Part 13

If one wished to describe all the temples or places of worship in Benares it would fill a volume. Like picture galleries in the Italian cities, so are temples here—one day at them is quite enough. There seems to be a place of worship dedicated to every whim or fancy of the worshippers. Amongst the many, I will quote the temple of Kameshwar, the “God of Desires,” whose duty is to grant all the wishes of the worshippers. The wishes of mankind being innumerable, it is not surprising that Kameshwar has a legion of worshippers, and I should say his hands are full if he grants one-thousandth-part of the prayers addressed to him.

But, of all the temples, commend me to Durga-Kund, or monkey temple. It is dedicated to the bloody goddess Durga, and stands in the centre of a quadrangle surrounded by high walls. In front of the temple stands a building in which hangs a drum, which calls the devout to worship, and on either side of this building is a small temple. Entering the quadrangle two lions of stone are seen crouching on either side of the pathway. These animals bear Durga on their backs whenever it pleases the goddess to take a ride. Near by are two shrines, one dedicated to Ganesh and the other to Mahadeo.

Before the temple there is a porch. Though this porch joins with the temple, it must not be supposed that both temple and porch were built at one and the same time, or by the same person. The temple was built during the last century by the Maharatti Rani Bhawani, who also built the tank at the north of the building, and the porch by a pensioned native officer. The large bell in the enclosure is the gift of the Rajah of Nepaul.

Durga has a face of silver, is draped in gorgeous apparel, and has a necklace composed of massive gold coins. In front of her is a silver bath, before which a lamp burns continually. Outside, on the northern side of the temple, is a large tank.

As the name implies, this temple is devoted to the worship of monkeys, as well as to the reverence of Durga. Monkeys in incalculable numbers crowd round the temple and the tank, in which it is most amusing to see them bathing. Indeed, long before the precincts of the temple are reached, monkeys are met with on the road-side. They seem to know that they enjoy perfect immunity in that neighbourhood, and they thoroughly enjoy their liberty. Vendors of grain, nuts, and sweetmeats are also here in numerous array, visitors purchasing their wares to distribute them amongst the strange animals who follow and surround visitors all day long, but never beyond the boundary of the temple grounds, beyond which, if caught, they are transported. Strange though it may seem, not even the daintiest morsel will allure one of these mischievous animals beyond the sacred limit.

An object of great interest in this locality is the venerable tamarind tree on the south of the temple, in the huge hollow trunk of which all the baby-monkeys are born. Around that tree young and old mothers may be seen, attending with the utmost maternal care on their young—nursing, feeding, or playing with them. The solicitude and anxious look of some of these for puny, sickly “babies” is most ludicrous to watch.

After our long visit to the temples we took a cursory look at the various ghâts—Raj ghât, Shivala Ghât, and at last Sarnath, which, next to the Taj-Mahal at Agra, is one of the most remarkable buildings in India; the great Buddhist tower near Sarnath being one of the oldest buildings in the East, its origin belonging to several centuries prior to the Buddhist era.

Nearly exhausted by the long day’s sight-seeing, we had, however, to pay a visit to the new town hall erected by his Highness the Mararajah of Vizianagram, in commemoration of H.R.H. the Duke of Edinburgh’s visit to this city, and opened by the Prince of Wales. H.H. the Maharajah, with his usual princely generosity, presented the building, furnished and complete, to the municipality of Benares.

I heartily confess that I never had a harder day’s work in my life, nor did I ever enjoy a bath, a dinner, and a bed more than I did on our return to our quarters.

On the following day we had a thorough overhaul of all the shops, bazaars, and factories, and returned with carriages full of all kinds of brass, silver, and copper wares, embroidered silk and cloth, earthen figures, and a heap of odds and ends, sufficient to fill a museum. I may as well sum it up by saying that when we left Bombay for Australia we had seventy-seven large packages, filled to the brim with purchases made during our trip from Calcutta.

We took a most affectionate leave of our hospitable friend Maharajah Singh, who made us promise that some day we would again favour him with a visit in Benares. Alas, poor old fellow! we shall see him no more. I saw in one of the telegrams from India, a few weeks ago, that he died at Benares in the early part of August.

IX.

_THROUGH THE CENTRAL PROVINCES._

Our next stage was Allahabad, on the delta formed by the junction of the two greatest rivers in the world, the Jumna and the Ganges. The bridge over the former, which carries the train over the mighty stream, is a wonderful feat of engineering. To look over and see the speed at which the current carries this immense sheet of water under the bridge gives one a shudder, and unwittingly one grasps the iron railing with a force which cramps one’s hands. It seems as if the bridge was receding under one’s feet.

After Benares, Allahabad seems almost an European city, and therefore loses much of its attractions. It is, however, well worthy of a visit, as a great emporium of trade, as well as a great manufacturing city, one of the principal items being the manufacture of carpets, which here are made by machinery, and not merely by hand, as they are manufactured through other parts of India. In colour and appearance they are equally fine, but if they are much cheaper than those that are hand made, they lack in durability and finish. We might have tarried in Allahabad, but the weather was intensely hot, and a hot day in that city is not to be easily forgotten. We therefore moved on to Cawnpore, which was full of reminiscences of the great Mutiny, and even now is strongly garrisoned by English troops. Here are the great leather manufactories, and again the black earthen pottery we had met in a more crude and primitive state at Moghal-Serai. Having no particular reason to stay here, we pushed on to Agra, where we intended making a halt for a couple of days. We made straight for Fizarabad for dinner; slept at Tunala, and having started in the cool of the morning, reached Agra in time for breakfast.

It was not food we were craving for. Long before we reached the station our eyes had rested on that most marvellous structure, the Taj-Mahal, which has been justly termed the seventh marvel of the world, and still more appropriately, “a dream in marble.” Miles away, on the other side of the Jumna, cut in sharp outlines against the blue Indian sky, soaring above the green foliage, the gigantic white marble dome and marble minarets can be seen, increasing in size as the train draws nearer and nearer; but this hasty glimpse of the huge mausoleum gives a very poor idea of its stupendous size and awfully grandiose reality.

We had no patience until the carriages came to the door, and we were driven to the spot. Alas! The task of describing this monument is beyond my powers. In the face of it man is struck dumb—a feeling of insignificance creeps over one.

I have searched in vain for a true and faithful description of the Taj in the various books published on India, and am gratified to see that those who have preceded me at Agra have, like myself, dropped both pen, brush, or pencil. Photography has made an attempt to portray it, but even this has proved a most miserable failure.

I must confine myself to historical facts. In the year 1623, the reigning prince (Shah Jehan), at the death of his wife, decided that he would erect a mausoleum which would, until the “crack of doom,” make her last resting-place on earth a memorable spot. Indian princes, when they make up their mind to achieve an object, seldom calculate the cost. It has to be, and—it is done.

Strange to relate, after searching the world for an architect, an obscure man—French by birth, a native of Bordeaux—submitted plans to this Eastern ruler—plans and estimates which one would think would stamp the projector as a confirmed lunatic.

Shah Jehan, however, at once accepted them; furthermore, he instructed the architect to proceed forthwith with the work. Materials were sought and brought out from the remotest regions of the globe.

To sum up this sketch, I will quote these authentic facts, viz., that _twenty thousand work-men were employed incessantly for twenty-two years to complete this monument_.

At the completion of the work His Highness became so intoxicated with the pride of ownership that, fearing lest some other prince of the earth should copy it, he caused the plans to be destroyed; and, horrible to relate, he had the architect’s eyes _gouged_ out to prevent his furnishing any one with copies of the originals (which had been burnt by the prince’s own hands), whilst on the other hand he loaded him with riches, honours, &c.! My poor countryman died of a broken heart, having learned too late how fallacious it is to put trust in princes.

If this wonderful structure strikes the traveller with awe and admiration when seen from outside, his feelings are greatly intensified when he crosses its threshold; and at the foot of the mausoleum, under the centre of the dome, the awful silence becomes almost unbearable. Words cling to one’s tongue, and whispering is the only possible way of exchanging thoughts. Such whispers are carried up in the air to the apex of the huge dome—towering hundreds of feet above one’s head—repeated tenfold by mysterious echoes, and for several minutes are wafted from one side of the building to the other.

A prayer, or hymn, or tune sung in the lowest possible key, is likewise repeated _crescendo_ until it reaches an almost deafening pitch; then again gradually becomes lower and lower until the last note is lost in the death-like silence which pervades this great marble sepulchre.

At each corner of the immense square on which the Taj-Mahal stands, are four white marble towers, with circular stairs leading to the minarets at the top. From these a grand view of the Taj can be had, as well as of the majestic Jumna, whose waters bathe the foot of the edifice.

Marvellous as it is to see the Taj in daylight—difficult as it is to describe its grandeur and beauty—much more marvellous and indescribable does it become when seen by moonlight. The soft effect of the rays of the moon vaporises the outlines, the white marble assumes a bluish tint, and the stillness of the night—all add to the enchantment.

Indeed, before leaving Agra, one should pay a score of visits to this place—see it at sunrise, at noon, at sunset, and, above all, by moonlight, unless the visitor can afford the luxury which was provided for H.R.H. the Prince of Wales, and have it specially lit up with electricity. But I very much doubt if it can outdo a clear, full moonlit night. Hunter, in his description of the Taj, most appropriately terms it “a monument designed by Titans and furnished by jewellers.”

Not content with the Taj, Emperor Shah Jehan endowed his capital with other monuments of great artistic and architectural beauty. The Pearl Mosque (Moli-Musjid) is the purest and loveliest house of prayer in the world. Like all other structures erected by this emperor, white marble is the only material used; but in this instance the panels are studded with most costly gems. Another mosque, built by him in Delhi (Jama-Musjid) was commenced in the fourth year of his reign and finished in the tenth.

The palace at Delhi—now the fort—covers a vast parallelogram, 1600ft. by 3200ft., with most exquisite buildings in marble and fine stone. A deeply-recessed portal leads into a vaulted hall, rising two stories like the nave of a gigantic Gothic cathedral, and 375 feet in length—the noblest entrance to any existing palace.

The Diwan-i-Khas, or court of private audience, overlooks the river—a masterpiece of delicate inlaid work of poetic design. Last, though not least, this emperor built the city of Shagehanabad (now New Delhi), and in his palace had the famous peacock throne, which was the most valuable of that brilliant epoch—the jewels alone being valued at £6,500,000.

Beyond these great “lions” Agra had not much to engross our attention—the carpet manufactories and a few temples and palaces—but after Benares the latter had little or no further attractions. The patient and accurate working of the carpet-makers is well worthy of mention, more particularly the work done by prisoners in the Agra jail, where the choicest and most elaborate carpets are made. The loom stands on a perpendicular frame, with two men on either side, and the pattern lays on the floor; the wool, silk, or cotton material, as the case may be, is passed from one side to the other, and “clipped” when properly fixed. These carpets are, of course, reversible. Four men, working twelve hours, are reckoned good hands if they can finish satisfactorily five inches square a-day; but as the job is generally given to men who have long sentences to serve, time is no object. At Allahabad the same carpets are made by machinery, but they cannot compare either for durability, finish, or even beauty, with those made in the Agra penitentiaries.

Agra was the only place where we were left to our own devices. Our friend, Dr. Tyler, had been summoned to Simla on official business; we therefore had to fight our way as we best could.

X.

_PRINCELY HOSPITALITY._

On the third day after our arrival our movements had been made known in the neighbourhood. A telegram came from Dholpore, sent by Colonel Deniehy, the Resident, who, on behalf of the Maharajah, wished us to make a stay at His Highness’s palace.

Having no further reason to prolong our stay at Agra, we “hooked on” to the train, and in three hours reached the Dholpore station, where the genial face of Colonel Deniehy greeted our landing in the young prince’s dominions.

Carriages, and an escort of mounted troopers, commanded by the prince’s staff officer, Goby Singh (one of the handsomest Indian officers we had met in our travels), led us to the palace!

Here the Maharajah gave us the heartiest welcome. He expressed his regret that the laws and customs of his country precluded him from admitting us to the interior of his “house,” but the ladies would be welcomed by the Rani (his mother), or the Maharani (his wife); whilst we of the sterner sex would be entertained by his good friend Colonel Deniehy in the part of the palace which had been specially prepared for us.

After this kind speech the young prince led the way to the dining-room, where a sumptuous repast had been prepared, but, as usual, our host sat as a looker-on only. After tiffin we visited our apartments, which showed the minutious solicitude of our hospitable entertainer. Every luxury had been provided for us—even a billiard-room.

So that we might not find the hours hang heavily on our hands, books, albums, and periodicals were in abundance on all the tables. At my bedside a few of the latest French novels were placed—new, but with leaves already cut, so that even this trouble might be spared!

I cannot convey a better idea of the strange but thorough hospitality of these people than to mention that whilst chatting with the Maharajah in the drawing-room, a fly came buzzing round my head, and I naturally chased it away once or twice with my hand. At a sign from the prince a servant crept noiselessly behind me, with a short cane, furnished with a round leather flap at the end of it. I discovered that this fellow’s duty was to keep off the flies—a duty he performed with extraordinary talent.

A “council” was held, and a plan drawn of excursions, hunting, and sight-seeing. Some of these, of course, only “the boys” and myself could attend; whilst later in the afternoons, when the sun’s rays were less intense, the ladies could join. It was during one of these afternoon drives that we witnessed one of the most impressive ceremonies of Indian customs—the cremation of the dead.

We had seen a good deal of cremation in Calcutta, where it is done in a special building, and where, at times, as many as half-a-dozen or more bodies are reduced to ashes in a few hours; but the matter-of-fact method adopted at the Calcutta cremating place are most repulsive.

In this instance the surroundings were most appropriate. We had left the carriages in a grove close by; the sun was about setting; Goby Singh, who accompanied us, had taken us out in a boat to drift with the current on the Chambal (a fine river, which pours its contingent into the Jumna near Calpi); the evening was calm, and the banks of the river studded with magnificent foliage. As our boat, drifting with the current, rounded a headland, we noticed a small procession of men coming down the bank of the river carrying a litter covered with flowers. We dropped a small kedge and watched the sequel. Close to the water’s edge a pile of sandalwood had been prepared. Here the procession stopped, the litter—upon which lay the dead body—was carefully laid on tressles. Four of the party then led the nearest relative of the deceased person to the river, where he was bathed, anointed with perfumes, dressed in new white garments, and prepared for the sacrifice. During that time oil and perfumes, as well as flowers, had been placed on the pile of wood, the body of the dead placed reverently on the top, and actually covered with flowers. The chief mourner (being the next of kin) slowly approached the place. All those present knelt, with their heads touching the ground, whilst the chief mourner, with a lighted torch, set fire to the pyre at each corner, then at each centre. In an instant the flames encircled the body, and the mourners retired a short distance to recite the prayers for the dead.

The sun had sunk below the horizon—a soft twilight alone remained. The glassy surface of the water reflected most accurately every line of this sad ceremony—the flames, the smoke, the very figures of the mourners in their picturesque Eastern garments, being repeated on the water as in a mirror. The perfect stillness of everything around rendered the scene most impressive and touching. My ideas of cremation in this way were materially altered. Shocking as it seems to see human remains burnt in the ghât at Calcutta, cremation done in the open air, as we saw it on the banks of the Chambal, has a very different effect on one’s nerves. It would almost reconcile one with the notion of this fiery ordeal; and I must say that if I could ensure a similar end, I would feel very much inclined to add a codicil to my will, asking my heirs, executors, and assigns to adopt that plan of disposing of my remains.

The sight, however, had a depressing effect on our spirits that night, which did not escape the keen eye of our host. He made up his mind to dispel it, and accordingly, after dinner, improvised a musical entertainment, in which he himself took a leading part. Sitting at a magnificent grand piano, of exquisite tone and make, he played selections from all the best operas; sang French, Italian, German, and English music; and concluded by a serenade on the cornet, which he held in one hand while he accompanied on the piano with the other. At the conclusion he swerved quickly round on the piano-stool, saying—

“What do you think of that for a Nigger?”

Musical talent, however—besides a thorough knowledge of languages—are the least of the accomplishments of this young prince, who is barely out of his “teens.” Under the able tuition and guardianship of Colonel Deniehy the Maharajah of Dholpore has become a first-rate soldier, an able politician, and a thorough sportsman. His feats of horsemanship on bare-backed Arab horses would rank far above the best performances at Astley’s or Franconi’s.

Yet, strange to say, like all his countrymen, Dholpore has never been out of India—indeed, very seldom crossed the boundaries of his kingdom.

It was with sincere regret that we had to end our stay at Dholpore; but our time was limited. Indeed, we were due at Bombay, and had several other invitations on the road, whilst, on the other hand, the season was getting on, when I did not think it wise to keep my people in the part of India where fever and ague was prevalent. After a most affectionate leave-taking from the Maharajah, Col. Deniehy, Goby Singh, and the other charming officers of the prince’s household, we steamed on the iron horse to Delhi, where we were not allowed to stay then, being met in that city by our good friend Sri-Ram, the able Prime Minister of the Maharajah of Ulwur, who was watching for our arrival, with orders to take us straight on to the house which had been prepared for us.

XI.

_INDIAN SPORTS._

The present territory of the Ulwur State is 3024 square miles in extent, and contains a population of 800,000. These are all what are known in India as Rajputs, a warlike tribe, of handsome physique, great power of endurance, and a remarkably intelligent race.

The city of Ulwur is in the very centre of the State. That city, as well as the whole State, have, under the able management of the present Maharajah, assisted by his Council, but, above all, by the great wisdom and statesmanship of Sri-Ram, assumed a degree of refinement and systematic government which might most advantageously be taken as an example by other Indian Principalities.

Like his friend and neighbour Dholpore, the Maharajah of Ulwur is a young gentleman of barely twenty-two years, and although his education has not had the highly-refined European touch which Colonel Deniehy has imparted to Dholpore—having been from his cradle under Sri-Ram’s tutorship—he is far, far above the average of other native princes. Like his ancestors, he is a thorough Rajput in his looks, his military bearing, and warlike propensities. Besides his stud, his hunting gear, and other manly sports, his chief pastime is drilling his troops and keeping up his army in a thoroughly efficient condition. Indeed, his cadet corps, consisting of several hundred boys, ranging from nine to fourteen, would not discredit any part of the world; and last, though not least, the Maharajah’s band, all native musicians, under the leadership of a German bandmaster, is, next to that of the Nizam of Hyderabad’s, the best I have heard in India, not even excepting the British regimental bands in Calcutta.