MADRAS AND THE SOUTH
Availing ourselves of the kind hospitality of our friend in Carnac
Street, we reposed during the day intending to leave Calcutta again by
the night train (Madras Mail) for Madras, our next destination. This
was a considerable journey as a glance at the map will show; in fact it
was our longest in India, occupying two nights and two days.
After some anxious moments in Carnac Street, through our tickorgary
not turning up for us at the time ordered, or through some muddling on
the part of our bearer, we eventually got conveyed to Howrah Station.
Luckily the train did not start so soon as stated—it never does in
India—and we were saved.
[Illustration: CALCUTTA TO MADRAS—SECTION OF SLEEPER—OR SOMETHING LIKE
IT]
The train proved, however, to be very crowded, and we could only secure
a berth each in separate compartments, though there was a small sliding
door between the ladies’ and the gentlemen’s sleeping compartment,
through which communication could be made. Four ladies, a baby, and a
parrot, and the green pigeons made up the complement in the ladies’
part. I had two travelling companions only, a river-steamer captain or
engineer on sick leave, going south with his family, and an English
officer of the Army Medical Service going to some hill station beyond
Madras. The former kept himself going with whiskey and soda, of which
he freely invited his fellow travellers to partake. The latter proved
to be Capt. J. B. Dalzell Hunter of the 64th pioneers. He was studying
Persian, and introduced me to a most interesting book, the “IQD-I-GUL,”
or “The Rose Necklace,” being selections from the Gulistan and
auwār-i-suhaite translated into literal English with notes by Adālat
Khan. This was full of delightful stories, and rich with oriental
imagery and wisdom.
Leaving Calcutta in the darkness of night, of course nothing could
be seen of the country till next morning when we were approaching
Cuttack, when we took “Chota Hazri”—or early light breakfast. A little
south of this hills appeared inland reminding one in character and
apparent height of our lake country. We passed Poori, the junction
for Juggernath, where crowds of pilgrims go, especially at the time
of the great festival of Krishna in March, when the image of the god
is borne through the town on the famous car, out to a temple in the
country. The old story we were told in childhood of the dreadful
heathen custom of the natives on such occasions throwing themselves
under the wheels of the car of Juggernath has been discredited.
Krishna, being a god of love and life, not a destroyer, would not be
pleased with human sacrifices, and they would be quite inappropriate.
It might be possible, however, that the car, drawn as it is by men
with great cables, through the press of pilgrims, might accidentally
crush some one fallen in the crowd, and European missionaries may have
misunderstood what had really happened, and had misrepresented and
exaggerated it.
There were many new and different types of natives at the stations.
We were now on the Bengal-Nagpur Railway, and the native crowds, and
groups entering or leaving the train all down the line, were most
interesting in character and colour. Pilgrims from Juggernaut bearing
small canes back with them as signs of their pilgrimage, Brahmans with
red marks like seals on their foreheads, and others with the triple
pronged fork-like mark of Siva in white and red. The men wore their
hair long like women, sometimes done up in ample knots at the back
of the head, and sometimes hanging down the back. All wore a sort
of tight cotton skirt or piece of drapery chequered or patterned in
colour wrapped round the loins, and depending from the waist to the
feet; a white loose jacket frequently surmounted this, so that judging
only from the back view, the stranger with European prepossessions as
to dress distinctions between the sexes, might have some difficulty
in saying which was which, or who was who, especially as the native
women frequently wore similar skirts, white bodices, and their hair in
knots. It was chiefly the beards that betrayed the gentlemen; otherwise
the equality of the sexes was fairly well established, as to outward
appearance at least, in the way that might astonish some of our Western
reformers. It is true some of the men, like the ancient Egyptians, wore
nothing above the skirt, except perhaps a white scarf on the shoulders,
and the field-workers and coolies all down the Coromandel coast wore
nothing but white turbans and waist cloths.
[Illustration: LADIES OR GENTLEMEN? (FASHIONS IN SOUTHERN INDIA)]
We passed the Silver Lake, really an inlet of the sea nearly surrounded
by hills, the train startling large flocks of brown geese from the
margin as it passed. Our old friends the white cranes we saw again
lower down the line among the marshy pools. Paddy fields in various
stages, often under water, irrigation wells drawn by oxen, as well as
another pattern—like the Hungarian or Egyptian, a walking beam weighted
at one end, the other having a rope attached to the bucket. The
Southern Indian ones are, however, worked by the natives, generally
two, working up and down from the centre, from which the beam swings,
making it dip and rise again with bucket, the men steadying themselves
by upright bamboos fixed each side, sometimes chanting a song to mark
the time and enable them to move together.
Groves of palms were passed and pyramidal hills, bringing the same
suggestion of Egypt we had had before, on the way to Chitorgarh.
There was no doubt about getting further south as the temperature
was much higher, the thermometer registering 75° to 80° and this was
February 4, whereas only two days before we had been shivering over a
fire at Darjeeling! In the burning sun we could see the dark figures
in white turbans and waist cloths, coolies on the railway line, and
ploughmen in the fields toiling in the heat. We stopped for breakfast
at Berhampore. In the district from here to Vizianagram there was
formerly a flourishing silk weaving industry among the natives. “All
gone now,” said a bright-looking European official in white drill and
topi who entered our compartment. From what he told us further, it
seems that this industry declined for very obvious causes—because the
raw silk, the very material upon which it subsisted, was exported and
consequently the occupation of the native hand-loom weavers was gone.
At Waltair, one passenger left, but our compartment was kept full as
another immediately succeeded him and all four berths were occupied on
the second night. One got more or less broken sleep, but perhaps more
than might be expected.
At Bapatia next morning there was chota hazri, or early tea, ready, and
it was very welcome. At Bitragunta there was a halt for breakfast. As
we approached Madras, late in the afternoon, we came by lovely groves
of palms, quite dark thick forests of them, with pools of water among
them in which water lilies bloomed. Green parroquets decorated the
telegraph wires, sitting in rows much as the swallows do in England in
the autumn. The telegraph wires all over India are however a favourite
resting perch with a variety of birds, and quick an observer may get a
good notion of the variety of species in Indian Ornithology by noticing
the many kinds of birds which may be seen in such positions, clearly
silhouetted against the sky.
We arrived at the Beach Station, Madras, about five o’clock on February
4, relieved to have reached the end of our long journey. Hotel touts
here may be described as active and strong on the wing. We eventually
squeezed ourselves into a tickagary with our light baggage, and in
spite of the presence of Moonsawmy—or perhaps in colusion with him—an
officious native guide mounted the box and offered us information as to
the public buildings we passed on the way to the hotel. The Prince of
Wales’s was full, but the proprietor advised us of another not far off,
known as the Castle, which had formerly been the pavilion or palace of
a native prince, and was a large two-storied yellow washed building
with colonnades on the ground floor, and extensive terraces on to
which the rooms opened out, on the first floor. These terraces were
protected by a parapet which took the form of low battlements, whence
possibly the hotel derived its name. There was a pleasant garden shaded
by trees around the building, walled in from the road, and having
entrance gates. Here we found agreeable rooms and plenty of space,
without oppressive luxury or comfort, and as cool as might be expected,
if it is ever cool anywhere in Madras? The hotel was under English
management, and photographs of familiar places at Torquay and on the
Cornish coast hung in our salon. Mosquito curtains told their usual
tale, being generally a necessity in India, but are more particularly
so at Madras.
On the drive from the station we passed Fort St George which dates from
1680, and is the only building of any historic interest. There were
big Law Courts in a pretentious Italian Gothic style after the manner
of modern Bombay architecture. The British traders and their stores
and posters were in evidence, and “summer sales” going strong at the
drapers, attracting smartly dressed English ladies in their motors
and dog-carts. The streets were broad, and there was plenty of space
everywhere. The hotels and bungalows were surrounded by large gardens,
and abundant trees—palms being very plentiful.
It was pleasant to hear the clear notes of birds in the early morning,
and of course we had the usual kite and crow chorus. In the evening
there was a children’s party going on at a pavilion in the garden, and
popular European waltz tunes came from a piano.
The temperature in our rooms ranged from 75° to 80° and we felt
anything but energetic. We had, moreover, in the afternoon an
interesting drive out to the Adyar Library, the headquarters of the
Theosophical Society built by Colonel Alcott who was now lying ill
there. Having had a telegram from Mrs Annie Besant in the morning, a
visit was arranged. She could not leave the Colonel, as he was then
in a dying state. Our road lay between beautiful groves of palms of
various kinds, mostly cocoa palms, and native villages, the huts of
one story, long and low, and roofed with ridge tiles of a delightful
bronze colour, the tiles, probably sun-baked, being doubled and trebled
over and under alternately. The roads were covered with a fine dust of
a rich reddish-brown tint, almost coffee colour, and this tint varied
with the full red and bright white of the dresses of the natives, and
their dark skins, and relieved by the clear light green of the paddy
fields, and the gold and green of the palms, in the warm evening
sunlight, made a fine harmony.
We passed a Hindu temple and a tank, and crossed a bridge over the
broad river (Adyar) and on the other side presently drove under an
ancient fragment of a stone carved gateway, and so through the wooded
grounds to the Adyar Library, a new building of red brick and red
sandstone of semi-Hindu type.
A lady clad in white conducted me to a large upper chamber very lofty
and long in proportion to its width, furnished more or less like a
European drawing-room, with chairs and couches, but high on the wall
at intervals were various religious symbols, in white plaster relief,
among which I noticed the Gammadion and the Serpent and the Tree. There
was a pretty view over the river from the windows, on the side.
Presently Mrs Besant entered. She was robed in white. It was the
sari dress of the native women in some fine soft material, with
embroidered borders also white. Her hair too had whitened since I
knew her in London many years before. We spoke of the old days—of
Cunninghame Graham, G. Bernard Shaw, and Sidney Webb. Mrs Besant, once
an active and ardent socialist, seemed to have quite removed herself
into another world, strikingly different from the one of strife and
protest in which she with her wonderful eloquence had been a potent
influence, and was now devoting her life to inculcating the principles
of Theosophy and educational work among the young Hindus. Her idea was
to gather the best elements out of all religions, and to unite them
in one comprehensive creed, the keynote of which, as I understood, is
universal brotherhood. In her schools she desired to cultivate the
higher side of the native Hindu religion, refining and spiritualising,
though by no means Europeanizing, but preserving all native
characteristics in dress and courteous manners, and as far as possible
preventing any Western contamination.
In the great hall on the ground floor the first thing that catches the
visitor’s eye is the text inscribed aloft on the entablature in large
carved characters—“There is no religion higher than truth.”
On the walls of this hall, also, are carved in stone another series
of symbols, treated as a series of panels in relief, and among these
it was interesting to find Mr Holman Hunt’s well-known picture “The
Light of the World,” reproduced in relief by a native sculptor. In a
recess in the opposite wall was a life-size seated portrait of Madame
Blavatsky in marble. It was intended to place a statue of Colonel
Alcott standing beside her, Mr Besant told me. His loss will be a
severe one for the Society.
We drove back by way of the Triplicane or Mohammedan quarter—the native
bazaar, a brilliant scene of colour and movement. On the way we passed
several “Toddy Tappers,” as they are called, at work on the palm and
stems. These are natives who extract a sort of spirit from the palm,
and who, clad only in white turbans and waist-cloths, climb the tall,
smooth columnar stems of the cocoa palm, by a curious method—a sort
of loop of cane which encircles the upper part of the body, and hooks
round the tree stem. This they shift in jerks as they climb, using
their legs and feet in the usual way as a grip on the stem. We noticed
the small, gourd-like bottles attached to some of the trees, which are
placed so as to catch the juice from incisions made in the bark. The
spirit made from this juice is sold in the bazaars.
[Illustration: MADRAS—A JIN-RICKSHAW MADE FOR TWO]
The jin-rickshaw is much in use in Madras as a means of locomotion,
and some of them will even carry two people at once, though this
seems heavy for one boy. The native boys who draw them are, however,
active enough and but little encumbered with clothes, and are always
eager for custom. Mount Road is the main thoroughfare in the European
quarter, and here all the principal shops and stores are situated.
These as buildings were mostly pretentious and tasteless. St George’s
cathedral was a semi-classic church with a pointed spire. The Post
Office had red-tiled gabled spires of a more or less Swiss type, with
iron crestings, and arcaded balconies on each story. One sees relics
of eighteenth century semi-classic taste in some of the older houses
with plastered walls yellow and white-washed. The vast gardens which
broke the continuity of the buildings, and often isolated them, and the
pleasant avenue-like character of the main roads, always lined with
shady trees, made up for many architectural short-comings, and again
suggested spacious ideas for a garden city.
At the head of Mount Road was the Munro statue where other roads
diverged—a bronze statue by Chantry of a gentleman in a cloak
pointing—probably to indicate his line of policy, though, more
literally, he might be taken to be showing the stranger what a long
way he was from Madras. The electric trams are no doubt useful as
the distances are enormous and dusty, walking being impossible for
Europeans, as they would soon be covered with a powdering of fine red
dust.
We paid a visit one evening to the Botanic Gardens where we saw the
Victoria Regia (which is usually associated with the inside of a
hothouse at Kew) growing in the open on a lake. There were beautiful
palms here and many varieties of trees. One we noted was covered with
white blossoms which looked and smelled like orange or lemon flowers,
and had green fruit of an egg shape, hanging from its branches.
Madras we found too oppressive and inervating to stay long, and so on
February 8th we departed for Tanjore, rising at 4.30 A.M. to catch an
early train, and were only able to snatch a hasty hazri, and get into
a belated carriage and drive through the gloom of the early morning—or
rather by the dim light of the waning moon to the station for the 5.45
train South.
Our compartment was shared at different stages of the journey by
British officers. A Babu with a quantity of baggage, and three German
Mission people—a gentleman and two ladies with still more baggage, who
filled it pretty well up to Tanjore.
The country seemed very productive, and on each side of the line most
of the way were large crops of paddy, much of it under water. In many
places, too, the natives were ploughing _in_ the water. The crops in
some of the fields (or rather pastures separated by low banks of earth)
were a brilliant light green, in others the grain was ripe, and was
being reaped with hooks by the natives, while further on they would be
threshing and stacking the straw. The method of threshing out the grain
was primitive. A man would hold a loose sheaf in his hand and beat it
hard, several times in succession, on the ground; this shook out the
grain, and then he would cast the straw that remained to the men who
were stacking it near by. They made low wide stacks straight on to the
bare earth. The women gathered up the paddy as it was reaped.
We passed more fine groves of cocoa palms, distant hills were visible
inland here and there, and there were generally large sheets of water
each side of the line, but the rivers which we frequently crossed were
almost dry.
The crowds of natives at all the stations were again very interesting.
The men generally wearing their hair long and done up in knots. In fact
the men had finer and more luxuriant heads of hair than the women,
whose hair was usually short and fuzzy. Sometimes the men had their
foreheads and temples shaved, and let their hair grow freely at the
back. Caste marks were painted very boldly and distinctly on the dark
foreheads. The sacred mark of Siva occurring most frequently—a red
vertical stroke in the centre between two white lines radiating from
the nose.
The men also wore the coloured skirt tightly wrapped about their middle
and falling to their feet, the upper parts of their bodies being left
bare, except for a loose white scarf, like a towel, thrown over their
shoulders. The coolies and agriculturists wore nothing but turbans and
waist-cloths. The women invariably wore silver nose rings, earings and
anklets, and the Sari dress. Mahomedans seemed to be very scarce in
these parts. As to colour, reds and whites prevailed in the dresses.
Sometimes the vivid crude (magenta) aniline pink which has become
unfortunately too common in India was to be seen. A favourite blend
was red and yellow in the women’s Sari dresses, in stripes, or crossed
tartan-wise.
Light cakes, bananas, and painted toys and other trifles were hawked
about at the stations, the sellers uttering curious cries and chants.
Every station had its tap of water, and always a thirsty throng of
natives from their crowded compartments would be seen clustering around
it filling their bright brass drinking cups, which they invariably
carry, quenching their thirst and washing themselves.
Apropos of the refreshment stations, I find a note in my journal as
to what appears to have been a particularly unsatisfactory Tiffin
at Villuparam, for which we were induced to pay 1 rupee 8 annas in
advance, but of which “only a little currie was really eatable.” How
much more sensible (perchance not so profitable) it would be to give
travellers the chance of ordering from the carte, and paying according
to a fixed tariff. Travellers are by no means always able to eat the
provided meal, and need milk and easily digestible foods, and simple
cookery. The hard meat, stringy fowl, and messed up dishes usually
offered are very inappropriate, if not positively injurious food.
Simply cooked sound fresh food is a great want at hotels and railway
stations all over India.
We arrived at Tanjore between 6 and 7 in the evening. There were
sleeping and refreshment rooms at the station. The station-master met
us and said that a room would be vacant at 9 o’clock, as Lord and Lady
——? who then occupied them were leaving by the 9 P.M. mail. In the
meantime we had a ladies’ waiting-room to ourselves and could dine
during the interval. The sleeping-rooms were across a bridge on the
other side of the line in a new terraced building, with an English
housekeeper sort of woman to receive us and our rupees. There was quite
an up-to-date porcelain bath, but, on examination, one tap was cut
off, and there was no water in the other! There were spring beds and
mosquito curtains, and it was a fairly cool room. The system here
was to charge 1 rupee 8 annas for a room for the first twelve hours,
and if occupied for longer then the rate was higher.
[Illustration: TANJORE—THE GREAT GATE OF THE TEMPLE]
Hearing there was a good Dak bungalow near by, we decided to take up
our quarters there the next morning and found it quite nice, cool,
quiet, old-fashioned and unpretentious, and there being no other
travellers we had it all to ourselves. From what the native in charge
said it appeared that the new station rooms rather injured his custom,
as travellers now mostly stayed there.
Our exploration of Tanjore commenced by driving to the Old Fort
within which stands the great Hindu Temple dedicated to Siva. The
great gateway is approached by a bridge over a moat, then dry, which
surrounds the Fort. The outer gate is plastered and is crowned by a row
of figures of deities in niches which are brightly coloured. The great
gateway is of yellow sandstone and is richly carved—a mass of figures
and detail. The image of the god Siva and his various incarnations
constantly appears. Various legends connected with these are painted on
the walls of the court at the back of an arcade, and are exceedingly
curious.
The great Nandi, or sacred Bull of Siva, a colossal image of a
recumbent Bull, richly ornamented with chains and bells around his
neck, is seen on a pedestal approached by steps in the centre of the
court, under a pillared and decorated canopy. When we saw it first a
magnificent peacock had perched himself upon the head of the bull, his
tail drooping over its neck. The bull was carved out of a fine black
stone, really syenite, but much darkened by libations of oil with
which the image is constantly anointed. It has all the character of the
type of zebu in this district. We saw its living prototype in a street
of Tanjore—a splendid black bull (short-horned) lying down with its
yoke companion, a white one, equally noble looking.
The pillared front of the small temple close by was richly coloured,
and on a sort of frieze was a series of portraits of the reigning
family of Maharajahs.
The Temple guide spoke a little English, but occasionally would stop
for want of words, but we generally gathered his meaning, and he seemed
unusually intelligent.
Ganesha, the elephant god (of generation) frequently appeared among
the others, Siva and Parvati being the chief. One of the scenes
painted on the wall of the arcade, already spoken of, represented the
wedding of Siva and Parvati, who stood, hand in hand, with a tree in
the middle—like Adam and Eve. Among the guests at this wedding were
represented two giants, one whose appetite seemed to know no limit,
while the thirst of the other was unquenchable. The first was shown
devouring all kinds of food, and to express the drinking capacity of
the other a stream of water full of fish was flowing into the mouth of
the other. These were very primitive paintings, but expressive. The
figures were drawn in black outline and filled in with flat tints. At
the gate of the Temple there were drawings on the white-washed wall in
thick outline in Indian red, in quite a different style and no doubt of
a much later date. A large number of Lingams were shown in rows placed
together in one corner of the court, and there were many Lingam shrines
in the arcade besides. Here and there was colouring on the carved
figures, but, as a rule, the elaborately carved pagodas were left in
yellow sandstone, which had blackened where exposed to the weather, and
it may have been that colour had been worn off.
The later temple (dating from about the fifteenth century) had
remarkably delicate carving on its lower courses, the edges being
frequently pierced. At the steps of the entrance an elephant, carved on
each side, formed the balustrade, each having two trunks, one curling
inwards and holding a man in its coil, and the second extended and
terminating in a volute at the end of the steps on each side.
There was a noticeable point, as giving further evidence of primitive
wooden construction, in the carved detail under the eaves of the great
temple where there was a sort of intersected lattice work faithfully
rendered in stone. It recalled the screens of bamboo and matting,
commonly used in this district, added on to the edges of the tiled
roofs in front of the huts and bungalows as extra shields from the sun,
and this carved stone lattice work may have been derived from the wood
work and the cane and wicker structure of the primitive buildings which
preceded the use of stone.
In the court of the great temple, in a shed (roofed with corrugated
iron I regret to say), we saw the cars used for the procession through
the city, on the occasion of the great annual festival in March, which
appears to be similar to the Juggernaut. The high pyramidal canopied
roof, supported on columns, was carved like the pagoda of a temple,
which, in fact, it represented. The image of the god being placed
within. The car would be drawn by a pair of oxen.
We saw afterwards a religious procession of the kind passing down the
principal street. Two men carried a banner in front, a piece of red
cloth suspended between two poles. After them came a band playing
tom-toms and hautboys, such as we heard at Benares. Then came the car
drawn by two zebus, with its high pagoda, accompanied by priests in
white robes, with long hair and marks on their foreheads.
It struck me as remarkable how closely the dress of the native men
here resembles that of the people of ancient Egypt as pictured on the
monuments. Indeed, the Hindu pantheon itself suggests a certain kinship
to the symbolic Egyptian religion, embracing, as it appears to do, the
deification of all natural forces and types of animals and birds. The
Hindus have their elephant god, their monkey god, and their parrot god,
for instance, each figured with the animal’s head but otherwise human,
just as the Egyptians imaged their hawk-headed, cat-headed, and other
deities. The ox of Osiris, too, seems to present a parallel to the
sacred bull of Siva.
We next visited the tank in the citadel, noted for the purity of its
water, but it looked muddy enough we thought, and felt no inclination
to test the sample offered us by a native in a cup.
Near the tank was a very plain Christian church, dating from about the
end of the 18th century or the beginning of the 19th, absolutely bare
of ornament or symbol, with the exception of a small mural monument
at the west end—a bas-relief in marble by Flaxman, in memory of one
Schwartz, a British missionary. Not, however, a very good specimen
of the sculptor’s work, and looking as if it had been rather done
to order, and though it had Flaxman’s characteristic broad simple
treatment, was rather over smooth and “goody-goody” in expression—a
missionary looking benevolent on his death-bed, clerical attendant and
probable successor at his side, group of good boys in front, and row of
turbaned Indians, presumably converts, on the other side of the bed.
It was curious to see this bare, gaunt, puritanical-looking church,
planted almost in the shadow of the great Hindu temple with its frank
nature worship, pantheism, and riot of symbolism and imagery.
From the citadel and the temples we drove over the bridge across the
river into the city to see the palace of the Maharajah. Not a very
beautiful building—a big, rambling, yellow-washed pile, looking rather
untidy and neglected. In the guardroom at the entrance gate, there was
a portrait of the father of the present prince. Through a corridor, the
walls of which were painted with quaint figures, we reached a small
chamber, open on one side, but painted on the three other walls with
large equestrian portraits of three Maharajahs—grandfather, father,
and son. They were in profile, very richly dressed, and on finely
caparisoned horses, with hunting dogs—the dogs running underneath the
horses. These mural portraits were painted in tempera, apparently, on
the white-washed wall, and had flaked off in places, but they were good
characteristic Indian work, and reminded one a little in treatment of
European mediæval design, such as may be seen in Burgundian tapestries
of the end of the fifteenth century.
We next came to a small court where we saw the Durbar Hall, divided
from the court by an open colonnade. Inside was a miscellaneous
collection of objects—portraits, rather dreary ones of the Maharajahs
and favourite hounds, some on very dilapidated canvasses with holes
through them—old-fashioned French lithographs of the early “fifties,”
much fly-blown; a handsome palanquin, with dragons’ heads on the ends
of the poles; another one was carved, and plated with ivory. There
was also a beautiful ivory fan, of a large size and peculiar shape,
probably to be used as a punka. Then, too, there was a bronze bust of
Lord Nelson, presented by some English lady to a former Maharajah, and
her own work. Then we saw the library, which contained quite a large
collection of old-fashioned English books—in eighteenth and early
nineteenth century bindings—such as a set of _The Spectator_, Hayley’s
Poems, Burns, Scott, etc., and also an extensive library of Hindu and
Tamil manuscripts. These were peculiar in form, and consisted of long
oblong sheets of a roughish sort of paper, rather resembling papyrus
in quality, protected by thin boards on loose covers of thin wood,
secured round the middle by ties. These covers were sometimes lacquered
on their outsides in various designs. On one I noticed the typical
design representing Vishnu, with the lotus flower springing from his
navel which contains the figure of Buddha, Laksmi looking on in wonder.
These figures were drawn in black outline on gold, the gold high-toned
with coloured lacquers. A smell of naphtha or some such moth antidote
pervaded the place.
We were then shown the armoury, where there were some rather showy
sporting guns of English make, bearing the name of Mortimer & Co., and
elaborately chased. There were very vile portraits of King Edward VII.
and Queen Alexandra.
After this we saw another Durbar Hall—the Maharana’s—adorned with
more dreary portraits of the family and a few stuffed birds. The most
curious thing was a real skeleton in a real cupboard, side by side
with a skeleton beautifully imitated in ivory. There they hung inside
a plain upright cupboard, looking like a hanging wardrobe—but what a
wardrobe! What hung there needed no robes!
Down the main street of Tanjore there were placed at intervals very
curious and richly carved wooden pagodas, apparently very old, upon
cars with massive wheels of wood, somewhat like rude ox-cart wheels,
some of them being discs. These were probably used in processions at
the festivals.
The houses were generally low, and of only one story, with the
low-pitched ridge-tiled roofs as at Madras, the porches and raised
terraces on platforms in front forming the shops, being further
protected from the sun by lean-to extra roofs or screens of matting
and bamboo, sometimes supported on uprights of cocoa palm stems.
Occasionally these screens are supported by growing trees which spread
their foliage above. Pumpkins and gourds are often grown upon the tiled
roofs, and have a charming effect with their wandering stems, green
leaves, and golden spheres of fruit scattered over the rich brown tiles.
The roads are deep in red-brown dust as at Madras, and there is a
continual traffic of little covered tongas drawn by little trotting
zebus in single harness. We had a broken-down victoria to drive in, and
a fearful old crock of a horse, given to jibbing and really not fit to
drive. The carriage seats were sliding ones, too!
Tanjore spreads itself over a large area of open spaces, interspersed
with trees, gardens, and tanks. The water is abundant, and washing
operations frequent. There is no coherent plan about the town, the
streets wandering about into open space, and leaving off in a casual
sort of way. There was a considerable market going on in provisions,
and there was a silk-weaving quarter where may be seen the native
weavers stretching long threads of silk on bamboo frames the whole
length of the street, and winding it off on to wheels—our carriage
nearly collided with one in a narrow street. The raw silk is often
wound round short staves.
We visited a weaver’s shop, and were shown some hand-woven silk saris,
brocaded with silver thread, the silver being turned into gold by some
colouring process. A dress of ten yards can be bought of this beautiful
material for 24 rupees. Red and purple are the principal colours,
and these, with the gold thread woven in border designs of elephants,
horses and peacocks, have a very gorgeous effect.
European influence seems to have declined in Tanjore, although there
are numerous Christian missions about. What strikes the unprejudiced
spectator is the extreme unsuitability of any modern western type of
Protestant Christianity, with all that it involves to the native mind,
to say nothing of climate and habit.
Western influence, it is true, asserts itself to the eye, at least,
in the form of an ugly clock tower, and we passed “The Tanjore Union
Club,” where we saw native gentlemen in their cool, white, loose
clothing playing lawn tennis in a well laid-out court. But the life of
the mass of the people goes on unchanged as it has done for ages.
In driving through the town we saw many little white-washed temples
among the native houses, their richly carved pagodas rising above the
low brown tiled roofs. At the doors are quaint paintings of elephants
or tigers, and the white walls of the shops and dwellings are
frequently ornamented in the same way with curious figures, among which
occurs not unfrequently the English soldier with a dragoon’s helmet
and jack-boots. Outside a liquor shop I saw, painted rather boldly
in red outline, a European lady and gentleman refreshing themselves
with wine-glasses in their hands. The lady’s costume reproduced the
rather fussy fashion of twenty-five or thirty years ago, the frills and
furbelows quite carefully worked out with the Indian love of detail,
but somehow the general effect was rather Elizabethan than Victorian.
In passing along one of the streets we heard a sound of tom-toms, and
presently saw approaching on a zebu cart a large theatrical poster
painted on the outer sides of two large boards leaning together,
tent-wise, on the cart. These bore announcements in Hindustani
and Arabic, with pictures of exciting scenes—Rajahs flourishing
scimitars over people, and so forth. Natives walked alongside the cart
distributing pink bills of the performances printed in Arabic, while
the tom-toms attracted attention to the forthcoming show.
In the evening we drove to the theatre, accompanied by our bearer. We
reached an open ground outside the town; it was rather dark, but we saw
a row of lights in front of us, and heard the sound of tom-toms. The
old horse jibbed and would not go further, so we left the carriage,
and Moonsawmy conducted us to some temporary structures of matting
and bamboo, where tickets were sold. One rupee secured a chair in the
front row. The theatre was a large, tent-like structure, with plastered
piers supporting a roof of matting. The floor was of earth, the common
ground, in fact, upon which the back rows squatted. The stage was also
of earth, raised about three or four feet, the front being painted in
broad red and white vertical stripes. The footlights were ordinary oil
lamps, clustered in groups. The audience was entirely native (besides
ourselves, who were the only Europeans present). Some sat close up
alongside the stage on raised steps of earth. Dark draperies hung at
the sides of the proscenium, and there was a coarsely-painted drop
scene, of the kind familiar in third-rate provincial theatres and
music-halls at home.
[Illustration: TANJORE—NATIVE THEATRE—HOUSE FULL. PERFORMANCE FROM 9
P.M. TILL 2 A.M.—BUT WE DIDN’T STOP TO SEE IT THROUGH]
The first scene apparently represented a suburban street in the
European quarter of an Indian town; at least there was a square towered
church in it, ugly enough, although some high-pitched gables rather
suggested suburban England. A road in very acute perspective ran
through the centre of the scene, which might, after all, have been
bought from some European travelling theatre.
The curtain raiser was of a sort of operatic, conventional courtship
motive, and consisted of a musical dialogue between a young lady and
gentleman of uncertain country, costume, and period. The girl was badly
dressed in a white muslin frock, with a little red silk waistband, and
a tinsel coronet or tiara on her head. She kept her eyes on the ground
the whole time, and moved stiffly and shyly; her action, as well as
that of the gentleman, being rather suggestive of marionettes.
The lady began by singing, each strophe or couplet being repeated or
answered by an antistrophe from a chorus concealed behind the scenes,
to the accompaniment of tom-toms. The little wooer presently appeared
(also a girl), dressed in a cap of tinsel, a tunic of black velvet
trimmed with silver tinsel, and breeches of the same, with brown hose
or boots. He also began singing strophes, which were responded to or
repeated by the chorus, and the lady replied in the same way. Whenever
the lover made any advances the lady repelled them, and, after each of
her sung speeches, crossed over to the opposite side of the stage, the
lover doing the same. After a long course of this monotonous question
and answer, sing-song business, they finally came to terms, and stood
singing together, the lover with his arm round the lady’s shoulders. A
harmonium, playing at the wings, assisted the tom-toms.
The _pièce de resistance_ next began. The first scene was a room of
state in a Rajah’s palace. The Rajah and his grand vizier, and an old
priest or soothsayer in a turban and Indian dress, were the characters.
The Rajah was a white man, of a rather Irish cast of countenance. He
was dressed in black and silver, having wonderful silver spangles
in circular patches as big as dinner plates down the front of his
trousers. He wore a sabre at his side, and he was seated on a throne
mounted on several steps, and each step was decorated by a large globe
of silvered Bohemian glass. The vizier was attired in a similar way,
but not quite so gorgeous as the king.
From our bearer’s interpretation it appeared that the Rajah, or king,
who commenced chanting in a most doleful and monotonous way, was in
trouble for want of an heir to the throne, and consulted the turbaned
old gentleman about it, who gave his advice at considerable length.
The next scene showed the interior of a temple; an image of the sacred
bull was there, and a black man, clad only in a waist cloth, was
officiating, apparently as priest. He was also evidently regarded as
a comic actor by the audience, and it was rather curious to observe
that his obvious burlesque of some native religious observances were
received with laughter. He seemed to put the Rajah, the vizier, and
the soothsayer, who now entered, through their religious paces, waving
a brush over them and putting garlands round their necks, uttering
curious gibberish the while, with extravagant action, which seemed
vastly to amuse the audience.
The next scene showed the Rajah seated again in his palace, and to him
entered a troop of zenanas to announce the joyful news of the birth
of an heir; but after they had departed with many salaams, something
seemed to go wrong, and the Rajah began his doleful plaint again. The
soothsayer and the vizier were again consulted, and both had a good
deal to say, but matters did not seem to mend much, and the scene
promising to be interminably long, we felt we had had about as much
of the drama as we could do with, and hearing, moreover, that the
performance would continue until 2 A.M., having commenced at nine, we
left Moonsawmy to sit it out, after he had found us our carriage.
The next day we had another drive through the city and its
surroundings, reaching a pleasant region of palm-groves, and lakes
where buffaloes were enjoying a bath. They lie in the water quite
deeply, with often only their heads out or the ridges of their backs
showing.
At the bungalow various native pedlars and travelling merchants
came up with their bundles, and, as we sat under the verandah, they
would untie these and spread out their wares before us. These were
generally new silver and copper repoussé dishes and bowls, samples
of the craft of the Tanjore district, but not good, being vulgar and
mechanical in workmanship, although repeating traditional patterns and
representations of the chief deities of the Hindu pantheon. Some of
these were embossed in silver, or rather were partly silvered over the
copper, leaving bright copper in parts, but they had rather a flashy
and tasteless appearance. The best things were the small antique
bronzes and brass objects—bulls, horses, birds, peacocks, lamps, and
curious shaped vessels, and many of these were highly interesting. A
pair of bronze stirrups I acquired were charmingly designed, and showed
delicate design and workmanship.
In the town they make a kind of brass standard lamp, in various sizes,
having a moulded stem supporting a shallow vessel for the oil, with
niches from four inches, the brass image of a cock is usually placed
at the top as a sort of finial. The parts are made to unscrew like the
well-known antique Roman lamp which, in general design and structure,
this Tanjore lamp strongly recalled. Some, indeed, were terminated by
ring handles just like the Roman ones.
We had been fairly comfortable at the Dak bungalow, and the two
brothers who kept it were most anxious to please. The cooking was
unusually good, and the place was certainly very quiet. The windows
had no glass, but were closed with Venetian shutters (which did not
always act, however, satisfactorily). The floors were covered with
India matting, and the beds were furnished with mosquito nets. The
meals were nicely served, and the table always decked with flowers. The
thermometer in our rooms registered usually about 75 degrees, whereas
at Madras it went up to 80 degrees.
Water was not carried here in goat-skins as in Bombay and the
North-West and Central Provinces, but in large earthen jars. A man
would carry one in each hand, or slung by strings from a stick over the
shoulder. There was a fine young native who watered the garden in front
of our bungalow—he had a splendid figure, and was almost the colour of
ebony. I tried to get hold of him to get a study from him, but somehow
he was not to be found when the time came, and another very inferior
specimen was offered in his stead.
We left Tanjore on the evening of February 11 for Trichinopoly. It
is only a two hours’ journey by the railway, and we arrived quite
punctually about 8.30. It was too dark to see much of the country, or
get anything but a vague idea of the place, especially when under the
cover of an ox tonga, two of which vehicles conveyed us and our baggage
to the travellers’ bungalow about a mile off, the little zebus trotting
along at a brisk pace as fast as ponies, and much better conditioned
than any tonga ponies we saw in India.
At the bungalow we found an English lady and gentleman, a newly arrived
official and his wife, who had not yet got a house—who were then dining
by candle light on the verandah—in possession of the best room, and had
to make the best of it in a small side room, poorly furnished, and with
no mosquito nets. We got some soda and milk and turned in, but, alas,
the beds were hard as nails and the mosquitoes troublesome and strong
on the wing, while the temperature went up to 80 degrees again!
[Illustration: TRICHINOPOLY—OX TONGA—VITA BREVIS!]
After breakfast the next morning we got a carriage (which was a
considerable improvement both as to vehicle and horse to the one at
Tanjore), and drove towards the fort, which stands conspicuously on a
bold rock rising abruptly from the plain. Passing through the native
bazaar we crossed over a long bridge, which spanned a very broad river
thronged with bathers, and people washing clothes, and watering cattle,
all busy in the stream which was quite shallow, not more than waist
high. This bridge had been designed and built by an English engineer,
somewhere in the forties. It was of red sandstone, and our driver
pointed out a stone in the coping inscribed to certain English officers
who served under Clive, and helped to lay “the foundations of the
British Empire in India” in 1750–4.
At about two miles from Trichinopoly we came to the great Temple of
Seringham. Thatched native huts, forming a sort of bazaar, led up to
and were clustered about the great gates, which resembled the entrance
to the Temple of Tanjore. The height of the gateways were very great
in proportion to their width. The great pagodas piled over them were
carved with the greatest richness and intricacy of detail, and covered
with the figures of gods and imagery of all kinds, surmounted by the
curious rounded long barrel-like cresting, which is so characteristic
of Hindu temple-architecture. The sculptured or modelled work here was
all coloured, but many of the figures were said to be in stucco.
I think we passed through three of these gateways before we reached the
final one leading into the court, with a many columned pavilion in the
centre, having a painted ceiling in which the Hindu gods figured. The
great Temple of Seringham is sacred to Vishnu, whose image appears very
frequently. Opposite to this central pavilion is a colonnade having a
frieze of carved and coloured figures under a cresting, Vishnu being
in the centre. This seemed to be the Hindu equivalent for a sculptured
pediment. The effect of the thickly clustered columns of white-washed
stone supporting this band of rich carving and colour was very
striking, the sharp light and shade of noontide throwing the front
into strong relief, and through the aisles formed by the columns we
could see another lighted court beyond.
The main passage through was lined by the little stalls of a bazaar,
grouped at the bases of the columns, where mementoes in the shape of
small tin pictures heightened with coloured lacquer were stamped in
relief with representations of Vishnu and his goddess, bead rosaries
and necklaces, and jewellery were also sold, and little silk bags
embroidered with portraits of the same deities.
As we stood facing the second court, the sacred elephant of the temple
came up, his forehead bearing the mark of Vishnu, painted large in red
and white. It was amusing to see the animal pick up a two-anna piece
from the ground, and pass it over its head to its keeper and driver
seated on its neck. Another younger and smaller elephant soon joined
the other, and this one had beautiful tusks which his larger companion
was without. This one, too, skilfully picked up the small coins in the
same way, fumbling with the sensitive finger-like point of his trunk to
get hold of them in the crannies of the pavement.
[Illustration: THE SACRED ELEPHANTS OF SERINGHAM—SECURING TWO-ANNA
PIECES!]
We then, passing across this second court, entered the Hall of a
Thousand Columns—a sort of architectural forest. Before this is
reached, however, there is a smaller hall which has a very remarkable
range of carved columns—the most extraordinary carved stone work in
Southern India. They are strictly speaking rather columnar brackets,
bracketed columns or corbels resting on bases, and they represent
warriors on horses spearing lions and tigers. The chief feature in
each is the rearing horse, which with its rider and lance, and smaller
figures below, and the attacking tiger, or, sometimes, elephant, form a
connected group cut out of a single block of stone. These sculptures
have so barbaric and antique an appearance that it seems surprising
they should only date from the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries
together with the whole of the temple buildings.
A curious effect is given to the interior of some of the temples here
by the practice of whitewashing the pillars and walls, and leaving the
carved figures untouched in the stone, which gives them by contrast an
unusually swarthy appearance.
Returning, we had a view of the Rock of Trichinopoly with the old fort
and temple on the summit. This syenite rock crops out in various places
in this district, but not often rising much above the ground, but only
emerging here and there from the earth in a manner rather suggestive of
the backs of tortoises.
Saw a mongoose at the roadside which soon crept out of sight and hid
in the low brushwood at our approach. Trichinopoly is well wooded,
but is not particularly picturesque, though the scattered tiled or
thatched bungalows look pretty enough in their gardens, but on the
whole it gives one the impression of rather a straggling place. There
was a deserted looking mission church with a few tombstones about it
quite near our bungalow, trying to look like an English village church,
but not succeeding. Leipzig Lutherans and Wesleyan Methodists are
said to have “missions” here, as well as the Church of England. These
missionaries seem to plant their stations wherever there are important
Hindu temples. The wonder is that the natives are so tolerant.
Madura was our next destination, and we were not sorry to get away from
our stifling little barn of a room at the bungalow, leaving in the
early morning about daybreak for the 5.45 Madras mail.
The country was flat at first, with, again, large sheets of water along
the sides of the line, but as we passed from the Trichinopoly district
to the Madura district we entered a mountainous region, thickly wooded.
I noted many cedar trees, and a kind of cactus growing high with tall
tree-like stem. It was an interesting and varied country the rest of
the way. The crops were chiefly paddy and castor oil plant.
One station had the extraordinary name of Ammayanayakanur, and we were
soon in the tobacco-growing district, passing Dindigul with a rock and
an old fort upon it, not unlike Trichinopoly in character. Cigars of
the district were offered at the station, but we saw no tobacco crops
near the line.
We reached Madura about noon, in time for tiffin, and engaged a room
at the station, which was a great improvement as to beds and general
appointments on our recent bungalow experiences. The sleeping-rooms
were built out on a separate wing which appeared to be new. They opened
on to a corridor which led to a large open terrace, and were in charge
of a Eurasian woman. There was also a good dining-room at the station.
It was tremendously hot, however, and we could not very well move out
until after 4 o’clock, when having engaged a guide we drove out to see
the great temple. Our bearer objected strongly to the guide and there
was some friction between them, but as native servants were prohibited
from entering the temples, and were always stopped at the gates,
Moonsawmy could not show cause why the guide was not necessary, and
we found him very intelligent, speaking English well, and having the
history of the place at his fingers’ ends.
[Illustration: THE RIVALS. OUR MOONSAWMY AND THE MADURA GUIDE]
The Madura temple is so remarkable and is on such a scale that I
was anxious to get all the information about it I could. Mr Pillai
(the guide) was very useful and well-informed, and he gave us many
interesting stories and details about the sculptured figures and
paintings.
There are four great pagoda-gates, richly carved and painted, of the
same type but larger than those at Tanjore and Trichinopoly. Evidently
the Hindus had no scruples about colouring their sculpture, and the
colouring has been renewed from time to time. The prevailing tints used
are turquoise blue, vermilion, yellow, white, and green. One of the
gates the guide pointed out was granite up to the first story, and the
figures were in stucco above.
The four gates mentioned are connected by a high wall, on the crest
of which occur at intervals the image of Siva (to whom the temple is
dedicated) seated between two bulls, the bulls being placed upon the
top of the wall, and the image of the God in a sort of arched recess,
sunk into it a little below. The upper part of the wall is uncoloured,
but a sort of high dado is carried along it below, painted in broad
vertical stripes of red and white which seems a favourite scheme of
decoration in Southern India. The wall encloses a broad paved court,
and inside this is another wall with gates, through which the various
temples and columned halls are entered.
In the centre of all is the sacred tank, a large pool of water
surrounded by steps, and an arcade of white columns. As we approached
this, we saw a crowd of natives, men and women, seated on the paved
margin of the tank along one side and between the columns listening
to a priest who was preaching with much earnestness. Our guide said
he was translating or expounding (one did not know with what gloss)
passages from the sanskrit text of the sacred books which another
priest previously read in the original.
The scene was a picturesque one. The various colours of the people’s
dresses, in which dark red prevailed, showed against the white wall and
columns, and the brown faces made a harmonious scheme of colour.
The wall along the upper part was painted with a series of histories of
Siva and his incarnations. These picture-stories were arranged in tiers
or friezes, about four or five deep, one above the other, and running
the entire length of the wall behind the colonade, each side the tank.
These paintings were highly interesting, painted probably with the main
object of making the stories intelligible to the people, they were
quite decorative, full of detail, and forming a rather closely filled
and dark pattern of colour, having the effect of a woven hanging.
One of the painted legends treated of a certain Maharajah who appears
to have persecuted the early Jain seceders, much as the Roman emperor
treated the early Christians, with great ferocity, finally impaling
them on stakes, and thus they were painted all of a row!
The Jain sect was at first apparently regarded as a schism, and the
Jains as heretics or apostates falling away from the pure Hindu worship
of Siva.
One seems here, in this great Temple of Madura, to get back to the
most ancient type of religion, and one which, after all, allowing for
evolution in our ideas, seems the most lasting—Nature worship. The
Hindus in their pantheon include and embrace everything, at least in
their own universe, which is their own country, and to them, truly,
“nothing is common or unclean.” Their deities incarnate themselves in
all sorts of forms. Siva, according to one legend, for instance, even
taking the form of a wild sow, and suckling the young of the mother
which had been slain by the hunters. The second son of Siva rides upon
a peacock, the representative bird of India. The Zebu bull is sacred to
Siva, and in the Lingam is symbolised and revered the male and female
principle of generation, the root and source of all life on the earth.
In one place in the temple, between two of the columns, was a group of
the nine planets personified and placed around the sun—a golden sphere
in the centre. For each of these embodied planets might be found a
corresponding personality among the deities of the classical world.
Another striking thing about the Madura temple is the force of
realization and expression in the figure sculpture. Life-sized figures
of different gods and demons are carved in stone in front of the
columns in many of the halls of the temple, the columns themselves
frequently white-washed, while the figures are left in the untouched
stone and look in contrast like bronze figures, their elaborate detail
and undercutting emphasizing this suggestion. Indeed, the variety of
character, invention, as well as the vigour and freedom, governed by
a certain formalism, of some of this sculpture at its best reminds
one of European gothic sculpture in the Middle Ages, not only in its
symbolical and legendary aspect, but also its all embracing character
and sympathy with the life of the people. The type of the Hindu mother
appears, for instance, in one of the best of the figures carrying her
child on her hip, just as the native women do to this day, while a
suckling infant is suspended at her breast.
Mockery, if not humour, too, seems to come out here and there
sometimes, as in the dancing figure of a mocking musician playing on
his pipes.
A frequent subject is Siva presenting his sister in marriage to
Vishnu, and there are besides a number of curious legends connected
with the sculptures here, which are very various, and, of course, not
unfrequently become grotesque or monstrous under the influence of the
Hindu religious symbolic ideas and the Hindu inventiveness; but one
feels that here is a genuine piece of ancient life, expressed in the
forms of Hindu art—frank nature worship in full vigour of life, and a
dominant influence in the lives of millions of people.
In the sacred tank the people were constantly bathing and washing their
clothes. The water never seems to be changed and is perfectly green in
colour. Our guide said it remained pure and ordered a man to show its
quality by dipping his hands in and holding a small quantity in them,
cupwise. The water, however, was, even in this small quantity, quite
green, although a clear green. It must have been full of vegetable
matter, one would think. It reminded us of what the Maharajah’s
secretary had said of the Ganges water at Benares.
The colouring of the interior of the Temple in parts recalled the
mural decoration of ancient Egypt in its use of simple primary
colours—red, green, white, and yellow prevailing. The lotus flower,
too, was constantly introduced, treated as a rosette upon the ceilings.
Some of the pillared halls were, however, left in plain stonework, or
simply whitewashed. One long hall we entered looked very impressive in
the dim light, a single ray from the sun penetrating, and making a spot
of intense light upon the floor.
We saw a gilded copper dome, and a golden flag staff, and our guide
pointed out the great doors behind which the festival cars were kept,
and we saw, too, wonderfully decorated life-sized images of elephants
and horses which formed part of the show on great occasions. There
were two black and two white elephants, standing between the columns,
under rather tawdry and tinselly canopies, and other furniture of the
festivals; one large hanging bearing the words of welcome to the Prince
and Princess of Wales, which must have been used for the occasion of
their visit.
Various donors of parts of the temple were pointed out, in effigy. The
Czar of Russia appeared (not however in person) as the donor of certain
shrines and a brass canopy or arch which held many lamps.
[Illustration: SACRED TANK OF THE GREAT TEMPLE, MADURA]
The practice of drawing the image of the god on festival days through
the streets on great cars seems general at all the chief temples in
Southern India, and not confined to Juggernath. At Seringham we saw
the great car on which the image of Siva was drawn on such occasions,
and also the thick cables—like ship’s cables—which were used for
the purpose—multitudes of men hauling the car out of the temple and
along the streets by these means. Here, too, at Madura the god Siva is
represented seated upon his car which is treated as a kind of throne,
the wheels and the horses sculptured at the sides in a symbolic sort of
way.
In some of the painted histories on the walls, Siva is shown in a
winged car (suggesting his rapid flight and omnipresence, perhaps) and,
presumably, his image is drawn out on a car at festivals to keep his
presence and moving influence vividly in the minds of his worshippers.
It was curious to see the bazaars in the corridors and outer courts of
the temple. Rows of stalls, where all sorts of miscellaneous things
were sold—brass ware, pottery, woven stuffs, beads, and all kinds of
knick-knacks and toys. Some of the sellers squat on the pavement and
spread out their goods before them. The temple and its courts is a
great resort of the people, in fact. Pilgrims lie down and sleep near
its shrines, and the children play freely between its pillars. Bats
flutter in and out of the crevices of the ceilings, or hang in little
black clusters up aloft in their recesses.
In sketching at the sacred tank a very large crowd of natives gradually
collected behind me, and on each side, and it was as much as the guide
could do to keep them from closing in, and completely surrounding me.
Some American visitors to the temple whom we met afterwards in Ceylon
said that, seeing this vast concourse pressing round the tank, they
thought it was a suicide! Travellers usually take snap-shots with hand
cameras, and I imagine that a sketcher in colours is comparatively
rare. The crowd, however, were quite quiet. The guide was encouraging,
and remarked when I had finished that it was “better than a photograph.”
Another afternoon we drove out through the city and some three miles
beyond to see the “Teppa Tank”—a large sheet of water, enclosed by a
low wall painted in red and white stripes, with steps to the water and
carved bulls decorating the balustrades. On an island in the centre of
the tank rose the pagoda of a temple, in stucco, and four small pagodas
at the four corners of the garden-island—a mass of foliage amid which
the pagodas shone, ivory-white in the sunshine.
Near this tank on the roadside was another temple sacred to a goddess
who was the object of solicitude in the case of people desiring
offspring, and to whom votive offerings of cradles were made by the
devotees, as well as doll-like images of children made of baked clay
and painted. The flat roof of this temple was peopled with a crowd of
these grotesque images, and the carriage boy was sent to fetch one for
our inspection.
Then we drove on to where grew a gigantic Banyan tree—eighty feet in
girth, and having quite a small forest around its central vast trunk
of offshoots—new trees which had rooted themselves in the earth from
the parent branches. It was rather suggestive of a many pillared sylvan
temple.
After this we reached the Palace of Tiramala, which stood at the head
of a large village—an imposing structure in stucco, mostly yellow
washed. The enormous columns of the court looked out of proportion to
the arches they supported, which were of a rather debased Mogul type,
heavy with very elaborate grotesque ornamentation in stucco in the
spandrils and on the ceilings, many of which had as a central device a
large lotus flower formally treated as a rosette, and in some instances
elaborately painted. The effect of the whole building was rather weird,
and suggested a rather queer architectural nightmare, in which massive
Norman cathedral piers had swallowed Roman Doric ones, or vice versa,
and a Hindu modeller had broken up some Mogul arches, and fastened them
together again with grotesque elephants and dragons’ teeth.
The palace was now used as law courts, and it was curious to see two
modern oil portraits of two neat English lawyers hanging on the walls
of these vast columned halls.
We next visited a native shop in the village bazaar where the fine
muslins and silks of the district were made and sold. We were duly
seated in chairs and fanned by boys, while an active brown member of
the firm unfolded tempting saris, pugarees, and silk stuffs, some
beautifully brocaded with gold thread, and of course we possessed
ourselves of a few specimens.
In this district there is a thriving native silk industry,
hand-weaving, also dyeing, and the ingenious native craft of making
patterns on cottons and muslins by tying and dipping. Hanks of cotton
and silk may be seen hung out over bamboo poles placed horizontally,
and ox-carts roll by filled with the dyed skeins. There is a fine dark
rich red, frequently seen in the sari dress of the women, also a dark
purple. The women here generally wear the dark red sari with a narrow
border of black; in some cases the sari is black with a red border.
In the village street we saw a little native bride drawn in a carriage.
Returning to the city in the cool of the evening we stopped at the
temple bazaar and bought some zebu bells—curious little pear-shaped
brass bells, each with a different tone, which are hung round the
animals’ necks. Their foreheads, too, are frequently bound with strings
of beads, or shells fixed on leather bands, and their horns are painted
green or red.
There is a method of decorating the centres of the dining tables
in Southern India which, I think, we first noticed at the hotel at
Madras, or at one of the refreshment stations on the Coromandel coast.
It consists in arranging dyed sago seeds in patterns forming a table
centre on the white cloth. At the station refreshment room at Madura
there was a more elaborate example done by means of stencils—a border
of yellow enclosed a lightly powdered filling, and an effective outer
border was produced by a repeated sprig of a red rose with green
leaves. The general effect was that of an embroidered pattern, but of
course it was liable to slight displacements, and was constantly done
afresh, one of the waiters being the special artist.
We left Madura on the 15th of February for Tuticorin.
[Illustration: TUTICORIN. DEPARTURE FOR COLOMBO. THE LAST OF THE KITES
AND CROWS.]
The country traversed was flat and plain for the most part, with
cultivated crops of castor oil plants, paddy, and corn, alternating
with jungle of brushwood, but no fine trees. Hills were seen in the
distance on the right, and we made several stoppages at short places
with very long names.
Arriving at Tuticorin about four in the afternoon, we went on to
the beach station, and got on board a small steam launch or tug in
waiting at the jetty, then we saw the last quarter, as it were, of our
Moonsawmy, and took our leave of him, after he had had his usual fierce
dispute with the coolies, who certainly never received trade union
wages from _him_. On the whole we were not sorry to get away from the
rupee-hunting throng which usually hang about stations and wharves—the
kites and crows in pursuit of the traveller, their prey, who for the
time being, at least, now escaped their clutches.
Tuticorin presented no obvious attractions except the sea, which we
were quite glad to meet again. The launch seemed just large enough
to hold the train-load of passengers—Americans, Germans, and English
with their baggage, and after about half-an-hour’s steam across the
harbour we reached the steamer (the “Pandua” of Glasgow) and climbed
up the gangway to the saloon deck. We secured a rather small but
well-appointed berth opening off the saloon, and were able to enjoy a
well-served dinner—food seems generally better on ship-board than on
land—at least Indian land. Cargo boats were clinging to the steamer’s
side, and, at sunset, one by one cast off and hoisted their lateen
sails (like those of an Arab dhow) each boat having one about the
length of the vessel. The sailors in hoisting up the sail climbed
and clung to the rope, to bring it up with their weight. Chanting a
curious sort of song the while, our steamer weighed anchor and started,
and we looked astern and saw the last of India fading from view behind
the shining wake of the steamer, and lost in the glow of an orange
sunset.