Calcutta, the City of the Black Venus, Kali.—The River Hoogley.—Cremation-Towers.—Chowringee, the Fashionable Suburb of Calcutta.—The Black Hole.—Battles of Plassey and Assaye.—The Brahmo-Somaj.—Temple of Kali.—Feast of Juggurnath.—Benares and the Taj Mahal.

After eight or nine days' steaming from the fair and picturesque island of Bombay our captain announced that we were about to enter the Hoogley, a river made famous in Indian song and story as "the strong arm of the beautiful goddess Gunga, the compassionate daughter of the proud HimÂlayas," but which is in reality a great muddy estuary. The burning sun poured down upon its heavy waters as they loomed out of the distant plain and rolled sluggishly toward the sea, every wave seeming to bear on its troubled brow an impress of the dark history of the land through which it has flowed for centuries.

Late in the same evening the pilot-boat came out to meet us, and not long after we cast anchor at a place called Saugor, where there is a lighthouse. I remember distinctly the oppressive night we passed here, owing no doubt to the combined impurities rising out of the turbid waves and the fetid odors of the adjoining land. Early next morning we were again in motion, sailing up the dusky Hoogley. Its low, muddy banks were dotted with wretched-looking mud huts, relieved only by the ever-graceful palm trees that waved above them. What a contrast this river was to the clear, limpid, and joyous Krishna, the high-banked and proudly isolated Godaveri, the genial, broad-breasted Taptee, and the grand, impetuous Vishwamitra of Western India!

Another day was nearly gone before we reached our moorings. We cast anchor once more amid a dense forest of masts, funnels, and native craft in the harbor of Calcutta. We were met at the Champhool Ghaut, or landing-place, by kind friends. Ascending a magnificent flight of stone steps and passing under a great archway, we hurried into a European carriage, and were driven rapidly from the strange conflicting mass of humanity that always abounds at a great seaport, but especially at the seaports of all the British settlements in India.

The house of our friends here was in many respects furnished like a European dwelling, and one might almost fancy himself in an English home but for the pillared halls; the spacious chambers, with long punkahs or fans suspended from the ceilings, some of which are kept going night and day; the dark, silent barefooted domestics, robed in pure white, who are seen gliding noiselessly to and fro, which lend a powerful magic charm, a flavor of the Arabian Nights, to the interior of even the most ordinary of British homes in the East.

Calcutta, the capital of British India, still bears the name of the black goddess Kali, who is supposed to spread pestilence, famine, and death over the land of which she is the presiding deity whenever her altars are neglected and her thirst for vengeance unappeased. Unhealthy as the spot is, it was rendered infinitely more so by the innumerable corpses that were until within a few years cast upon the waters of the Hoogley: the poverty-stricken inhabitants of the land, unable to pay the expenses of a funeral by cremation, committed their dead to these waters in the belief that its mystic current would purify them from all taint of sin. This, however, has been prohibited by the British authorities. Huge cremation-towers now receive all bodies cast upon its waters, whence the never-dying flames are seen constantly ascending, dark and lurid, toward the tranquil blue sky.

The town of Calcutta lies on the eastern bank of the Hoogley, which is the eastern arm of the old Ganges, and held almost as sacred as that river; the natives daily repair in great numbers to its banks to offer up prayers and praises. Here also, amid the din and noise and hurry of native craft, trading vessels, and all manner of river commerce, may be seen at any hour of the day or night the sick and dying of the Hindoo population stretched on the edge of the river's banks, half immersed in the sacred stream, their faces turned to the sky, convulsed or calm, breathing their lives away.

At high water the Hoogley is nearly a mile broad in front of the town, and is very pleasant to look upon. Fine ships and steamers of all nations and countries lie here within sight and sound; picturesque-looking craft of every kind are seen gliding swiftly hither and thither. But at low water the scene suddenly changes; the river becomes a shrunken and muddy ghost of itself, with filthy borders, whence myriad floating particles of miasma are wafted on the air to the poor humanity who are doomed to live and labor in its vicinity.

After passing the triumphal archway you emerge on a spacious open area called the MeidÂn, or plain; here all the principal roads part and meet, and here on either side one sees a grand display of really stately architecture. This is the handsome and fashionable suburb of Chowringee, and in every respect worthy of being called, as it is, "the City of Palaces." The houses are all European, three and four stories high, some detached, others connected by handsome terraces or open sunny balconies, many with shady verandahs, high carriage-porches supported by stately pillars, while not a few are rendered still more attractive and home-like with gay flower-gardens and fine forest and fruit trees, which latter are not as fine as those found in the gardens of Bombay, owing to the destructive influence of the periodical cyclones that sweep over the valley of the Ganges.

Our first drive was through this the European part of the city, which extends about five miles along the river. A noble and much-frequented esplanade divides the town from Fort William. On one side stands the new Government-house, said to have been erected by the marquis of Wellesley. It is a noble pile, an Ionic structure on a simple rustic basement. A flight of stone steps leads to the north entrance. The south part of the building is ornamented with a circular colonnade surmounted with a lofty dome. There are spacious corridors at each of the four corners, with circular passages leading to the private apartments of the family. This princely building contains magnificent chambers, some of which are richly decorated and filled with valuable portraits of the great viceroys of India. Near the Government-house stand the Town-hall, Treasury, and High Court; opposite is Fort William, commenced by Clive soon after the famous battle of Plassey in 1775, the most systematically-constructed fortress in India. It is said to have cost the East India Company the immense sum of one million pounds sterling. In shape it is an irregular octagon, with bombproof quarters for a garrison of no less than ten thousand men and with room for six hundred pieces of cannon. Toward the front it presents a regular massive appearance, and is not unlike most European fortifications, but on the side overlooking the river it is strikingly varied and picturesque, owing to the extremely irregular and broken character of the structure. It was designed to bear upon objects that might approach the town on either side of the river, and is eminently effective in warding off danger. Immediately beyond the fort the fine steeple of the cathedral is seen rising pure and high above the surrounding foliage. There is also here a palatial residence for an Anglican bishop, and in 1844 the Rev. H. Heber was the first Christian divine appointed to this see, with a salary of five thousand pounds per annum.

Here in this spot is found the secret of the marvellous success of that small band of intelligent Englishmen who first set out for India under the name and protection of trade. Here only a few years after their arrival they laid aside their intention of simple traders; here they mounted their guns, enrolled armed bands of natives to assist them in their new position, made laws, punished evil-doers, rewarded the industrious and such as made no opposition to their pretensions; and here from one step to another they finally became the legislators and rulers of the land. The city of Calcutta does not date farther back than the famous battle of Plassey. The old fortified English factory was erected on a low marshy plain in the middle of a few straggling native villages, bordered on three sides by dense jungles infested with tigers. At that time it had a garrison of only three hundred men; nevertheless, that insignificant English stronghold became in a short time the depository of all the rich merchandise of the Gangetic valley, which excited the cupidity of many of the rajahs. In 1756, Nawab Surajah Dowlah attacked it with an immense army, and after a desperate resistance from the English merchants and soldiers of the fort he finally succeeded in capturing it. Then followed the famous Black Hole tragedy, which Macaulay has so graphically described: "One hundred and forty-six persons were thrust into a dungeon twenty feet square; driven into this cell at the point of the sword, the door was shut ruthlessly upon them. When they realized the horrors of their position they strove to burst the door. They offered large bribes to the jailers, but all in vain. The nawab was asleep, and none dared to awaken him. At length the unhappy sufferers went mad with despair. They trampled each other down, fought for the places at the windows, fought for the pittance of water with which the cruel mercy of the murderers mocked their agonies, raved, prayed, blasphemed, implored the guards to fire among them. The jailers in the mean time held lights to the bars and shouted with laughter at the frantic struggles of their victims. At length the tumult died away in low gaspings and moanings. The day broke. The nawab had slept off his debauch, and permitted the doors to be opened. But it was some time before the soldiers could make a lane for the survivors by piling up on each side the heaps of corpses on which the burning climate had already begun to do its loathsome work. When at length a passage was made, twenty-three ghastly figures, such as their own mothers would not have known, staggered one by one out of the charnel-house. A pit was instantly dug. The dead bodies, one hundred and twenty-three in number, were flung into it promiscuously and covered up." Such was the terrible nature of the affair of the Black Hole. But the day of retribution was not far distant.

In order to understand the position of the East India Company at this time we must go back a few years. The jealousy that had sprung up between the French and English trading companies broke out into open hostilities at the moment of the declaration of war by Louis XV. in 1744. The English were the first to receive reinforcements from home. Four English vessels, having previously captured three richly-laden French vessels on their voyage from China, appeared off the coast of Coromandel in July, 1745. Dupleix, the governor at Pondicherry, apprehensive that, owing to the incomplete state of the fortifications and the insufficient garrison, the place would be taken, prevailed on the nawab Anwar Ou Deen to threaten to revenge upon the English at Madras any injury that the squadron should inflict upon the French possessions within the limits of his government. The Madras officials, intimidated by the authoritative language of the nawab, took immediate measures to prevent the English fleet from attacking Pondicherry. The English squadron, in obedience to the orders received, confined their hostile operations to the sea.

In the following year an indecisive action took place between the English squadron and a French fleet under the command of La Bourdonnais; after which the latter, having reinforced himself at Pondicherry, proceeded to attack the English at Madras. The town was bombarded for several days; a few of the inhabitants were killed by an explosion of a bombshell. The English, knowing that the nawab, with all his countless forces, was on the side of the French, capitulated, on which the assailants entered the town and took it without the loss of a single life.

Robert Clive, then only a writer in the East India Company's service, was among the persons who agreed to submit to La Bourdonnais, on the express condition that the settlement should be restored on easy and honorable terms. At the time when Madras had reverted to the English, Clive had already exchanged the pen for the sword, and had risen to the rank of a colonel in the East India Company's service. On hearing of the atrocity of the Black Hole the English at Madras immediately despatched a naval and military force, the one under Admiral Watson, and the other under Colonel Clive, to punish the nawab and protect the English at Bengal.

The bravery and "duplicity" of Clive, who believed in the adage, "similia similibus curantur," enabled him to succeed beyond the most sanguine expectations. Victory was followed by victory, and at length, at the battle of Plassey, Clive at the head of three thousand men, of whom less than one-third were English, and in the course of a single hour's conflict, routed the entire army of Surajah Dowlah, consisting of fifty-five thousand armed men. Surajah Dowlah vanquished and deposed, his prime minister, Meer Jaffer, was appointed in the place of the master, whom he had not only deserted, but betrayed, and thus Meer Jaffer became at once the subject and tool of the English.

The directors of the East India Company, on receiving the news of Clive's success, appointed him governor of their possessions in Bengal, and in 1760 Clive was raised to the peerage with an income of forty thousand pounds a year.

Warren Hastings was the next Englishman who from the position of a clerk in an office at Calcutta rose to be the governor-general of British India.

The kingdom of Mysore, whose lofty table-lands are swept by the cool breezes of the Indian Ocean, has always been inhabited by a more hardy and manly race than that which occupied the lower plains of Hindostan. Hyder Alee, an illiterate common soldier, impelled by a daring spirit of adventure, seized this kingdom of Mysore and seated himself on the throne of Seringapatam. The next step taken by this daring adventurer was even more startling. In the month of June, 1780, and when in his eightieth year, he led an immense army into the Carnatic, carrying slaughter and destruction wherever he appeared. Two small English armies, headed by Colonel Baillie and Sir Hector Munro, tried in vain to check his course; they were not only overwhelmed, but compelled to retreat, and it seemed as if the British empire in Southern India trembled on the very verge of destruction. It was this critical juncture that brought out the great genius of Warren Hastings. He at once took upon himself the supreme direction of affairs, superseded the incapable council at Madras, and without loss of time despatched the brave veteran Sir Eyre Coote with a small but resolute force to the assistance of the English at Madras. At once the forces of Hyder Alee were checked, siege after siege was raised, until at length the English and Mohammedan armies met on the plains of Cuddalore, whence, after a desperate fight, the latter was driven in wild and disorderly confusion. Hyder Alee died two years after this defeat, bequeathing to his son, the famous Tippoo Saihib, his throne and his hatred of English domination.

Very shortly after Warren Hastings, impeached by the House of Commons, resigned his office as governor-general of India. Then followed that famous trial which not only extended over seven years, but, when dismissed from the bar of the House of Lords, left Warren Hastings a ruined statesman and an insolvent debtor. The East India Company, however, came to his aid with an annuity of £4000 a year, and a loan, half of which was converted into a gift, of £50,000.

During the administration of the next governor-general, Lord Cornwallis, the implacable Tippoo Saihib suffered a signal defeat. Sir John Shore followed Lord Cornwallis, and was succeeded by the earl of Mornington, the elder brother of the "Iron Duke." He no sooner arrived in India than his attention was called to the intrigues of the French with Tippoo Saihib, who were planning, with the assistance of fresh European troops, to drive the English out of Hindostan. The treachery of Tippoo was anticipated by a declaration of war. On the 5th of March, 1798, a British army, commanded by General Harris, with the aid of several native powers, entered the territory of Mysore, stormed the city of Seringapatam, overthrew the dynasty of Tippoo Sultan, and annexed that magnificent province to the British dominions.

The British had no sooner gained possession of the lofty table-lands of the Mysore than a new and more formidable enemy, the warlike and predatory tribes who inhabited the table-land of the Deccan, opposed their further progress. The most renowned of these kings, the rajahs of Berar, Scindia, and Holkar, formed the famous northern confederacy under the leadership of a still more powerful chief, the Peishwa, whose government was at Poonah, the capital of the Deccan. The British were soon plunged into an extensive war with these wild and fierce northmen. On the 4th of September, 1803, the fort of Alleghur was taken by storm, and on the 11th of the same month General Lake met twenty thousand of these intrepid warriors, headed by able French officers, and defeated them, capturing Delhi, one of the most ancient capitals of Hindostan and the seat of the intolerant and luxurious Mohgul emperors. Triumph followed triumph; Agra, Ahmednug-gur, and the golden city of AurungabÂd surrendered.

At length the united powers of Scindia and the rajah of Nagpoor made one more desperate attempt to oppose the English power in the Deccan. The armies of the Mahratta kings were marshalled at the small village of Assaye to meet the British troops. On ascending the rising ground to reconnoitre the enemy's forces, the English commander, who was no other than General Wellesley, perceived a vast host extending in a line along the opposite bank of the Kelnah River near its junction with the Jewah. Their right consisted entirely of cavalry, and their left was formed of infantry trained and disciplined by De Boigne, with over one hundred pieces of cannon, which rested on the fortified village of Assaye. These were completely overthrown by Wellesley with a force not exceeding eight thousand men, and of whom not more than fifteen hundred were English.

The power of the Mahratta kings, once shaken at Assaye, was at length completely humbled on the plains of Argaum. They were compelled to sue for peace, which was only granted them at the expense of enormous territory. From this time British influence became paramount through the whole of Northern Hindostan, and these were the last and most famous of General Wellesley's conquests in India. He returned to England in 1805 to win for himself greater fame than even that which he achieved on Indian soil.

Magnificent as is the city of Calcutta architecturally, it was considered at one time one of the most unhealthy of spots. The entire country is flat; here and there are extensive muddy lakes, breeding under a tropical sun malaria and all manner of diseases; a line of dank, tangled forests still stretch across the land, and is not very distant from the town. In former times this jungle was the abode of innumerable wild beasts, and it is even now infested with jackals, who immediately after nightfall howl in sudden accord, uttering the most demon-like yells. These local disadvantages have been partially removed. The streets have been well and carefully drained; many of the stagnant, muddy pools have not only been filled up, but converted into blooming gardens; and the magnificent Botanical Garden with which Mr. Hooker has enriched Calcutta, is said by good judges to be the finest in the world. Nevertheless, the air is still impregnated to a certain extent with the impure exhalations arising from the low jungles in the vicinity of this city, called the Sunderbunds.

From the palaces of the conquering Anglo-Indians the drive to the "Black Town," as the native portion of the city is still called, is enough to discourage the most enthusiastic of Christians in the world. This quarter of Calcutta stretches for some miles toward the north, presenting at once a sad contrast to the stately and grand portion occupied by the English. The transition is all the more marked because of the architectural pretensions of the one and the rude mud habitations of the other. Here reside at least three-fourths of the entire population of Calcutta. The streets are more or less narrow, filthy, unpaved, and unswept. The houses are built principally of mud, bamboo, or other coarse woods, swarming with an excess of population. Within this wretched vicinity are found no less than twenty entire bazaars extending from one end of the "Black Town" to the other, well stocked with goods from all parts of the world, rare and valuable products of the Indian loom, shawls and paintings from Cashmere, kinkaubs from Benares, teas and silks from China, spices, pearls, and precious stones from Ceylon, rupees from Pegu, coffee from Java and Arabia, nutmegs from Singapore; in fact, everything that the wide world has ever produced is displayed in shops that are nothing but miserably patched mud or bamboo dwellings. Through these native bazaars the teeming population seemed to flow and gurgle unchanged through all changes of governors, constitutions, and rulers—the same to-day, in type, character, feeling, religion, and occupation, as it was before the beginning of the earliest known history. Here, assembled from the four winds of the heaven, were all the elements of an unspeakably motley crowd—nut-brown, graceful Hindoo maidens tripping daintily with rows of water-jars nicely balanced on their heads; dark-hued young Hindoo men, all clean and washed, robed in pure white, laughing, talking, or loitering around; handsomely-dressed baboos—as the native gentlemen of Bengal are called—in Oriental costumes, but with European stockings and shoes, sauntering carelessly along; dancing-girls brilliantly attired; common street-women jewelled and bedizened with innumerable trinkets and in their distinctive garb; bheesties with water-skins on their backs; Borahs, brokers, Brahmans, Musulmans, sepoys, fakeers, and gossains, in their peculiar costumes, shouting in manifold tongues and various dialects; and, above all, there may be seen strolling jugglers, snake-charmers, and fortune-tellers plying their curious arts and completing the picture of an Oriental bazaar.

In some of the streets a small stream of water, a rivulet of the sacred Ganges, flows bright and clear through artificial channels. Many of the native shops open on it, and all day long hosts of men, women, and children may be seen seated beside it, busy or idle, but always grateful for this truly precious gift of the gods.

Calcutta boasts of a Sanskrit college of high repute, a Mohammedan, and an Anglo-Indian college, supported by the English government. The College of Fort William, founded by the marquis of Wellesley, is chiefly used by Englishmen, who, having been partially educated at the College of Haylesbury, England, are instructed here in the Oriental languages and other branches of study necessary for their respective professions and callings in India.

The government system of native education was established on the foundation of the Hindoo schools already in existence. These schools are divided into two classes or grades, the upper and lower schools. In the upper, by means of Sanskrit, the peculiar philosophy, literature, and religion of the Hindoos are taught; the lower schools are to be found in every village, and may be numbered by tens of thousands; in these the teaching varies and is more or less dependent on the ability of the persons—i. e. Brahmans—who are employed to teach. Most of these village teachers are induced for about six pounds per annum to attend a normal school for a year; after having passed the required examination they are invited to take charge of some village school.

There are eight great centres of education in British India, and each is wholly independent of the others. These are the three great presidencies of Bengal, Madras, and Bombay, Scindh, the North-western Provinces, Oude, the Central Provinces, and British Burmah. Each of these has its own special director of public instruction, with a staff of inspecting officers. Among the institutions that are wholly supported by the government may be classed the village school, in which the vernacular of the district is taught with a few other studies; the zillah, or district school, in which the higher classes are often educated in English and prepared for the universities; the talook schools, which also are preparatory schools; colleges with European professors, in which a thorough English education is imparted to the students, as are now found in the chief cities of Benares, Delhi, Agra, Lahore, Poonah, Madras, and Calcutta; and the Elphinstone College at Bombay. Normal schools, technical colleges for medicine, engineering, and surgery, mission and other private schools abound, besides which there are thousands of purely native schools scattered throughout the vast territory of India, still existing under the old Brahmanic village system of education.

Native female education is hardly begun by the government, and the task is very difficult, owing to the peculiar social restraints still imposed on the better class of Asiatic women. The Parsee female schools in Bombay are said to be the best supported and the most efficient in this respect. About twenty-five years ago Mr. Bethune opened in the city of Calcutta a school for native women. It was liberally supported by Lord Dalhousie, and since his death by the state. This was the beginning of a movement which has found great favor not only in Bengal, but in the North-western Provinces and the Punjaub. There are now in Bengal two normal schools for teachers and two hundred and forty-four schools for girls, with 4844 pupils. There are no fewer than six hundred and fifty schools in the Punjaub, with an aggregate of 20,534 pupils. These elementary schools in the Punjaub, Lahore, and Umritsur are superintended solely by native gentlemen. In addition to these the zenana mission-work, carried on so successfully by American and European missionary ladies, is slowly but surely preparing hundreds of women and children for a day that may ripen into better things; like a grain of mustard-seed once cast into the right soil, it will stretch out strong boughs to the four corners of the earth for the birds to lodge under.

Another school of religious thought, already mentioned, called the Brahmo-Somaj, "assembled in the name of God," is even more closely allied with the dawning freedom and emancipation of the Hindoos from the priestcraft and spiritual tyranny of the Brahman hierarchy. From this new school of religious thought a large party of about five thousand souls seceded some few years ago. They chose for their leader the able and astute philosopher, the late Keshub Chunder Sen, one of the most talented and spiritual men among the Hindoos of to-day. This association has a church in Calcutta, where the members meet once a week or oftener for the purposes of meditation and worship.

Various means of improvement are now open to the British subjects of India. The English residents in Calcutta, Madras, and Bombay are among the most kind and liberal people in the world. Quite independent of the government establishments, they privately support a vast number of charitable institutions, and there is no end of societies for religious and other educational objects; and although the changes effected in the religious and social condition of the majority of the peoples since the occupation of India by the British are hardly perceptible, nevertheless some very important steps have been taken toward ensuring the good of the people at large, especially in the prohibition of sutteeism, infanticide, the terrific sacrifice of life that at one time characterized the festival of the god Juggernath, not to speak of the tortures of maddened fanatics and self-condemned ascetics, the horrible practices of the Thugs and that of the Meriahs of Orissa. All these savage practices are more or less repressed by the constant and vigilant operation of protective laws instituted by the British rulers.

Before leaving Calcutta we paid a visit to the Khali Ghaut, and alighted before a great hall with a towering but ungainly roof above it. This was the famous temple of the black goddess Kali. There was something more entangled, enchanted, and demon-like about this building and its interior than any other that I had ever entered in India. It was the festival of Juggernath. A number of white-robed priests were preparing to place the grim goddess in a car and to lead her forth to grace the festival. The temple consisted of a vast number of low pillars; it was dimly lighted, and, although light was flooding the earth everywhere in great splendor, it was not allowed to enter here, but it worked its way hither and thither and quivered dubiously in unearthly tints on the face of the black goddess dimly visible in the distance. A more hideous and repulsive image can hardly be conceived by the heart of man than this veritable female fiend after whom the city of Calcutta is still named.

No one seemed to object to our entering the temple, so we walked down the dim aisles and stood face to face with the grim and terrible Kali. It would be impossible to give utterance to the sense of horror that crept over me as I looked at this strange, enigmatic deity of the Bengalees. The black face was surmounted by long hair which had the appearance of innumerable serpents; a red tongue protruded from the hideous mouth; the expression of the eyes was strange and fierce, almost to madness; she was furnished with four arms, in one of which she grasped a knife and in the other the head of a man; in another pair of hands higher up she held a lotos and the chakra, or the wheel. Round her neck hung the skulls of murdered victims, and she stood on the body of a prostrate man, who is represented trumpeting forth her praises even while she is in the act of crushing him to death.

The pundit explained to us the meaning of this horrible figure; no further text was needed. This grim idol is to the Hindoos a fearful warning against sensuality. The lotos in the upper hand, which is the emblem of purity, and the wheel of retribution, are transformed in the lower hands into a knife and a bleeding human head. She puts out her tongue derisively, and crushes her victim—all indicating, as plainly as our Bible, "The wages of sin is death." Human sacrifices were offered to her at no very remote period, but now, by order of the British government, the sacrifices to her are limited to goats and kids, which are offered to her every morning.

As we were standing and looking at this strange idol, a number of barefooted priests came through a narrow court, entered the temple, and took their places beside the shrine. Two men very handsomely dressed approached from an opposite direction bearing a fine goat, which was tied by the feet, and laid it at the foot of the altar. Then one of the priests took from the altar a vase containing some red paint mixed with oil, with which he touched the forehead, fore feet, and breast of the goat; he then sprinkled some consecrated water on it. This done, a low-caste man stepped up, took the poor palpitating beast, inserted its head into a curiously-fashioned guillotine, secured it there by means of a wooden pin, and then dealt it one blow; the head was severed, and was presented to the officiating priests, and the executioner carried away the body. Such offerings are made by both men and women as an atonement for personal offences. Thus the wrath of the black goddess of Calcutta is supposed to be appeased. Goats are also sacrificed to her by Hindoo women when they have had bad dreams or when they anticipate any calamity, in order to avert the coming evil.

On the next day was the procession of Juggernath. A wilder and more incongruous scene I never witnessed. We spent several hours in watching the procession, which, issuing from the native town, traverses a large circuit round the principal thoroughfares, pauses at the bank of the river, and then retires to the country-seat of the idol, some few miles from the temple. The idol is made of wood, is about six feet high, with a grim human countenance—very unlike the carvings of Krishna to be found in other parts of India—painted blue, and seated in a lofty chariot borne aloft on sixteen high wheels. It was drawn by long ropes held by thousands of enthusiastic men, women, and children, who often bribe the priests for the privilege of conducting the god to his country-house. A number of priests and gayly-dressed priestesses, standing on the platform of the chariot, chanted the praises of the "lord of life," while the people shouted, screamed, and clapped their hands amid the wild beating of drums and din of hundreds of native musical instruments. The air was heavy with the incense offered to the idol, while nature around seemed to be steeped in repose, myriads of bees murmured softly their idyllic hum among the wayside flowers, doves were seen nestling together among the shady leaves of huge pepul trees, and around the cool recesses of huge tanks and reservoirs numbers of peacocks sat or strutted quietly about, unfurling their glories to the noonday sun. More puzzling than even the festival of Juggernath is the curious state of things still existing in British India, for side by side with the Church of the Brahmo-Somaj, the advanced thought and intelligence of the educated baboos and other highly philosophic and cultivated natives of Bengal, are the temples of the goddess Kali and the strange festival of Juggernath.

With regard to European influence, it must be admitted that it is hardly, if at all, felt by the majority of the native population. The viceroy and the great English grandees are separated from the natives for whose interests they are there by law and custom which nothing can overcome, and the officials around whom the whole Indian empire revolves are often ignorant of the Indian languages, races, religious and social prejudices, and mode of life of the hundreds of provinces that lie within the railways, while those beyond are to them, as the wilds of Africa, an undiscovered country. I have often heard gentlemen of great intelligence in other respects speak of the people of India with profound contempt, classing in one indistinguishable mass Brahmans, Hindoos, Parsees, Mohammedans, Arabians, Persians, Armenians, Turks, Jews, and other races too numerous to mention.

Our next visit was to Benares, the far-famed ecclesiastical metropolis of Hindostan. We rested full two hours just outside this sacred spot to enable our pundit to perform the prescribed observances before entering this holy of holies. When he appeared before us he was bathed, shaved, anointed, and clothed in pure white, and even to his sandals he was a new man. He kept his eyes half closed, so that his thoughts should not be tempted to stray from the object of his deep contemplation. Presently we were joined by a crowd of pilgrims who passed into the city, some prostrating themselves full length as they drew near. In the morning light Benares presented a most imposing appearance: the buildings are lofty and mostly in the Hindoo style of architecture, stretching for several miles along the edge of the Ganges, from which ascends a long line of stone steps. Next morning we visited several of the Hindoo temples, especially the temple of the monkeys, which was one of the most ludicrous I have ever witnessed. A number of tame monkeys played about the temple even while the most solemn services were being performed within. The large area for the cremation of dead bodies sent hither from all parts of Hindostan was the most astonishing thing I have ever seen, and the huge funeral pyres ever burning here produced on my mind an ever-memorable effect. We were glad to turn our steps from the revolting sights and scenes of the cremation-ground to a beautiful mosque which stands as a symbol of Moslem power in the very heart of this Brahmanic city, towering up above the surrounding buildings on the site of a once magnificent Hindoo temple which was torn down, by the order of Aurungzebe, to give place to the present graceful structure. We remained for an hour or more within the walls of this mosque, and came away charmed with the glistening mosaics, the capitals of the columns, the vaults, ceilings, and arches, and the thousand and one mysterious optical illusions of light and shade caused by the wonderous architecture of the Moslems. Our next visit was to the Hindoo Sanskrit College, the most famous institution of learning in Hindostan, and well worth seeing. The students often assemble here at sunrise, and even after sunset, to continue their studies, and in no part of India do I remember meeting so many noble-looking young Hindoos as were assembled in these halls on the morning of our visit.

The Munikurnika Ghat—One of the Burning Ghats of Benares.

From Benares we made a long and tedious dÂhk-journey—i. e. by changing horses at different stations—to Agra, in the upper plains of India. The country we passed through was beautiful. The picturesque native villages of immemorial antiquity, their names, their fields, their hereditary offices and occupations, have come down to them out of a dim past and through countless generations, and everywhere we saw fields of millet and wheat, the flaming poppy, and the tall luscious sugar-cane plantations; cream-colored, dreamy-looking oxen moving sleepily about in the fields or drawing water from the wells and tanks; men, women, and children basking under the shade of huge trees or bathing languidly in the cool tanks, giving one the feeling of passing through dreamland.

The great sight of sights at Agra, as every one now knows, is the famous Taj-Mahal, and hither we repaired the morning after our arrival; and I must confess, though I had heard of it and read the many elaborate descriptions of it, I had no idea of its matchless beauty till I stood under its roof surrounded by its pillars and walls. It would take pages to describe the wonderful outlines of the windows, the ornaments of the walls, arches, domes, and minarets, or even the exquisite carvings and arabesques of a single frieze; so that I will not attempt here what has already been so often done. The impression left on the mind is very deep and solemn. When I first caught sight of the Taj through the noble gateway at the entrance to the grounds, I experienced feelings of mingled awe and wonder, which increased in proportion as we examined it more closely. Even the enormous platform on which the Taj stands is of white marble, inlaid with precious stones, and all the lower parts outside of the building are also most elaborately and tastefully carved. The dome is perfect in its proportions of pure white marble, with an exquisite minaret of gold. In the centre is the tomb of Noor Mahal, also called by her proper name, Mamtaz Mahal, the favorite wife and queen of Shah Jehan, built to her memory two centuries ago. Above the tomb is a mass of the most delicate inlaid work, and the screen-like wall which surrounds it is entirely composed of leaves and all sorts of flowers containing innumerable precious stones. The echoes of our voices produced the most wonderful reverberations, impossible to imagine or adequately describe. We visited the Taj also by moonlight, and found it a hundred-fold more enchanting. The gardens in which it stands are purely Oriental, and recalled to my mind many passages from the old Persian poets. There are lovely white marble fountains and tanks and promenades with inviting seats here and there for rest, while a profusion of fragrant flowers, shrubs, and the dark silent cypresses which stand like muffled mourners around the monument add a pathetic beauty to the lovely spot.

Having seen the Taj, there was nothing left to do but to return to the "Aviary" on Malabar Hill.

And now, as I close these brief sketches of life and travel in India, the romance, antiquity, the song, and story still stir the memory with the powerful enchantment of a land where all nature seems to lie dreaming in its glory of perpetual sunshine, warmth, and color.

THE END.