ROUS PETER’S SACRED DOOR
Among the many objects of interest in the temple one of the quaintest was adoordedicated to a former Collector called Rous Peter. He used to worship Minachi in order to obtain any money that he wanted from the Pagoda Treasury for the repair of the roads and other public purposes.
After his death the Brahmins placed him among their devils, and used to light little lamps round the door in his honour. A devil was quite as much respected as a beneficent deity, indeed it was even more necessary to keep him in a good humour. Mr. Peter unfortunately did not always distinguish between his own and the public funds and finally poisoned himself.
He had a great friend, one Colonel Fisher, who married a native woman, and he and Peter were buried side by side near the Pagoda. Colonel Fisher’s family were, however, not satisfied with this semi-heathen arrangement and later on built a Christian church destined to include their remains. There was some little difficulty with the Christian authorities about this, but ultimately it was amicably settled. When we were at Madura a screen behind the altar shut off from the rest of the church the part where they were buried, to which the natives came with garlands to place on Peter’s tomb.
As is well known, such semi-deification of Europeans who had captivated Indian imagination was not uncommon. We heard of a colonel buried in another part of the Presidency on whose grave the natives offered brandy and cheroots as a fitting tribute to his tastes.
A twenty-three hours’ journey brought us back to Madras on the afternoon of December 16th. We had greatly enjoyed our few days in the new world of Southern India, and were impressed with the hold that the Hindu faith still had on the population.
During the whole of our stay at Madras Lord Connemara and his staff made every effort for our enjoyment. Mr. Rees (Private Secretary) was especially kind in arranging that I should see, not only the Public Museums and other Institutions, but also some of the private houses to which Europeans were not generally admitted. Among the excellent representatives of the British Government were the Minister of Education, Mr. Grigg, and Mrs. Grigg. Madras owes much to them both—the native girls particularly to Mrs. Grigg. Their son, who acted as one of Lord Connemara’s pages at the Investiture of the Maharajah of Travancore, is now Sir Edward Grigg, whose knowledge of the Empire has been invaluable to the Prince of Wales, and who is now Secretary to the Prime Minister.
One of the most prominent educational institutions at Madras was the Scottish Free Church Mission which had a College for boys and Schools for girls of different castes. These included some Christians, but there was no claim to any large number of conversions. All scholars learnt to read the Bible, and no doubt a good system of morality was inculcated. I believe that had we gone to Trichinopoly we should have foundmany more Christians. It is much easier to convert pariahs and low-caste natives, numerous in Southern India, than those of the higher castes, who have to give up social position and worldly advantage if they change their faith. Lord Connemara often received very amusing correspondence. One letter was from a luckless husband who wrote: “Nothing is more unsuitable than for a man to have more than one wife. I have three, and I pray your Excellency to banish whichever two you please to the Andaman Islands or some other distant country.”
LOYALTY OF NATIVE INDIANS
When we first visited India at all events the natives had implicit faith in English power and justice even when their loyalty left something to be desired. An Englishman was talking to a man suspected of pro-Russian sympathies, and pointed out to him the way in which Russians treated their own subjects. “If Russia took India,” he said, “what would you do if a Russian tried to confiscate your property?” “In that case,” was the prompt reply, “I should appeal to the High Court.” For the most part, however, they were intensely loyal to the person of the Sovereign.
When Queen Victoria’s statue was unveiled at the time of the First Jubilee the natives came in thousands to visit it, and to “do poojah,” presenting offerings of cocoa-nuts, etc. The statue was in bronze, and they expressed great pleasure in finding that their Mother was brown after all; they had hitherto imagined her to be white!
We had arranged to sail from Madras to Calcutta by a British India named thePundua, which ought to have landed us there in good time for Christmas, but our voyage had many checks. First the hydraulicunloading machinery of that “perfidious bark” went wrong, and we were only taken on board three days later than the scheduled time for starting. Starting at all from Madras was not particularly easy in those days, for the harbour had been constructed on a somewhat doubtful principle; nature had not done much for it, and the results of science and engineering had been seriously damaged by a cyclone. As Sir Mount Stuart Grant Duff had sagely remarked, “Any plan is a good one if you stick to it,” but the damaged walls were being rebuilt somewhat tentatively and there was no conviction as to the ultimate outcome. Probably there is now a satisfactory structure, but in our time there was not much protection for the boat which carried us to thePundua. Mr. Rees was to accompany us to Calcutta, and Lord Connemara and Lord Marsham took us on board. We had taken tender farewells of all our friends ashore and afloat—the Governor had gone back in his boat, when we heard an explosion followed by a fizzing. A few minutes later the captain came up and said, “Very sorry, but we cannot start to-day.” “What has happened?” “The top of the cylinder has blown off.” Much humiliated we had to return with our luggage to Government House, and to appear at what was called “The Dignity Ball” in the evening.
Next day (December 22nd) we really did get off; the wretchedPunduapossessed three cylinders, so one was disconnected, and she arranged to proceed at two-third speed with the others. This meant something over nine knots an hour, and, after sticking on a sandbank near the mouth of the Hoogli, we ultimately reached the neighbourhood of Diamond Harbour on December 26th, and by means of a Post Office boat, andtrain, reached Calcutta and Government House late that evening.
PASSENGERS ON THE “PUNDUA”
When I went on board thePunduaI was shown into the good-sized “Ladies Cabin” and told that I could have that and the adjoining bathroom to myself. In reply to my inquiry as to whether the other ladies on board would not want it, I was told that there was only one other lady and she was not in the habit of using the bath! This seemed queer, till I discovered that she was the heroine of one of the tragedies which sometimes occur in the East. She was the daughter of a family of mixed European and Indian parentage. The other children were dusky but respectable. She was white, and rather handsome, and fascinated a luckless young Englishman of good family, who married her, only to discover that she was extravagant and given to flirtation. They were on their way to a post—tea-planting if I remember aright—somewhere to the North of India. When they first left England the husband was very sea-sick, and the wife carried on a violent flirtation with another passenger and was also described as swearing and drinking. When the husband recovered she insisted on his shooting her admirer, and on his declining tried to shoot her husband. The captain, however, seized the revolver and shut her up in a second-class cabin. She was only allowed to dine with the first-class passengers on Christmas evening. Poor husband! I believe that he was quite a good fellow, but I do not know their subsequent fate.
We also had on board an orchid-hunter who had given up the destination which he had originally proposed to himself, because he discovered that a rival was going to some new field for exploration, and as he could not let him have the sole chance of discoveringthe beautiful unknown flower of which there were rumours, he set off to hunthim. All the material for a novel, if only the lady with the revolver had formed an alliance, offensive and defensive, with the orchid-hunter. Unfortunately we did not learn the after-history of any of these fellow-passengers.
We were warmly welcomed at Government House, Calcutta, by Lord and Lady Lansdowne. Lord Lansdowne, an old school and college friend of Jersey’s, had just taken over the reins of Government from Lord Dufferin. Lord William Beresford, another old friend of my husband’s, was Military Secretary, and Colonel Ardagh Private Secretary. Sir Donald Mackenzie Wallace, who had been so eminently successful as Private Secretary to the late Viceroy, was staying on for a short time to place his experience at the service of the new rulers. The aides-de-camp were Major Rowan Hamilton, Captain Streatfeild, Captain Arthur Pakenham, Captain Harbord, and Lord Bingham.
We found that the tardy arrival of our unfortunatePunduahad not only been a disappointment to ourselves, but, alas! a great grief to many of the Calcutta ladies, as it was bringing out their new frocks for the Viceroy’s Christmas Ball. I hope that it proved a consolation to many that the Lieutenant-Governor of Bengal gave a ball at Belvedere two days after the ship came in, when no doubt the dresses were unpacked. Lady Lansdowne’s pretty daughter, now Duchess of Devonshire, was just out and therefore able to attend this ball.
THE BRAHMO SOMAJ
We spent a few very pleasant days at Calcutta and met various interesting people. Amongst them was Protap Chunder Mozoondar, Head of the Brahmo Somaj (i.e. Society Seeking God). He paid me a special visit to expound the tenets of his Society, which, as iswell known, was founded by Babu Chunder Sen, father of the (Dowager) Maharanee of Kuch Behar. Briefly, the ideas of the Society are based on natural theology, or the human instinct, which tells almost all men that there is a God. The Brahmo Somaj accepts a large portion of the Holy Books of all nations, especially the Vedas and the Bible. It acknowledges Christ as a Divine Incarnation and Teacher of Righteousness, but again it does not regard His atonement as necessary to salvation. My informant’s view was that Christian missionaries did not sufficiently take into account Hindu feelings, and enforced unnecessary uniformity in dress, food, and outward ceremonies. This is quite possible, but it would be difficult for a Christian missionary not to insist on the Sacraments, which form no essential part of the Brahmo Somaj ritual.
Babu Chunder Sen’s own sermons or discourses in England certainly go beyond a mere acknowledgment of Christ as a Teacher and express deep personal devotion to him and acceptance of His atonement in the sense of at-one-ment, or bringing together the whole human race, and he regards the Sacraments as a mystical sanctification of the ordinary acts of bathing—so congenial to the Indian—and eating. However, in some such way Protap Chunder Mozoondar seemed to think that a kind of Hinduised Christianity would ultimately prevail in India.
It is impossible for an ordinary traveller to form an opinion worth having on such a point, but the Brahmo Somaj, like most religious bodies, has been vexed by schism. Babu Chunder Sen among other reforms laid down that girls should not be given in marriage before the age of fourteen, but his own daughter was married to the wealthy young Maharajah Kuch Beharbefore that age. This created some prejudice, though the marriage was a successful one, and she was a highly educated and attractive woman. She had a great reverence for her father, and in after years gave me some of his works. Another pundit, later on, started another Brahmo Somaj community of his own. The explanation of this given to me by Kuch Behar himself was that he was a “Parti” and that this other teacher (whose name I have forgotten) wanted him to marry his daughter, but he chose Miss Sen instead! I fear that this is not a unique example of church history affected by social considerations.
While at Calcutta we received a telegram to say that Villiers had reached Bombay and we met him at Benares on New Year’s Day, 1889. He had come out escorted by a Mr. Ormond, who wanted to come to India with a view to work there and was glad to be engaged as Villiers’s travelling companion. Rather a curious incident was connected with their voyage. A young Mr. S. C. had come out on our ship theArcadia—on Villiers’s ship a youth travelled who impersonated this same man. The amusing part was that a very excellent couple, Lord and Lady W. (both now dead), were on the same ship. Lady W. was an old friend of Mrs. S. C.—the real man’s mother—but, as it happened, had not seen the son since his boyhood. Naturally she accepted him under the name he had assumed, and effusively said that she had nursed him on her knee as a child. The other passengers readily accepted him as the boy who had been nursed on Lady W.’s knee, and it was not until he had landed in India that suspicion became excited by the fact that there weretwoS. C.’s in the field and that number Two wished to raise funds on his personality. This assumption of someone else’sname is common enough, and every traveller must have come across instances, but it was rather funny that our son and ourselves should have travelled with the respective claimants.
MAHARAJAH OF BENARES
At Benares we were taken in hand by a retired official—a Jain—rejoicing in the name of Rajah Shiva Prashad. We stayed at Clark’s Hotel, while Shiva Prashad showed us all the well-known sights of the Holy City, and also took us to pay a formal visit to the “Maharajahof the peopleof Benares.” It is curious that the Maharajah should have adopted that name, just as Louis Philippe called himself “King of the French” rather than “of France” to indicate less absolute power. The Maharajah’s modesty was due to the fact that Shiva is supposed to uphold Benares on his trident, and bears the name of “Mahadeva”—Great God, or Ruler of the City—so the earthly potentate can only look after the people—not claim the city itself.
The Maharajah’s Palace was on the river in a kind of suburb called Ramnagar, to which we were taken on a barge. We were received at the water-steps by a Babu seneschal, at the Castle steps by the Maharajah’s grandson, and at the door of a hall, or outer room, by the Maharajah himself—a fine old man with spectacles. It was all very feudal; we were seated in due state in the drawing-room, and after some polite conversation, translated by our friend the Rajah, who squatted on the floor at the Maharajah’s feet, we were entertained with native music and nautch-dancing. After we had taken leave of our host we inspected his tigers, kept, I suppose, as an emblem of his rank. Shiva Prashad told us a romantic tale of his own life, according to which he first entered the service of the Maharajah of Bhurtpore, but was disgusted by the cruelty whichhe saw exercised—prisoners thrown into miserable pits, and only given water mixed with salt to drink. He left the Maharajah, and thought of becoming an ascetic, but being taunted by his relatives for his failure in life, he (rather like St. Christopher) determined to enter the service of someone “greater than the Maharajah.” He discovered this superior power in the British Government, which gave him an appointment in the Persian Department.
While there he somehow found himself with Lord Hardinge and three thousand men arrayed against sixty thousand Sikhs. The Council of War recommended falling back and waiting for reinforcements, “but Lord Hardinge pronounced these memorable words—‘We must fight and conquer or fall here.’” They fought—and first one three thousand, then another three thousand friendly troops joined in, so the Homeric combat ended in their favour, and Prashad himself was employed as a spy. Afterwards he retired to the more peaceful occupation of School Inspector, and when we knew him enjoyed a pension and landed property.
MARRIAGES OF INFANTS AND WIDOWS
He posed as a perfect specimen of a happy and contented man, and had much to say about the excellence of the British Raj and the ignorance and prejudice of his own countrymen, whom he said we could not understand as we persisted in comparing them with Europeans—that is, with reasonable beings, whereas they had not so much sense as animals! All the same I think a good deal of this contempt for the Hindu was assumed for our benefit, particularly as the emancipation of women evidently formed no part of his programme. He gave an entertaining account of a visit paid by Miss Carpenter to his wife and widowed sister. Miss Carpenter was a philanthropic lady of about fifty, with hair beginningto grizzle, who carried on a crusade against infant marriage and the prohibition of the remarriage of widows. “Well,” was the comment of Mrs. Prashad, “I married when I was seven and my husband nine and I have been happy. How is it that this lady has remained unmarried till her hair is growing grey? Has no one asked her? There ought to be a law in England that no one shall remain unmarried after a certain age!” The sister countered an inquiry as to her continued widowhood with the question, “Why does not the Empress marry again?”
NORTHERN INDIA AND JOURNEY HOME
From Benares we went to Lucknow, where we had the good fortune to meet Sir Frederick (afterwards Lord) Roberts, and Lady Roberts, who were exceedingly kind to us during our stay. We had one most interesting expedition under their auspices. We and some others met them by appointment at Dilkusha, a suburban, ruined house of the former King of Oude from which Sir Colin Campbell had started to finally relieve Outram and Havelock in November 1857. Roberts, then a young subaltern, was, as is well known, of the party, and he took us as nearly as possible over the ground which they had traversed. Havelock, who had previously brought relief to the garrison, but not enough to raise the siege of Lucknow, had sent word to Sir Colin not to come the same way that he had, as it entailed too much fighting and loss to break right through the houses held by the rebels, but to keep more to the right. Sir Frederick pointed out the scenes of several encounters with the enemy, and one spot where he, sent on a message, was nearly lost—also Secunderabagh, a place with a strong wall all round it, where the British found and killed two thousand rebels, the British shouting “Remember Cawnpore!” to each man as they killed him.
THE RELIEF OF LUCKNOW
Each party—Campbell’s, and Havelock’s who advanced to join them—put flags on the buildings theycaptured as signals to their friends. At last they respectively reached the Moti Mahal or Pearl Palace. Here Sir Frederick showed us the wall on which the two parties, one on either side, worked till they effected a breach and met each other. Then Sir Colin Campbell, who was at the Mess House just across the road, came forward and was greeted by Generals Outram and Havelock—and the relief was complete.
Sir Frederick had not seen the wall since the breach had been built up again, but he pointed out its whereabouts, and Jersey found the new masonry which identified the spot. Colonel May, who had come with us from Dilkusha, then took us over the Residency in which he, then a young engineer, had been shut up during the whole of the siege. It was amazing to see the low walls which the besieged had managed to defend for so long, particularly as they were then overlooked by comparatively high houses held by the rebels which had since been levelled to the ground. Colonel May indicated all the posts, and the places of greatest danger, but there was danger everywhere, except perhaps in the underground rooms in which 250 women and children of the 32nd were lodged. Cannon-balls were always flying about—he told us of one lady the back of whose chair was blown away while she was sitting talking to him just outside the house, and of a cannon-ball which passed between the knees of a Mrs. Kavanagh, while she was in the verandah, without injuring her. We also saw the place where the rebels twice assembled in thousands crying “Give us Gubbins Sahib and we will go away.” They particularly hated Mr. Gubbins, as he was Financial Commissioner.
Sir Frederick said the ladies seemed quite dazed as they came out, and told us of one whom he knew whocame out with two children, but subsequently lost her baby, while her husband was killed in the Mutiny. She, he said, never fully recovered her senses. No wonder, poor woman! One quaint thing we were told was that the rebels played themselves into quarters every evening with “God save the Queen.”
One unfortunate incident marred an otherwise delightful time at Lucknow. A sham fight took place, and Sir Frederick Roberts was good enough to lend a horse to Jersey and a beautiful pony to Villiers in order that they might witness it. Villiers, boylike, tried to ride his pony up the steep bank of a nullah. It fell back with him, and he suffered what was called a “green fracture,” the bones of his forearm being bent near the wrist. They had to be straightened under chloroform. We were able to leave Lucknow two days later, but the arm rather hampered him during the rest of our journey.
Delhi was our next stopping-place, where we had a most interesting time, being entertained by the Officer Commanding, Colonel Hanna—who had during the siege been employed in helping to keep open the lines of communication so as to supply food and munitions to the troops on the Ridge. He was therefore able to show us from personal knowledge all the scenes of the fighting and relief, as well as all the well-known marvels of architecture and the glories left by the great Moghuls. His house was near the old fortifications, which I believe are now demolished for sanitary reasons, but it was then a joy to look out of the windows, and see the little golden-brown squirrels which frequented the old moat, with the two marks on their backs left by Krishna’s fingers when he caressed their progenitors.
We were thrilled by his stories of events of which he had been an eye-witness, culminating in his accountof the three days during which the British troops were permitted to sack the reconquered city. My husband remarked that he would not have stopped them at the end of three days. “Yes, you would, had you been there,” said Colonel Hanna. It must be very hard to restrain men maddened by weeks of hardship and the recollection of atrocities perpetrated by their foes, if they are once let loose in the stronghold of their enemies. The troops camped on the Ridge, and losing their bravest from hour to hour seem to have had at least one advantage over the defenders of Lucknow—they did not suffer from the terrible shortage of water.
VIEW FROM THE KOTAB MINAR
Without attempting an account of all the palaces, tombs, and mosques which we saw, I must just say that nothing that I have ever seen is so impressive in its way as the view from the Kotab Minar after you have scaled the 375 steps to its tapering summit. Over the great plain are scattered the vestiges of deserted cities built by the conquerors and emperors of two thousand years, a history culminating on the Ridge of Delhi, where Queen Victoria was proclaimed Empress, and where her grandson received in person the homage of the feudatory princes and chiefs over whom he was destined to rule. Even the Campagna of Rome has not that array of skeletons of past and bygone cities actually displayed before the eyes of the beholder, each bearing the name of some ruler whose name and deeds are half remembered although his dynasty has passed away.
One of these cities is Tughlakabad, with the tomb of Tughlak and his son Juna. The latter was a horrid tyrant who maimed and ill-treated many victims. His cousin and successor Feroz seems to have been a merciful and pious ruler: he compensated the injured as far as possible and got them to write deeds of indemnity,which he placed in Juna’s tomb that the latter might present them on the day of judgment. One cannot help thinking that Feroz rather than Juna may benefit from this action at the Great Assize.
On January 12th we went to spend Saturday to Monday with Major and Mrs. Paley at Meerut. Our nephew George Wombwell was laid up at Colonel Morris’s house there with typhoid fever. He seemed to be recovering, and after making arrangements for a nurse and every attention we returned to Delhi on Monday. We were afraid to keep Villiers in a cantonment station with illness about. Alas! Jersey was summoned back a few days later, when we were at Agra, as George became worse, and died. It was very sad.
At Agra we went first to Lauri’s Hotel, but Sir John Tyler, Superintendent of the Jail, persuaded us to come and stay with him, which was really a great thing, as Villiers had by no means completely recovered from the effect of his accident, and Sir John being a surgeon was able to look after him. Needless to say we visited the famous Taj by moonlight and by day, each time finding fresh beauties. I venture to quote a sentence about it from an article which I wrote concerning India published inThe Nineteenth Century, because Sir Edwin Arnold was polite enough to say that I had discovered a fault which had escaped the observation of himself and his fellows:
“The Taj, that fairy palace of a love stronger than death, sprung from sunset clouds and silvered by the moon, has but one fault—it is too perfect. Nothing is left to the imagination. There are no mysterious arches, no unfinished columns, nothing is there that seems to speak of human longing and unfulfilled aspiration;you feel that a conqueror has made Art his slave, and the work is complete; you can demand nothing more exquisite in this world.”
“The Taj, that fairy palace of a love stronger than death, sprung from sunset clouds and silvered by the moon, has but one fault—it is too perfect. Nothing is left to the imagination. There are no mysterious arches, no unfinished columns, nothing is there that seems to speak of human longing and unfulfilled aspiration;you feel that a conqueror has made Art his slave, and the work is complete; you can demand nothing more exquisite in this world.”
SEKUNDRA AND FUTTEHPORE-SEKREE
Among the many wonders of Agra and its neighbourhood I was specially impressed by the Tomb of the Great Akbar at Sekundra. As in the case of the Taj, the real tomb is underneath the building, but in the Taj the Show Tomb is simply in a raised chamber something like a chapel, whereas Akbar’s Show Tomb is on a platform at the summit of a series of red sandstone buildings piled on each other and gradually diminishing in size. The tomb, most beautifully carved, is surrounded by a finely worked marble palisade and arcade running round the platform. Presumptuously, I took this mighty erection as an ideal for a scene in a child’s story,Eric, Prince of Lorlonia.
We were also delighted with Futtehpore-Sekree, the great city which Akbar built and then deserted because it had no water. It reminded us of Pompeii, though perhaps it had less human interest it had a greater imprint of grandeur. The great Archway or High Gate, erected 1602 to commemorate Akbar’s conquests in the Deccan, has a striking Arabic inscription, concluding with the words:
“Said Jesus on whom be peace! The world is a bridge; pass over it, but build no house there: he who hopeth for an hour may hope for eternity: the world is but an hour; spend it in devotion: the rest is unseen.”
“Said Jesus on whom be peace! The world is a bridge; pass over it, but build no house there: he who hopeth for an hour may hope for eternity: the world is but an hour; spend it in devotion: the rest is unseen.”
The greatest possible art has been lavished on the tomb of the hermit Sheikh Suleem. This holy man had a baby six months old when Akbar paid him a visit. Seeing his father look depressed instead of elated by the honour, the precocious infant asked the cause. Thehermit must have been too much absorbed in religious meditation to study the habits of babies, for instead of being startled by the loquacity of his offspring he confided to him that he grieved that the Emperor could not have an heir unless some other person sacrificed his child. “By your worship’s leave,” said baby, “I will die that a Prince may be born,” and before the father had time to remonstrate calmly expired. As a result of this devotion Jehanghir was born, and Akbar built Futtehpore-Sekree in the neighbourhood of the hermit’s abode.
When Sheikh Suleem died he was honoured with a splendid tomb inlaid with mother-of-pearl and enclosed in a marble summer-house with a beautifully carved screen to which people who want children tie little pieces of wool. Apparently a little addition to the offering of wool is desirable, as the priest who acted as guide assured us that an English officer who had a blind child tied on the wool, but also promised our informant a hundred rupees if the next was all right. The next was a boy with perfect eyesight and the priest had his reward.
Beside the baby’s tomb, which is in an outer cemetery, we saw a little tomb erected by a woman whose husband was killed in the Afghan War over one of his old teeth!
We were fortunate in having Sir John Tyler as our host at Agra, for as Superintendent of the Jail he was able to ensure that we should have the best possible carpets, which we wanted for Osterley, made there. They were a long time coming, but they were well worth it. Abdul Kerim, Queen Victoria’s Munshi, was a friend of his, in fact I believe that Sir John had selected him for his distinguished post. He was on leave at Agra at the time of our visit, and we went toa Nautch given at his father’s house in honour of the Bismillah ceremony of his nephew.
From Agra we visited Muttra, where we were the guests of the Seth Lachman Das—a very rich and charitable old man of the Bunyah (banker and money-lender) caste. He lodged us in a bungalow generally let to some English officers who were temporarily absent, and he and his nephew did all in their power to show us the sights at Muttra and in the neighbourhood.
THE BIRTHPLACE OF KRISHNA
Amongst other sacred spots we were taken to Krishna’s birthplace. It was curious that though, throughout India, there are magnificent temples and rock-carvings in honour of Vishnu and his incarnation Krishna, his birthplace was only marked by a miserable little building with two dolls representing Krishna’s father and mother.
The legend of Krishna’s babyhood is a curious echo of the birth of our Lord and the crossing of the Red Sea combined. It seems that a wicked Tyrant wanted to kill the child but his foster-father carried him over the river near Muttra, and as soon as the water touched the infant’s feet it receded and they passed over dry shod. In memory of this event little brass basins are sold with an image within of the man carrying the child in his arms. The child’s foot projects, and if one pours water into the basin it runs away as soon as it touches the toe. I do not know what may be the hydraulic trick, but certainly it is necessary to put the brass basin into a larger one before trying the experiment to receive the water which runs out at the bottom. The little birthplace building was in the courtyard of a mosque—part of which was reserved for the Hindus.
The Seth had built a temple in Muttra itself, wherehe annually expended large sums in feeding the poor, and he and his family had erected a still finer one at Brindaban, a famous place of pilgrimage in the neighbourhood, where they had set up a flag-staff 120 feet high overlaid with real gold. Seth Lachman Das maintained at his own expense twenty-five priests and fifteen attendants besides fifty boys who were fed and instructed in the Shastras. As at Madura, we were struck by these rich men’s apparent faith in their own religion.
After visiting Deeg and Bhurtpore, we reached the pretty Italian-looking town of Ulwar. The Maharajah, who was an enlightened potentate, had unfortunately gone into camp, but we were interested in the many tokens of his care for his subjects and of his artistic tastes. He kept men executing illuminations like the old monks.
When we visited the jail I was admitted to the quarters of the female prisoners, who seemed quite as anxious to show the labels which they carried recording their crimes, as schoolchildren are to display their exercises or needlework when one visits a school. One smiling woman brought me a label inscribed “Bigamy,” which struck me as rather ludicrous considering the circumstances, and also a little unfair to the criminal. Indian men are allowed several wives—why was she punished for having more than one husband? Probably, however, she was safer locked up in prison than left at the mercy of two husbands, one of whom would almost certainly have cut off her nose if he had an access of jealousy.
After Ulwar we spent a few days at that most attractive city, Jeypore, called by Sir Edwin Arnold the “City of Victory,” a victorious Maharajahhaving transferred his capital there from the former picturesque town of Amber. The principal street of Jeypore has houses on either side painted pink, which has a brilliant effect in the sunlight, but when we were there the paint certainly wanted renewing. The Maharajah was a rarely intelligent man, and he had a particularly clever and agreeable Dewan—or Prime Minister. We made great friends with the English doctor—Dr. Hendley—who not only attended some of the native nobles, but also was able to superintend the English lady doctor and thereby help the native ladies. Formerly when a child was born a live goat was waved over its head and the blood of a cock sprinkled on it and its mother. Mother and child were then kept for a fortnight without air, and with a charcoal fire constantly burning, more charcoal being added if the child cried. Mercifully the younger ladies and their husbands were beginning to realise the comfort of English treatment on these occasions.
THE JAINS
On our way from Muttra to Ahmedabad we slept at the Rajpootana Hotel, about sixteen miles from Mount Abu Station, in order to visit the Dilwarra Temples of the Jains. The Jains are a sect of very strict Buddhists—almost the only representatives of the Buddhists left in Hindustan proper. Ceylon and Burmah are Buddhist, so are some of the lands on the Northern Frontier, but the Brahmins contrived to exterminate Buddhism in the great Peninsula in the eighth century after it had spread and flourished there for about a thousand years. These Dilwarra temples are well worth a visit. The pious founder is said to have bought the land for as many pieces of silver as would cover it, and to have paid £18,000,000 sterling for building, besides £560,000 for levelling the site on the steep hill.
Without attempting to guarantee the accuracy of these figures, it may safely be said that it would be difficult, if not impossible, to find any buildings in the world of which the interiors present an equal amount of highly finished artistic labour. Outside the temples are low and not imposing, inside they are one mass of minute and elaborate sculpture. You stand beneath a dome with saints or angels worthy of a Gothic cathedral rising to its central point. Around are arcades with pillars and arches, beyond which are numerous small chapels or shrines, each with the figure of a large cross-legged Rishi or Saint with little rishis in attendance. Every inch of arch, arcade, and ceiling is adorned with marvellous carving of ornaments, or of men, ships, and animals. We were told that the central figure in each temple was “Of the Almighty,” who seemed to exact as tribute to his power a fearful noise of cymbals and tomtoms. He appeared to be not exactly a deity, but a divine emanation. The really perfect Jain wore a piece of muslin over his mouth to avoid destroying the life of even invisible insects, but such extreme virtue was, I fancy, rare and must have been highly uncomfortable.
THE MAHARAJAH OF BHOWNUGGER
From Ahmedabad we went to Bhownugger, where we were received in great state by the young Maharajah symptuously attired in green velvet and the Star of India, and attended by his high officials and a guard of honour. We felt very dirty and dusty after a hot journey (thermometer in railway carriages nearly 100°) when received with so much splendour, but we liked the Maharajah immensely and he became devoted to my husband.
He gave us a splendid time with all sorts of “tamashas” while we were his guests, but we were speciallyinterested in his personality. He had been educated in the college for young chiefs at Ajmere and had acquired a very high standard of ideas of right and wrong and of his duty to his people. I expect that, like the rest of us, he often found it hard to carry his theories into practice, and it was rather pathetic when, speaking of what he wished to do, he added, “We must do the best we can and leave the rest to God”—then, looking up at the chandelier hanging in the bungalow in which he entertained us, he continued, “God is like that light, and the different religions are the different colours through which He shines.”
One of his difficulties, poor man, was in his matrimonial arrangements. He had married two or three ladies of high rank, as considered suitable by the Brahmins, but he had also married to please himself a fair maiden of lower caste. He then learnt that if he did not get rid ofherthe Brahmins meant to get rid ofhim. Thereupon he took the Political Officer of that part of the country, Captain Ferris, into the middle of the tennis ground, as the only spot free from the risk of spies, and poured his griefs into the Englishman’s sympathetic bosom. Captain Ferris’s solution was that Mrs. Ferris should call upon the despised Rani, as she did on the more orthodox wives, and that the Maharajah should cling to his English adviser for several days, driving about with him and never leaving him, which would for the time being prevent attempts at assassination. What was to happen afterwards I do not know. Perhaps the Brahmins became aware that any foul play would bring the English raj down upon them. Anyhow, the Maharajah lived to pay a visit to England and came to see us there—though he did not attain old age.
We heard a good deal of the harm resulting from the great expense of native marriages, including the temptation to infanticide. In the district about Ahmedabad the lower castes do not forbid second marriages, and these are less expensive than the first. Therefore a girl was sometimes married toa bunch of flowers, which was then thrown down a well. The husband thus disposed of, the widow could contract a second alliance quite cheaply.
We then spent two nights as guests of the Thakur Sahib of Limbdi, who, like the other Kathiawar Princes of Morvi and Gondal, had been in England for the Jubilee, and whom we had known there. All three, particularly Limbdi and Gondal, were enlightened men, with various schemes for promoting the welfare of their subjects. The life of many of these Indian Chiefs recalls the days of Scottish Clans. When we were driving with Limbdi he would point out labouring men who saluted as he passed as his “cousins,” and finally told us that he had six thousand blood relations.
BARODA
On February 14th we arrived at Baroda, where we were most hospitably entertained by Sir Harry and Lady Prendergast. Baroda, like so many Indian cities, offered a picture of transition, or at least blending of East and West. As is well known, the late Gaikwar poisoned the British Resident. He was tried by a Tribunal of three Indians and three British. The former acquitted, the latter condemned him. He was deposed and three boys of the family were selected of whom the Maharanee was allowed to adopt one as heir. She chose the present Gaikwar, who was educated under British auspices, but has not always been happy in his relations with the British Government. He however proved quite loyal during the late war. Whenwe were at Baroda he had been decorating his Palace in an inferior European style. He had bought some fair pictures, but would only give an average of £100, as he said that neither he nor his subjects were capable of appreciating really good ones. In contrast to these modern arrangements we saw the “Chattries” of former Gaikwars. These were funny little rooms, something like small loose boxes in a garden surrounding a shrine. In one was a doll, representing Kunda Rao’s grandfather, in another the ashes of his father under a turban with his photograph behind, in yet a third the turbans of his mother and two other sons. In each room there were a bed, water and other vessels, and little lights burning, the idea being that all should be kept in readiness lest the spirits should return to occupy the apartments. After all, the rooms of the late Queen of Hanover were until lately, perhaps are still, kept as in her lifetime, provided with flowers and with a lady-in-waiting in daily attendance; so East and West are much alike in their views of honour due to the departed.
Back to Bombay for yet five happy days with our dear friends Lord and Lady Reay before saying farewell to India on February 22nd. We had had a truly interesting experience during our three and a half months in the Eastern Empire, and were deeply impressed by the manner in which so many races were knit together under British rule. How far all this may endure under the new attempts at Constitution-making by Occidentals for Orientals remains to be seen. When we paid this first of our visits to India it was perfectly evident that the idea of the Queen-Empress was the corner-stone of government. My husband talked to many natives, Maharajahs and officials, and wouldsometimes refer to the leaders of the great English political parties. Their names seemed to convey nothing to the Indians, but they always brought the conversation back to “The Empress.” Disraeli was criticised in England for having bestowed that title on his Mistress, but we had constant opportunities of seeing its hold upon the Oriental mind. “Give my best respects to the Empress,” was a favourite mission given to Jersey by his Maharajah friends. He conscientiously tried to acquit himself thereof when we saw the Queen, who was a good deal amused when he painstakingly pronounced their titles and names.
I once heard a story which shows the effect of the Royal ideal on quite a different class. A census was in progress and a large number of hill-tribes had to be counted. These people had been told a legend that the reason for this reckoning was that the climate in England had become so hot that a large number of the women were to be transported there to act as slaves and fan the Queen—also the men were to be carried off for some other servile purpose. Consequently the mass of the people hid themselves, to the great embarrassment of the officials. One extremely capable man, however, knew the people well and how to deal with them. He contrived to induce the leading tribesmen to come and see him. In reply to his inquiry they confessed their apprehensions. “You fools,” said the Englishman, “it is nothing of the sort. I will tell you the reason. You have heard of the Kaiser-i-Hind?” Yes—they had heard of her. “And you have heard of the Kaiser-i-Roum?” (the Czar). They had also heard of him. “Well, the Kaiser-i-Roum paid a visit to the Kaiser-i-Hind, and when they had finished their curry and rice they began talking. He said hehad more subjects than she, the Kaiser-i-Hind said she had most. To settle the matter they laid a heavy bet and both sent orders to count their people. If you don’t let yourselves be counted the Kaiser-i-Hind will lose the bet and your faces will be blackened.” The tale of the bet appealed to their sporting instincts. All difficulties disappeared. The tribesmen rushed to be counted—probably two or three times over.
ENGLISH AS LINGUA FRANCA
Again, it was curious to notice how the English language was weaving its net over India.
At Jeypore an English-speaking native official had been told off to take us about during our stay. When we were thanking him and saying good-bye, he remarked that the next person whom he was to conduct was a judge from Southern India. The judge was a native Indian, but as he did not know the language of the Jeypore State he had sent in advance to ask to be provided with a guide who could speak English. Formerly thelingua francaof the upper, or educated, classes was Persian, of the lower ones Urdu—the kind of Hindustani spoken by the Mohammedan, and afterwards by the English army. Of course both languages still prevail, but all educated Indians learn English in addition to two or three of the hundred-odd languages spoken in the Peninsula. On a later visit a Hyderabad noble was taking my daughter and me to see various sights. I noticed that he talked to a good many natives in the course of our excursion, and as they appeared to be of different castes and occupations, I asked him at last how many languages he had talked during the day. After a little reflection he reckoned up six. It will not be such a very easy matter to get all these people into the category of enlightened electors.
On our voyage home I occupied myself by writing the article already mentioned as appearing inThe Nineteenth Century—from which I extract the following supplement to my recollections: