CHAPTER I.

Map of Mysore

As I now turn my thoughts back to the year 1855, when, being then in my eighteenth year, I sailed for India to seek my fortunes in the jungles of Mysore, it is difficult to believe that the journey is still the same, or that India is still the same country on the shores of which I landed so long ago. But after all, as a matter of fact, the journey is, practically speaking, not the same, and still less is India the same India which I knew in 1855. For the route across Egypt, which was then partly by rail, partly by water, and partly across the desert in transits, the bumping of which I even now distinctly remember, has been exchanged for the Suez Canal, and the frequent steamers with their accelerated rate of speed have altered all the relations of distances, and on landing at Bombay the traveller of 1855 would now find it difficult to recognize the place. For then there were the old fort walls and ditches, and narrow streets filled with a straggling throng of carts and people, while now the fort walls and ditches no longer exist, and the traveller drives into a city with public buildings, broad roads and beautiful squares and gardens, that would do credit to any capital in the world, and sees around him all the signs of advanced and advancing civilization. Then as, perhaps, he views the scene from the Tower of the Elphinstone College, and looks down on thebeautiful city, on the masts of the shipping lying in the splendid harbour, and on the moving throngs of people to whom we have given peace and order, what thoughts must fill his mind! And what thoughts further, as on turning to view the scene without the city he sees on one side of it the tall chimneys of the numerous mills which have sprung up in recent times, and which tell of the conjunction of English skill and capital with the cheap hand-labour of the East—a combination that is destined, and at no very distant period ahead, to produce remarkable effects. But I must not wander here into the consideration of matters to which I shall again have occasion to refer when I come to remark on the wonderful progress made in India in recent years owing to the introduction of English skill and capital, and shall now briefly describe my route to the western jungles of Mysore.

When I landed in Bombay, in 1855, the journey to the Native State of Mysore, now so easy and simple, was one requiring much time and no small degree of trouble, for the railway lines had then advanced but little—the first twenty miles in all India having been only opened near Bombay in 1853. A land journey then was not to be thought of, and as there were no coasting-steamers, I was compelled to take a passage in a Patama (native sailing craft) which was proceeding down the western coast with a cargo of salt which was stowed away in the after-part of the vessel. Over this was a low roofed and thatched house, the flooring of which was composed of strips of split bamboo laid upon the salt. On this I placed my mattress and bedding. My provisions for the voyage were very simple—a coop with some fowls, some tea, sugar, cooking utensils, and other small necessaries of life. A Portuguese servant I had hired in Bombay cooked my dinner and looked after me generally. We sailed along the sometimes bare, and occasionally palm-fringed, shores with that indifference totime and progress which is often the despair and not unfrequently the envy of Europeans. The hubble-bubble passed from mouth to mouth, and the crew whiled away the evening hours with their monotonous chants. We always anchored at night; sometimes we stopped for fishing, and once ran into a small bay—one of those charming scenic gems which can only be found in the eastern seas—to land some salt and take in cocoa-nuts and other items. As for the port of Mangalore, for which I was bound, it seemed to be, though only about 450 miles from Bombay, an immense distance away, and practically was nearly as far as Bombay is from Suez. At last, after a nine days' sail, we lay to off the mouth of the harbour into which, for reasons best known to himself, the captain of the craft did not choose to enter, and I was taken ashore in a canoe to be kindly received by the judge of the collectorate of South Kanara, to whom I had a letter of introduction.

After spending some pleasant days at Mangalore I set out for Manjarabad, the talook or county which borders on the South Kanara district—in what is called a manshiel—a kind of open-sided cot slung to a bamboo pole which projects far enough in front and rear to be placed with ease on the shoulders of the bearers. Four of these men are brought into play at once, while four others run along to relieve their fellows at intervals. I started in the afternoon, and was carried up the banks of a broad river by the side of which hero and there the road wound pleasantly along. In the course of a few hours night fell, and then all nature seemed to come into active life with the hum of insects, the croaking of frogs, and various other indications of an abounding animal life. Presently I was lulled to sleep by the monotonous chant of the bearers—sleep only partially broken when changes of the whole set of bearers had to be made—and awoke the following morning to find myself some fifty miles from the coast, and amidst thegorges of the Ghauts, with vast heights towering upwards, and almost all around, while the river, which had now sunk to what in English ideas would still seem to be one of considerable size, appeared as if it had just emerged from the navel of a mountain-barrier some miles ahead. After a few miles more we passed the last hamlet of what was then called the Company's Country, and leaving the inhabited lands—if indeed in a European sense they may be called so—behind us, began to ascend the twenty miles of forest-clad gorges which lead up into the tableland of Mysore. The ascent was necessarily slow, and it was not till late in the afternoon that I saw, some 500 feet above me, and at a total elevation of about 3,200 feet above sea-level, the white walls of the only planter's bungalow in the southern part of Mysore. To this pioneer of our civilization—Mr. Frederick Green, who had begun work in 1843—I had a letter of introduction, and was most kindly received, and put in the way of acquiring land which I started on and still hold. To the south, in the adjacent little province of Coorg—now, as we shall afterwards see, an extensive coffee-field—the first European plantation had been started the year before,i.e., 1854, while to the north some fifty to seventy miles away the country was, in a European sense, occupied by only three English, or, to be exact, Scotch planters. In 1856 I started active life as a planter on my own account, about twelve miles away from the estate of Mr. Green, while in the same year two other planters—Scotchmen by the way—made their appearance. The southern part of Mysore was thus occupied by four planters, and we were all about twelve miles from each other. It is difficult to conceive the state of isolation in which we lived, and as we were all Europeanly speaking single handed, and could seldom leave home, we often had not for weeks together an opportunity of seeing a single white face, and so rare indeed was a visit from a neighbour that, when onewas coming to see me, I used to sit on a hill watching for the first glimpse of him, like a shipwrecked mariner on a desert island watching for the glimpse of a sail on the horizon. As for the Indian mutinies, which broke out the year after I had started work, they might have been going on in Norway as far as we were concerned; none of us at all appreciated the importance and gravity of the events that were occurring, and one of my neighbours said that it was not worth while trying to understand the situation, and that we had better wait for the book that would be sure to come out when things had settled down. And the native population around us appeared to know as little of the mutinies as we did. They seemed to be aware that some disturbance was going on somewhere in the north, and that represented the whole extent of their knowledge of the subject.

I have described our life as having been one of great isolation so far as European society was concerned, but I never felt it to be a dull one, nor did my neighbours ever complain of it, though we only took a holiday of a few weeks in the year. But we had plenty of work, and big game shooting, and the occupation was an interesting one, and as I even now return with pleasure every winter to my planter's life, this proves that my earlier days must have left behind them many pleasant associations. And the occupation and sport were really all we had to depend on. We had few books, nor any means of getting them, for I need hardly say that pioneer planters, who have to keep themselves and their coffee till the latter comes into bearing, cannot afford to buy anything that can be dispensed with. But after all this perhaps was no disadvantage, for, as a great moral philosopher has pointed out, nothing tends to weaken the resources of the mind so much as a miscellaneous course of reading unaccompanied (as it usually is, I may remark) by reflection. The management of people, the business of an estate, the exercise of the inventive powers, the cultivation of method, the sharpening of the observing and combining faculties, which are so well developed by big game shooting, yield real education, or the leading out and development of the mental resources, while books provide the individual merely with instruction which has often a tendency to cramp and even to fossilize the mind.

I have said at the outset, that the journey to India is not the same as it was in 1855, and that still less is India the same India, and I may certainly say that still less is Western Mysore the Western Mysore of 1855, except that its beautiful scenery is as beautiful as ever. For our planting is not like that of Ceylon, where the planter, like the locust, finds a paradise in front to leave a desert in his rear—a desert of bare lull sides from which the beautiful forest has been entirely swept away, while the most valuable constituents of the soil have been washed down to the river beds. And when standing in 1893 on a lull in my district of Manjarabad, and looking around, I can see no sign of change in the landscape from the days of 1855, except that the woodland paths leading from village to village are much more distinctly marked, owing to the great increase of labourers employed in the numerous native and European plantations, which now stretch in an unbroken line along all the western border of Mysore. And no sign of change is apparent, because all the coffee is planted either under the shade of the original forest trees, or under the shade of trees which have been planted to take their place. But all else is practically and largely changed by the agency of a universal progress, which has been brought about by British government and the introduction of British capital, skill, and energy. And this progress, I am glad to be able to say, has benefited all classes of the community, and the labouring classes by far the most of all, and the results as regards those are so striking, so interesting,and so much more widely diffused than could at first sight be thought possible, and are, as I shall show, of such vast importance to the finances of the State, that they are well worthy of special attention. Had the Government been aware of the enormous financial value to the State of the introduction of English capital, I feel sure that much greater efforts would have been made to stimulate European enterprise, and that the progress of India would have been much accelerated all along the line.

When I started my plantation in 1858, the pay of a labourer was 2 rupees 4 annas (4s. 6d.) a month. It is now, throughout the numerous plantations in Mysore, from six to seven rupees a month, and a labourer can live on about two rupees a month. Such a statement made of any country would indicate a satisfactory degree of progress; but whereas in England it would simply mean a greater ability in the working classes to live in an improved condition, and perhaps some improvement in the condition of the shopkeepers with whom they dealt, in India it means the creation of a social and ever wide-spreading revolution. For when in India capital is introduced, and employment on a large scale is afforded to the people, the poorer of the peasant classes are at once able to free themselves from debt, and the labourers soon save enough money to enable them to start in agriculture, coffee culture, or any culture within, their reach. The result of this, in my experience, has been most remarkable. When I started in Manjarabad, for instance, the planters relied solely on labour procured from the adjacent villages. But now the local labourer is almost a thing of the past, for he has taken to agriculture and coffee culture, and now only occasionally works for a short time to earn some money to pay his taxes. When this change began, the planters had of course to go further afield for labour, but merely to produce over again a similar result by enabling labourersfrom distant villages to do what the local labourers in the coffee districts had done, and thus for labour we have to operate on ever-widening circles, till at last I have heard it remarked that the Kanarese language is often of little use, and the native overseers on my estate have complained that they now often cannot make the labourers understand them. And this of course is not surprising, as at one moment the overseer may have to deal with labourers from any one of the villages between Mysore and the Western Sea, and at another with people from villages in the Madras Presidency, far away on the route to the Bay of Bengal. Field after field, and village after village, has thus been irrigated by that capital for which India thirsts, and which, as we have seen, produces such wide-spreading social effects on the welfare of the people, and, consequently, on the resources of the State—enabling land to be more largely and fully developed, wells to be dug, gardens to be made, and the people to pay with greater ease the demands of the Government. But there is yet another point of great importance to notice as regards the introduction into India of European capital, with its accompanying effects—effects which largely enhance its value—namely, those arising from setting the natives practical examples of both method, skill, and energetic action. I allude to the bearing of these forces upon famine—a subject well worthy of some passing remarks, more especially because in Mysore we can furnish proofs of the value in times of famine of having Europeans settled in the country.

The actual money value of the infuse of English capitalists, and its bearing on the resources of the State, and in enabling the people the better to contest with famine and scarcity, is sufficiently apparent, but it was only when the terrible famine of 1876-77 (which cost Mysore the loss of about a fifth of its population, an immensesum of money, and crippled its resources for years) broke out that the value of having a European agency ready at hand to grapple with famine, and honestly administer the funds available, was absolutely proved. It would be tedious to go into this subject at any length, indeed I have not space to do so, and I can only say that, as far as I could learn, the only satisfactory treatment of the great famine was that initiated and carried out by the planters, or, to be at once just and exact, I should rather say that the system adopted was initiated by one of our leading planters—Mr. Graham Anderson—who, and entirely at his own cost, was the first to start and maintain on his estate a nursery for children. He saw that if the parents could only be relieved of their children the former could work and be able to maintain themselves, while all their efforts would be insufficient to maintain at once themselves and their children. The nursery system that was then initiated by Mr. Anderson, was adopted by other planters who were subsequently aided by the assistance of money from the Mansion House Fund, and Mr. Anderson was formally appointed by the Government as President of the relief operations in the Southern Mysore coffee district, and, owing to his energy, example, and administrative still, most satisfactory results were obtained. I have before me, and written by Mr. Anderson, a full account of all the famine relief operations he had charge of, showing the assistance afforded by the planters in employing labour from which, owing to the weakness of the people, very little return could be got; and moreover by sheltering in their lines the wandering starvelings who were moving about the country. I can only regret that want of space prevents my going into the subject more in detail. I must, however, at least find room for his concluding remarks, in order to deliver for him a message he has long been desirous of sending to those of the English public who subscribed to the Mansion HouseFund.

"If there is one thing," writes Mr. Anderson, "I am certain of it is this, that although some people think that natives have no gratitude, there has never been anything concerning which the natives have been so loud in their praise as the unbounded generosity of the London public, who in time of fearful distress came forward with money to feed and clothe hundreds and thousands of starving poor. Many a poor woman and man have asked me to express blessings to 'the people of my village' who rescued them in their dire distress. Perhaps you can give this message, which, as an outsider, I have never had an opportunity of doing." I only wish I could add that the gratitude of the Government was equal to that of the natives. Yes, Mr. Graham Anderson was an outsider, and the Government (Mysore was under British rule at the time) was evidently determined that he should remain so in the fullest sense of the word, for he never even received a letter of thanks for his valuable and gratuitous services, or the smallest notice of any kind. I have no hesitation in praising most highly the action of the planters, because, though one of them, I was not in India at the time, and, though my estate manager took an early and active part in relief operations, I had nothing personally to do with the famine relief work.

The subject of famines is of such vast importance to the people, the Government, and all who have any stake in India, that I think it well to offer here some remarks on them, and also suggest some measures for their prevention, or perhaps I should rather say for their mitigation.

The causes that would lead to an increase of famines in India were fully pointed out by me in 1871 in the "Experiences of a Planter," in letters to the "Times," and in the evidence I gave when examined by the India Finance Committeeof the House of Commons in 1872. There were two principal causes—the spread of the use of money instead of grain as a medium of exchange, and such a restricted development of communications that, while these were sufficient to drain the countries in the interior of their grain, they were not sufficiently developed to enable the grain to be brought back again in sufficient quantities when it was necessary to do so in times of famine. Till, then, communications were developed to an adequate extent, it was quite clear that India would be much more exposed to risk from famines than she was in the days when grain was largely used as a medium of exchange, and when, besides, grain, from the want of communication, was largely kept in the country. The people, in short, in the olden days, and even for some time after I landed in India, hoarded grain, and in times of scarcity they encroached upon their supplies of buried grain, whereas now they hoard money, which in time of famine can go but a very short way in buying grain. The statement that an increase of famines would be sure to ensue from the causes above indicated is amply corroborated by the facts. There is no evidence to show that droughts have increased, but there can be no doubt that in comparatively recent times famines and scarcities have. And in looking over the list of famines from 1769 to 1877, I find that, comparing the first 84 years of the period in question with the years from then up to 1877, famines have more than doubled in number, and scarcities, causing great anxiety to the State, seem certainly to be increasing. That the latter are so we have strong evidence in Mysore, and in looking over the annual addresses of the Dewan at the meeting of the Representative Assembly of Mysore, I am struck with the frequent allusion to scarcities and grave apprehensions of famine. In his address of 1881, only four years after the great famine of 1876-77, the Dewan refers to "the period of intense anxiety throughwhich the Government and the people have passed owing to the recent failure of the rains. But," he adds, "such occasional failure of rains is almost a normal condition of the Province, and the Government must always remain in constant anxiety as to the fearful results which must follow from them." In his address of 1884 the Dewan says that "the condition of the Province is again causing grave anxiety." In the address of 1886 the Dewan says "this is the first year since the rendition of the Province (in 1881) in which the prospects of the season have caused no anxiety to the Government." But in the address of 1891 lamentations again occur, and we find the Dewan congratulating the members on the narrow escape, owing to rain having fallen just in time, they had had from famine. But our able Dewan—Sir K. Sheshadri Iyer, K.C.I.E.—has taken measures which must ultimately place the Province in a safe position, or at least in as safe a position as it can be placed. He has seen, and it has been amply proved by our experience in the Madras Presidency during the famine of 1876-77, that the only irrigation work that can withstand a serious drought is a deep well, and he has brought out a most admirable measure for encouraging the making of them by the ryots. The principal features of this are that money, to be repaid gradually over a long series of years, is to be advanced by the State on the most easy terms, and that, in the event of a ryot taking a loan, and water not being found, or found in inadequate quantity, the Government takes upon itself the entire loss. But the results from this highly liberal and valuable measure cannot be adequately arrived at for many years to come, and in the meanwhile the risks from famine go on, and as the Dewan has seen that these can only be immediately grappled with by an extension of the railway system, he has always been, anxious to make a line to the western frontier of Mysore, if the Madras Government would agree to carry it on toMangalore on the western coast. But the Madras Government felt itself unable to find funds to carry out the project, and hence Mysore, all along its western frontier, was, from a railway point of view, completely imprisoned, and there seemed to be no prospect of anything being done to connect the Province with the western seaboard for many years to come. However, a Mysore planter last year sought a personal interview with Viscount Cross, the Secretary of State for India, who has always taken a great interest in railway extensions, and the result of this was that Lord Cross initiated action which resulted in prompt steps being taken. Early this year a preliminary survey of the route from a point on the line in the interior of Mysore,viâthe Manjarabad Ghaut, to Mangalore was made, and I am in a position to state that the completion of this much and long-wanted line may be regarded as a thing of the near future. After this line has been made a line will be constructed from Hassan to Mysore,viâHolî Nursipur, and Yedatora, and from Mysore a line will be run,viâNunjengode[2]to Erode, the junction of the Madras and South Indian Railways. I may mention here that Sir Andrew Clarke, in his able Minute of 1879 on Indian Harbours, says that "Mangalore undoubtedly admits of being converted into a useful harbour," though he adds that "the project may lie over until the prospects of a railway connecting it with the interior are better than at present." As the immediate prospects of a line being made are quite secure, it is of great importance to call attention to this matter now, as it is to the manifest interest of both Governments that the harbour of Mangalore should be improved as soon as possible.

After having done so much to contend against famine-producing causes, it may seem that the Dewan might rest and be thankful; but it must be considered that, though railways will undoubtedly enable the State to save life, it will have to pay a ruinously heavy charge whenever a widespread and serious drought occurs, and, sooner or later, it seems inevitable that such a drought must occur. And it is therefore perfectly evident, that without the extension of deep wells the province cannot be placed in a thoroughly sound financial position. It is, then, of obvious importance to remove at once the great obstacle that stands in the way of the rapid addition to the number of deep wells. That obstacle, and a most formidable obstacle it is, as I shall fully show, lies in the fact that the present form of land tenure in Mysore (under which also about four-fifths of the land of British India are held) does not provide a sufficient security for investors in landed improvements. By the existing tenure the land is held by the occupier from the State at a rental which is fixed for thirty years, and after that it is liable to augmentation. The Government, it is true, has declared that it will not tax improvements, and that, for instance, if a man digs a well no augmentation of rent will be demanded for the productive power thus added to the land, but it has reserved to itself wide powers of enhancing the rent on general grounds, such as a rise in prices, improved communication, etc., and to what amount the enhancement may go the ryot cannot tell. And hence we find that the representatives in the Mysore Assembly have repeatedly argued that it is owing to the uncertainty as to what the rise of rent may be at the close of each thirty years' period that improvements are not more largely made, and have therefore prayed for a permanently fixed assessment. Now I am not prepared to say that, for the present at any rate, it would be wise to grant a fixed assessment on all lands, but I am quite sure that it would be wise to grant, for the irrigable areawatered by a well dug at an occupier's expense, a permanent assessment at the rent now charged on the land. The Government, it is true, would sacrifice the rise it might obtain on the land at the close of each lease, but, as a compensation for this—and an ample compensation I feel sure it would be—the State would save in two ways, for it would never have to grant remissions of revenue on such lands, as it now often has to do in the case of dry lands, and with every well dug the expenditure in time of famine would be diminished. Such a measure, then, as I have proposed, would at once benefit the State and draw out for profitable investment much capital that is now lying idle. There is nothing new, I may add, in this proposal, for it was adopted by the old native rulers, who granted fixed tenures on favourable terms to those making irrigation works at their own expense. An English-speaking Mysore landholder once said to me, "I will not dig wells on my lands under my present tenure, but give me an assessment fixed for ever, and I will dig lots of wells." The present landed policy of the Indian Government[3]is as shallow as it is hide-bound. It wants, like a child, to eat its cake and still remain in possession of the article. It is most anxious to see private capital invested in land, and it still wants to retain the power of every thirty years indefinitely augmenting the land revenue on general grounds. Surely it must be apparent to minds of even the humblest calibre that these two things are utterly incompatible!

I may mention that there is a strong party in India in favour of granting at once a permanent assessment at the existing rate of rent for all lands, and in reference to this point it may be interesting to give the following passage from a letter I once received from the late Prime Ministerof Mysore, Mr. Rungacharlu, the minister who started the first Representative Assembly that ever sat in India:

"As you know," he wrote, "I hold decided views on the subject, and the withholding of the permanent assessment is a serious injury to the extensive petty landed interests in the country, and is no gain whatever to the Government. Nearly the whole population of the country are agriculturists, and live in one way or another upon the cultivation of the land. The effect of a permanent settlement will therefore create a greater feeling of security, and to encourage the outlay of capital and labour on land will be beneficial to the entire population. It will thus be quite a national measure reaching all, and not in the interests of a few, and is calculated to develop the capabilities of the land to the utmost. The prospect of the Government ever being benefited by the reservation of an increase of assessment on the unearned increment is a mere dream. Such increase is sure to be resisted or evaded, occasioning meanwhile great discontent. The Government may confidently look to the development of other sources of revenue from the increased prosperity of the people."

But whether the best remedy lies in granting, as I have proposed, a fixed assessment on land brought under well-irrigation at owners' expense, or in granting a permanent assessment for all lands, or, perhaps, in extending the period of lease from thirty to sixty years (and the last proposal would answer fairly well), one thing is certain, and that is, that under the thirty years' tenure system it is impossible to expect such a development of the landed resources of India as will secure the Government from the vast financial losses caused by famine, or at least reduce these losses to a moderate amount. And we have ample evidence to prove that, where adequate security exists, private enterprise will be sure to step in and carry out most extensive and important irrigation works. This has been particularlyshown in the proceedings of the Government of the North-West Provinces and Oudh, where the condition of things in the permanently settled districts has been contrasted with that in the temporarily settled, or thirty year leasehold districts. I have no space to go into the details. They would only weary the general reader, and it is sufficient to say that in the permanently settled districts there has been an immense progress in irrigation carried out by private enterprise; and that, to quote from the proceedings:—"Throughout the whole tract there have been occasional periods of agricultural distress, but it has always been in a mild form, and for a century famines such as have occurred in other parts of India have been unknown." In short, private enterprise, backed by a fair assessment fixed for ever, has driven famine from the tract in question, and this will occur in other parts of India if the Government will only grant tenures sufficiently safe to induce the people to invest their money in wells and permanent improvements. And if further proofs are needed, we have only to turn to Mr. Gribble's valuable memorandum on well irrigation, which is published in the proceedings of the Famine Commission.

In concluding my remarks on famines, I may say that the whole question regarding them is of the greatest practical importance to all employers of labour in India. Our labour market in Mysore was enormously injured by the great famine of 1876-77, when the loss of population amounted to about a million, and when, through the agency of railways, loss of life can be averted in the future, it will only be averted at such a cost as will cripple the resources of the State for years to come, and so lessen its powers for maintaining roads and other works in an efficient state, and developing the resources of the country. The whole of the evils arising from famine then can only be averted by a full development of well irrigation, and this and the developmentof the landed resources of the country in general can only be effected through the agency of improved tenures. This is a point which all individuals having a stake in India should continuously urge on the attention of the Government.

The reader will remember that when I started in Mysore in 1856, there were only seven European planters in the province. I have lately endeavoured to ascertain the number there are at present, and the Dewan, to whose kindness I have been much indebted for information when writing this book, has supplied me with a specially drawn up return, showing all the information available as regards coffee from the year 1831 up to 1890-91, and by this it seems that there were in 1890-91 662 plantations held by Europeans in Mysore, but there are no means of ascertaining the number of planters. I have referred the return to one of the oldest and most advanced planters, and in his reply he says, "It is impossible to say exactly how many landowners the 662 plantations represent, as several of the plantations in many cases go to make up what we call an estate, but I should not imagine that the number would be more than 300, and in that calculation I have allowed for there being partners in many of the properties." The area held by Europeans was 49,862 acres, and some increase has no doubt since been made to this.

The native plantations amounted to 27,180 in number in 1890-91, with an area of 96,814 acres, but many of these so-called plantations only consist of small patches of coffee. The total area of European and native holdings in 1890-91 was 146,676 acres. There are no means whatever of ascertaining from the returns at my command even approximately the amount of coffee produced. A reasonable calculation, however, based on a general knowledge of the circumstances, makes it probable that the European production of coffee may be put down at about an average of 120,000 cwts.a-year, and the native production at about 172,000 cwts., and if we put the average value of both as low as £3 a cwt. this would make the annual value of the coffee amount to £876,000. I now proceed to close this chapter with some remarks on manufactures in Mysore.

Many years ago I heard the late Mr. Hugh Mason (formerly President of the Manchester Chamber of Commerce) speak at a meeting of the Society of Arts on the manufacturing prospects of India, and, after reviewing the general situation, he said that it is difficult to see what other advantages India could require in order to raise itself into the position of a great manufacturing country. It is true, he said, that the operative there cannot do as much as the operative hero, but, he continued, I can remember the time when the operative here could not do nearly as much as he can do now, and there is no reason to doubt but that a similar improvement would take place in the case of the Indian operative. And when this improvement takes place, and India becomes more known and developed, her great manufacturing capabilities will become fully apparent. India has two very great advantages. She has an abundant, docile, and orderly population, and she obtains from the sun an ample supply of that heat which has to be paid largely for here. When, then, the Indian operative attains to an advanced degree of proficiency—and to this he undoubtedly will attain—the greatest labour competition that the world has ever seen will begin—a competition between the white labourer who requires to be expensively fed, warmly clothed, and well shod, and housed, and the black or brown skinned man who can live cheaply, and work naked, and who is as physically comfortable in a mere shelter as his rival is in a well built dwelling. The Indian peasant already, in the case of wheat, undersells the English farmer, and it seems merely a question of time as to when the Indian operative will undersell his Lancashire rival,and when perhaps calico will come to England, as it once did, from Calicut. And no doubt, some such thoughts were passing through Cobden's mind when he once said, "What ugly ruins our mills will make." We are, however, a considerable way from such remains as the reader will see if he consults the interesting paper on "The Manufactures of India," read by Sir Juland Danvers at a meeting of the Society of Arts on the 24th of April last, and by this it appears that the imports of cloths of English manufacture have increased in recent years. Still India is progressing, and there are now a total of 126 cotton mills in all India. Of these one is in Bangalore, and was opened in 1885. The Mysore Government took 250 shares in it, and to enable the Company to extend the buildings, subsequently lent it on easy terms two lakhs of rupees. There is also another company at work in Bangalore which started as a woollen factory, but which has now set up machines for spinning cotton. The efforts made to push forward industries of all kinds in Mysore are highly creditable to the administration, and I find numerous references in the annual addresses made by the Dewan at the meeting of the Representative Assembly to the desire of the Government to foster any kind of industry that is likely to afford increased employment to the people. A long reference is made in the Dewan's address of 1890, to the endeavours made by the Government to open up the iron wealth of the province, and it was then in correspondence with a native gentleman who had proposed to start iron works in the Malvalli Talook of the Mysore district. The Government, it appears, were prepared to grant most liberal concessions as regards the supply of fuel. But I regret that I have no information as to whether these proposed works have or have not been started. For the information of those who might be inclined to embark in this industry I may mention that a copy of the Dewan's annual addresses alwaysappears in the "Mysore and Coorg Directory," which is a most valuable compilation on all points of importance relating to those provinces. These annual addresses are admirably drawn up and are most interesting to read. The attention shown to the many various points treated of is most remarkable. Nothing seems too great and nothing too small for notice by the Dewan, and it is this even attention all along the line that shows the fine administrator. As one instance to the point I may mention that when attending as a member of the Representative Assembly at Mysore in 1891, I happened to meet the Dewan and some of his officers in the veranda outside the great hall where our meetings were held, and his attention was attracted to a coffee peeler—the invention of a native who thought this a good opportunity for introducing his machines to the notice of the public, and had some cherry coffee at hand to show how they worked. The Dewan at once inspected the machine, saw the coffee put through, and himself turned the handle, and was so satisfied that he ordered some of the machines to be bought and sent for exhibition to the head-quarters of the coffee growing Talooks, or counties, and in his address of 1892 he reports that the machines had been found to be much in favour with the planters who had used them. The state of the box is the best evidence of the goodness of the gardener. But it is time now to draw this chapter to a close. I must, however, find room for a few remarks which will show those who might be inclined to settle in India that their interests are sure to be well attended to by the Government.

During my long Indian experience I have had occasion to represent grievances and wants to Government officers, from district officers to high Indian officials, to officials at the India office, and to more than one Secretary of State for India, and am therefore able to testify directly to their admirable courtesy, patience, and consideration. In theordinary sense of the word, the planters in the various parts of India are not represented, but as a matter of fact their interests are most efficiently represented, for the officers of the Government, whether civilians or soldier-civilians (and when Mysore was under British rule I had practical experience of both), are distinguished by an amount of energy, industry, and ability, to which I believe it is impossible to find a parallel in the world, and combined with these qualities there is everywhere exhibited a conscientious zeal in promoting in every possible way the interests of the countries committed to their charge. And these officers know that they are at once the administrators and rulers of the land, and, as there is no representative system such as we have in England, freely admit that to them the people have a right to appeal in all matters affecting their interests. This right of personal appeal planters most freely exercise, and in this way are sure, sooner or later, and often with very little delay, to obtain the supply of wants or the redress of grievances. And here I may offer in conclusion one useful hint. The time of officials, and especially of high officials, is very valuable, and every effort should be made to avoid putting them to trouble that can be avoided. The subject to be brought forward should be carefully thought out, and put in the form of a memorandum. This in some cases it is advisable to forward by letter when asking for an interview, while in other cases I have thought it more advisable that the memorandum should be taken with one and read to the official, as this gives a good opportunity for discussing the points in regular order. In the latter case, at the close of the interview, the official will probably ask that the memorandum may be left with him for reference, but it is then better to ask to be allowed to send a well-written copy by post, as this gives an opportunity for making clearer any points that may have been discussedat the interview, and which may require further explanation. It is well always to bear in mind that all high officials, and the heads of districts, are representatives of the Crown, and as such are entitled to a due amount of deference and formality when being personally addressed, or addressed by letter. These are points which are sometimes not sufficiently taken into account by inexperienced persons.

I need hardly say that the remarks last made apply equally to native officials either in Mysore or elsewhere.

In conclusion, I may mention that I have always found the native officials to be most polite, considerate, and obliging, and such, I feel sure, is the general experience of those who have been brought in contact with them.

[2]When this line is finished the planters of Mysore will have an easy and very direct route by rail to the Nilgiri Hills, and this will be of immense advantage to themselves, and especially to their families.

[3]It has imposed this policy on Mysore, and by the terms of the deed of transfer to the Rajah, no alteration in the tenures can be made without the consent of the Supreme Government.

Mysore is a tract of country in Southern India approximating in area to Scotland, and with a general elevation of from two to three thousand feet above the level of the sea. It is commonly spoken of as the Mysore tableland, but this is rather a misleading description if we adopt the dictionary definition of the word tableland as being "a tract of country at once elevated and level," for, though there are in the interior of the province considerable stretches of rolling plains, the so-called tableland presents to the view a country intersected at intervals, more or less remote, with mountain chains, while scattered here and there in the interior of the plateau are isolated rocky hills, or rather hills of rock, termed droogs (Sanscrit, durga, or difficult of access) which sometimes rise to a total height of 5,000 feet above sea level. The surface of the country, too, is often broken by groups, or clusters of rocks, either low or of moderate elevation, composed of immense boulders, the topmost ones of which are often so finely poised as to seem ready to topple over at the slightest touch. The highest point of the plateau is about 3,500 feet, and is crowned as it were by the fine bold range of the Bababuden mountains, which have an average elevation of about 6,000 feet. There are three mountains in Mysore which exceed this elevation, and the highest of them, Mulaìnagiri, is 6,317 feet above the level of the sea. The province, which is completely surroundedby British territory, is flanked on the west and east by the Ghauts, or ranges of hills up the passes through which the traveller ascends on to the tableland, and on the south it is, as it were, pointed off by the Nilgiri hills. The greatest breadth of Mysore from north to south is about 230 miles, and its greatest length from east to west is 290 miles. On the western side one part of the province runs to within ten miles of the sea, though the average distance from it is from thirty to fifty miles. The nearest point to the sea on the eastern side is about 120 miles, and the most southerly extremity of the tableland is 250 miles from the most southerly point of India.

As regards climate, cultivation, and the general appearance of the country, Mysore may be divided into two very distinctly marked tracts—the forest and woodland region which stretches from the foot of the Western Ghauts to distances varying from about twenty to as much as forty-five miles, and the rolling and comparatively speaking treeless plains of the central and eastern parts of the province, which are only occasionally broken by tracts which have some of the characteristics of both. In the western tract are numerous plantations of coffee and cardamoms, and the cereal cultivation consists mainly of rice fields irrigated from perennial streams; while in the central and eastern parts of the tableland, which by far exceed in area the woodland tracts of the west, the cultivation is mainly of the millets and other crops which do not depend on irrigation, though these are interspersed at intervals, more or less remote, with rice fields, the water for which is chiefly derived from tanks, or artificial reservoirs. The rainfall, temperature, and quality of the atmosphere in the western tract varies considerably from those of the open country of the interior. The rainfall of the first varies from sixty to one hundred inches, and, on the crests of the Ghauts, is probably often about 200 inches,[4]while in the interior of the province the rainfall is probably about thirty inches on the average. The temperature of the western tract too is naturally much damper and cooler than that of the rest of the tableland, and at my house within six miles of the crests of the Ghauts at an elevation of about 3,200 feet, the shade temperature at the hottest time of the year and of the day rarely exceeds eighty-five, and such a thing as a hot night is unknown, as the woodland tracts are within reach of the westerly sea breezes, while in the interior the climate is much hotter and drier, and the maximum day temperature of the hot weather is about ninety, and, in very hot seasons, about ninety-five. In the woodland tracts the cold weather and the monsoon months have a very pleasant temperature, and then flannel shirts and light tweeds—in short, English summer clothing—are used, and a blanket is always welcome at night. The climate of Mysore is considered to be a healthy one for Europeans of temperate habits, and who take reasonable care of themselves. As we are now hearing so much of cholera in Europe, it may not be uninteresting to mention that, though the province was under British administration from 1831 to 1881, and there have since been a considerable number of European officials in the employ of the now native government of Mysore, only one European official has died of cholera during that period, and that, though there are a considerable number of planters, only one has been reported to have died of the disease, though his, I am told, was a doubtful case.

I have said that there are marked differences between the western tracts and the remainder of the province, but the most marked difference of course between the forestand woodland country of the west, and the country to the east, lies in the scenery of the two tracts, for, though in the latter case there are occasional bits of attractive landscape, and partially wooded hills, there is nothing at all to compare with the grand forest scenery of the Western Ghauts, or the charming park-like woodlands which stretch into the tableland at varying distances from the crests of the frontier mountains. Everyone who has seen the latter has been struck by their extraordinary and diversified beauty, and last year a friend of mine, who had for a considerable time been travelling all round the world, said to me, as he rode up to my house, "After all I have seen I have seen nothing to equal this." But this, I must add, was the very best of our Western Ghaut park scenery which is mostly contained in the talook or county of Manjarabad which stretches for about twenty-five miles along the western frontier of Mysore, a tract of country so beautiful that the laconic Colonel Wellesley (afterwards the great Duke of Wellington), who rarely put a superfluous word into his dispatches, could not refrain from remarking in one of them on the beautiful appearance of the country.[5]There are two things especially remarkable about this tract. The one is that throughout the best of it there is nothing distinctively Indian in the scenery. Bamboos are rare, and in much of the tract entirely absent, and as the palm trees are always concealed in the woods there is nothing to connect the country with the usual feature of Indian woodland scenery. Another point most worthy of notice is that the scenery which appears to one seeing it for the first time to be entirely natural, is in reality very largely the creation of man. And it has been much improved by his action for, as you leave Manjarabad to go northwards the junglebecomes too continuous, and it is the same if you go southwards into the adjacent district of Coorg, and when you compare the last mentioned tracts with Manjarabad you then begin to realize the fact that nature, if left to herself, is apt to become a trifle monotonous. But in Manjarabad man has invaded nature to beautify her and bring her to perfection—cutting down and turning eventually into stretches of grass much of the original forest—leaving blocks of from 50 to 200 acres of wood on the margin of each group of houses, clearing out the jungle in the bottoms for rice cultivation and thus forming what at some seasons appear to be bright green rivers winding through the forest-clad or wooded slopes, and here and there planting on the knolls trees of various wide-spreading kinds. And yet from the absence of fences, and of cultivation on the uplands, the whole scene appears to be one of Nature's creations, and all the more so because no houses nor farm-buildings are visible, as these are hidden amongst the trees on the margins of the forest lands. Then this long tract of beautifully wooded and watered country is fringed on its western border by the varied mountain crests of the Western Ghauts, while on the east it is traversed by the Hemavati river which is fed by the numerous streams, and brawling burns which descend from the frontier hills. But though Manjarabad has combinations of charms unrivalled in their kind, we must not forget that an examination of of them by no means exhausts the scenery of the Ghauts, for, on the north-western border of Mysore are the falls of Gairsoppa. Often had I read descriptions of them which I once thought must have been too highly coloured, but when I visited the falls some years ago I found that the accounts I had read were not only far below the reality, but that the most important parts of the wonderful combinations of the scenes had either never been noted, or been quite inadequately recorded. I do notnow profess to give anything approaching an adequate account of them. Nor indeed do I think it would be possible to do so. But what follows will I think at least be of advantage in directing the attention of the traveller to the best way of observing the varied scenes, and noting the wonderful musical combinations, which are to be heard at these marvellously beautiful falls.

The falls of Gairsoppa are on the Sarawati, or Arrowborn[6]river, which, rising in the western woodland region of Northern Mysore, flows north-west for about sixty-two miles, and then, turning abruptly to the west, precipitates its waters over cliffs about 860 feet in height. When the river is at the full in the south-west monsoon an immense body of water rushes over the precipice, and from calculations made by some engineers, and which are recorded in the book at the Travellers' Bungalow, the volume and height of fall at that time, if taken together, would give a force of water about equal to that of Niagara. But, however that may be, a glance at the high water marks, and a knowledge of the immense rainfall on the crests of the Ghauts during the monsoon months, makes it certain that, at that time of year, the amount of water must be very large. At that season, though, the falls are almost invisible, as they are concealed by vast masses of mist and spray, and even were they visible, as the water then stretches from bank to bank, there would only be one vast monotonous fall. But after the heavy monsoon floods are over, the river above the falls-shrinks back as it were into a long deep pool which lies at a distance of several hundred yards from the brink of the precipice, and from this pool the water of the river then escapes by four distinct rapids which have cut their way to-the brink of the precipice, and fall over the cliffs in four distinct falls, each one of widely different character fromthe others. The falls at this season are only 834 feet high, but when the river rises to the full the fall, as I before mentioned, must be about 860 feet, or approximating in height to the loftiest story of the Eiffel Tower. Across the rapids light bridges of bamboo are thrown, at the end of each monsoon. There are thus two ways of crossing the river—one by the pool above the falls where there is a ferry-boat which can take over horses as well as people—the other by the bridges of the rapids—and it is necessary to cross the river because the only bungalow is on the north, or Bombay side of the river, and the best point for seeing the falls is on the southern side. The only way too of reaching the bottom of the falls is by the southern side.

The only objection to these falls is the difficulty of getting at them, owing to their being quite out of the usual travellers' route, and that is why they have, if I may judge by the travellers' book at the bungalow,[7]been, comparatively speaking, rarely visited. Then there is no railway nearer than about ninety miles, and though the falls are only thirty-five miles from the western coast, steamers do not call at the nearest port to them. Nor is it at all even probable that any line will ever be brought nearer to the falls than about sixty miles. It is, too, rather discouraging to have the prospect of a ninety mile road journey to see the falls, and then return by the same route. But I would suggest that a traveller might make a very enjoyable trip by going from Bombay to Hoobli on the South Maharatta line, and, on the way to Gairsoppa visit the Lushington Falls which are about 400 feet in height, the Lalgali Fall which has a series of picturesque rapids and cascades, with a total fall of from 200 to 300 feet, and the Majod falls where the Bedti-Gangaveli river forms a picturesque waterfall leapingin a series of cascades over cliffs varying in height from 100 to 200 feet in height, and together 800 feet high. I have not visited any of these last named falls. An account of them and other places of interest in the Kanara district is given in the "Bombay Gazetteer" for Kanara,[8]which gives a complete history of this interesting district, and is a book which the traveller should buy, as it is well worthy of a place in any library. I now proceed to give an account of my visit to the Gairsoppa Falls.

On the 12th of January, 1886 (I should not advise the traveller to visit the falls earlier than November 1st nor later than the middle of January, as the water lessens after the latter date), I arrived at the Travellers' Bungalow at the Falls, after having travelled there by the coast route from Bombay, which I found so troublesome that I cannot recommend its adoption. The bungalow, which is about thirty-five miles from the western coast, and on ground 1,800 feet above sea level, is situated in a truly romantic spot (in fact rather too romantic if we take the possibility of an earthquake into consideration), for it is close to the edge of a gorge 900 feet deep, and in full view of the face of the precipice over which the waters of the Arrowborn river precipitate themselves on their way to the western sea. To north, south, east, and west stretch hills and vales for the most part covered with the evergreen forest, and only here and there showing grassy slopes and summits. On the opposite side of the gorge as you peer down into it you can see emerging from the edge of the jungle about half way down from the top of the side of the gorge what looks like a long ladder of stone, but which really consists of the rough steps by which alone the bottom of the falls can be reached.

On the following morning I proceeded to cross the river by the bridges over the rapids. The first rapid is that of the Rajah Fall, the water of which shoots sheer from the cliff, and, without even touching a rock, falls 830 feet into a pool 132 feet deep. After crossing the bridge you sometimes walk through, and sometimes clamber over, the vast assemblage of rocks and huge boulders which form the bed of the river, and are deeply submerged when the river is full. The sight here is extremely curious and interesting as, after leaving the bridge of the Rajah rapid, there are about 1,000 feet of rock and boulders to pass through or over before you reach the next rapid, and, when half way, there would be nothing to show that you were not wandering through a mere wilderness of rocks were it not for the unceasing thunder, far below, from the bottom of the Rajah Fall. The next rapid to be crossed is that of the Roarer, which takes, before it goes over the precipice a most singular course—first flowing into a basin at the edge of the cliff, and then leaving this in a northerly direction, after which it rushes down a steep stony trough to fall into the same deep pool which receives the water of the Rajah Fall. After crossing the bridge of the Roarer rapid the bed of the river has again to be traversed and at a distance of about 700 feet you reach the rapid of the Rocket. This is a fall of wonderful beauty, for the water projects itself sheer from the cliff to fall about 100 feet on to a vast projecting piece, or rather buttress of rock, which causes the water to shoot out into a rocket-like course from which are thrown off wonderfully beautiful jets, and arrowy shoots of water, and spray, and foam, which seem to resemble falling stars or shooting meteors. You then pass over another section of the river bed for about 500 feet till you reach the rapid, or rather stream, of the la Dame Blanche Fall which glides gently over the precipice in a broad foaming silvery sheet. From the first rapid to the last the distance is about 733 yards. I have met with noestimate of the total width of the fall when the river is in full flood, but it can hardly be less than half a mile wide, and the depth of the water, as one can see from the high water mark, must be very great. It is interesting to note on the tops of the boulders here and there the circular stones that have, during each monsoon, been whirling round and round, each one in its own pothole.

After crossing the last bridge you then walk over the rocks into the forest beyond and strike the path which leads down through the forest on the Mysore side of the river, to a point called Watkin's platform—an open-sided shed about 100 feet below the top of the falls, and which commands a view of the gorge below the falls, and a fair, though rather distant view of the falls. When approaching the platform I was positively startled by a vast shrieking clang which suddenly burst on the ear and seemed to fill the air. This I afterwards found had come from the semi-cavernous gorge of rock about half a mile away, into which fall the waters of the Rajah and Roarer rapids, and though I afterwards heard somewhat similar sounds issuing from these falls, I never heard again anything approaching to this singular and startling burst of sound. These sounds have often been remarked upon, but no one seems to have attempted to trace their cause, but they most probably arise from the escape of air which has been driven by the falling waters into some deep fissures of the rock.

Having thus taken a general view of the situation, I then returned to the bungalow for breakfast, and in the afternoon at about two o'clock returned to Watkin's platform by the route of the ferry across the pool, and, with my companion, set out for the foot of the falls, first of all by a steep winding path, and then by a flight of very rough and uneven steps which had been formed by placing stones in places on and between the rocks. When descending, we often paused to view the constantly changing scene,for, as we got lower and lower, the rainbow hues across each fall, which were at first widely broken by the masses of cliff stretching between the falls, came closer and closer, till at last, when we reached the region where the spray of all the falls was mingled, the iris hues stretched across the gorge in an unbroken band of colour. At length, as we neared the foot of the fall, we reached a small open-sided shed, which had recently been erected on the occasion of the Maharajah of Mysore's visit. From this, which was probably fifty feet from the bottom of the gorge and about 100 yards from the falls, an admirable view was obtained of the entire situation, and we began to realize how impossible it is to form any adequate conception of the falls from the top, or from the higher sides of the gorge. We next descended to the bottom of the gorge, where the ground is strewn with vast boulders of rock, which had evidently fallen from the cliff as it had been eaten back by waters toiling through countless bygone ages. Many of these masses of rock lie at some distance from the foot of the falls, and on the partially decayed surfaces of some of them vegetation had evidently been flourishing for an indefinite period of time. Huge masses of rocks and boulders, as you look down the river, seem almost to block up its route towards the western sea, and indeed so completely seem to fill up the pass, that one seemed to be standing at the bottom of a rock-bound hollow which had been excavated by the agency of Nature, after a toil through periods of time far beyond the calculations of man.

As I found that the rocks at the foot of the falls were covered with a slimy mud, and as I was suffering slightly from a damaged foot, I presently returned to the shed, while my companion proceeded to explore the bed of the gorge further down the river. The floor of the shed had been strewed with straw, and I lay down at full length, partly to rest and partly to examine the situationmore minutely, for the height is so great that it is impossible adequately to survey the scene in any other position. And then, when you have stillness and solitude, and when the body is in complete repose, there pour in on eye and ear floods of impressions so quickly varying that the mind feels quite unable to record them, and there is finally nothing left behind but a vague and indescribable sensation of all that is grand and beautiful and melodious in nature. For there are vast heights and gloomy depths and recesses, and varied forms of falling waters, and in the general surroundings everything to convey exalted ideas of grandeur to the mind, but grandeur accompanied by exquisite beauty, in colour, in the graceful movement of animal life, and in the varying sounds of falling waters—the charm of the iris hues which ever beautify the falling waters—beauty in the varied colours of the rocks, and in the plants and ferns growing in the fissures of the cliff—beauty in exquisite forms of motion—of water varied in countless ways as it descends from the four separate falls—beauty in the unceasing movements of countless swallows, mingled here and there with specimens of the Alpine swift and the pretty blue-hued rock pigeons, which build their nests on the ledges of the cliffs, and are constantly to be seen flying across the falls. Then there are the unceasing and ever varying sounds of falling waters, grand in their totality, grand and melodious in their separate cadences—the deep bass of the Rajah, sometimes like cannon thundering in the distance, and sometimes like the regular tolling of some vast Titanic bell; sounds of most varied and brilliant music from the Rocket; the jagged note of the Roarer, as its waters rush down their steep, stony trough; the eerie and mysterious sounds which, sometimes like a mingling of startling shrieks and clangs, and sometimes, to the active imagination, like the far-off lamentations of imprisoned spirits,[9]occasionally risefrom the semi-cavernous chasm which has been hollowed out behind the great pool beneath the cliff; the gentle murmuring note of the White Lady Fall, tangled threads of sound from which fall in fitful cadences on the ear as the wind rises and falls athwart the falls; and lastly, but by no means leastly, the undulating and endless varieties of sounds which, having broken away from their original source, are ever wandering and echoing around the rock-bound gorge. Beautiful indeed and altogether indescribable are the elements of melody which are created by the falling waters of the Arrowborn river!

And the music, too, seemed to be for ever varying, for the choral odes which were sweetly chanted to the ear were not perpetually continuous, and at times, owing to some change in the direction of the wind as it swirled around the gorge, the choral element was subordinated to the deep thunder of the Rajah Fall, or the vague tumult of startling discords which arose at intervals from the semi-cavernous walls of the pool into which plunge the waters of the Rajah and Roarer Falls. And then these sounds would gradually lose their predominance, and the more uniform sounds in which all the four falls joined would once more fill the air and charm the ear. And thus the attention could never be lulled to sleep, for here monotony was not, and the mind was always kept in an attitude of expectancy for the variations in the music which were sure to come, and, so far as they reached the ear, were never the same combinations of sounds that had been heard before. All the elements of melody were here, indeed, in profuse abundance, and it seemed as if they only required to be caught by some master hand and strung into methodical musical combinations to yield to the mind and feelings those exquisite sensations which music alone canin any effective degree convey.

And besides the effects we have noticed, there is the motion of colour constantly, though gradually, shifting and altering, for, as the sun declines, the rainbow hues move steadily upwards on the face of the falls, and the colours of the rocks, which are of varying shades of purple and yellow, continually alter in character with the sinking day. But the finest combined effects of beauty and grandeur are, perhaps, most fully felt when, late in the afternoon, the eye wanders delighted over the vast combination of lofty cliffs and falling waters to rest finally far above on the iris tints of the Rajah and Roarer Falls, through the colours of which myriads of swallows incessantly wheel on lightsome wing, mingled with the quick, darting movement of the Alpine swifts, and the gentle flight of the blue rock pigeons, which occasionally wing their way through the mazy throng. For there the eye is ever delighted with the charm of colour and of those endless variations of graceful movement which continuously convey pleasurable sensations to the mind. But how could eye or ear ever tire of those rare combinations of form, colour, motion and rhythmic sounds which fill the mind with an exalted sense of feeling and of pleasure, and the conscious heart with exquisite sensations far beyond the power of language to describe?

Presently my companion returned and aroused me from my state of dreamy pleasure, and I turned reluctantly away from the scene as the rainbow colours were, with the sinking sun, beginning to disappear from the topmost heights of the falls.

Delightful indeed were the brilliant and varied scenes I have been attempting to describe, and after them the remainder was by comparison tame, but still I found that, as I took a canoe the following evening and rowed up the forest-margined pool from which the rapids emerge, thatthe minor scenes at the falls have exquisite charms of their own. And then it was that I realized that, varying though the scale may be, there is everywhere about the falls the same beauty of detail and beauty of combined effect, and that, too, unaccompanied by a single jarring note. For nowhere can you say, as you can often say in viewing scenes elsewhere, "leave out this, or alter that, and the scene would be perfect," and in none of the scenes about the falls does anything poor, or base, or mean, or uninteresting strike the eye, and as I rowed slowly up the pool I felt that the mind was both charmed and soothed by the exquisite repose of the scene, which is only broken, if indeed it can be said to be broken, by the beautiful birds and gaily painted kingfishers which occasionally wing their way across the water, or flit along the margin of the forest-clad shore. As you look towards the West the eye wanders over the wild assemblage of water-worn rocks and boulders which intervene between the pool and the head of the falls, to rest finally on the distant hills, covered mostly to their tips with the evergreen forest, while on looking up the river you see that it is flanked by woods on either hand, and as you lose sight of the water as it bends towards the south, the eye glances upwards to hills of moderate height, wooded in the hollows, and showing on the ridges grassy vistas dotted with occasional trees.

On returning, I went lower down in the pool than the point I had started at, and passed a number of rocks worn into all sorts of curious shapes, and one of these leaned, like some gigantic Saurian, over the flood. As we neared the rapids, one felt that one would by no means like to run any risk of being drawn into one of them, and I was by no means anxious to go nearer to them than the boatmen, wished. One of them told me that the natives sometimes descended the cliffs between the Roarer and the Rocket Falls in order to carry off the fledglings from the nests of the blue rock pigeons, and said that several lives had thus been lost. He said that there was no way of reaching the bottom of the cliff, and rather quaintly added, "Those who came up again came up, and those who did not, died." He said that some European had once put what was evidently dynamite into the pool. A great explosion followed, which killed a large number of fish, many of which were washed over the falls.

In the evening I sat for a long time in the bungalow veranda smoking my cigar, and looking dreamily out at the moonlit falls, and observing from time to time the scenic changes that were produced by the great masses of mist which drifted up the gorge below me to be dispersed as they touched the cliffs, and presenting, as they did so, most charming pictures. In the morning, too, beautiful effects were to be seen, as masses of mist arose from the chasm of the Rajah to flit in fleecy fragments across the face of the falls. But the scenes about this spot are of endless variety, and I must allow myself to mention only one more, which my companion saw one morning from Watkin's platform when the iris hues were on the pool below the falls, which, as the spray fell into it, seemed like a mass of golden water dotted all over, as if yellow tinted rain were falling into it. On some occasions visitors have illuminated the falls with fireworks, and by floating over the falls ignited bundles of straw soaked in paraffin, and I regret that I had not thought of following their example.

Next morning I set out on a drive of about 150 miles to my plantations in Manjarabad. As we left the falls, we passed, and close to the river pool above them, a tree covered with fruit which was being eaten by green pigeons and other birds, and on looking up into it I was surprised, as it is an animal of nocturnal habits, to see a large and beautiful flying squirrel peering at me with a quiet but by no means apprehensive eye. I was strongly tempted toshoot it for the sake of its skin, but my companion, who had been much affected by the beauties of the falls, said that it would be a sacrilege to shoot anything so near them. So I spared his feelings and the poor squirrel, and am now very glad to think that I did so. I may here mention that the traveller, though he sets out early in the morning and late in the afternoon, very rarely sees anything in the shape of big game, even though the jungles he may be driving through may abound with it, and the sole exception I can remember, after numerous journeys through them, occurred on the occasion of my drive home from the falls, when, early one morning, a tiger bounded across the road at a distance of about 100 yards ahead. It is also worthy of remark that you very seldom see a snake, and, though I landed on the Western coast at Carwar and travelled by easy stages by way of the falls to my estate, I did not see a single snake during the whole course of the journey.

As it is probable that this account of the Gairsoppa Falls may induce travellers to visit them, I think it may be useful to give an account of the Cauvery Falls on the southern frontier of Mysore, which are well worthy of a visit, and easily accessible. The best time for visiting them is generally said to be August, or not later than the middle of September, though when I visited them on the 25th of that month last year, the river, though not in full flood, had an ample supply of water in it, and, from Mr. Bowring's description of his visit to them on November 21st,[10]there must still, up to that date, be a considerable flow in the river. From my own experience, I feel sure that the best time to see these falls is after the great floods have subsided, as the water then is clear, or nearly so, and the effects, as in the case of the Gairsoppa Falls,are far more varied and brilliant. There is one point I would here particularly impress on the traveller, and that is, that when visiting falls such as those of Gairsoppa and the Cauvery, which present a great variety of scenic effects, and are not merely monotonous single masses of water, he should devote at least two clear days to them,i.e., he should arrive on one day, remain two days, and leave on the fourth day. He should also select a time when there is a sufficiency of moonlight. I was particularly impressed with the first point, because I most thoroughly enjoyed my visit to Gairsoppa as I had two clear days there, whereas my visit to the Cauvery Falls was attended with that sense of hurry which, if not destructive of all enjoyment, leaves behind on the mind a feeling that many points in the scenes must have been either missed or quite inadequately observed. The account of my visit to these falls, however, may at least be useful in showing a traveller short of time how to visit them with the least possible expenditure of it.

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