CHAPTER II.

INDIA.

We embarked at once for India. Baron D'Alber, my husband's best friend,

the local Minister of Finance in Trieste, and the Captain of the

Port, came in the Government boat to take us to the Austrian-Lloyd's

_Calypso_, Captain Bogójevich. H.R.H. the Duke of Wurtemburg, who was

our Commander-in-Chief, so distinguished in the Bosnian campaign; Baron

Pascotini, a kind, clever, philanthropic old gentleman of eighty-four,

and all the great people, came to see us off, to do honour to Richard.

How touched we were at so much kindness! We steamed down the Adriatic

with a fresh breeze. The day after, Richard began to dictate to me the

biography which forms the beginning of this book. We read the life of

Moore and the "Veiled Prophet of Khorassán," called by Moore Mokanna,

whose real name was Hassan-Sabah, or Hassan es Sayyah. When we got

to Zante it blew very hard. Our chairs were lashed on deck, and we

read daily "Lalla Rookh," the "Light of the Haram," and Smollett's

"Adventures of Roderick Random" and "Memoirs of a Lady of Quality."

At Port Sáid, which is a sort of an Egyptian Wapping, we ran over the

sands to see an Arab village. We met a lot of old friends, Consul and

Mrs. Perceval, Mr. Buckley, F.O., Colonel Stoker, Mr. and Mrs. Stephen

Cave, and the grand old Baron de Lesseps, and Salih Beg, Mr. Royal, Mr.

Webster, Mr. Fowler, and other gentlemen at dinner at the Consulate. We

much enjoyed the Canal, seeing once more an Eastern sunrise over the

desert, but it made us sad contrasting our old days with our present.

We had a glorious moonlight, blue sky, clear green water, cool balmy

air, golden sands to the very horizon, troops of Bedawi camels and

goats. It is a wild and dangerous track.

We had the north-east monsoon dead against us the whole way after going

out of the Canal, which made the ship pretty lively. In the Red Sea

there is much to be seen for those who know the coasts, and my husband

pointed out the far-off sites of his old Meccan journey, and the

land of Midian and Akabeh, which would be a _future_ journey. On the

thirteenth day we serpentined through twenty miles of mostly hidden

reefs and slabs to Jeddah, the Port of Mecca, which can only be done

in broad daylight, one ship at a time, and no lighthouses. We collided

with an English ironclad ship, which did us considerable damage, so

we had to remain some time, before we were repaired, and our pilgrims

continued to arrive from Mecca, as we were a pilgrim-ship about to

carry eight or nine hundred to Bombay.

To the far east we had a gladdening glimpse of the desert, the wild

waterless wilderness of Sur on the Asiatic side, which looks like snow

under the moonlight. I have not enjoyed myself so much with Nature for

four and a half years as now, once more smelling the desert air and the

usual Eastern scenes. The Nizam (regular soldiers), negroes, Bedawi

draped in usual cloak and _kuffíyeh_, and women in blue garments, not

changed a hair since the days of Abraham, except that they now carry

matchlocks instead of spears; the tawny camels squat upon the ground;

the black sheep and goats huddle in knots, vainly attempting to shade

their heads from the sun; the seedy _dahabíyyeh_ rolls past, and is

hustled aside by the fussy high-pressure _mouche_, which carries the

mails daily to Ismailiyyah, a pretty mushroom town with palaces,

Consulates and gardens, with telegraph and railway. It contained then

two thousand souls, and hoisted nine various national flags. The land

of Goshen is immediately north-west. There are plenty of foxes on the

Asiatic side, and one sat like a dog on the sandbank and stared at us.

We passed the village called Serapeum, which communicates with a Bedawi

village in Asia. To the south and westward rise the sandy cliffs of

Jebel Jeneffeh, and towering above all, Jebel Atakeh. As we got near

Suez, the children run along, crying, "Bakshish!" The soldiers threw

them a bit of bread, but as we threw them nothing the petition changed

to the curses with which the Orientals are so familiar, "Na'al Abukum

ya Kilab!" ("Drat your fathers, O ye dogs!")

At Suez, if you leave your ship--and it is only going to anchor for

a few hours in the bay, an hour's steam from the town, and much more

by sail--there is a great danger, if a contrary wind springs up, that

you are not able to join it. From being a town of importance, Suez

was ruined by the opening of the Canal. She has become a big village

of three thousand natives, and about seventy-five Europeans, employed

in telegraph, post-office, steamers, and railways. She sits solitary

under the sky in the sand on the borders of the sea, far from all

civilization or progress. She has had a past, and Richard says she

_will have a future_. The troops were then collecting at Masáwwah;

three thousand camels were being shipped. One would think that this

regular wall of Asiatic mountain, now painted pink and plum blue by

the last flood of sunlight, which begins far north of the Lebanon,

and which extends southwards to Aden, a counterpart of the Moab

range, would have served Holman Hunt for a background to his famous

"Scape-goat." Richard knew all this ground twenty-five years before,

and he showed me where the Israelites are supposed to have crossed the

Red Sea, and where they did cross. Christians have three places, and

the Arabs two.

The Red Sea to starboard, where Africa rises wild and grim, is a

dangerous shore, requiring lighthouses, which it has not. The morning

after, we could see Mount Sinai lone in the Tih Desert. In my husband's

Arab days, he landed at Tur, and bathed at Hammam Musa on his way to

Mecca. On the other side is the Gulf of Akabah the stormy, and Richard

at this time (1876) was brewing his project of the Midian mines, whose

gold he had discovered twenty-five years before. He then pointed out

to me Yambu, the Port of Medinah, where he was in his pilgrimage, and

the winding valleys that lead to it, and Richard asked the pilot about

Sa'ad, the Shaykh of the Harb Bedawi, the robber-chief of the Jebel el

Fikrah, who attacked Richard's caravan going to Mecca, and he replied

that "that dog has since gone to Jehannum."

[Sidenote: _Jeddah_.]

Jeddah is the most lovely town I have ever seen, and by moonlight quite

ghostly. It looks like an ancient model carved in old ivory. It was

here my husband came by land _from_ Mecca, after the pilgrimage, and

embarked in 1853. Mecca lies in a valley between those high mountains

at the back. Mr. Gustavus Wylde, the Vice-Consul, the son of our old

friend Mr. Henry Wylde, of the F.O., sent a boat and a _kawwás_ to

bring us off, and insisted on our remaining, the eight days that we

were to anchor there, at the Consulate, which we gladly accepted, and

I think it was the pleasantest eight days I ever remember. It was a

bachelor house, consisting of five men. The Consulate was made of

white coralline, with brown wood shutters; jalousies and balconies of

fanciful shape, mostly all crooked, but as finely carved as delicate

lace. There was a room at the top, a sort of belvedere with windows

opening to all sides with delicious views, which I called "The Eagle's

Nest," and everything was a combination of Eastern and European

comfort. They always mounted us, and we used to ride out into the

desert by the Hajj way. It was very tantalizing to find one's self so

near Mecca--on one occasion about twenty-five miles--and to have to

turn round and come back; but two Americans and two English had gone up

for a lark, and had got into trouble. Richard could have gone, but it

was not exactly the time to show my blue eyes and broken Arabic upon

holy ground, so we returned through the Meccan Gate and the bazars,

which are half-dark and half-lit.

[Sidenote: _Bazars of Jeddah_.]

The population, except at the Hajj time, including the eleven villages

in the plain, is estimated at eighteen, at twenty, at forty thousand.

There were only ten resident Christians--European officials or

merchants--no ladies. Three of these are Consuls--France, England, and

Netherlands. I need not say that we saw everything in Jeddah, and all

around it, except Mecca. To have taken these rides, to have walked

through the Mecca Gate, to have wandered about the bazars in 1853, when

my husband went to Mecca, would have cost us our lives. I cannot tell

how I enjoyed the bazars; they are larger and cleaner than Damascus,

but I think less rich, and even less picturesque, and my description of

the Hajj of Damascus in my "Inner Life of Syria" would do equally well

for both. They swarm with a picturesque and variegated mob from all

parts of the world; every Eastern Moslem under the sun is represented.

There are camels, donkeys, _takhtarawán_ (litters), pilgrims, and

Bedawi in quantities, but very few horses. We felt happy in this

atmosphere, and the Arabic sounds so musical and so familiar. Here is

the open-air mosque where the prayers of the Ramazan are recited. Here

the pariah dogs are fiercer than in all other quarters. Here are the

pits where the lime is burnt, the fuel and charcoal brought in by the

Bedawi, the street of wattled matted booths, where meat and provisions

are sold; this, side by side with the great bazar, showing the

splendour and misery of the East. Tall-capped, long-bearded Persians

are selling fine carpets, cutlery, precious stones--chiefly turquoises

and gulf-pearls--and choice water-pipes. Those from Yemen are offering

weapons studded with the gold coins of the Venetian Republic, Yemen

guns, perfumed coffee, delicate filagree work, and chiselled silver.

The pale-faced Turk, in his tarbush and furs in spite of the heat,

contemptuously offers arms, jewellery, rugs, and perfumes. Short, thin,

dark Indians in white cotton offer silks, dried goods, spices, drugs,

tea, rice, and building timber. The Nizam officer talks in a dark

corner to the sooty-faced Zanzibari slave-dealer, to settle the terms

of some fair purchase. The vulturine Takruri from Western Inner Africa

and the Bengali beggar scowl at each other, and the dervishes are

singing to the tambourine, and offering a brass pot for contributions.

Turcomans wearing huge mushroom-like caps of Astrachan wool,

Caucasians, Central Asians with wadded skull caps, retail to

crabbed-faced and spectacled scribes. The tall sinewy Kurd, with

gold-threaded _kuffíyyeh_ veiling his dark face, shaven chin, and

up-twisted moustachio, is a sheep-dealer and wrangling with the

lamb-sellers. The tall, lanky Sawakin Moslem, with sphinx-like curls

hanging to his shoulders and over his brow, the upper hair forming a

mighty tuft, is selling the mother-o'-pearl fished on the coast. An

Egyptian Fellah urges a small, neat horse through the crowd, crying his

price--twelve napoleons. The savage Somali offers little parcels of

gums, incense, and myrrh, the produce of the wild hills.

Strings of camels, from the high-bred _delúl_ to the diminutive

charity-made beast laden with grain and led by an equally miserable

Bedawin, who dresses in a long blouse stained yellow with saffron or

acacia bark, and kerchief bound to the head with ropes. They all wear

the _jambíyeh_ (dagger), either long and straight or short and curved.

They carry the crooked stick of the wilderness and the dwarf spear with

tapering head. Skeleton donkeys, holed with many a raw, and laden with

water-skins, are cruelly driven along by a peasant lad in blue rags;

but through the whole crowd we can detect our Shámis, or Damascenes, by

the animal of better breed, ridden well by a huge Haji, whose peculiar

_aba_, or cloak, proclaims him to be an Abu Shám, or father of Syria.

There is the surly, rough Slav Turk from Europe, in the Slav garb,

swaggering, with his belt full of weapons, past the natty sneering

Hejazi, who testily mutters "_Ghásim_" (Johnny Raw). This dandy affects

tender colours--a white turban bound round an embroidered _surah_

cap, a cashmere shawl, a _caftan_ of fine pink cloth, a green worked

waistcoat of silk and cotton, a silver-hilted dagger, and elaborately

embroidered slippers. There is the pauper Javanese with his pock-marked

face, Chinese features, and crooked-bladed Malay dagger; the Jedáwi,

selling at auction white soft coral, the produce of the Red Sea, bought

by pilgrims _in memoriam_ of their pilgrimage, and black coral-like bog

oak, found in thirteen fathoms of water some way down the coast. And

lastly brushed by us four brawny Hayramis, the _hammals_, or porters,

of these regions--men even stouter and stronger than the far-famed

Armenian porters of Constantinople, who carry a lean corpse, whose

toes are tied together; and close by us are seven little negroes with

oil-black skins, dressed in snowy sheets, who cast yearning looks at

us, for they are for sale.

The bazar at this moment is a panorama of Eastern life, whose

costumes, various types, difference of language, manners, and customs

form a veritable kaleidoscope. The dry heat of the tropical sun

darting through the plank joints, makes the pleasant "coolth" of the

coffee-houses and the bubble of the water-pipes refreshing. Every rug

and perfume of the Orient, of pipe and kitchen, assail the nose; the

sounds of the grunt of the camel, the howl of the trampled dog, the

chaff of the boys, the chant of the fakir, the blare of the trumpets,

the roll of the drum, the blessing, the curse, the shrill cry, the

hoarse expostulation, the babel of tongues, distant voices like the hum

of insects on a drowsy summer noon. Every one is armed to the teeth,

but no one ever draws a weapon.

At sunset the crowd melts away. The bazar when they light up at dusk

is wonderfully picturesque; then the wealthy pilgrim retires to his

caravansarai, the middle class to their tents, the majority to their

carpets and rugs and coffers, spread in the open street. By eight

o'clock the bazar is as silent as the desert, the moon rises, and the

prayer cry of the _Muezzin_ charms the ear (this one is peculiar to

Jeddah). Richard and I went to the _khan_, where he lived as one of

these very pilgrims in 1853, and stood under the Minaret he sketched in

his book, to hear the "call to prayer."

[Sidenote: _Experiences on a Crowded Pilgrim-ship_.]

I was very pleased to see that all regarded him with great favour,

and though the whole story was known, the Governor and everybody else

called upon him and were extremely civil. Nearly every day we rode

out Meccawards; it had a great attraction for Richard. The great

hospitality shown us, the unbounded kindness of our own countrymen,

the courteousness of the Turkish Authorities, and the civility of the

fanatical Jeddáwis will never be forgotten. We left in a _Sambúk_ in

furious southerly squalls to join our ship, anchored at least six miles

away. This is the large, flat native boat, with big sail that can go

close to the wind without upsetting. We found eight hundred pilgrims on

board, packed like herrings.

There is a long reef near Jeddah, which we just shaved, but another

ship that went out at the same time (I will not name it) had taken

three hundred pilgrims, and she dashed on to it; the ship foundered,

and all hands were lost, except one or two who clung to the spars and

were picked up. They affirm that the English captain and officers were

drunk, that the fanaticism of the pilgrims was aroused, that they

combined and lashed them to the masts, and took charge of the ship

themselves. We saw her, and we wondered to see her apparently managing

herself, but there were no distress signals up. She ran on to this long

bank of rock, upon which breakers foamed higher than a ship. I do not

like to cumber my book with an account of the cause or source of the

cholera, nor the Jeddah massacre (the same that my husband foretold,

was officially snubbed for, which impolite letter he received in the

depths of Africa in early 1859, and by the same post the account of the

massacre); but I will do so either in the Appendix or in a future

book--"Labours and Wisdom of Richard Burton."

It is a great experience to have been in a pilgrim-ship, but I am quite

content with _one_ experience--they suffered horribly, especially in

very wild weather.

On the twenty-seventh day the north-east monsoon _actually_ set in,

and destroyed all our peace. The pilgrims howled with fright, and many

died; they called "Allahu Akbar" day and night. The ship danced like

a cricket-ball. When the storm was at its height Richard was smoking

behind a shelter in the bow of the vessel, in the quarters where the

sturdiest of our pilgrims had established themselves--Afghans, and

all tribes from the north of India, men from Bokhara--when he saw

coming amongst them one of two Russian spies we had taken on board at

Suez. We had Somalis, Hindis, Arabs from Bokhara, Kokand, Kashgar,

Turcomans, Persians, Tashgand (these last Russian subjects), and to

those he addressed himself. Richard heard him telling them, in broken

Hindustani, that if any accident happened to the ship, that they should

aid him to overpower the Austrian captain and officers, and that they

and he would cut away the boats and escape, then batten down the

remainder of the pilgrims under the hatches, and escape.

As soon as he was gone away, Richard came out to them, and he spoke

to each set of men in their own dialect, and he told them that he was

an Englishman, and an officer of the Bombay army, and that that man

was a Russian spy; and he told them that the Russian had only told

them that, in order to get them into trouble when the ship got into

Bombay, that they might be looked upon as traitors in the sight of the

British Government, and on no account to follow him or his councils.

"If anything happened," he said, "everybody will be safely provided

for; but I shall follow that man about, and never leave him until the

Authorities in Bombay know all about him." The men quieted down at

once, and it made the Russian very uneasy to find that they would not

listen to him any more. And on arriving at Bombay Richard was as good

as his word.

I spent a great deal of my time amongst them, because their misery made

me suffer horribly. We lost twenty-three in twenty-three days, not of

disease, but of privation, fatigue, hunger, thirst, opium, vermin, and

misery. No one would believe it unless they saw the dirt and smelt the

horrible effluvia. They have two insatiable wants, and no ship ought to

be permitted to carry them unless they will give them a copious supply

of fresh good drinking water, and wood to cook with. Many a dying

pilgrim embarks without a penny, relying on charity; if there _is_ no

charity--which sometimes occurs--the wretch dies. They only want rice,

but the ship does not give it, and I have seen a man with three hundred

rupees in his belt die of starvation sooner than spend it. They never

move out of the small space or position assumed at the beginning of the

voyage. The richer ones are all right; the poor are skin and bone, half

naked, with a rag round the loins at most. They won't ask, but if they

see a kind face they speak with the eyes, as an animal does.

From light till dark, unless writing the biography, we were staggering

about our rolling ship with sherbet and food and medicines--we carried

no doctor--treating dysentery, fever, diarrhœa; but if I had the

misfortune to touch anything, they would not eat it, dying as they

were, because they would lose caste. But I made more progress with them

than most Europeans, because I could recite the Bismillah in giving it

to them. The first funerals made one very serious. I have alluded to

them in my "Arabia, Egypt, and India." What struck me was the jolliness

with which they were executed--it seemed no more than heaving the lead;

but I had never seen a funeral at sea, and I kept saying to myself,

"That poor Indian and I might both be lying dead to-day; there would

be a little more ceremony for me, and, excepting for my husband, it

would cast a gloom over the dinner-table for _one_ day only. The sharks

would eat us both, and perhaps like me a little the best, because I am

fat and well fed, and do not smell of cocoanut oil. Then we both stand

before the throne of God to be judged, he with his poverty, hardships,

privations, sufferings, pilgrimage, and harmless life, and I with all

my sins, my happy life, my luxuries, and the little wee bit of good I

have done, or ever thought to obtain mercy with--only equalled that our

Saviour died for both." All are laughing because it is only a poor,

ugly old skeleton of a "nigger;" not one of them thinking, "Supposing

that were _me!_ My turn _will_ come, and then the rest will think it

jolly fun to see _me_ thrown over the side."

Richard at Aden inquired after all his old party in his exploration to

Harar. Mohammed el Hammál died only a year ago. Long Guled and the two

women, Shehrazade and Deenarzade, are still alive; the former in camp,

the latter in Somali-land. Abdo (the End of Time) died a natural death;

Yusuf, the monocular one, was murdered by the Isá tribe; Hasan Hammad,

the boy, is now sergeant to the water-police. The Egyptians, who took

possession of Berberah and Zayla, entered Harar without fighting, and

the Amir died under suspicious circumstances. Rauf Pasha is invested on

all sides by Gallas and Somali, and is in considerable danger. Hasan

procured for us the coins of Harar, which Richard brought to England in

1878.

Aden is a wild and desolate spot, made of fiery rocks. One cannot

imagine any one living here; but Richard's old friend, Dr.

Steinhaüser, so often mentioned in these pages, lived here for

twenty-five years, and dropped down dead in Switzerland. On the

thirty-first day I have the following entry:--"A charming day, and

no one died. Have seen the prettiest sight possible, late afternoon.

Thousands of dolphins playing leap-frog under our bows, and keeping up

with the ship." If it had not been for Richard we should have been put

into quarantine, through the captain not knowing English, and not being

able to explain why he had had twenty-three deaths on board. The yellow

flag was already hoisted up; the pilgrims were in despair; but on

Richard explaining to the pilot, he pushed off to fetch the doctor, and

we were allowed to land, running into Bombay. The last we saw of the

holy mob was as a stream of black ants trickling down the ladders and

the ropes, hardly able to wait for the boats, and giving us something

like a cheer.

[Sidenote: _Bombay_.]

Arrived in Bombay, Richard took me to see all the scenes described in

the beginning of this book in the early part of his life, and he said,

"It is a curious thing, that although I hated them when I was obliged

to live here, now that I am _not_ obliged I can look back upon these

scenes with a certain amount of affection and interest, although I

would not live here again for anything. The old recollection makes me

sad and melancholy." We were under very happy auspices there, because

Mr. Frederick Foster Arbuthnot, who now lives at 18, Park Lane, had

been a friend of Richard's for many, many years, and mine too; he was

"Collector" at Bombay, and occupied a great position, so that he used

to take us out everywhere in his four-in-hand or in his boats, and we

saw everything all over Bombay and its environs, which, though familiar

to Richard, was entirely new to me, and we were also introduced to

all the Society. The things that I found most interesting were a

certain Ali Abdullah, the son of a Syrian Bedawin, of the tribe of

Anazeh, who married a Christian, Europeanized himself, settled here,

and keeps stables of four or five hundred horses, imports from Persia

and elsewhere. We saw some perfect colts, one for £200, and some two

hundred _kadishi_, about fourteen hands high, useful, but not pretty,

worth about £12 or £14 in Syria. To the Garapooree Island we went to

see the wonderful Hindoo caves, called the Elephant Caves, covered with

carvings, cut out of solid blocks, of their Trinity--Shiva, Krishna,

and Vishnu. There is something to see all round the Bay.

The Bhendi Bazar is the best sight of all. In its way, it is almost as

striking and various as the bazars at Jeddah, so picturesque with its

coloured temples, irregular coloured houses, and its wares to sell.

There one sees something of native life in its native town. Malabar

Hill is very pretty, with its picturesque bungalows and vegetation.

Mr. Arbuthnot took us to Bandora, which was to him what Bludán was to

us in Syria, or Opçina at Trieste. He had there a charming bungalow

and stables by the sea, on Salsette Island, a cool, refreshing, rural,

and solitary place. The drive there took us through the bazar, and the

beautiful Máhim woods, a cocoa-palm forest, and across an inlet of the

sea, which looks like a lake, and divides Bombay from Salsette. On a

rising country, with wooded hills and the Ghauts for a background,

there is a romantic church, built by the old Portuguese two hundred and

fifty years ago, called Nossa Senhora do Monte. It commands a beautiful

view, and the water (like a lake in the depression) surrounds it. We

always went to Bandora every Saturday to Monday during our stay in

Bombay, and always met charming people--the late Duke of Sutherland,

Admiral Reginald Macdonald, Admiral Lambert; and Mr. Albert Grey

arrived.

SIND.

Now the Sind expedition came off. First, Bassein Dámán, Surat, the

first English factory in India, with the tombs of Vaux and Tom Coryat;

then Diu, a Head and Fort, Ja'afarábád, the ruins of Somanáth,

the home of the famous Gates; the Dwáriká Pagoda, Kachh (Cutch),

Mandavi, and the Indus mouths. We called upon the village Chiefs; we

chatted with the villagers; we learnt much about the country, and we

taught the country something about ourselves. Gujarat was the next

place--Káthiawár and Junágarh, better known as Gírnár. And then to

Manhóra, where the British arms first showed the vaunting Sindi and

the blustering Beloch what the British lion can do when disposed to be

carnivorous, and thence to Karáchi town. There we visited every part of

the Unhappy Valley, and particularly the Belochis of the hills (with

whom Richard had so much to do when under Sir Walter Scott). He writes

indignantly about the way Mirza Ali Akbar Kahn Bahadúr was treated by

the Government, being removed from the service, and his pension refused

in 1847--it is said to annoy Sir Charles Napier, Richard's Chief.

Everywhere he goes (as he recounts in "Sind Revisited," which he wrote

from our journal on return) he visits the old scenes of his former

life, saluting them, letting the changes sink into his mind, and

taking an everlasting farewell of them. He was very apt to do this in

places where he had lived. He notices the ruin of the Indian army--the

great difference between his time and now. He said, "Were I a woman,

I would have sat down and had a good cry." There was only one of his

joyous crew still breathing. The buildings had grown magnificent, but

everything else had changed for the worse; the old hospitality was

gone; there was no more jollity, no more larking boys; everything

so painfully respectable, and so degenerated. He went to visit the

old alligator tanks, where they used to go and worry them with their

bull-terriers, and the boys used to jump on them and ride them. "No

such skylarking now," he remarked. Then he waxes sentimental at the

place where he had a serious flirtation with a Persian girl. There is

the shop where he used to write with phosphorus on the wall. He had

three shops in Karáchi, where he appeared in different disguises, and

was considered a saint when he was so disguised and appeared in such or

such a character. Then we went back to Baroda, where he was quartered

so long, and to see the Goanese church, to which he transferred himself

in 1843, and to Gharra, where he had to live so miserably. He traces

the foundation of the lines of his old regiment, where he says, "None

of us died, because we were young and strong; but we led the life of

salamanders." He says, "There lies the old village, which saw so many

of our 'little games;' a cluster of clay hovels, with its garnishing of

dry thorns, as artlessly disposed as the home of the nest-building ape.

How little it has changed; how much have we!" He next goes to Nagar

(everywhere pronounced Nangar), and to Thathá, and Kalyan Kot, and the

Mekli Hills (holy places), where he composed the following poem:--

"LEGEND OF THE LAKKÍ HILLS.

"In awful majesty they stand,

Yon ancient of an earlier earth,

High towering o'er the lowly land

That in their memories had birth;

And spurning from their stony feet

The rebel tides, that rush to beat

And break where rock and water meet.

Hoar their heads and black their brows,

And scarred their ribbèd sides, where ploughs

Old Age his own peculiar mark

Of uneffaceable decay;

And high and haughty, stern and stark,

As monarchs to whose mighty sway,

A hundred nations bow--stand they.

"Within the deep dark cleft of rock dividing,

Two giants taller than their kin,

Whence the sharp blade of piercing torrent gliding,

Here flashes sudden on the sight, there hiding

'Mid stones all voice with crashing din;

Where earthborn shade with skylight blends,

A grot of grisly gloom impends

The source from which the wave descends.

"Upon its horrid mouth, I ween,

The foot of man hath never been;

The foulest bird of prey would shrink

To nestle on that noisome brink.

Now the warm cauldron's sulphury fumes upseething,

As sighs that Stygian pit exhales,

The cavern's pitchy entrance veils,

Then in the wind's cold breath the vapours wreathing,

Dissolve--again the eye defines

The dripping portals' jagged lines.

"A glorious vision from that cave

Glittered before my gazing eye;

A seraph-face, like one that beams

Upon his sight, when blissful dreams

Round holy hermit's pillow fly.

A form of light, as souls that cleave

The darksome dungeon of the grave,

When awful judgment hour is nigh.

And oh, that voice! Can words express

The fulness of its loveliness,

Its rare and wondrous melody?

Ah, no! no mortal tongue may be

So powerful in poesy!

"Might I but gaze upon that brow,

Might I but hear that witching strain,

The joys that all the Seven Climes[1] know,

The charms that all the heavens show,

Were mine--but mine in vain.

"A moment pass'd the sound away,

Faded the vision from my sight;

And all was as it was before--

Vapour and gloom and deaf'ning roar.

Then soft arose that sound again--

Again appeared that form of light

Athwart the blue mist, purely white;

As from the main, at break of day,

Springs high to heaven the silvery spray.

"She beckoneth to me,

And in that smile there is

Promise of love and bliss,

Enduring endlessly.

"Whirled my brain, my heedless foot

Already left the verge

Where the water-spirit pours

His bolts of feathery surge,

Where iron rocks around, beneath,

Stand quick to do the work of death.

When, swift as thought, an icy arm

Against my falling bosom prest;

Its mighty touch dissolved the charm,

As suns disperse the mists that rest

On heathery mountains' dewy crest.

"I heard the angry waters rave,

I saw the horrors of the grave

That yawned to gulf its prey;

And started back in such dismay,

As wretch that, waked from midnight sleep,

Descries through shadows, glooming deep,

The ghost of murdered victim glide,

In gory robes, his couch beside.

I looked towards the darkling cave;

No more the vision glittered there,

No music charmed the echoing air--

That strain so sweet! that face so fair!--

And, but for one shrilly shriek

Of fiendish rage that smote mine ear,

And, but for one horrent thrill

That seemed with ice my veins to thrill;

Well had I deem'd 'twas Fancy's freak,

That scene, whose vivid features lie

On Memory's page typed durably."

[Sidenote: _Travelling in Sind_.]

We go to Sundan, to Jarak, to the Phuleli river, where he spent some

time in his early days with a _moonshee_, and make a pilgrimage to the

Indus river, and eventually to Hyderabad (Sind) and to Kotri the Fort,

where, as he says, for the sake of "auld lang syne," he visits every

place to right and left on his way, even the Agency and the old road.

He says the changes take away his breath.

"I was last at Kotri in 1849. All that once _was_, is a dismal ruin,

even the outer wall, which, loopholed and banquettéd, had driven off

a host of Beloch swordsmen, headed by Mír Sháhdád. Who would fancy

that the defence of that wall by the Light Company of H.M.'s 22nd

Regiment, under Captain Conway, directed by Major Outram, had ever

given rise to a treatise on the defence of field fortifications?

Surely it would have been well, at the expense of a few rupees, to

have kept up a place to which such mighty memories cling. The trees

had grown, but everything else seems changed. I am now bound for my

old home. Novelties meet my eye at every turn. In some places I find

improvements."

On arriving he says--

"What a change! Some twenty-five natives, mostly negresses, haunt

the houses which lodged our corps. The Mess-house, to which many

recollections attach, still stands, thanks to its foundation of baked

brick, but the front is converted into an open stable for human

beings. There lived the actors in the famous Phuleli Regatta; there

W---- hatched all the troubles which prevented us from feeling too

happy. There is the house which fell down, nearly crushing me and my

_moonshee_; the fireplaces are half filled up; the floor is grown

with camel thorn. How small and mean are the dimensions, which loom

so large in the picture stored within the brain! There I temporarily

buried the 'young person'[2] when the police-master gave orders to

search the house. There T---- played peeping Tom upon his father and

mother-in-law. How strange are the tricks of memory, which, often

hazy as a dream about the most important events of a man's life,

religiously preserves the merest trifles! And how very unpleasant to

meet one's self, one's 'dead self thirty years younger'! Adieu, old

home! I shall not perhaps see you again, but it is not in my power

ever to forget you."

We go on from Hyderabad to Sakhar and Shikárpúr, but first he

recognizes the old artillery lines, the billiard-room, and John Jacob's

house built on a graveyard, and then goes to the Tombs of the Kings

at Kalhóra and Talpúr, which are very like those of Golconda (Jaypur

marble, which the Rajput artists seem to handle like wax). The flutings

of the open work are delicate in the extreme, and the general effect

is a lacery of stone. We then visit New Hyderabad, and he is surprised

at all the new buildings. He is very much distressed at the state of

the Army; the Beloch element has gone out, and the Pathán, or Afghan,

is taking its place. The men are no longer what they were, and the

military authorities have only to thank their own folly. He says--

"There is a medium between the over-long and over-short service.

A term of three years may make an intelligent and well-educated

_Prussian_ soldier, but the system has become a caricature as adopted

by other nations. Before 1848 the Austrian army was the finest in

Europe; see what the three years' service has done for it."

He dives into the Eastern mind, and shows you that the moment you

begin to intrigue with an Oriental, he has you on his own ground, he

beats you with your own weapons, and that the only way that you have

the Oriental at _your_ mercy is by being perfectly straightforward

and honest. He shows you what value they set on good manners. Then we

visit the field of Meanee. He describes the brisk way that Sir Charles

Napier fought--a fierce _mêlée_, no quarter asked or given. He said

the way to fight an Indian battle is to shake the enemy's line with a

hot fire of artillery, charge home with infantry, and when a slight

hesitation begins, to throw all your cavalry at the opposing ranks,

and the battle is ended. Such was the battle of Meanee, when our 2800

thrashed 22,000 men. He greatly blames the yielding up of Afghanistan.

Then we go to Husri, where, in old days, he surveyed and amused himself

with cock-fighting--the scene of the death of "Bhujang," his favourite

cock--and from thence to Sudderan Column, from whence he visited Mir

Ibrahim Khan Talpur's village;[3] and then he goes on to the "Jats"

country (the Gypsies), with whom he affiliated himself, and where he

worked with the camel-men, levelling canals in the old days. Then we

go on to Badhá and Unarpúr, Lakrá, and Sibt, wells in the desert, and

here he translated the tale of Bári and Isa (Jesus). Whilst among the

Belochs he wrote--

"THE TALE OF BÁRI AND ISA.

"Give ear, O ye sons of the Beloch,

Whilst I recount to you a true tale!

As Isa, the prophet of Allah,

Was travelling, Fakir-like, over the earth,

Seeing its wonders and its wastes,

He came into a desert land

Where no river nor Káríz was,

Nor green fields, nor waving crops.

Dreadful mountains rose on all four sides

Round a plain of sand and flint,

On which stood a stump (of tree) one cubit high,

And propped against it sat Bári, the hermit,

Meditating, with his shroud[4] over his head,

Upon the might of Rabb Ta'álá.[5]

Isa considered him awhile,

Then, advancing, he touched his shoulder,

Saying, 'Tell me truly, how dost thou live?

What eatest thou in this grainless place,

And what drinkest thou where no water is?'

Bári raised his head from his breast;

He was old and stone blind,

His knees were sore by continued kneeling.

And his bones, through fasting, pierced his skin.

Yet his heart was as the life of the seed

That dwells in a withered home.[6]

He comprehended the question, and thus replied,

Weeping and exclaiming, 'Wá wailá![7]

How can man doubt the Creator's might?

Sit down by me for awhile,

I show thee the power of Allah.'

Then the stump shot up till it became

A noble towering tree;

At morning prayers it began to grow,

And (presently) shadowed the ground beneath.

At midday berries appeared upon it,

Hanging in festoons like the young brab's fruit.

In the afternoon they became brightly red,

As the date when it falls from the tree;

Before the sun set they were ripe.

From each bough the bunches hung

Cool as water in a cavern,

Sweet as the sugar[8] in Paradise,

Fit for prophets and martyrs to eat.

Then said Bári, 'Thou seest Allah's might,

How he can feed His children in the waste!

Fruits grow upon the (withered) stump,

Waters flow from the rugged rock,

All things obey the Lord of all;

It is (only) man that doubts and disbelieves.'

As it happened unto him,

So, by my head! may it happen to me.

Such is the tale of the Dervish;[9]

Gentles, my song is done."

Leaving Unarpúr, we pass out of the Unhappy Valley into Sindia Felix,

beginning at Gopang, Májhand, Sann, and Amiri, and here in 1876 rails

have been laid and trollies were working. Thence we go to Lakkí,

where he composed the poem on the "Legends of the Lakkí Hills," given

above, and then to Séhwan. The road was a precipitous _corniche_, very

narrow, with camels marching in Indian file. Séhwan is an important

military and religious place, commanding the passage of the Indus,

but intensely hot, with deleterious and deadly climate. This was the

place where Richard in old days buried an old Athenæum sauce-pot, which

he had painted like an Etruscan vase. He treated it with fire and

acid, smashed it, and buried it in the ground, and took in a lot of

antiquaries, who never forgave him; and when he was travelling in the

land of the Turanian Brahúis, he drew up a grammar and a vocabulary,

with barbaric terminations, and the Presidency rang for nine days with

the wondrous discovery. That was in his boyhood, and he writes, "I

_now_ repent me in sackcloth and ashes, and my trembling hand indites

'_Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa_.'"

We then go along the Aral stream for two days to Lake Manchar, and

visit the Kirthár Mountains, with their two sanitaria, Char Yaru

and the Danna Towers. Then to Lárkána, an Eastern influent of the

Indus--eight stages. Lárkána is the centre of Sindia Felix. We go

to Sakhar, to Bakar, and lastly to Rohri, and then make our way to

Shikárpúr across a kind of desert, south of the Bolan Pass, and which

is the main _entrepôt_ of the Khorasán and Central Asian caravan trade

with Sind and Western India, where, as usual, he visited everything and

found the usual changes.

The _bonne bouche_ of Shikárpúr is the Great Bazar, about eight

hundred yards long and branching out. It was as striking in its way

as the Bhendi Bazar. The women and the men are superb animals, a

perfect combination of strength and symmetry and absolute grace, and

they outstrip in intellect as in physical development all the other

inhabitants of the plain. They are respected, and are called the sons

of the Aughán. We enjoyed the hospitality of Dr. Salaman, whom he told

that in _his_ day the cantonment contained two regiments, whereas

in 1876 it looked as if it had suffered from siege, pestilence, and

famine. The railway, Richard said, will retrieve its fortunes, the

banking business will revive, with increased facilities for transit

and traffic. It will be wealth to the Great Bazar, and the position of

the town will make it supply the railway. It will recover its garrison

as soon as "Common Sense" takes courage to withdraw its troops from

pestilent Jacobábád, twenty-six miles north-north-west of Shikárpúr.

When the choice of a frontier post rested upon General John Jacob, he

pitched upon the best he could; now it is the very worst.

THE INDIAN ARMY.

[Sidenote: _Richard's Remarks on Changes in Indian Army_.]

"Karáchi is still the capital village of the local Government, and the

head-quarters of the European regiment. Under the _Conquistador_ the

camp usually numbered about five to eight thousand men, both colours

and all arms included. This strong force has been greatly reduced.

The 'boss' is now a brigadier-general, commanding the station (where

he resides) and the Sind district, no longer a division; it may,

however, recover its honours when annexed to the Panjáb. He has no

adjutant-general; only a brigade-major and a quartermaster-general.

The single white corps is the 56th, and the 'Pompadours' detach two

companies to Haydarábád. Here we have no cavalry. Three corps of the

Sind Horse (about 1480 sabres) are stationed at Jacobábád, their

head-quarters; they also man all the adjoining outposts. The arms

are carbine and sword; the uniform is almost that of the Cossack,

the old Crimean Bashi-Bazouks, and the irregular cavalry in general:

green tunics and overalls; turban, riding-boots, and black belts.

The native infantry at Karáchi is now the 2nd Beloch Regiment (29th

Bombay Native Infantry). They wear light serge blouses in working

costume, and green tunics with red facings for full dress; loose blue

'_pagris_;' madder-stained knickerbockers--'cherubim shorts' are

excellent for wear--and white, which should be brown, gaiters covering

blucher boots. Their weapons are those of the Sepoy line generally.

At Jacobábád, on the north-western frontier, are also Jacob's Rifles

(30th Regiment Bombay Native Infantry), averaging some seven hundred

men armed with sniders, and habited in _khâkí_, or drab-coloured

drill. Haydarábád, besides its two white companies, is garrisoned by

the 1st Beloch Regiment (27th Bombay Native Infantry), known by its

looser turbans.

"The artillery of the Sind district is now commanded by a

lieutenant-colonel, residing at head-quarters. Under him are two

field batteries of white troops; one stationed here, the other at

Haydarábád. Finally, at Jacobábád there is a mountain train, about

a hundred and fifty men, with two mortars and as many howitzers

(all 4½-inch), which are to be exchanged for steel breech-loaders

weighing two hundred pounds, and drawn by the sure-footed mule. A

move has lately been made in the right direction as regards the

'gunners,' and presidential jealousies have been abated by appointing

a Director-General of Ordnance for all India. Still, the mountain

train is left almost inefficient, _the_ complaint of universal India;

fourteen mules are short, and the commanding officer, Captain Young,

an officer of twelve years' experience in Sind, 'passed' also in the

native languages, could hardly take the field in full force without

great delay.

"Thus, you see, Mr. Bull, Sind has utterly 'eliminated' the Sepoy,

whilst India has reduced her Sepoy army to a mere absurdity. The

claims of economy, the delusive prospect of peace, and last, not

least, the loud persistent voice of Prophet and Acting-Commissioner,

General John Jacob, and his '_silahdar_ system,' prevailed against the

old organization and common sense. He was in many ways a remarkable

man, endowed with that calm and perfect confidence in himself which

founds 'schools,' and which propagates faiths. Accustomed to base

the strongest views, the headstrongest opinions, upon a limited

experience of facts, he was an imposing figure as long as he remained

in obscurity. But, unfortunately, one of his disciples and most ardent

admirers, Captain (now Sir Lewis) Pelly, published, shortly after his

death, an octavo containing the 'Views and Opinions of General John

Jacob,'[10] and enables the world to take the measure of the man.

"General John Jacob's devotion to his own idea has left a fatal

legacy, not only to Sind, but to the whole of India. Sir Charles

Napier, a soldier worth a hundred of him, had steadily advocated

increasing, with regiments on service, the number of 'Sepoy officers,'

then six captains, twelve lieutenants, and four ensigns. The Conqueror

of Sind protested that the 'regulars' were not regular enough, the

best men being picked out for staff and detached appointments. The

'butcher's bill' of every battle, I may tell you, gives nearly

double the number of casualties among the 'black officers,' as we

were called, and at Miyáni (Meanee) we were six deaths to one 'white

officer.' The reason is obvious; the 'pale faces' must lead their

companies, wings, and corps, otherwise the natives, commissioned,

non-commissioned, and privates, will not advance in the teeth of too

hot a fire. We are already made sufficiently conspicuous by the colour

of our skins and by the cut of our uniforms, while the enemy is

always sharp enough to aim at 'picking' us 'off.'

"General John Jacob proposed, in opposition to the Conqueror of

Sind, to supplant the Regular system by the Irregulars, which means

diminishing the number of Englishmen. Having the pick and choice of

the Indian army at his disposal, he succeeded in fairly drilling and

disciplining his Sind Horse; _argal_, as the grave-digger said, he

resolved that the Sind Horse should become a model and a pattern to

the whole world. He honestly puffed his progeny on all occasions,

even when it least deserved praise. During our four months' raid on

Southern Persia, the Sind Horse was pronounced by all the cavalrymen

present to be the last in point of merit; the same was the case in

Abyssinia; and during the Mutiny many of his men were found among the

'Pándís.' Yet he puffed and preached and wrote with such vigour that

the military authorities, worn out by his persistency, and finding

that the fatal measure would save money, gave ear to the loud, harsh

voice. In an inauspicious hour the whole regular Sepoy force of India

was not only irregularized: it was, moreover, made a bastard mixture

of the Regular and the Irregular.

[Sidenote: _The Indian Army_.]

"The result is the ruin of the Indian army. The system itself is

simply a marvel. The corps have either too many officers or too few.

For drilling purposes you want only a commandant, an adjutant (who

should also be musketry instructor), and a surgeon; or at most the

three combatants who led the old Irregular corps. For fighting, you

require, besides the field officers, at least two Englishmen, or

better still, three per company. It is, I own, possible to increase

the normal complement by free borrowing from the staff corps, and

from the rest of the army, but every soldier will tell you that this

is a mere shift; the officers must know their men, and the men their

officers.

"Again, under the present system, which effectually combines the

faults of both the older, and the merits of neither, your infantry

corps with its full _cadre_, of which half is usually absent,

theoretically numbers nine European officers. One, the surgeon, is a

non-combatant, and two, the adjutant and quartermaster, are usually

represented by the wing subalterns. An English regiment, with its

_cadre_ of thirty, mounts only its field-officers and adjutant. An

Indian corps--would you believe it?--mounts the lieutenant-colonel

commanding; the major, second in command; the two wing officers, the

two wing subalterns, the adjutant, and the quartermaster. The result

is to incur the moral certainty of their all being swept away by

the first few volleys. True, you have sixteen native commissioned

officers, forty _havildárs_ (sergeants), and the same number of

_náiks_ (corporals)--a total of ninety-six. But the belief that Sepoys

will fight without Englishmen to lead them, is a snare, a sham, and a

delusion.

"A host of other evils besets the present state of things. Your

cavalry corps are so weak in officers, rank and file, that a six

months' campaign would reduce them each to a single troop. Your

infantry regiments, eight companies of seventy-five bayonets each,

or a total of six hundred and forty, have not been reduced to the

form now recognized as the best tactical unit. Again, officers are

still transferred, after six and even seven years' service, from the

white to the black line, thus bringing them upon the Indian pension

list without having served the full time. They also want _esprit de

corps_; they dislike and despise 'Jack Sepoy,' and their chief object

in life is to regain something more congenial than the out-station and

the dull, half-deserted Mess. Again, at the other end of the scale,

field officers of twenty-five to thirty years' Indian service are

made to do subalterns' work. Regimental zeal is being annihilated;

and the evil of senility is yearly increasing. Let me relate a case,

which you shall presently see for yourself. Major A----, who has

served in a corps for nine years, who has seen three campaigns, and

who for three years has acted second in command, lately finds himself

superseded by a lieutenant-colonel, when he himself expects to become

lieutenant-colonel within six months. What is the result? He is

utterly weary of the service, he has lost all heart for its monotonous

duties. 'An old subaltern,' says one of your favourites, 'is a

military vegetable, without zeal as without hope.'

"Again, the new furlough regulations, after abundant considerings,

have turned out so badly, that all who can cleave to the old.

Why grant leave, with full pay and allowances for six months, to

Kashmir and to the depths of the Himálayas, and yet refuse it to the

home-goer, under pain of English pay? Why should the Civil Service

have, and the military lack, 'privilege leave'? Why thus adhere to old

and obsolete tradition, so as to make the soldier's life as unpleasant

as possible? Why----But at this rate, sir, 'Whys' will never end.

"Sir Henry Havelock's truthful statement in the House of Commons, that

the Anglo-Indian army is 'rotten from head to foot,' has surprised the

public mass which puts trust in Pickwickian and official declarations.

We, who know the subject, declare that the Indian is, perhaps, in a

worse condition than the home force; and we assert that the idea of

opposing regiments, so officered and so manned, to the Russians, or

even to the Afghans, is simply insane.

"Do not disbelieve me, Mr. John Bull, because my language is not

rose-watered. The Old Maids' Journal (_Spectator_)--ancient, but

not very pretty, virginity--has lately been berating me for seeking

'cheap credit' by 'pointing out how much better duties might be done

by persons whose business it is to do them.' But officials are ever

in trammels, whilst we critics, who look only to results, are not;

moreover, a man is hardly omniscient because his work is in this or

that department, or even because he holds high rank in this or that

service. And did not Voltaire think and declare that, 'of all the ways

of Providence, nothing is so inscrutable as the littleness of the

minds that control the destinies of great nations'?

"Some have distinction, you know, forced upon them; others win it by

means which honest men despise. They never report the truth unless

pleasant to the ear; they calculate that, possibly, the disagreement

will not occur; and that, if it does, their neglect will be slurred

over and forgotten. Plausible and specious, 'they can preach and

they can lecture; they can talk "soft sawder," and they can quote

platitudes _ad infinitum_. These superficial specimens of humanity,

who know which side their bread is buttered, owe their rise, their

stars and ribbons, their K.C.B.'s and pensions, not to the sterling

merits of courage and ability, of talents and manliness, but to the

oily tongue that knows so well how to work the oracle, and to a

readiness of changing tactics as the chameleon changes colour.' In

short, these gentlemen have mastered the 'gospel of getting on;' the

species, 'neglected Englishmen,' has not.

"Thus you have no right to be surprised, as you often are, when

some notorious incapable, entrusted with an office of the highest

responsibility, comes to grief. His 'Kismet,' his 'Nasib,' his star,

have been in the ascendant, and he has done nothing to obscure them by

personal merit, by originality, by candour, or by over-veracity. These

qualities are sure to make enemies, and the millenium must dawn before

your friends--private, public, or political--will look after you with

the vigour and the tenacity of your foes.

"But so rotten is the state, so glaring is the inefficiency, of the

Indian army, that you will not be astonished to hear reports of

'organic changes' and fundamental reforms, or even to see a return to

the old system. Strange to say, Lord Northbrook, the civilian, saw the

necessity of reorganization. Lord Napier, the soldier, who, during the

Abyssinian campaign, sent for officers to every Presidency, ignored

it. Perhaps the Napierian clique took the opportunity to oppose, tooth

and nail, the efforts of another service. The Shí'ahs, who, you know,

abhor the Sunnis bitterly, as Roman Catholics hate Protestants, when

any mode of action left to private judgment is proposed, always choose

the line opposed to that taken by their heretic enemies--_raghman

li-'l-Tasannun_, 'in adverse bearing to Sunniship,' as the religious

formula runs.

"Briefly, the sooner we convert Jacobábád into an outpost, connect it

by a decent road with Shikárpúr, and station the troops at Sakhar, the

better. No man in his sane senses would station his whole force upon

the skirts of a province, where a troop or two suffices, without a

single soldier, for support or reserve, nearer than some three hundred

miles.

"The defective dyke has depopulated a fine tract of country; it

threatened old Sakhar, and it may even cause a complete shifting

of the irrepressible river. Any exceptional freshet may burst the

'Band' and insulate Sakhar Camp, below which the inundation used to

discharge; and seriously damage the working of the railway, upon which

all the prosperity of the Upper Province now depends.

"But dull, desolate, decayed, miserable-looking Sakhar has a future.

Bad as the climate is, men live longer in it than at Shikárpúr or

Jacobábád. The railway, which the engineers seem trying their hardest

_not_ to make, must some day be finished; it will not only connect

Sind with India, but it must also attract to itself all the outlying

settlements. 'Common Sense,' again, will presently withdraw the Sind

Horse from wretched malarious Jacobábád, a prison with the chance

of being drowned. The occupation of Kelat will give poor old Sakhar

an excellent sanitarium, and the annexation of the Unhappy Valley to

the broad and fertile plains of the Panjáb will make it, I venture to

predict, one of the principal stations upon the highway of commerce.

"The present antiquated arrangements date from the days of General and

Acting-Commissioner John Jacob, who, after eighteen years' service

in Sind, died on October 5, 1858; and his rules endure, I have told

you, whilst all the conditions that favoured them have changed. They

were originally intended for the benefit of the Jekránis, the Domkís,

and the Bugtís; but these robber tribes have long ago become peaceful

cultivators. They are perpetuated by the old school of Sind soldier,

that sat at the feet of his Gamaliel, John Jacob, and that ever held

and still hold him a manner of Minor Prophet. He was, I have told you,

a remarkable man, and so you may judge by the entire devotion of his

followers and successors. He used to base the most decided views upon

the shallowest study of the 'Eternal Laws of Nature,' of 'Principles,'

and so forth.

"General Jacob could not play whist; ergo, whist was banished from

the Mess of the Sind Horse, and even now, nearly a score of years

after his death, it is still, I believe, under interdict. A 'practical

mechanic,' that is to say, a mere amateur, he tried to force upon the

army a rapier-bayonet and a double-barrelled, four-grooved rifle,

which reached the climax of impracticability. Incapable of mastering

native languages, he hated linguists, and never lost an opportunity of

ridiculing and reviling them. Moreover, he dignified his deficiency

by erecting it into a principle--namely, that all English subjects

should learn English; and here, for once, his prejudice ran in the

right line. He knew nothing of the sword beyond handling it like a

broomstick; therefore he would not allow it to be taught to his men,

many of whose lives were thus sacrificed to his fatal obstinacy. He

utterly condemned the use of the point, which is invaluable throughout

India, because the natives neither make it nor learn to guard it. His

only reason for this dogmatism was the danger of the thrust by his

own inexperienced hand. In a few single combats, after running his

man through the body, he had risked being disarmed or dragged from

his horse. He probably never knew, and, with characteristic tenacity,

he would not have changed his opinion had he known, that Lamoricière

proposed to take away the edge from the French trooper's blade; that

the French heavies still use the straight sword, best fitted for

the point; and that the superiority of the latter to the cut is a

settled question throughout the civilized world. His prejudices were

inveterate, and they were most easily roused. He hated through life

a native of Persia, who, not understanding his stutter, a defect

imitated by his admirers, wrote his name J-J-J-J-J-Jacob, thus:--

[Illustration]

At last his obstinacy killed him. When advised by the surgeon not

to ride his final ride home, he asked, with a sneer, if the young

man knew his constitution better than he did himself, and he died

examining a new rifle."

He continues--

[Sidenote: _And Sind_.]

"Kasmor is our northernmost village, but it is one hundred miles of

winding road, a deadly uninteresting series of seven marches, and is

of no interest; but we will, on returning to Sakhar again, visit the

ruins of Aror. Issuing from Rohri by the Multán road, we shall pass on

the left the Aroráwáh, and east of it the new Nárá supply canal, and

then we will drop down the Indus to Kotri. We have now inspected and

studied Sind and its river Indus, and you must marvel at the complete

physical resemblance, and the absolute intellectual difference between

this and Egypt--there Meroe, Philæ, Thebes, the Pyramids; here

nothing. Yet this is one of the nurseries of the Indo-Aryan race,

whose occupation of the Panjáb learned Pandits placed before the sixth

century before Christ; this is the home of the Vedas, the scene of

the Puránas; the traditions of Ráma and Sitá's travel in Lower Sind.

Why is this mighty contrast in the works of Art, where the gifts of

Nature are so similar? My theory is that Old Egypt has always been the

meeting-place of nations, the common ground upon which the Orient and

the Occident stood front to front, where Eastern man compared himself

with Western man, where mind struck mind, where the Promethean spark

resulted from the impact of Northern or Southern thought. Indus-land

stood in a corner far from the outer worlds of the North and the

far West; she led to nothing, she was of scant service to racial

development. Indus-land was compelled to work out her own destinies in

a mean and humble way, while the monuments of Nile-land still instruct

and astonish humanity."

Then we came to Hyderabad, and he discusses the Indus Valley Railway.

He finds it silly that the Government continued to march its troops

between Karáchi and Kotri in ten days, including a single halt, rather

than take the rail for four or five hours; expensive economy, he

remarks, as the baggage camels cost far more than a few additional cars.

He says that we have improved the climate of the Indus Valley; we

have learned to subdue its wildness by the increased comforts of a

more civilized life. Many abuses of the olden time have disappeared;

formerly, it was a feat to live five years in Indus-land, but now you

find men who have weathered their twenty years.

"There is an imperative demand for a sanitarium, and the nearest and

best is Kelat. Kelat requires protection, and would be an admirable

outpost in case of hostile movements from Merv upon Herat (1876).

A couple of troops would amply suffice that abominable Jacobábád.

A single corps of Sind Horse should support them from Shikárpúr,

and the reserves, or body of the force, should occupy Sakhar, where

the climate is supportable and locomotion easy. Sind is virtually

unconnected with North-Western India, whose prolongation she is.

From Kotri-Hyderabad to Multán (570 miles) is a long steamer voyage

of twenty days, which should be covered by twenty-four hours of

rail-travel.

"The military political has had his day, and Sind, after a fair trial

of seventy-five years, has shown herself impotent to hold the position

of an independent province. She should be annexed to the Panjáb, and

then, as in the ancient days of the Hindú Rajahs, her frontiers will

extend to Kashmír. Already the papers tell us that the Trans-Indine

districts, from Pesháwar to near Karáchi, will be formed into a

Frontier Government, or an agency purely political, and will be placed

directly under the Viceroy; while Cis-Indine Sind, including also

Karáchi, is to be transferred from Bombay to the Panjáb, in exchange

for the Central Provinces. These sensible measures will be, to use

a popular phrase, the making of Young Egypt or Indus-land. She will

become the export-line of the rich Upper Valley, and the broad plains

of the Land of the Five Rivers, and increased wealth will enable her

to supply many a local want; for instance, water and gas to Karáchi, a

branch railway to Thathá, and so forth. Finally, when Karáchi becomes

the terminus of the Euphrates or Overland Railway, so much wanted at

this moment (February, 1877), then 'The Unhappy' will change her name,

and in the evening of her days shall become 'The Happy Valley.'"

[Sidenote: _The Muhárram_.]

We were fortunate enough to be in time for the Feast of the Muhárram,

with the procession for Hossein's death. This is a Moslem miracle

play, answering to our Passion play at Ober Ammergau, and represents

the martyrdom and death of Hassan and Hossein, sons of Ali and Fatima,

son-in-law and daughter of Mohammed. No European seemed to care about

it, but in any other land there would be crowded express trains and

excursion steamers to catch a glimpse of it. Richard took me to the

Imám Bárrá, to his friends the Shí'ahs (Persians), to his Highness Agha

Khan, chief of the Khojahs, who took me to the Jumat Khana, the place

of assembly of the Khojah caste--an immense building, enclosing in a

large space of ground. They let us in, and the Hindús, but not the

Sunnis, who, though Moslems, are their religious enemies. The whole

place was a blaze of lamps, mirrors, a brazier of wood flaring up, and

a large white tank of water (Hossein died fighting his way to the Great

River). Men form themselves into a ring, moving from right to left with

a curious step, beating their naked breasts with their hands. It makes

a noise like the thud of a crowbar, but in musical time; the Arabs

dance that way, but do not beat their breasts. The blows are given

with such violence that they sometimes die of them, and often faint,

and think themselves happy to suffer for the cause. They become more

and more fanatical, working themselves up to frenzy, crying, "Hossein!

Hossein Ah-ha!" and with this wail the blows are dealt with noise and

regularity like a huge sledge-hammer, till it becomes a maddening

shriek. They become raw as beef, and bleed, and are distorted. To see

those hundreds of men, in the prime of life, brawny and muscular as

they are, carried away by religious fanaticism, awes you; and you know

what a terrible thing it is, and what a tremendous force it is, when

roused, to twist the world in and out of shape with.

Then comes a procession of horses bearing little boys of six or eight,

the children and nephews of Hossein, carried off prisoners; their

white clothes and the horse's trappings stream with blood (painted

wonderfully well). A group of mourners hang round each horse, crying

real tears, and shrieking, "Hossein!" which thrills our nerves, and

all the spectators sob. Then comes the bier with Hossein's corpse, and

his son sitting upon it sorrowing and embracing him, and a beautiful

white dove in the corner, whose wings are dabbled with blood. The

effect upon the excited crowd is awful. Then follows a litter with the

sister and widow of Hossein, throwing dust and straw upon their heads.

One horse has a score of arrows stuck in its housings. We must here

call to mind that Fatima was the daughter of the Prophet Mohammed,

was married to Ali, the Prophet's favourite companion, and was mother

of Hassan and Hossein. Fatima expected Ali to succeed her father;

but Ayesha, the last and youngest wife of Mohammed, managed that her

own father, Abubekr, should become the Caliph. Then came Omar, then

Osman. When Osman died, Ali, who was still alive, became Caliph, and

was assassinated A.D. 660, leaving his two sons, Hassan and Hossein,

blessed by their grandfather, Mohammed, as the foremost youths of

Paradise. Hassan renounced his rights to save civil war, and was

poisoned at Medina by his wife, at the instigation of Muawíyah. Hossein

went to Medina, invited to return by the subjects of the treacherous

Yezíd, was caught in the snare, and slain in battle at Kerbála (Arabia).

This was the tragedy represented there:--

First came Hossein, six feet high, with fair complexion, and black

beard cut close. He walks with dignity, as becomes so great a

personage. His green and gold turban is like a crown, and shows his

relationship to the Prophet. He is draped in a black cloak. Then

the wife and sister came, veiled; then four little children; then

attendants. Hossein seats himself in a large armchair on one of three

dais; his family on a similar one opposite; and a sick youth, the son

of Hossein, lies on a mattress on a third. His son was ill when Hossein

died, but lived to become the progenitor of all the Sherífs of the

East. Then the villain Shimr, inviting Hossein to return, was hooted,

and a noble reply from Hossein was received with murmurs of applause.

Then rises up Hossein's sister, imploring him not to go to destruction.

The wife dare not speak; she may feel the most, but in the East she

dares not show it, even by a murmur. Hossein says that he is called

to be the Imám of the Faithful. If slain, he will die for the people

of the true Faith; if he lives, he will do Allah's will. The sister

cries aloud, and casting dust on her head, flings herself on his neck.

He embraces her tenderly, but will go and die for the sins of all.

Sobs burst from all sides--and real sobs. Everything is so earnest, so

simple, so distinct, and expressive. Then the little daughter comes

forth and caresses him; the child really weeps. He takes it in his

arms, soothes, and puts it back to its mother's lap. He then goes over

to his son's sick bed and bids him a tender adieu. A splendid horse

then comes in, and the sister brings him a white linen shroud, and puts

it on him. When about to mount, the child rushes from her mother's arms

and catches his cloak. He sinks on the ground, and wraps the child in

his arms. As he rises, the child pulls off the shroud, covers herself

with it, and stretches herself on the earth. He takes it from her, and

mounts his horse. The child flings herself in front of the horse's

hoofs, and the animal stands still. A servant picks the child up, but

she breaks away, and clings to the horse's legs; her little hands

clutch its hoofs.

The audience have been sobbing the whole time, but now there is a

perfect spasm of grief. An angel then comes, and offers to slay

Hossein's enemies; but he refuses, and the angel throws dust over his

head. Then he draws his scimitar. The villain Shimr appears, and they

ride off. The battle, the treachery, want of water, and the slaying,

are left to the imagination; and we next see the procession of the

Imám's captive children, widow, and sister, and the headless corpse

upon a bier. The procession of last night follows again, shrieking, "Ya

Ali! Ya Hossein!" with beating of breasts. The _tabuts_ are set up in

every nook and corner, and are fanciful representations of the tombs

of Hassan and Hossein--gay, glittering gimcracks and tinsel. They are

carried through the streets by men and boys as merry as grigs, dancing

and shouting, to fling them into the sea. The explanation is that the

Shí'ahs mourn for Hossein with despair, but the Sunnis consider him not

a martyr to be mourned for, and turn the occasion into ridicule; and

these _tabut_ processions are conducted by the Sunnis as a caricature,

which sometimes ends in a serious fight.

We also came in for a regatta, and we received great hospitality on

board the Squadron.

[Sidenote: _Richard's old Persian Moonshee_.]

During this journey we saw a great deal of Mirza Ali Akbar, who was

Richard's old _moonshee_ when he was a boy. We had a delightful Persian

breakfast with him, of fruit, vegetables, every kind of sweets, and

rice highly seasoned, rice with caraway seeds, _pilao_ with saffron

savoury and aromatic, prawn curry with plain rice, sweet rice with

rose-water, spices, and sweet paste from Muscat. He had been very much

wronged in some matter, and Richard was helping and instructing him how

to put his case clearly before the public, he being quite an innocent

man, of whatever charge was brought against him, though I forget what

it was; but he died--like many others--before he was righted--as

justice was slow. When he called upon Richard, his card was brought in,

in large letters looking like the visiting-card of some middle-class

respectable Englishman, with "Mirza _Ally_ Akbar" upon it. "Hullo,

Mirza," Richard said, after they had salaamed. "Are you any relation to

Ally Sloper?" The Mirza laughed--that is, as nearly as an Eastern does

laugh--and said, "No! but the English always call me _Ally_ Akbar, so I

found it was the shortest way to call myself so." It is surprising how

often we have gone to places, and found the natives had changed their

names to whatever the English chose to call them; for instance, a Señor

Machado had become a Mr. Much-harder.

We saw a great deal also of Mr. and Mrs. MacLean, and Mr. Gratton

Geary, editors of the papers. We visited the schools of the native

girls; it was an English institution called the Alexandra, where they

went through a good many performances, sang and recited in English and

Guzeratee, and one girl, D. A. H. Wadia, illustrated well enough for a

professional.

The beautiful moonlight nights are here spoilt by the air being

redolent of burnt flesh (roast Hindú) and sandal-wood. Richard took

me over to inspect the cotton-mills. There were some grand races,

and the Nawáb and all the Eastern "big-wigs" were there; distance

a mile and a half, and, as usual, whatever Hackney rode won. Long,

lanky weedy whalers ran better than the Arabs _bred there_. We dined

with the Commander-in-Chief, Sir Charles and Lady Staveley, in tent

quarters. We used to frequent the burial-ground very often in search of

a tomb we could not find, and at last we found it in the old Girgaum

burial-grounds in the Sonápur quarter, which had long been closed as

full. It was one of the characteristics of my husband that he could

never bear to pass a countryman's grave, or a celebrated person's

grave, without honouring it. This was a once celebrated man, yet,

except Richard, no one of the present day knew anything about him, or

his nameless grave--such is glory!

After many hot hours and days, and vain searching in parties amongst

the twenty thousand tombs, we found a plain space containing a very

old tombstone, with letters that required one to kneel down and trace

with the finger. No "Sacred to," but only "Victor Jacquemont, born in

Paris 28th August, 1801; arrived at Calcutta in May, 1829; and after

travelling three and a half years in India, expired at Bombay on 7th

December, 1832." He was a man of letters, a botanist, and naturalist,

who is supposed to have pioneered the French to India, and had the

Legion of Honour ("Correspondance de Victor Jacquemont," 2 vols.,

Paris, 1833, published a year after his death). He was a French

Catholic and fellow-Bohemian, so we paid a tribute to his memory. I

recited a "De profundis," and my husband gave directions to have the

letters picked out and painted afresh, and the grave replanted to mark

where he was buried. Jacquemont died in the house of one Nico, who

wrote to his brother, M. Porphyre; he had three doctors, MacLellan,

Kembell, and Henderson; treatment was 60 by 60 leeches, salivated,

blistered, etc.; got worse after a quarrel with his black servants,

and died of abscess on the liver, which burst internally. He had black

vomit "c'était un baquet de macération," and was kept alive by animal

soup and wine. He had a public funeral. These were all the details we

were able to collect; but it was a great deal, after forty-six years of

such utter forgetfulness that nobody knew where he was buried. We also

saw a great deal of the philanthropist, Miss Mary Carpenter, and her

work.

We went to the wedding feast of the daughter of Venayek Ramchunder

Luxumonjee, at Bhau, Russell House, Girgaum Road. It was a magnificent

entertainment, a long saloon brilliantly lit, every sort of luxurious

carpet, crossed one upon another, hundreds of Easterns in gorgeous

dresses. They say "we are just, but not kind," and it is true. There

is no mixing of Society. There are few Burtons, and Stricklands of the

Rudyard Kipling type. I regret to say that I was the only European

lady. There was a _Nach_ (Nautch). The host had natural dignified

manners. He was gentlemanly, manly, courteous without servility,

spoke excellent English, and was in nothing inferior, except in

colour, to the most polished English gentleman. The little bride

and bridegroom were aged nine and ten. The marriage feasts last for

days, after which they each stay with their parents till they are

ready for practical marriage. There are no more ceremonies; they

are actually _theoretically_ married to-day. The house was lit up

like a transformation scene in a pantomime. Then we had to go and be

vaccinated, for small-pox was raging; so we made a large party, and

were about four hundred clustering round a cow at the hospital. Then

Mr. Ormiston and his brother took us in a steam launch to see his

work--the revolving light at the Prongs, the handsomest thing we had

ever seen. The lighthouse is eight stories high, 169 feet. We then went

to a Garden-party at Parell, Government House--something like a mild

Chiswick party. There is so much hospitality that we dined out every

night, and the drives out to dinner and back were delicious, on the

balmy Indian nights. We saw Indian jugglery, such as the mango planted

and growing before one's sight, the child being killed in the basket,

and many other things which I, being a new-comer, was delighted with,

and it amused Richard to see my astonishment.

[Sidenote: _Mátherán_.]

We then went up to Mátherán, the most easily got at hill-station, or

sanitarium, passing through the villages Byculla, Chinchoogly, Parell,

Dadur, Sion, Coorla, Bhandoop, Tannah, and Derwa. Tannah is a big

village, an unhealthy-looking place, with two crumbling forts in the

river. Long, long ago there were five thousand velvet weavers here.

They also used to cure large quantities of bacon. In the thirteenth

century four friars went to dispute with the Moslem Kadi, and told him

Mohammed was in hell with his father the Devil, on which he executed

them with such tortures that his own King banished him, and the

Portuguese took signal revenge. Our third halt was Kalyan junction.

This poor village port was, in A.D. 200, the far-famed Kalliénapolis,

which shipped dry goods and precious woods to the outer west. We

are also now on classic ground, near the northern extremity of the

Shurpáraka, or winnow-shaped region, the Greek Limyrica, where some

have placed Ophir of Solomon. The Konkan lowland is like the Arabian

desert, tawny, not with sand, but black patched with fire. Here we turn

down towards Madras, joining the Calcutta Railway, and pass Budapoor.

We catch the Deccan hot winds, and alight at Narel, a little Maharatta

village at the eastern base of Mátherán, which will be noted afterwards

as the birthplace of the infamous Nana Sahib.

Here we mount ponies. We had to climb up four plateaux, and we arrived

at the Alexandra Hotel, Mátherán, a very comfortable bungalow. The

wooded lanes, the wild flowers, the pure atmosphere, the light and

shadows playing on the big foliage, and the birds rustling and singing

in it, were delightful to us. We were standing on a table-land of

eight square miles covered with bungalows in lovely woods, seamed

with riding-paths--regular leafy screens, whose ends lead to famous

points, each one showing a magnificent view. We looked down splendid

ravines amongst buttress-shaped mountains, light and shade sharply

defined, burnt yellow grass, green trees and black basalt. The fresh

vivid verdure of the woods is a repose to the eyes, weary by tawny

lowlands and fœtid jungly undergrowth. We enjoy bright green grove,

black rock, red-yellow laterite, a luxuriance of fernery, after so much

palm and bamboo, aloe and cactus. We have got a patch of virgin forest

and plenty of the gigantic anjun, whose pink-and-lilac bloom look like

patches of morning sky through the foliage, and you hear everywhere the

bark of the Wánúrú monkey, which is something like that of the wolf.

The officers' sanitarium is a horridly smelling, melancholy, deserted

almshouse-looking row, painted black, with black mat screens; it looks

like a stationary hearse, and would make one sick even if the air were

not redolent of small-pox. The rooms looked evidently fresh from some

horrid disease, and unclean. We shuddered, and passed away from the

tainted atmosphere. Mátherán is not fashionable; it is affected by the

commercial classes from Saturday till Monday. It is Margate, whilst

Máhábáleshwar and the Neilgherries are Brighton and Biarritz, and are

patronized by the "Services." But we did meet with some nice people

there--a charming Mrs. Douglas, and Dr. and Mrs. Nevin.

I think I said to leave Mátherán one has to get back to Narel. The

railway makes a tour like a V. We came down one side, and we go up the

other to Lanauli. On our road down from Mátherán we passed a procession

of Brínjaris for about two miles. This wild tribe intermarry only

amongst themselves, and have their own laws. They are a strong race;

men, women, and children are good looking. They grow their own corn,

have their own bullocks, spin their own sacks, and have huge dogs for

guard. They dress picturesquely, and are very defiant. The women carry

the babies in a basket on their heads. They _have_ been described, as

have also the Nats, as being one with the Gypsies, to whom they bear

some resemblance; but it is a mistake. My husband made up his mind on

this point whilst he was working with the camel-men, and lived with the

"Jats" in India, in his early days. He said the Romany are an Indine

people from the great valley of the Indus.

We passed another overhanging rock covered with monkeys, some as

big as a man, and some of a small species; they do not associate or

intermarry. There are two Maharatta forts in this part of the world,

on the way to Lanauli, called Rao Machi, the scene of one of our great

fights in 1846. The conductor on our brake had been a soldier fighting

in it, and gave my husband, who was at that time on Sir Charles

Napier's staff in Sind, a spirited account of it.

With the English mistaken notion of clemency, that always scotches its

snake, but is too generous or holds it too much in contempt to kill it,

and lets it run about to sting _ad libitum_, instead of being hanged,

Bajee Ráo was pensioned with 80,000 rupees a year, and retired to

Bithoor on the Ganges, where he rewarded British clemency by adopting a

child born in the village of Narel, at the foot of Mátherán, who lived

to be the infamous Nana Sahib, the same that afterwards tortured and

killed so many of our people.

[Sidenote: _Karla Caves_.]

We visited the Karla Caves, climbing a goat-like path to a gash in the

mountain side, with a belt of trees, and sat on the stones facing one

of the most wonderful Buddhist temples in India, constructed more than

two thousand years ago. It was shaped just like our cathedrals, body

and aisle, with a horseshoe roof of teakwood. The nave is separated

from the aisles by fifteen columns on each side, whose capitals are two

couchant elephants, with a man and woman upon each. A dome surmounted

by a coloured ornament at the top takes the place of high altar, the

ornament being like the pedestal for the Blessed Sacrament, and the

umbrella for canopy or tabernacle; and the space behind the high altar

in continuation of the horseshoe shape is separated by four plain

columns. The light comes from an open space where a large window should

be, artistically shining only on the high altar and dome, like ancient

Spanish and Portuguese churches. This is cut out of the solid rock,

pillars, capitals, façade, and all: the Kanheri Caves are the same.

On either side of the entrance are carved three splendid elephants

larger than life, and covered with niches and figures of Buddhist men

and women. Four enormous columns front it, with a gigantic slab of

stone across the entry, to prevent curious gazings from outside. A huge

column with three lions for its capital is a further outpost. A little

temple far outside is consecrated by the Brahúis to Devi. We were only

allowed to peep into this last. The "Monkery" was most curious. Cells

scooped all round opened into the large round centre room. Besides a

ground-floor cave, there were three stories. They say the Jesuits pick

and choose the best situations, but I am sure the Buddhists did the

same thing. This place commands the whole country. The more I travel,

see, and learn, the more I perceive that all the ancient religions,

show that but one has existed from the Creation, for every faith tells

the same tale as ours, with different actors under different names, but

all the facts are the same.

To get to Poonah the way is through the Indrauni River valley, through

the station of Kurkulla, Tulligaum, Chinchwud, and Kirkee, a large

European military station and very pretty. We eventually reached

Poonah, the scene of all the Peshwa intrigues against the English,

and our great battles with the Maharattas. Their dynasty lasted over

seventy years, but Bajee Ráo and his successors might always have been

there, if they had not quarrelled with the English. This was in Mr.

Mountstuart Elphinstone's time, with whom at that time was Grant Duff,

the historian. The great names connected with that period and business

were Sir Arthur Wellesley (Wellington), General Sir Harry Smith,

Lieut.-Colonel Burr, Captains Ford and Staunton, General Pritzler, Sir

Thomas Munro, and Colonel Prother. We went to Párbati, the Maharattas'

chief palace and stronghold, from which the last Peshwa, Bajee Ráo, who

sat on the rocky brow, saw his troops defeated by the English on the

plain, fled on horseback down the other side, and was hunted about the

country for months, till he gave himself up to Sir John Malcolm.

There are three pagodas in Bajee Ráo's palace, dedicated to Vishnu,

Shiva, and Wittoba, and one small temple particularly to Kalee or

Bhowanee, wife of Shiva, and patroness of the Thugs. Being sunset,

the wild, mournful, bizarre sound of tomtom, kettle, cymbal, and reed

suddenly struck up. We shut our eyes, and fancied ourselves in camp

again in the desert, wild sword-dances being performed by the Arabs.

We had a remarkable dinner at Mr. and Mrs. Petersen's, meeting Captain

Yates and Dr. Machonochie. Next morning we visited the Kharekwasla

tanks or lakes, laid out by Mr. Joyner, C.E.--a wonderfully clever

work--and he made a water-party for us.

[1] "Moslems, I have said, count seven heavens; they also reckon, after

the fashion of the Greeks and classical geographers, seven climates

on earth. Their 'Haft-Iklim,' therefore, means this sublunary world.

This is blending together two superstitions, Hindú and Mussulman--but

_n'importe_."--R. F. B.

[2] This was a very romantic affair.--I. B.

[3] I give a short account of these two in the appendixes (C, D).

[4] "A _memento mori_, fashionable amongst Eastern devotees. So the

Icelanders provide their coffins in middle age."

[5] "The Creator."

[6] "Meaning that his heart in his withered bosom was as the germ of

life in the dry seed--a true Pythagorean, Oriental idea."

[7] "_Wá wailá_--'Alas! and alas!' The Arabic explanation is put

into Bári's mouth on account of the sacredness of his character.

Saints, prophets, and sages are always made to speak as Semitically as

possible."

[8] "In the days when sugar of any kind was a rarity, and consequently

a delicacy, our English poets used the word with a certain appetite in

their comparisons. Now, the metaphor is apt to offend the sensitive

ear, long accustomed to associate the word with nursery discussions, or

tiresome colonial grievances. But in Persian, _shakkar_ (sugar) still

holds its ground as a fit simile for choice things; for instance, a

'sugar-candy-chewing parrot' is a compliment which may be offered to

the daintiest damsel in the land."

[9] "The songs always conclude with some such formula as this."

[10] Smith, Taylor, and Co., Bombay, 1858.