowlat Scindia, Bahadur of Gwalior. In the courtyard is the figure of a huge stone bull, six and a half feet high, which is dedicated to Mahadeo, and which was the gift of the Rajah of Nepaul. There is also a temple dedicated to Mahadeo, which was presented by the Rane of Hyderabad. Next is the Temple of Ad-Bisheswar, which is in a dilapidated and almost dangerous condition; east of this is Kashi-Karwat, with a sacred well, having a passage leading to the river. Further on is the temple dedicated to Sanichar or Saturn. The idol has a solid silver head, with a cloth tied round the neck to hide the want of a body. This deity is the dread of the Hindoo. We now visited the Temple of Anpurna. The goddess to whom this temple is dedicated is held in great veneration, for it is alleged that she protects the faithful from hunger. There, daily, an immense number of beggars are fed; and at any time mendicants may be seen waiting near the entrance for their dole. Offerings of grain, rice, and other food, as well as money donations made by more wealthy worshippers, are gathered in a stone box, and are distributed daily to the beggars at the entrance. The figure of the goddess Anpurna The temples of Sakhi-Binayaka, Sukreswar, Bhaironath, are all pretty much in the same style as those already described, and do not call for special notice. We now come to the shrine dedicated to Sika, the goddess of small-pox, whom Hindoos pay most particular court to, in order, no doubt, to preserve themselves from that disease—their faith in Sika being quite as great as ours is in Dr. Jenner’s system of inoculation. It may here be worth mentioning that small-pox is quite a recognised complaint throughout India; and, indeed, in exceptional periods when, owing to atmospheric influences, its spread exceeds the usual course, is not thought much more of than any other disease. There are, certainly, in large cities like Calcutta, Bombay, &c., a small-pox hospital, but isolation is seldom if ever resorted to. Whilst we were in Calcutta, one of my children went to school in a house divided into flats. The teacher resided on the first floor. The family occupying the ground floor had two cases of small-pox, which did not hinder any of the pupils from attending the school, although they had to pass through the hall, and unavoidably come in daily contact with members of the family of the patients. I may also mention that in many instances during the Calcutta Exhibition, where natives used to throng the turnstiles for admission, we called the attention of the police to several people whose appearance denoted visible signs of At least one in fifty of the natives who paid for admission had purchased sweetmeats from that fellow, received change, which was handed to us at the turnstiles, still clammy with the perspiration of the hands of a man in the third or fourth stage of smallpox. This in the very heart of a city with a million of inhabitants. Yet the disease does not spread, and is not thought half as much of as we do of measles or scarlatina. I cannot but think that it is owing to several causes—first, the innate cleanliness of the Hindoo race, who wash their bodies several times a day; secondly, to the almost constant working of the pores of the skin, caused by the peculiar heat of the climate; and last, though not least, I think that infection is carried amongst Europeans by the woollen texture of their garments, bed covers, hangings, &c., whereas the natives of India never use any covering other than cotton or linen, and very little of that even. My theory may be wrong, but the fact remains; not only relating to smallpox, but to cholera or typhoid fever, which are permanent in India, but never thought much of by natives. IF one wished to describe all the temples or places of worship in Benares it would fill a volume. Like picture galleries in the Italian cities, so are temples here—one day at them is quite enough. There seems to be a place of worship dedicated to every whim or fancy of the worshippers. Amongst the many, I will quote the temple of Kameshwar, the “God of Desires,” whose duty is to grant all the wishes of the worshippers. The wishes of mankind being innumerable, it is not surprising that Kameshwar has a legion of worshippers, and I should say his hands are full if he grants one-thousandth-part of the prayers addressed to him. But, of all the temples, commend me to Durga-Kund, or monkey temple. It is dedicated to the bloody goddess Durga, and stands in the centre of a quadrangle surrounded by high walls. In front of the temple stands a building in which hangs a drum, which calls the devout to worship, and on either side of this building is a small temple. Entering the quadrangle two lions of stone are seen crouching on either side of the pathway. These animals bear Durga on their backs whenever it pleases the goddess to take a ride. Near by are two shrines, one dedicated to Ganesh and the other to Mahadeo. Before the temple there is a porch. Though Durga has a face of silver, is draped in gorgeous apparel, and has a necklace composed of massive gold coins. In front of her is a silver bath, before which a lamp burns continually. Outside, on the northern side of the temple, is a large tank. As the name implies, this temple is devoted to the worship of monkeys, as well as to the reverence of Durga. Monkeys in incalculable numbers crowd round the temple and the tank, in which it is most amusing to see them bathing. Indeed, long before the precincts of the temple are reached, monkeys are met with on the road-side. They seem to know that they enjoy perfect immunity in that neighbourhood, and they thoroughly enjoy their liberty. Vendors of grain, nuts, and sweetmeats are also here in numerous array, visitors purchasing their wares to distribute them amongst the strange animals who follow and surround visitors all day long, but never beyond the boundary of the temple grounds, beyond which, if caught, they are transported. Strange though it may seem, not even the daintiest morsel will allure one of these mischievous animals beyond the sacred limit. An object of great interest in this locality is the venerable tamarind tree on the south of the After our long visit to the temples we took a cursory look at the various ghÂts—Raj ghÂt, Shivala GhÂt, and at last Sarnath, which, next to the Taj-Mahal at Agra, is one of the most remarkable buildings in India; the great Buddhist tower near Sarnath being one of the oldest buildings in the East, its origin belonging to several centuries prior to the Buddhist era. Nearly exhausted by the long day’s sight-seeing, we had, however, to pay a visit to the new town hall erected by his Highness the Mararajah of Vizianagram, in commemoration of H.R.H. the Duke of Edinburgh’s visit to this city, and opened by the Prince of Wales. H.H. the Maharajah, with his usual princely generosity, presented the building, furnished and complete, to the municipality of Benares. I heartily confess that I never had a harder day’s work in my life, nor did I ever enjoy a bath, a dinner, and a bed more than I did on our return to our quarters. On the following day we had a thorough overhaul of all the shops, bazaars, and factories, and returned with carriages full of all kinds of brass, silver, and copper wares, embroidered silk and cloth, earthen figures, and a heap of odds and ends, sufficient to fill a museum. I may as well sum it up by saying that when we We took a most affectionate leave of our hospitable friend Maharajah Singh, who made us promise that some day we would again favour him with a visit in Benares. Alas, poor old fellow! we shall see him no more. I saw in one of the telegrams from India, a few weeks ago, that he died at Benares in the early part of August. OUR next stage was Allahabad, on the delta formed by the junction of the two greatest rivers in the world, the Jumna and the Ganges. The bridge over the former, which carries the train over the mighty stream, is a wonderful feat of engineering. To look over and see the speed at which the current carries this immense sheet of water under the bridge gives one a shudder, and unwittingly one grasps the iron railing with a force which cramps one’s hands. It seems as if the bridge was receding under one’s feet. After Benares, Allahabad seems almost an European city, and therefore loses much of its attractions. It is, however, well worthy of a visit, as a great emporium of trade, as well as a great manufacturing city, one of the principal items being the manufacture of carpets, which here are made by machinery, and not merely by hand, as they are manufactured through other parts of India. In colour and appearance they are equally fine, but if they are much cheaper than those that are hand made, they lack in durability and finish. We might have tarried in Allahabad, but the weather was intensely hot, and a hot day in that city is not to be easily forgotten. We therefore moved on to Cawnpore, which was full of reminiscences of the great It was not food we were craving for. Long before we reached the station our eyes had rested on that most marvellous structure, the Taj-Mahal, which has been justly termed the seventh marvel of the world, and still more appropriately, “a dream in marble.” Miles away, on the other side of the Jumna, cut in sharp outlines against the blue Indian sky, soaring above the green foliage, the gigantic white marble dome and marble minarets can be seen, increasing in size as the train draws nearer and nearer; but this hasty glimpse of the huge mausoleum gives a very poor idea of its stupendous size and awfully grandiose reality. We had no patience until the carriages came to the door, and we were driven to the spot. Alas! The task of describing this monument is beyond my powers. In the face of it man is struck dumb—a feeling of insignificance creeps over one. I have searched in vain for a true and faithful description of the Taj in the various books published on India, and am gratified to see that those who have preceded me at Agra have, like I must confine myself to historical facts. In the year 1623, the reigning prince (Shah Jehan), at the death of his wife, decided that he would erect a mausoleum which would, until the “crack of doom,” make her last resting-place on earth a memorable spot. Indian princes, when they make up their mind to achieve an object, seldom calculate the cost. It has to be, and—it is done. Strange to relate, after searching the world for an architect, an obscure man—French by birth, a native of Bordeaux—submitted plans to this Eastern ruler—plans and estimates which one would think would stamp the projector as a confirmed lunatic. Shah Jehan, however, at once accepted them; furthermore, he instructed the architect to proceed forthwith with the work. Materials were sought and brought out from the remotest regions of the globe. To sum up this sketch, I will quote these authentic facts, viz., that twenty thousand work-men were employed incessantly for twenty-two years to complete this monument. At the completion of the work His Highness became so intoxicated with the pride of ownership that, fearing lest some other prince of the earth should copy it, he caused the plans to be destroyed; and, horrible to relate, he had the architect’s eyes gouged out to prevent his furnishing any one with copies of the originals (which had been burnt by the prince’s own If this wonderful structure strikes the traveller with awe and admiration when seen from outside, his feelings are greatly intensified when he crosses its threshold; and at the foot of the mausoleum, under the centre of the dome, the awful silence becomes almost unbearable. Words cling to one’s tongue, and whispering is the only possible way of exchanging thoughts. Such whispers are carried up in the air to the apex of the huge dome—towering hundreds of feet above one’s head—repeated tenfold by mysterious echoes, and for several minutes are wafted from one side of the building to the other. A prayer, or hymn, or tune sung in the lowest possible key, is likewise repeated crescendo until it reaches an almost deafening pitch; then again gradually becomes lower and lower until the last note is lost in the death-like silence which pervades this great marble sepulchre. At each corner of the immense square on which the Taj-Mahal stands, are four white marble towers, with circular stairs leading to the minarets at the top. From these a grand view of the Taj can be had, as well as of the majestic Jumna, whose waters bathe the foot of the edifice. Marvellous as it is to see the Taj in daylight—difficult as it is to describe its grandeur and beauty—much more marvellous and indescribable does it become when seen by moonlight. The soft effect of the rays of the moon vaporises Indeed, before leaving Agra, one should pay a score of visits to this place—see it at sunrise, at noon, at sunset, and, above all, by moonlight, unless the visitor can afford the luxury which was provided for H.R.H. the Prince of Wales, and have it specially lit up with electricity. But I very much doubt if it can outdo a clear, full moonlit night. Hunter, in his description of the Taj, most appropriately terms it “a monument designed by Titans and furnished by jewellers.” Not content with the Taj, Emperor Shah Jehan endowed his capital with other monuments of great artistic and architectural beauty. The Pearl Mosque (Moli-Musjid) is the purest and loveliest house of prayer in the world. Like all other structures erected by this emperor, white marble is the only material used; but in this instance the panels are studded with most costly gems. Another mosque, built by him in Delhi (Jama-Musjid) was commenced in the fourth year of his reign and finished in the tenth. The palace at Delhi—now the fort—covers a vast parallelogram, 1600ft. by 3200ft., with most exquisite buildings in marble and fine stone. A deeply-recessed portal leads into a vaulted hall, rising two stories like the nave of a gigantic Gothic cathedral, and 375 feet in length—the noblest entrance to any existing palace. The Diwan-i-Khas, or court of private audience, overlooks the river—a masterpiece of delicate inlaid work of poetic design. Last, though not least, this emperor built the city of Beyond these great “lions” Agra had not much to engross our attention—the carpet manufactories and a few temples and palaces—but after Benares the latter had little or no further attractions. The patient and accurate working of the carpet-makers is well worthy of mention, more particularly the work done by prisoners in the Agra jail, where the choicest and most elaborate carpets are made. The loom stands on a perpendicular frame, with two men on either side, and the pattern lays on the floor; the wool, silk, or cotton material, as the case may be, is passed from one side to the other, and “clipped” when properly fixed. These carpets are, of course, reversible. Four men, working twelve hours, are reckoned good hands if they can finish satisfactorily five inches square a-day; but as the job is generally given to men who have long sentences to serve, time is no object. At Allahabad the same carpets are made by machinery, but they cannot compare either for durability, finish, or even beauty, with those made in the Agra penitentiaries. Agra was the only place where we were left to our own devices. Our friend, Dr. Tyler, had been summoned to Simla on official business; we therefore had to fight our way as we best could. ON the third day after our arrival our movements had been made known in the neighbourhood. A telegram came from Dholpore, sent by Colonel Deniehy, the Resident, who, on behalf of the Maharajah, wished us to make a stay at His Highness’s palace. Having no further reason to prolong our stay at Agra, we “hooked on” to the train, and in three hours reached the Dholpore station, where the genial face of Colonel Deniehy greeted our landing in the young prince’s dominions. Carriages, and an escort of mounted troopers, commanded by the prince’s staff officer, Goby Singh (one of the handsomest Indian officers we had met in our travels), led us to the palace! Here the Maharajah gave us the heartiest welcome. He expressed his regret that the laws and customs of his country precluded him from admitting us to the interior of his “house,” but the ladies would be welcomed by the Rani (his mother), or the Maharani (his wife); whilst we of the sterner sex would be entertained by his good friend Colonel Deniehy in the part of the palace which had been specially prepared for us. After this kind speech the young prince led the way to the dining-room, where a sumptuous repast had been prepared, but, as usual, our host sat as a looker-on only. After tiffin we visited our apartments, which showed the So that we might not find the hours hang heavily on our hands, books, albums, and periodicals were in abundance on all the tables. At my bedside a few of the latest French novels were placed—new, but with leaves already cut, so that even this trouble might be spared! I cannot convey a better idea of the strange but thorough hospitality of these people than to mention that whilst chatting with the Maharajah in the drawing-room, a fly came buzzing round my head, and I naturally chased it away once or twice with my hand. At a sign from the prince a servant crept noiselessly behind me, with a short cane, furnished with a round leather flap at the end of it. I discovered that this fellow’s duty was to keep off the flies—a duty he performed with extraordinary talent. A “council” was held, and a plan drawn of excursions, hunting, and sight-seeing. Some of these, of course, only “the boys” and myself could attend; whilst later in the afternoons, when the sun’s rays were less intense, the ladies could join. It was during one of these afternoon drives that we witnessed one of the most impressive ceremonies of Indian customs—the cremation of the dead. We had seen a good deal of cremation in Calcutta, where it is done in a special building, and where, at times, as many as half-a-dozen or more bodies are reduced to ashes in a few hours; but the matter-of-fact method adopted at the Calcutta cremating place are most repulsive. In this instance the surroundings were most appropriate. We had left the carriages in a grove close by; the sun was about setting; Goby Singh, who accompanied us, had taken us out in a boat to drift with the current on the Chambal (a fine river, which pours its contingent into the Jumna near Calpi); the evening was calm, and the banks of the river studded with magnificent foliage. As our boat, drifting with the current, rounded a headland, we noticed a small procession of men coming down the bank of the river carrying a litter covered with flowers. We dropped a small kedge and watched the sequel. Close to the water’s edge a pile of sandalwood had been prepared. Here the procession stopped, the litter—upon which lay the dead body—was carefully laid on tressles. Four of the party then led the nearest relative of the deceased person to the river, where he was bathed, anointed with perfumes, dressed in new white garments, and prepared for the sacrifice. During that time oil and perfumes, as well as flowers, had been placed on the pile of wood, the body of the dead placed reverently on the top, and actually covered with flowers. The chief mourner (being the next of kin) slowly approached the place. All those present knelt, with their heads touching the ground, whilst the chief mourner, with a lighted torch, set fire to the pyre at each corner, then at each centre. In an instant the flames encircled the body, and the mourners retired a short distance to recite the prayers for the dead. The sun had sunk below the horizon—a soft twilight alone remained. The glassy surface of the water reflected most accurately every line of The sight, however, had a depressing effect on our spirits that night, which did not escape the keen eye of our host. He made up his mind to dispel it, and accordingly, after dinner, improvised a musical entertainment, in which he himself took a leading part. Sitting at a magnificent grand piano, of exquisite tone and make, he played selections from all the best operas; sang French, Italian, German, and English music; and concluded by a serenade on the cornet, which he held in one hand while he accompanied on the piano with the other. At the conclusion he swerved quickly round on the piano-stool, saying— “What do you think of that for a Nigger?” Musical talent, however—besides a thorough knowledge of languages—are the least of the accomplishments of this young prince, who is barely out of his “teens.” Under the able Yet, strange to say, like all his countrymen, Dholpore has never been out of India—indeed, very seldom crossed the boundaries of his kingdom. It was with sincere regret that we had to end our stay at Dholpore; but our time was limited. Indeed, we were due at Bombay, and had several other invitations on the road, whilst, on the other hand, the season was getting on, when I did not think it wise to keep my people in the part of India where fever and ague was prevalent. After a most affectionate leave-taking from the Maharajah, Col. Deniehy, Goby Singh, and the other charming officers of the prince’s household, we steamed on the iron horse to Delhi, where we were not allowed to stay then, being met in that city by our good friend Sri-Ram, the able Prime Minister of the Maharajah of Ulwur, who was watching for our arrival, with orders to take us straight on to the house which had been prepared for us. THE present territory of the Ulwur State is 3024 square miles in extent, and contains a population of 800,000. These are all what are known in India as Rajputs, a warlike tribe, of handsome physique, great power of endurance, and a remarkably intelligent race. The city of Ulwur is in the very centre of the State. That city, as well as the whole State, have, under the able management of the present Maharajah, assisted by his Council, but, above all, by the great wisdom and statesmanship of Sri-Ram, assumed a degree of refinement and systematic government which might most advantageously be taken as an example by other Indian Principalities. Like his friend and neighbour Dholpore, the Maharajah of Ulwur is a young gentleman of barely twenty-two years, and although his education has not had the highly-refined European touch which Colonel Deniehy has imparted to Dholpore—having been from his cradle under Sri-Ram’s tutorship—he is far, far above the average of other native princes. Like his ancestors, he is a thorough Rajput in his looks, his military bearing, and warlike propensities. Besides his stud, his hunting gear, and other manly sports, his chief pastime is drilling his troops and keeping up his army in a thoroughly Knowing the sporting proclivities of Ulwur, we had not wasted much of our valuable time in the “field” elsewhere, and after some consultation with the Maharajah, drew up a programme of sports. The first on the list was one which now has become a thing of the past in Europe, viz., hawking. Here, however, birds are kept specially for this kind of amusement, and they are so admirably trained that one can spend hours watching the wonderful control the master has over his birds. The next chase on the feathery tribe, and a most extraordinary pastime of our host, is bird-catching with lynxes. The lynx, as everyone knows, is a half-link between the cat and the tiger, a most active quadruped, more especially when trained for the sport now witnessed here. The lynx is brought out tied to a small chain. The birds are kept in a box, with a spring trap. Pigeons are usually resorted to. The keeper loosens the collar of the lynx, but holds him, whilst the bird is thrown up in the air. Treacherous though he be by nature, the lynx never attempts to take an undue advantage of its prey. It allows a fair start, and seldom, if ever, tries to catch it before it is fairly on the wing, from twelve to sixteen feet from the ground. One The Maharajah’s great love for horseflesh naturally leads him to pay special care to his stud—Arabs, English, Pegu; indeed, every known breed is well and largely represented. The stables, which completely outshine even Her Majesty’s at Windsor Castle, are alone worthy of a trip to Ulwur. White marble loose boxes, with marble mangers and troughs, marble slabs over the doors, with gold inscriptions of name and pedigree, may perhaps convey some idea of the care that is taken of this valuable and extensive stud. Every horse has its own attendants, who live, eat, and sleep with the animal, whose instinct and intellect is so well under control that it obeys every word, every sign of its keeper. But, above all, the most remarkable feature is how thoroughly all these beautiful creatures know “the master.” By the bye, it may be worth mentioning here, that a whim of the Maharajah was to ride up to the top of his palace, where the zenana dwells. In order to be able to do so, the main staircase of the palace has been removed, and an inclined plane substituted, so that when His Highness goes “home,” instead of dismounting at the gate of the palace, he gallops up to the very door of the harem, where the groom in waiting takes charge of his horse, and leads it to the stables, until summoned by his master to lead it up again. As might naturally be inferred, His Highness is a good whip, and his love for the horse The other contrivance is more of an amphibious kind. It is a most elegant steam launch, built of polished mahogany, and most gorgeously fitted up. It rests on a cradle provided with four wheels. When bent on a fishing excursion, or inclined for a trip on one of the rivers—which are some distance from the city—His Highness and suite get into the cabin of this lovely yacht, ten or twelve powerful horses or a This craze for out-of-the-way modes of locomotion would be incomplete if I failed to state that during the Calcutta Exhibition one of the native princes, to whom the representative of Messrs. Fowler and Co. showed a traction road engine, was so struck with it that he at once purchased it, and now uses it occasionally as a steam carriage in his palace grounds. We had been promised a deer-hunt, and accordingly had to take an early breakfast next morning in order to reach the prairie in which these pretty creatures graze at daybreak, in the cool of the morning. When we came out of the bungalow we found what appeared like a monster circus troupe. In front of our verandah were carriages, horses, camels, elephants, bullock gharries, all harnessed or saddled, and in charge of some fifty or more attendants, all clad in the Maharajah’s livery. A note from His Highness explained that, being in doubt as to what mode of conveyance the ladies would prefer, he begged to send a “choice” for them to select from; but considering the distance we had to go, he would strongly recommend saddle horses, camels, or, better still, elephants. For the sake of novelty some of the boys mounted the camels. I joined the ladies, and the drivers, having made the elephants kneel, placed ladders on their flanks. We thus got into the “howdah,” a most gorgeously-ornamented apartment, built so as to be securely fixed on the huge animal’s back. When we had taken our seats, the driver (who sits on the neck The jungle we traversed was very dense—in some instances really grand. Although thickly populated with tigers, leopards, and other small vermin, we did not see or hear any. At last the timber grew thinner, and we reached a large open plain, to leeward of which we halted. A number of huntsmen had been sent the day before to scour the neighbourhood, and drive the deer gradually to this prairie, where they soon came, feeding and playing about, quite unconscious of impending danger. At the space where we had halted we found awaiting our arrival the hunters with the cheetah chained on a small hand-cart, apparently asleep; a leather mask was fastened round the brute’s head, entirely covering its eyes. When the herd of deer was quietly settled in the centre of the plain before us, two or three of This operation, in my opinion, is the most dangerous part of this kind of sport. It needs, not only a good deal of pluck, but also some management. The hunter—a naked Indian—carries a wooden bowl, a sharp knife, and the leather mask of the cheetah. While the carnivorous, blood-thirsty animal holds its prey, a sharp cut across the deer’s throat causes the blood to flow into the bowl; dropping the knife, but firmly holding the bowl, the native grasps the panther by the back of the neck, and forcing it to relinquish the deer, thrusts its nose into the hot blood; the mask is deftly fixed on, the deer skinned, the entrails and fore-quarters put near the bowl, so that the cheetah may find enough feed to divert its attention from the removal of the hind quarters, which were brought to our halting place, whilst the next cheetah was brought forward for another “slaughter of the innocents.” At the risk of again losing caste amongst sportsmen, I confess that while glad to have seen this deer-hunting once, I never wish to see it again. It is a pity to take such a mean advantage of a pretty, inoffensive creature, and bring to its resting place its deadly foe, to kill it without even a chance of escape. Fleet as the cheetah is, if it had neared the spot on the weather side, the deer would scent its approach, and then the longer leg would win the day. These are only a few amongst the many sports our genial host had provided for our amusement during the short stay we made at Ulwur. Every hour of our time was most fully employed driving, riding, or steaming, to visit this most admirably governed kingdom. One of the sights, however, which deserves special mention, is that of the Crown jewels, belonging to the hereditary prince. A vast, strong, fire-proof room in the palace has been fitted up with large Tann’s safes, reaching from floor to ceiling. A guard stands sentry night and day at the door of this chamber, the keys of which are in the keeping of two trustworthy members of the Government. In order that we may better inspect this wonderful and valuable collection of gems, a large table, covered with blue cloth, had been placed in the gallery facing the door, and seats provided round it. Our friend Sri-Ram asked the ladies which kind of precious stones they gave preference to. With true feminine acumen diamonds had the majority of votes. Several of the safes were opened; sliding trays, lined with purple velvet, were placed on the table, which at once glittered with most costly jewellery, On inquiry from Sri-Ram I was told that of course the Maharajah and his wives had in their private apartments, and for daily use, some of the most valuable gems; but what this strong room now held was computed to be worth close on a million sterling! To proceed in the usual course, going from the “sublime to the ridiculous,” we left this gem room, and descended into the vault of the palace, where the coin is kept. Vulgar and ridiculous though they might seem, next to the dazzling sight we had just left, the piles of bags containing gold mohurs, silver rupees, or four-anna pieces, were nevertheless very tempting. Ulwur is one of the few native princes to whom the British Government has granted the right of coinage, consequently he now issues coins of his own—with, of course, the Empress of India’s effigy. In this strong-room, however, we found many chests or sackfuls of ancient coins, and were permitted to annex a certain number of great antiquity—some bearing Whilst on the subject, which might prove of interest to archÆlogists, I will mention that one day while on a hunting expedition in the jungle between Dholpore and Ulwur, we came across a most interesting piece of antiquity in the shape of a bronze cannon—some twenty-five or thirty feet long, and, I should say, weighing several tons. The whole of this piece of ordnance represented a mythological animal something like a griffin—the mouth of the monster forming the muzzle of the gun, whilst its tail ended it. The whole length of the piece is covered with carvings or castings, intermingled with Arabic characters, which, I am sorry to say, I was not able to read. When I mentioned this “find” to the Prince (Dholpore), he told me that his people were aware of the existence of this gun, but no one could say how it came there, though, from some ruins in the neighbourhood, it is evident that at some early period a fort or a city must have existed in the locality. I regretted very much that time did not allow of my pushing my enquiry further. But it is evident that this gun, which showed great artistic beauty, a perfect knowledge of “powder,” and the use of the appliances in boring metal, must have been manufactured some thousands of years ago, the Arabic characters being quite identical with those I find on the coins given to me by the Maharajah of Ulwur, which bear dates many centuries anterior to the Christian era. While so much time and so much money are spent in searching the ruins of Pompeii, Herculanum, Our holiday tour was drawing to a close. The time for sailing from Bombay did not permit of our going to Hyderabad, as we had promised the Nizam to do. We returned to Delhi, and after a short but interesting visit through old Delhi, started direct from Bombay, finding most comfortable quarters at the Waverley Hotel. Whilst Calcutta is essentially an Indian city, Bombay justly claims to be in many respects more European, owing doubtless to its Portuguese origin—the very name, both of the province as well as its metropolitan city, being quite Portuguese—“Bom Bahia”—which in that country’s language means “good harbour,” as that of Bombay most undeniably is. This great mercantile centre, inhabited by nearly three-quarters of a million of people of all nationalities and creeds, has quite a distinctive aspect from any of the other Indian cities, owing, no doubt, to the fact that the town is built on what at one time was an island, which therefore cannot possibly extend in area. The houses are constructed in numerous flats, most of these dwellings being six, seven, and eight stories high. A large majority of the inhabitants, principally in the trading community, are Parsees, a most thrifty, intelligent race, in whose hands the commerce, banking, &c., are placed. This being one of the great Parsee centres, these people have their temples, and what they term the “Tower of Silence,” which is the place where the Parsees dispose of their dead. Unlike both Christians, Buddhists, and Mahomedans, they avoid burial, cremation, or committing the dead to the sacred waters of the Ganges. This Tower of Silence is a structure standing over a deep vault, the summit being an iron grating, upon which the body is deposited high up in the air. The birds of prey which flock around this charnel house soon dispose of the flesh, leaving the bones, when decayed, to fall through the grating into the fosse at the foot of the tower. There is something terrible in the idea of one’s body being handed over as food for loathsome condors, hawks, and crows, but this is intensified when such things happen as that which occurred whilst I was in Bombay. Madame Follet, the wife of the French Consul in Bombay, was driving home in her open carriage, and when passing near this Tower of Silence, an Ærial fight was raging between several birds, for what appeared to be some particular “tit-bit,” the holder of which dropped the object in the carriage. Horrible to say—it was the forearm and small hand of an infant! I think, after all, that cremation is preferable to this mode of disposing of the dead. In Bombay, like in other Indian cities, the people do not seem to take much heed of either cholera or smallpox. On one occasion, whilst strolling through the bazaar, I came across a gathering of natives. In forcing my way amongst the crowd, I saw a man writhing in |
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