CHAPTER XVII.BOMBAY.

Thenative city of Bombay is really an incredible sight. I walked through some part of it I suppose every day for a week or more, trying to photograph its shows upon my brain, yet every day it seemed more brilliant and original than before—and I felt that description or even remembrance were nothing to compare with the actual thing. The intense light, the vivid colors, the extraordinarily picturesque life, the bustle and movement; the narrow high tumbled houses with projecting storeys, painted shutters, etc., and alleys simplythrongedwith people; the usual little shops with four or five men and boys squatted in each, and multifarious products and traffic—gold and silver work of excellent quality, elegant boxes and cabinets, all being produced in full view of the public—embroidery and cap shops, fruit shops, sweetmeat shops, cloth merchants, money-changers; such a chattering, chaffering and disputing, jokes shouted across the street from shop to shop; Hindu temples, mosques, opium dens, theatres, clubs; and at night, lights and open casements and balconies above with similar groups; handsome private houses too scattered about, but some of them now converted into warehouses or lodging-houses, and looking dirty enough.

STREET IN BOMBAY, NATIVE QUARTER.(Little shops on each side, a mosque on the left.)

STREET IN BOMBAY, NATIVE QUARTER.

(Little shops on each side, a mosque on the left.)

Imagine a great house towering above the rest, with projecting storeys and balconies and casements—the top tiers nothing but painted wood and glass, like the stern of a huge three-decker. The basement storey is open and fronted with great carved wooden columns. Here are a few plants standing, and among them—his gold-brown body thrown up against the gloom behind—stands a young boy of eight or nine, nearly naked, with silver wristlets and string of blue beads round his neck. The next houses are low, only two or three storeys, and their basements are let out in tiny shops only a few feet square each. Here squatted among cushions, smoking his long pipe, sits an old money-lenderwith white cap and frock and gold-rimmed spectacles. Near him are boys and assistants, totting up accounts or writing letters on their knees. The man is worth thousands of pounds, but his place of business is not bigger than a dining-room table—and there are scores like him. The next few shops are all silversmiths—four or five in each shop, couches and cushions as before, and cabinets full of trinkets. Further on they are hammering brass and copper—a score of shops at least consecutive. Now we come to an archway, through which behold a large reservoir, with people bathing. There is a Hindu temple here, and they do not like us to enter; but under the arch sits an old ascetic. He has sat cross-legged for so many years that he can take no other position; sometimes for extra penance he gets them to lift him up and seat him on a spiked board; but I fancy he is such a hardened old sinner that he does not feel even that much! He is a well-known character in the city.

PARSEE WOMAN.

A little farther on, in a balcony, is a group of girls, with henna-black eyes, somewhat daintily got up, and on the look-out for visitors. Now a covey of Parsee women and children comes by, brilliant in their large silk wraps (for even the poorer Parsee females make a point of wearing these)—pale-green, or salmon color, or blue—drawn over their heads and depending even to their feet—their large dark eyes shining with fire and intelligence, not the timid glance of the general run of Indian women. Many of the Parsee fair ones, indeed—especially of the well-to-do classes—are exceedingly handsome. But the women generally in Bombay form quite afeature; for the Mahrattas, who constitute the bulk of the population, do not shut up their women, anymore than the Parsees do, and numbers of these—mostly of course, though not exclusively, of the poorer classes—may be seen moving quite freely about the streets: the Mahratta fisher-women for instance, dressed not in the long depending cloak of the Parsees, but in the ordinary Indiansari, which they wind gracefully about the body, leaving their legs bare from the knees down. Of the Parsees I understand that they are very helpful to each other as a community, and while leaving theirwomen considerable freedom are at pains to prevent any of them falling through poverty into a life of prostitution.

If you take this general description of the native Bombay, and add to it a handsome modern city, with fine Banks, Post and Government offices, esplanades, parks, docks, markets, railway stations, etc.; and then again add to that a manufacturing quarter with scores of chimneys belching out smoke, ugly stretches of waste land, and all the dirt of a Sheffield or Birmingham (only with coco-palms instead of oak-trees shriveling in the blight); then distribute through it all a population, mainly colored, but of every nation in the world, from sheerly naked water-carriers and coolies to discreet long-raimented Parsees and English “gentlemen and ladies”—you will have an idea of Bombay—the most remarkable city certainly that I have visited in this part of the world.

The Parsee nose is much in evidence here. You meet it coming round the corner of the street long before its owner appears. It is not quite the same as the Jewish, but I find it difficult to define the difference; perhaps though larger it is a little suaver in outline—moresuaviter in modo, though not lessfortiter in re. It is followed by a pair of eyes well on the alert, which don’t miss anything that the nose points out. At every turn you meet that same shrewd old gentleman with the beautifully white under-raiment falling to his feet, and a long China silk coat on, and black brimless hat—so collected and “all there”; age dims not the lustre of his eye to biz. Somehow he strangely remindsone of the neighborhood of the London Stock Exchange, only it is a face of more general ability than you often see in the City.

PARSEE MERCHANTS.

And (what also is more than can be said for his cityconfrère) he is up early in the morning for his religious exercises. At sunrise you may see him on the esplanades, maidans, and other open places, saying his prayers with his face turned towards the east. He repeats or reads in an undertone long passages, and then bows three times towards the light; then sometimes turning round will seem to go through a similar ceremony with his back to it. The peculiarityof the physiognomy (not forgetting the nose of course) seems to lie in the depth of the eye. This together with the long backward line of the eyelid gives a remarkable look of intelligence and earnestness to the finer faces.

The younger Parsee is also very much to the fore—a smartish fellow not without some Brummagem self-confidence—pushing in business and in his efforts to join in the social life of the English; who in revenge are liable to revile him as the ‘Arry of the East. Anyhow they are a go-ahead people, these Cursetjees, Cowasjees, Pestonjees, and Jejeebhoys, and run most of the cotton mills here (though one would think that theymightmanage to get on without quite so many “jees”). Justice Telang spoke to me highly one day of them as a body—their helpful brotherly spirit and good capacity and versatility. He said however that they were not taking the lead inbusinessquite so much as formerly, but turning rather more to political life.

Telang himself is a Mahratta—a sturdy well-fleshed man, of energy and gentleness combined—able, sound, and sensible, I should say, with good judgment and no humbug. He of course thinks the creation of a united India a long and difficult affair: but does not seem to despair of its possibility; acknowledges that the Mahomedan element is mostly indifferent or unfriendly to the idea, but the Parsees are favorable.

I was in Telang’s court one day, and admired much the way he conducted the business. On the whole I thought the English barristers present showed up only feebly against the native judgeand pleaders. I certainly am inclined to think the educated oysters quite equal or if anything superior to the Englishman in matters of pure intellect (law, mathematics, etc.); where they are wanting—taking the matter quite in bulk, and with many individual exceptions—is in that quality which is expressed by the wordmorale; and it is that defect which prevents them being able to make the best use of their brain power, or to hold their own against us in the long run. So important is that quality. The Anglo-Saxons, with deficient brains, have it in a high degree, and are masters of the world.

I called another day on Tribhovan Das, who is head of the Bunyas here—a large and influential merchant caste. He occupies the house which belonged to his father, Sir Mungal Das, who was member of the Bombay Legislative Council and a great man in his time both in wealth and influence. The house is a large one standing in the native city. We went and sat in state in a big drawing-room, and then made a tour of the other reception rooms and the library, and solemnly inspected and admired the works of art—oscillating models of ships in a storm, pictures with musical boxes concealed behind them, a huge automatic musical organ, wax-flowers and fruits in the library, fountains in the garden, etc.—all quite in the style of the reception rooms of wealthy natives twenty years or so ago. Tribhovan showed me over it all with that mingled air of childlike pride and intense boredom which I have noticed before in Orientals under the same circumstances; then took me out for a drive in his swagger barouche, with white horsesand men in sky-blue livery—along the Malabar drive and up to the reservoir on the hill-top, a very charming seaside road, and thronged at that hour on Sunday evening with carriages and the motley aristocracy of the city. The view from the reservoir is famous. The Malabar hill is a promontory jutting southward into the sea, and occupied largely with villa residences. Westward from its summit you look over the open ocean, dotted with white sails; eastward, or south-eastward, across a narrow bay, is seen the long spit of flat land on which modern mercantile Bombay stands, with its handsome public buildings and long line of esplanade already at that hour beginning to twinkle with lamps. Beyond that spit again, and farther eastward, lies another much deeper and larger bay, the harbor proper, with masts of ships just discernible; and beyond that again are the hills of the mainland. At the base of the spit and a little inland lies the native portion of Bombay—largely hidden, from this point of view, by the masses of coco-nut trees which grow along its outskirts and amongst its gardens.

Tribhovan said he would much like to come to England, but that as head of the caste it was quite impossible. He told me that many people think the Bunyas took their dress (the cylindrical stiff hat like an English chimney-pot hat without a brim, and the long coat buttoned close round the neck) from the Parsees; but it was just the opposite—the Parsees when they came to India having adopted the dress of those Hindus amongst whom they first found themselves, namely the Bunyas.

Whilst driving back through the city we came upon a marriage ceremony going on—a garden full of lights, and crowds of people conversing and taking refreshments. Two houses opened on the same garden, and one of these was occupied for the occasion by the bridegroom and his friends, and the other by the bride. This is the orthodox arrangement, enabling the bridegroom to descend into the garden and go through the ceremony of taking his bride; and my host explained that houses thus arranged are often kept and let solely for this purpose—as few people have houses and gardens of their own large enough for the array of guests asked, or suitably built for the ceremony. In the thick of the city the bridegroom will sometimes manage to hire or get the loan of a house in the same street and opposite to that in which his bride dwells, and then the street is turned into a temporary garden with ornamental shrubs and branches, and lanterns are hung (for the ceremony is always in the evening) and chairs placed in rows, and a large part of the processions and festivities are as public as the gossips can desire. All this adds much to the charm of life in this most picturesque city.

The native theatres here are a great institution—crowded mostly by men and boys of the poorer sort—the performance a curious rambling business, beginning about 9 p.m. and lasting say till 2 or 3 in the morning! Murderous and sensational scenes carried out by faded girls and weak ambrosial youths, and protracted in long-drawn agonies of operatic caterwauling, with accompaniment of wondrous chromatic runs on thetausand a bourdonbass on some wind-instrument. Occasionally a few sentences spoken form a great relief. What makes the performance so long is the slowness of the action—worse even than our old-fashioned opera; if the youth is madly in love with the girl he goes on telling her so in the same “rag” for a quarter of an hour. Then she pretends to be indifferent, and spurns him in another “rag” for fifteen minutes more!

Another feature of Bombay now-a-days, and indeed of most of the towns of India, including even quite small villages, is the presence and work of the Salvation Army. I must say I am Philistine enough to admire these people greatly. Here in this city I find “Captain” Smith and young Jackson (who were on board ship with me coming out), working away night and day in the “cause,” and always cheerfully and with a smile on their faces—leading a life of extreme simplicity, penury almost, having no wages, but only bare board and lodging—with no chance even to return home if they get sick of the work, unless it were by the General’s order. “I should have to work my way back on board ship if I wanted to go, but I shall not want to go, I shall be happy here,” said Jackson to me. These two at any rate I feel are animated by a genuine spirit. Whatever one may think of their judgment or their philosophy, I feel that they really care for the lowest and most despised people and are glad to be friends and brothers with them—and after all that is better philosophy than is written in the books. They adopt the dress of the people and wear turbans and no shoes; and most of themmerge their home identity and adopt a native name. Of course it is easy to say this is done out of mere religious conceit and bravado; but I am certain that in many cases it springs from something much deeper than that.

One day I joined a party of five of them on their way to the Caves of Elephanta—“Captain” and Mrs. Smith, “Sikandra” (Alexander), and two others. Mrs. Smith is a nice-looking and real good woman of about thirty years of age, and Sikandra is a boy of ability and feeling who has been out here about three years. They were all as nice and natural as could be (weren’t pious at all), and we enjoyed our day no end—a three hours’ sail across the bay in a lateen-sailed boat with two natives—the harbor a splendid sight, with its innumerable shipping, native fish-boats, P. and O. and other liners, two or three ironclads, forts, lighthouses, etc.—and then on beyond all that to the retired side of the bay and the islands; picnic on Elephanta Island under the shade of a great tamarind tree—visit to the caves, etc.; and return across the water at sundown.

VeryIndianthese islands—the hot smell of the ground covered with dead grass and leaves, the faint aromatic odor of sparse shrubs, with now and then a waft of delicious fragrance from the little white jessamine, the thorns and cactus, palms, and mighty tamarinds dropping their sweet-acid fruit. Then the sultry heat at midday, the sea lying calm and blue below in haze, through which the ridged and rocky mountains of the mainland indistinctly loom, and the far white sails of boats; nearer, a few humped cows and a collection of primitive huts,looking, from above, more like heaps of dead palm-leaves than human habitations.

THE GREAT CAVE AT ELEPHANTA.(Some of the rock-pillars being restored, sculptured figures visible in background.)

THE GREAT CAVE AT ELEPHANTA.

(Some of the rock-pillars being restored, sculptured figures visible in background.)

The great cave impressed me very much. I have not seen any other of these Indian rock-sanctuaries, but this one gave me a greater sense of artistic power and splendid purpose than anything in the way of religious architecture—be it mosque or Hindu temple—that I have seen in India. It is about half-way up the hillside from the water, and consists of a huge oblong hall, 50 yards square, cut sheerly into the face of the rock, with lesser halls opening into it on each side. Huge pillars of rock, boldly but symmetrically carved, are left in order to support the enormous weight above; and the inner roof is flat—except for imitations of architraves running from pillar to pillar. The daylight, entering in mass from the front, and partly also by ingenious arrangement from the sides, is broken by the many great pillars, and subdues itself at last into a luminous gloom in the interior—where huge figures of the gods, 18 feet high, in strong relief or nearly detached, stand out from the walls all round. These figures are nobly conceived and executed, and even now in their mutilated condition produce an extraordinarily majestic effect, making the spectator fancy that he has come into the presence of beings vastly superior to himself.

On the back wall immediately opposite the entrance are three huge panels of sculpture—the most important objects in the temple. The midmost of these consists of three colossal heads—Brahma, Vishnu and Siva—united in one; Brahma of course full faced, the others in profile. Each head with its surmounting tiara is some twelve feet high, and theportions of the busts represented add another six feet. The whole is cut deep into the rock so as to be almost detached; and the expression of the heads—which are slightly inclined forwards—is full of reserved power and dignity. It is Brahm, the unrealisable and infinite god, the substratum of all, just dawning into multiple existence—allowing himself to be seen in his first conceivable form.

In this trinity Vishnu of course represents the idea of Evolution—the process by which the inner spirit unfolds and generates the universe of sensible forms—as when a man wakes from sleep and lets his thoughts go out into light and definition; Siva represents the idea of Involution, by which thought and the sensible universe are indrawn again into quiescence; and Brahma represents the state which is neither Evolution nor Involution—and yet is both—existence itself, now first brought into the region of thought through relation to Vishnu and Siva.

Each figure with a hand upturned and resting on the base of its neck holds an emblem: Vishnu the lotus-flower of generation, Brahma the gourd of fruition, and Siva a cobra, the “good snake” whose bite is certain dissolution. Siva also has the third eye—the eye of the interior vision of the universe, which comes to the man who adopts the method of Involution. There is good reason to suppose, from marks on the rock, that the recess in which this manifestation of deity is carved was closed by a veil or screen, only to be drawn aside at times of great solemnity. A hollow behind the triple head is pointed out, in which it is supposed that a concealed priest could simulate the awful tones of the god.

PANEL OF SIVA AND HIS CONSORT PARVATI, ELEPHANTA.

Of the three forms of the trinity Siva is the most popular in Hindu devotion, and he forms the centre figure of all the other panels here. The panel on the right of the principal one just described portrays the next devolution of godhead—namely into the form of humanity—and represents Siva as a complete full length human being conjoining the two sexes in one person. This idea, of the original junction of the sexes, though it may be philosophically tenable, and though it is no doubt supported by a variety of traditions—see the Bible, Plato, etc.—and by certain interior experiences which have been noticed (and which are probably the sources of tradition) is inartistic enough when graphically portrayed; and the main figure of this panel, with its left sideprojecting into a huge breast and hip, is only a monstrosity. As to the sexual parts themselves they are unfortunately quite defaced. The cloud of moving figures however around and above, who seem to be witnessing this transformation, are very spirited.

The third panel—on the left of the principal one—in which the differentiation is complete, and Siva and his consort Sakti or Parvati are represented side by side as complete male and female figures, in serene and graceful pose—he colossal and occupying nearly the centre of the panel, she smaller and a little to one side—is a great success. Round them in the space above their heads a multitude of striding clean-legged figures bear witness to the energy of creation now fully manifested in this glorious pair.

The rest of the panels though still colossal are on a slightly smaller scale, and seem to represent the human-divine life of Siva: his actual marriage, his abandonment of home, his contest with Rávana, his terrible triumph over and slaughter of his enemies, his retirement into solitude and meditation, and his ultimate reabsorption into Brahm, figured by his frenzied dance in the “hall of illimitable happiness”—that most favorite subject of the Hindu sculptors. This last panel—though the legs and arms are all broken—has extraordinary vigor and animation, and is one of the very best. The whole series in fact, to those who can understand, is a marvelous panorama of the human soul. The work is full of allegorical touches and hints, yet hardly ever becomes grotesque or inartistic. It provides suggestions of the profoundest philosophy, yet the rudest peasant walking through these dim arcades could not but beaffected by what he sees. In every direction there are signs of “go” and primitive power which point to its production as belonging to a time (probably about the 10th cent.A.D.) of early vigor and mastery and of grand conception.

INTERIOR SHRINE, ELEPHANTA.

I should not forget to mention that in a square chamber also hewn out of the rock, but accessible by a door in each of the four sides, is a huge lingam—which was probably also kept concealed except on great occasions; and round the exterior walls of the chamber, looking down the various aisles of the temple, are eight enormous guardian figures, of fine and composed workmanship. (See illustration—in which a man is standing beneath the torso of the nearest figure.) Altogether the spirit of the wholething is to my mind infinitely finer than that of the South Indian temples, which with their courts and catacomb-like interiors suggest no great ideas, but only a general sense of mystery and of Brahmanical ascendancy.

March 6th.—A little after sunset yesterday “Sikandra” took me to see an opium den in the native quarter. It was rather early, as the customers were only just settling in, but the police close these places at nine. Much what I expected. A dark dirty room with raised wide bench round the sides, on which folk could lie, with little smoky lamps for them to burn their opium. For three pice you get a little thimbleful of laudanum, and by continually taking a drop on the end of a steel prong and frizzling it in the flame you at last raise a viscid lump hardly as big as a pea, which you put in a pipe, and then holding the mouth of the pipe in the flame, draw breath. Two or three whiffs of thick smoke are thus obtained—and then more stuff has to be prepared; but the poison soon begins to work, and before long the smoker lies motionless, with his eyes open and his pipe dropping out of his hand. I spoke to a man who was just preparing his dose, and who looked very thin and miserable, asking him if he did not find it damage his health; but he said that he could not get along without it—if he gave it up for a day or two he could not do his work, and felt nervous and ill.

The effect of these drugs, opium, haschisch (hemp or ganja),6as well as of laughing gas, sulphuric ether,etc., is no doubt to produce a suspension of the specially bodily and local faculties for the time, and with it an inner illumination and consciousness, very beatific and simulating the real “ecstasy.” Laughing gas (nitrous oxide) produces a species of illumination and intuition into the secrets of the universe at times—as in the case of Sir Humphry Davy, who first used it on himself and who woke up exclaiming, “Nothing exists but thoughts! the universe is composed of impressions, ideas, pleasures and pains.” The feelings induced by opium and haschisch have often been described in somewhat similar terms; and it has to be remembered that many much-abused practices—indulgence in various drugs and strong drinks, mesmeric trance-states, frantic dancing and singing, as well as violent asceticisms, self-tortures, etc.—owe their hold upon humanity to the same fact, namely that they induce in however remote and imperfect a degree or by however unhealthy a method some momentary realisation of that state of cosmic consciousness of which we have spoken, and of the happiness attending it—the intensity of which happiness may perhaps be measured by the strength of these very abuses occurring in the search for it, and may perhaps be compared, for its actual force as a motive of human conduct, with the intensity of the sexual orgasm.

6As a curiosity of derivation it appears that these two wordshempandganjaare from the same root: Sanskritgoni,ganjika; Persian, Greek and Latin,cannabis; Frenchchanvre; GermanHanf; Dutchhennep.Canvasalso is the same word.

* * * * *

One evening two or three friends that I had made among the native “proletariat”—post-office and railway clerks—insisted on giving me a little entertainment.I was driven down to the native city, and landed in a garden-like court with little cottages all round. To one of these we were invited. Found quite a collection of people; numbers increasing on my arrival till there must have been about fifty. Just a little front room nine feet square, with no furniture except one folding chair which had been brought from heaven knows where in my honor. A nice rug had been placed on the ground, and pillows round the walls; and the company soon settled down, either inside the room (having left their shoes at the door), or in the verandah. A musician had been provided, in the shape of an old man who had a variety of instruments and handled them skilfully as far as I could judge. But the performance was rather wearisome and lasted an unconscionably long time.

It was very curious to me, as a contrast to English ways, to see all these youngish fellows sitting round listening to this rather stupid old man playing by the hour—so quiescent andresignedif one might use the word. They are so fond of simply doing nothing; their legs crossed and heads meditatively bent forward; clerks, small foremen and bookkeepers, and some probably manual workers—looking very nice and clean withal in their red turbans and white or black shawls or coats.

There is a certain tastefulness and grace always observable in India. Here I could not but notice, not only the Mahratta dress, but all the interior scene; plain color-washed walls edged with a running pattern, the forms of the various instruments, a few common bowls brought in to serve as musical glasses, the brass pot from which water was pouredinto them—allartisticin design and color, though the house was of tiniest proportions—only apparently two or three rooms, of the same size as that one.

After the music a little general conversation ensued, with coffee and cigarettes, talk of course turning on the inevitable Congress question and the relations of England and India—a subject evidently exciting the deepest interest in those present; but not much I think was added to former conversations. One of the company (a post-office clerk) says that all the educated and thoughtful people in India are with the Congress, to which I reply that it is much the same with the socialist movement in the West. He thinks—and they all seem to agree with him—that the condition of the agricultural people is decidedly worse than it used to be; but when I ask for evidence there is not much forthcoming, except references to Digby. I guess the statement is on the whole true, but the obvious difficulty of corroborating these things is very great; the absence of records of the past, the vastness of India, the various conditions in different parts, etc., etc., make it very difficult to come to any general and sweeping conclusion. The same friend pointed out (from Digby) that mere statistics of the increasing wealth of India were quite illusive “as they only indicated the increase of profits to merchants and foreigners, and had nothing to do with the general prosperity”; and to this I quite agreed, telling him that we had had plenty of statistics of the same kind in England; but that this was only what might be expected, as the ruling classes in both countries being infected with commercialism would naturally measurepolitical success by trade-profits, and frame their laws too chiefly in view of a success of that kind.

Several of those present maintained that it was quite a mistake to say the Mahomedans are against the Congress; a certain section of them is, but only a section, and education is every day tending to destroy these differences and race-jealousies. I put the question seriously to them whether they really thought that within 50 or 100 years all these old race-differences, between Mahomedan and Hindu, Hindu and Eurasian, or between all the sections of Hindus, would be lost in a sense of national unity. Their reply was, “Yes, undoubtedly.” Education, they thought, would abolish the ill-feeling that existed, and indeed was doing so rapidly; there would soon be one common language, the English; and one common object, namely the realisation of Western institutions. Whether right or not in their speculations, it is interesting to find that such is the ideal of hundreds of thousands of the bulk-people of India now-a-days. Everywhere indeed one meets with these views. The Britisher in India may and does scoff at these ideals, and probably in a sense he is right. It may be (indeed it seems to me quite likely to be) impossible for a very long time yet to realise anything of the kind. At the same time who would not be touched by the uprising of a whole people towards such a dream of new and united life? And indeed the dream itself—like all other dreams—is a long step, perhaps the most important step, towards its own realisation.

Thus we chatted away till about midnight, when with mutual compliments, and the usual presents offlowers to the parting guest, we separated. These fellows evidently prize a little English society very much; for though they learn our language in the schools and use it in the business of every-day life, it rarely, very rarely, happens that they actually get into any friendly conversation with an Englishman; and I found that I was able to give them useful information—as for instance about methods of getting books out from England—and to answer a variety of other questions, which were really touching in the latent suggestion they contained of the utter absence of any such help under ordinary circumstances. It struck me indeed how much a few unpretending and friendly Englishmen might do to endear our country to this people.

SIDE CAVE, ELEPHANTA.

It is quite a sight at night walking home—however late one may be—to see on the maidans and open spaces bright lamps placed on the dusty turf, and groups of Parsees and others sitting round them on mats—playing cards, and enjoying themselves very composedly. Round the neighborhood of the Bunder quay and the club-houses and hotels the scene is rather more gay and frivolous. How pleasant and cool the night air, and yet not too cool! The darkies sleep out night-long by hundreds in these places and on the pavements under the trees. They take their cloths, wrap them under their feet, bring them over their heads, and tuck them in at the sides; and lie stretched straight out, with or without a mat under them, looking for all the world like laid-out corpses.

* * * * *

Indian Ocean.—On the way to Aden. The harbor of Bombay looked very beautiful as we glided out in theSS.Siam—with its variegated shore and islands and shipping. I went down into my berth to have a sleep, and when I awoke we were out of sight of India or any land. Most lovely weather; impossible to believe that England is shivering under a March sky, with north-east winds and gloom. The sea oily-calm; by day suffused with sunlight up to the farthest horizon—only broken, and that but seldom, by the back-fin of a porpoise, or the glance of flying-fish; by night gleaming faintly with the reflection of the stars and its own phosphorescence. Last night the sea was like a vast mirror, so smooth—every brighter star actually given again in wavering beauty in the world below—thehorizon softly veiled so that it was impossible to tell where the two heavens (between which one seemed suspended) might meet. All so tender and calm and magnificent. Canopus and the Southern Cross and the Milky Way forming a great radiance in the south; far ahead to the west Orion lying on his side, and Sirius, and the ruddy Aldebaran setting. Standing in the bows there was nothing between one and this immense world—nothing even to show that the ship was moving, except the rush of water from the bows—which indeed seemed an uncaused and unaccountable phenomenon. The whole thing was like a magic and beautiful poem. The phosphorescent stars (tiny jelly creatures) floating on the surface kept gliding swiftly over those other stars that lay so deep below; sometimes the black ocean-meadows seemed to be sown thick with them like daisies. The foam round the bows lay like a luminous necklace to the ship, and fell continually over in a cascade of brilliant points, while now and then some bigger jelly tossed in the surge threw a glare up even in our faces.

One might stand for hours thus catching the wind of one’s own speed—so soft, so mild, so warm—the delicate aroma of the sea, the faint far suggestion of the transparent air and water, wafting, encircling one round. And indeed all my journey has been like this—so smooth, so unruffled, as if one had not really been moving. I have several times thought, and am inclined to think even now, that perhaps one has not left home at all, but that it has been a fair panorama that has been gliding past one all these months.

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