CHAPTER III.

THE DECCAN.

"His fine wit

Makes such a wound the knife is lost in it:

A strain too learned for a shallow age,

Too wise for selfish bigots. Let his page,

Which charms the chosen spirits of the time,

Fold itself up for a serener clime

Of years to come, and find its recompense

In that just expectation."

----SHELLEY.

Now came the journey that pleased us most of all; it was as new to

Richard as it was to me--to Hyderabad in the Deccan. We passed Soonee,

Oroolee, Kheirgaum, Patus, Dhond, Deeksal, Bheegwan, Poomulwaree,

Schwoor, Keim, Barsee-Road, Marheh, Unger, Mohol, Packney, Sholapoor,

Haodgee, Kurrubgaum, Doodneh, Goodoor, Goolburga, and then Sháhabád. I

give the names of the stations because it shows a reader on the map, or

reminds one who knows India, what country we passed through.

Here we changed the Great Indian Peninsular for the Nizam's State

Railway. After this we passed through Wadi Junction, and seven

stations more--Chitapore, Seram, Hepore, Tandur, Dharur, Illampallee,

Pattapore, Singampallee, into Hyderabad. Sháhabád, a large and very

pretty station, was our last before entering the Nizam's territory and

railway. The change impressed us in favour of the Nizam's government.

Ours looked so poor and taxed, the Nizam's comfortable and prosperous,

and so we thought throughout all the parts of India we visited. In

English Society people say, "Nonsense! India poor? Why, it was never

richer!"

[Sidenote: _Hyderabad in the Deccan_.]

An hour before reaching Hyderabad (Deccan) all nature changes to a

strange formation which reminded us of the Karso at Trieste, only on an

exaggerated scale. An outcrop of huge granite boulders, which is wild

nature, but looks as if arranged by art, forms shapes like an ancient

town with battlements and castles, and covers a radius of thirty miles

round that city like natural defences. Hyderabad is the largest and

most important native State in India, ruled by our faithful ally,

the Nizam. The area is almost ninety-six thousand square miles; the

population, eleven millions. The army in 1876 numbered about thirty

thousand men, chiefly cavalry, of whom six hundred are Arabs. Our kind

hosts, Colonel and Mrs. Nevill, met us cordially at the station. She is

the eldest daughter of the late talented and lamented Charles Lever,

our predecessor at Trieste, so famous as a novelist, and Colonel Nevill

is practically Commander-in-Chief of the Nizam's army, then under Sir

Salar Jung.

[Sidenote: _Elephant Riding_.]

There was no losing time in Hyderabad, we had too much to see. No

sooner did we get into our pleasant quarters at the Nevills' than we

had to dress sharp, as there was a dinner-party given to the 16th

Lancers, and a ball at Sir Richard and Lady Meade's--the Governor

and his wife--charming people. Early next morning we were out on

elephants to see the town. These animals look awfully imposing in large

numbers with gaudy trappings. I had never been on one before; the

first mounting and the curious motion are decidedly new sensations.

We went all through the City unarmed and without guards, and met with

nothing but greetings and blessings. I mention this because every one

knows what a bad name Hyderabad had. The horses show blood; they are

frightened of elephants, and try to avoid them. You see everywhere

wild-looking men in gaudy dresses and unveiled women. The very great

"swells" have troops of men before and behind them with drawn swords.

Everything is on the feudal system. You meet brown "Nobles" riding with

troops of retainers in white burnous, carrying the arms and wearing the

uniform of their Chiefs. The houses are flat like those of Damascus;

the town is clean; the streets are broad, and spanned by high arches

whose bold simplicity is very striking. The Nizam's palace, at least

a mile long, is carved with delicate tracery, and many a mosque,

like lacework, rises here and there, but the cachet of all is size,

boldness, and simplicity.

There are three great men in Hyderabad who jointly manage the Nizam's

affairs, and are related to him. In 1876 Sir Salar Jung was Regent

and Prime Minister. The Amir el Kebír was co-Regent and Minister of

Justice; the Wikar ool Umárá is his brother. After going over the town

we proceeded to the palace of his Excellency Mookhtar ool Moolk Sir

Salar Jung, G.C.S.I., then called "the wily Minister" by our Press.

He is a noble, chivalrous, single-hearted Arab gentleman of the very

best stamp. His palace contained about seven courts with fountains,

and various suites of large halls opening on to them. It was perfectly

magnificent. One room had its ceilings and walls thickly studded with

china cups, saucers, and plates, which would have been envied by many

collectors in London. After a luxuriant breakfast of European and

Eastern dishes, and wine for us, but water for himself, he showed us

his weapons, swords and daggers, and many arms I had never seen before,

with beautiful blades, inlaid sheaths, and some covered with gorgeous

jewels. Richard was in his glory amongst them. The party consisted of

the great Minister and his two sons, ourselves, and the Ministers. He

had a little son aged ten, whom he called "Fox," who took my fancy

exceedingly; he was very serious, sharp as a needle, and full of

courage and spirit. I wonder how he has grown up.

We were then taken to the stables, a place like the Burlington Arcade,

open at both ends, loose boxes where the shops would be, each opening

into the passage running down the centre. There were about a hundred

horses, nearly all thoroughbred Arabs and Persians, grey and light bay

being the favourite colour. Every horse had his own groom. That night

we were invited to the Residency. Sir Richard and Lady Meade gave a

dinner-party to Sir Salar Jung and the Ministers. Cholera was very bad

at this time; there were about thirty cases a day. Sir Salar Jung lent

me a beautiful grey Arab, large, powerful, and showy. Mrs. Nevill was

a perfect horsewoman; she had broken in four thoroughbreds for her

husband and herself during the short time she had been there. That

night there was another dinner-party at Colonel Nevill's; next morning

a breakfast with Sir Salar Jung and the officers of the 44th, who

arrived on troops of elephants with scarlet trappings.

Afterwards we made a pilgrimage to the tomb of General Raymond, who

once commanded the Nizam's forces. He is now called Shah Rahman, and

is made a saint of, as Colonel Nevill probably will be, and future

generations will make a pilgrimage to his tomb as Shah bin Rahman,

Anglicized "_little_ Johnny Shaw," as there is a fakir's tomb near it

with a hard name which the English have shortened to "Johnny Shaw," and

a group of lovely little temples that you would like to put under a

glass case on the drawing-room table. A dinner-party and a little music

at Lady Meade's finished the evening.

Early next morning was first a water-party to the tank, and then to

the palace of the Wikar Shums ool Umárá, K.C.S.I., one of the three

great dignitaries of the Nizam's country. We were received by a guard

of soldiers and a band of music, and ushered up into a splendid palace.

The gardens and courts could easily lodge a small army. A band,

directed by an English bandmaster, played "God save the Queen." Our

host, whose gold-fringed turban denotes his connection with Royalty,

received us like old friends. We had a capital breakfast with the

Chief and his relatives; the cooking was delicious. The hall was full

of retainers and servants, who pressed us to eat as they served the

dishes. "Take mutton cutlet; 'im very good," was whispered close to my

ear with an excellent English accent. After breakfast we were shown the

jewellery; then, far more interesting, the weapons--shields inlaid with

gold. His grandfather in his day wielded a ponderous _gurz_ (mace), and

wore a small Hyderabad turban of steel bands with bar nose-piece, and

a coat of mail, every link and every ring containing an engraved verse

of the Koran. This was sacred armour, and a warrior was supposed to be

invincible in it. There was a beautiful lance, well balanced, whose

point was shaped like a flame. There was every sort of gun, sword, and

dagger, with jewelled inlaid hilts, and sometimes dangling pearls and

emeralds attached to them. At the top of the palace is a huge room with

windows to the four quarters, and the eye commands the country for

forty miles round,--and then we saw something we had never seen before.

[Sidenote: _Ostrich Race_.]

The Chief had an ostrich race for us, which was delightful. The man

mounts, sits back, puts his legs under the wings, locks his feet under

the breast; the birds go at an awful pace, and can kick like a horse.

From this we went to Lady Meade's garden-party, with lawn-tennis,

badminton, and refreshments. In the evening Colonel Nevill gave a

dinner-party to his native officers, which was most interesting,

Sayyid Ahmad and Ahmad Abdullah being the two nicest. They are Arab

descendants of Anazeh (Bedawi) and Sayyids (of the Prophet's race).

There are two parties in India on a certain question, the treatment of

the Native. One is all for keeping him down and treating him harshly;

the other condemns this, and wants to make him on an equality. Neither

party actually mix freely with the native, and the native says, "The

English are just, but they are not kind," and that is about the truth.

Now, Richard was all for firmness, and said, "What has to be done

should be done with a hand that never relaxes; but we should be kind

and courteous too," and he was certain if we were we should never

want force. It is the gulf that hinders all good, and breeds all evil

feeling, and it is the common, uneducated English that do everything to

widen it. As he says, "to the English eye, people are all black, or all

brown like a flock of sheep; they have generally not learning enough,

or education enough, or discrimination enough to make a difference

between the high-caste Indian, or the pure Arab gentleman who is noble

like themselves, and the Sierra Leone Negro, who, if you were to shake

hands with him once, would smack your face the first time he felt

cross, and requires not kicking and beating, but absolutely to be kept,

in a moral sense, to a state of wholesome awe."

[Sidenote: _Hospitality_.]

Our next pleasure was an assault-of-arms; there were about two hundred

performers. There were some very good gymnastics, sword exercise,

single-stick with small shields, which were soft and about the size of

a plate. Their actions were wild and graceful, with something of the

tiger in their defiant gestures. We thanked them all before leaving;

we were afraid that Colonel Nevill's garden was not improved after it.

They also showed some cock-fighting, which Richard liked, but I went

away from that. In the evening there was a dinner-party containing

European ladies. The next morning the third great man, Amir el Kebír,

invited us to breakfast. The place was a succession of beautiful

buildings in gardens full of storks, pigeons, and other birds, flowers,

and all the gardens and terraces covered with a beautiful purple Indian

honeysuckle. We once more mounted our elephants after breakfast,

and visited the Masjid el Mekkah (mosque), the main street, and the

wonderful arches, and kindly words and blessings greeted us everywhere.

We then breakfasted with the Amir. Our host wore a lovely cashmere

robe like a dressing gown, with gorgeous jewels. We had a charming

breakfast, with delicious mangoes.

In early morning, Sundargaj, one of his Excellency Sir Salar Jung's

tallest and bravest elephants, in all the bravery of bells and scarlet

trappings, knelt down to receive us, and with that queer one-sided gait

which makes the cabriolet-_haudah_ pitch like a little boat in a short

chopping sea, began to lumber over the three miles separating us from

the City. Hyderabad can collect nine hundred such in a few hours, which

surpasses the famous exhibition of Tipú Sahib.

The Afzal Ganj (the native bazar of the regular troops) consists of

parallel lines of shops and booths, flat-roofed or tiled, one-storied,

verandahed, and cleaned with whitewash and red paint.

Hyderabad owes its origin to Sultan Mohammed Kuli II., of the Kutub

Shahi or Golconda dynasty, who about A.D. 1520 built a country palace

for one of his mistresses, the lady Baghwati, a Hindú of no particular

caste. He assigned to her a guard of a hundred horsemen, and called the

outpost Bhagnagar.

As a short account of Hyderabad, a literal translation by a native,

from an ancient Hindostani work in that City, was given to us by Sir

Salar Jung, I think it may not be uninteresting:--

"Up to the reign of three kings of the line of Khootoob Shahs, the

Fort of Golconda, which was so large as to contain forty thousand

cavaliers, was the seat of the Capital, but during the rule of

Mohammed Khoolee II., son of Ibrahim Khootoob Shah, the Capital, being

crowded by people, and densely populated, created a foul air, from

which most of the people were subjected to all sorts of illness; and,

besides, the King, taking consideration of his rank and dignity, found

that the place was unworthy of his residence, and thereby resolved to

build another City, which, both in expansion and pleasantness, was to

be the next to the Paradise of Rest. In this meditation he rode for

hunting, and went in search of game. Whilst going here and there he

happened to pass into a forest, which, being put up into a beautiful

spot of ground, was, in pleasantness and purity of climate, envied

by the blue sky and the garden of heaven. There the King was pleased

to build a City, and ordered the astrologers, of great skill and

discernment, to fix an auspicious moment to lay its foundation. This

being accordingly done, the cleverest architect laid the design of the

City, containing four extensive bazars and four elevated arches (Chár

Kámán), and each of the bazars was equal in size to the other; also

several other bazars, which are said to have been forty thousand in

number, were made with streams flowing through, bordered with shadowy

trees, and each bazar was confronted by a large edifice; and, besides,

there were planned twelve thousand buildings, of the kind of baths,

monasteries, schools, mosques, poorhouses, and inns. The residence

of the King being settled to be in the northern part of the Capital,

several grand and beautiful palaces were erected. The Capital was at

first named Bhag Nugger, after the name of a woman, Bhag Mutty, to

whom the King was attached, and upon her death it was changed into

Hyderabad, which is bounded on the north by Meduck, on the south by

the Coelconda Circars, on the east by the Bhonghur Circars, and on the

west by the Mozuffer Nugger Circars, called also Mohamadabad Beder.

The year of the commencement of the City can be found out from the

word 'Ya Hafiz,' said by some poet, which comes to 1000; and of its

completion from the word 'Furkhonda Boonad,' which is 1006.

"As the King was very fond of propagating the Mussulman Creed, and

at the same time mindful of the benefits of the public in general,

likewise ordered the erection of Mukka Musjid (or mosque), which

was called by some poet Baitool Ateekh, from an Arabic word meaning

Caba, which is also expressive of the year of its erection, 1023. Its

height from the surface of the ground to the roof is calculated at

about thirty-six yards, and the cost is estimated at eight lakhs of

rupees. It is said that no other building like it was ever witnessed

by anybody in all the Mussulman countries. Char Minas (four minarets),

containing four arches, each facing the broad road of the four bazar

lines, being firm and lofty, is situated in the centre of the City,

each of the minarets containing rooms intended for students; and in

the centre of the building lies a cistern with a fountain. Char Soo Ká

Howz (water cistern), standing at the junction of the four roads, is

beautifully situated in the centre of the four arches (Chár Kámán).

The Daroosh Shiffa (general hospital), and several other works of

public utility, as baths, etc., etc., were constructed and supplied at

the expense of Government, with all their requisites."

One great street runs north and south, and nearly bisects the City.

The bazar is something like the Bhendi Bazar of Bombay, without the

Europeans, and with a different set of natives. Here we have dark,

wiry Arabs from Hazramant or the Persian Gulf, sturdy Sulaymanis or

Afghans, and large-limbed Zanzibar Sidis (Wásawáhíli), sometimes

pure blood, oftener mixed with Asiatic blood. The Wáhhabis conceal

their tenets, the Shí'ahs are numerous, and the Bábis are unknown.

Every respectable man is armed with gun, matchlock, pistol, sword,

or dagger. All the women show their faces, proving they are Hindús,

and not high-caste Moslemahs. As in all "native" cities, the fakirs,

dervishes, Sányasis, Jogis, and religious mendicants, Hindí or Hindú,

are many and noisy, but gave us no trouble.

A marked feature here is the pointed arch with horizontal coping and

side windows; they tower above everything, crossing the thoroughfares,

relieving the monotony, and form a resting-place for the eye. The

four main bazars are fronted by as many elevated arches. A ride round

the official, or walled city, occupies two hours of sharp canter on

horses, and the suburbs must have extended several leagues. The Mecca

Mosque, built in A.D. 1600, by Mohammed Kuli, is of noble simplicity;

it cost thirty-three lakhs, and is a hundred and eight feet high.

The City is said to measure fourteen miles in circumference, and to

contain four hundred thousand souls.

[Sidenote: _Eastern Hospitality at Hyderabad_.]

At the proper hour, Sundargaj rolls up to the palace where we are to

breakfast, and deposits us. Forty years ago Hyderabad, may have been a

turbulent city into which Europeans could not enter without insult or

injury, and where lawlessness and recklessness of life were the laws

of the land, but the progressive measures of an enlightened Minister

had completely changed the condition of things; still, popular and

official opinion, whose watch is always an age or two behind the time,

refused to admit the change. "You come from a place where you may

be murdered at any moment," was the address of a late Viceroy to an

Englishman who had taken service under his Highness the Nizam; and

yet, during the last thirty-five years, I am assured that not a single

European has been murdered in the Moslem dominions, and the only one

that _was_ wounded suffered the consequences of his own fault. Nothing

was done here by the enraged peasantry to the gentlemen sportsman,

who took the liberty of shooting the Prince's tame deer; yet when we

returned to Bombay, friends said to us, "Of course you had a large

escort?" We had nothing of the kind, nothing but a single _mahaut_;

but it is not easy to dispose of prejudices. Murray has said that

Hyderabad is one of the filthiest cities in India; I tell you it is

the cleanest. All I can say is that, so far from "insult and personal

injury," we were most pleasantly received by what Bevar quotes as

"the most disorderly, turbulent, and ferocious set of ruffians within

the limits of India." I can only say that of all the visits paid to

various parts of India, it is the one that has left the most lasting,

the most happy, and the most romantic impression upon our memories.

[Sidenote: _Golconda_.]

The cream of all was going to Golconda--a most interesting place,

which in 1876 no European had ever been permitted to enter, and as Sir

Salar Jung and the Nizam himself had never done so, we could not ask

or hope for such a favour. We supposed that this great event happened

when the Nizam came of age.

We dismounted and remained there for a long time, inspecting

everything outside the walls. The prevailing style of the Golconda

tomb is a dome standing upon a square; the cupola of a steeple is of

the orange shape, and is arabesqued. The finials are of silver; they

are single-storied and double-storied; some have floriated crenelles

like spear-heads, and balustraded balconies. The lower portions are

arcades of pointed arches, resting on a terrace of cut stone, ascended

by four flights of steps. The colours are white, picked out with

green; each has its little mosque flanked by minarets. We were very

sorry when it was time to leave the Tombs of the Kings. It is a high

and healthy site; the wind is strong and cold. A sanitarium would do

well there, and we wished that picnickers from the European services

would have the grace to erect a travellers' bungalow, and cease to

desecrate poor Thana Shah's tomb.

The tombs are the prettiest toys in the world; the material is the

waxlike Jaypur marble. They look as if carved in ivory, some Giant's

Dieppe, ready to be placed under a glass case; the fretted and open

work is lovely lacery in stone, and the sharp shadows of the dark

green trees set off their snowy whiteness.

Golconda is the first and the most famous of the six independent

Moslem kingdoms, which, in A.D. 1399, rose on the extinction of the

Toghlak Delhi dynasty, and it survived till 1688, when Aurungzeb

brought all India under one sceptre. In it is the state prison in

which the sons of the Nizam _used_ to be confined. We found all the

works which we had read upon it very unsatisfying, but we read the

"French in India" (London, Longmans, 1868) with pleasure and profit.

The four white domes denote the Tombs of the Kings, are visible

from most parts of Hyderabad, and form the main body of a line

here scattered, there grouped, which begins immediately beyond the

faubourgs, and runs up the left side of the river valley.

THE MAIN BUILDING OF GOLCONDA.

Each _burj_ carries from one to three guns. The defences are strong

towards the east, and on the south they are doubled. There is a

glacis, a moat, and a covered way. The mixture of oasis and desert

is truly Arabian; Arab also are the pigeon-holes and dove-cotes of

the walls, while the song of the water-wheel reminded us of Egypt and

Syria. The throne-hall towers over the river valley, and the double

lines of defence show to the best advantage.

We were only allowed to view the town from the outside, but we could

see all this as it is hilly. The throne-hall, with arched windows,

the king's palace and defences, occupy the hill. The town on the flat

ground is surrounded by walls, battlements, curtained bastions, and

towers thrown out, and reminds one of Old Damascus and Jerusalem, and

in it dwells many an old feudal Chief. Past those walls, no European

or Christian has ever been allowed; at least, at the time I wrote.

The Tombs of the Kings are very ancient, are outside the town, and to

those we were admitted, and they reminded us of the tower-tombs of

Palmyra.

They are enormous domes set on square broad bases, the upper part

beautifully carved or covered with Persian tiles or tiles from Sind,

bearing Arabic and Hindostani inscriptions. One is supported by

slender needle-like monolithic columns. There is a beautiful garden

of palm trees, and a labyrinth of arches; and we wandered about

this romantic spot, remembering our nursery tales "of all the mines

and riches of Golconda," by a crescent moon on a balmy night, the

fire-flies spangling the white-domed tombs and the palm gardens. At

such a pleasant hour, surrounded by the romances of which we had so

much read and heard, we talked over and noted down the history of the

far-famed Koh-i-noor, whose birthplace was on this very spot, and

whose history I wrote to the _Morning Post_, September 25th, 1875, for

which I was considerably chaffed by the Press. We must not forget that

this great diamond was first discovered in these mines in A.D. 1650,

and it has cursed the world for two hundred and forty-three years. The

following day we were obliged to return to Bombay. We had a very good

journey, but the heat was so great that the railway officials were

walking up and down, periodically waking up the passengers, as they

have sometimes been found dead, and two or three cases had occurred

about that time.

[Sidenote: _The Famous Koh-i-noor_.]

I would give you my husband's account of the diamond diggings in

India, the Nizam diamond, and the history of the Koh-i-noor; but I

fear it would be too long, too heavy, except the Koh-i-noor, so I will

put them in the Appendix (E).

"THE KOH-I-NOOR.

"The Koh-i-noor, or 'Mountain of Light,' is the largest and most

celebrated diamond in the world, and is famous throughout the East as

the 'Accursed Stone' that brings misfortune and eventually destruction

upon the dynasty of every successive possessor. In the East there is

a belief as to good or evil fortune attending particular precious

stones. It was the same in England in the reign of Elizabeth and the

first James, and Shakespeare alludes to this belief in one of his

minor poems, but the modern Englishman rejects the absurdity, despite

the fact that evil fortune has actually always followed the owner of

this particular gem, showing how curiously actual fact co-operates

with superstitious theory.

"The Koh-i-noor was first discovered in the mines of Golconda about

A.D. 1650, and has cursed the world for two hundred and forty-three

years. The famous Mir Jumla was then farmer of the diamond mines,

and the King's chief minister, a Persian who had been brought young

to India, and who rose by rapid gradations to power, was famous for

the sagacity of his plans and the ruthless cruelty with which he

carried them out. The poor people, under compulsory labour, had to

give their services for a bare subsistence to all the farmers of

the mines, and under Mir Jumla their condition was desperate; this

tempted them occasionally to elude the vigilance of their taskmasters,

and secrete a stone if they could. The cruelties that followed the

smallest suspicion of such a fault rendered the mines a perpetual

scene of horror, especially under Mir Jumla, and it is supposed that

some frightful act of fiendish brutality occurred at the finding of

the Koh-i-noor, which was cursed by the innocent victim--a curse which

ever since, according to the natives of India, has remained attached

to it and its possessors.

"Certain it is that before the King of Golconda had long been

in possession of it he quarrelled with Mir Jumla, who in return

treacherously invited the Mogul Emperor of Delhi, Aurungzeb, to invade

his master's territory, promising to join him with the whole of the

forces under his command. This he did, and the King of Golconda had to

sue for peace, which was granted by Aurungzeb only on his giving him

one of his daughters in marriage; making over to him a large portion

of his treasures, including the Koh-i-noor, as well as a considerable

slice of his territories; and consenting to hold the rest as a fief

of the Great Mogul Empire. Some time after, the King of Golconda

thought he saw a favourable opportunity to recover his territories,

rose against his oppressor, and lost all the rest of his kingdom--nay,

all that he possessed. Mir Jumla died a miserable death of disease in

exile.

"Aurungzeb, the second royal possessor of the Koh-i-noor, was at

the time of getting it in the zenith of his power; but immediately

trouble after trouble rained upon him, and accumulated till he died

in 1707. After his death a war began amongst his progeny. The first

who succeeded him, the third royal possessor of the Koh-i-noor,

was Shah Alum, who died in 1712, five years after his succession.

The next King of Delhi, the fourth possessor of the Koh-i-noor, was

Jehander Shah, who was deposed and strangled at the end of one year

(1713). Ferok Shah, the next in succession and fifth possessor of the

Koh-i-noor, met the same fate in 1719, in the course of which year two

other occupants of the throne (sixth and seventh possessors of the

Koh-i-noor) passed in the same way thence to the grave.

"So, in twelve years from the death of Aurungzeb, five princes of

his line who had ascended the throne and possessed the Koh-i-noor,

and six others who had been competitors for it, had come to grief.

Moreover, the degraded state of the royal authority during this

period had introduced an incurable anarchy, and a disposition in all

the Governors of Provinces to shake off their dependency on the head

of the Empire. The next King of Delhi, and eighth possessor of the

Koh-i-noor, was the Emperor Mahmoud Shah, under whose reign the once

great empire of Aurungzeb almost fell to pieces. He succeeded in 1719,

twelve years after the death of Aurungzeb, being the son of Akter, son

of Shah Alum, the son and immediate successor of Aurungzeb, and it

was in 1739 that the final blow was given to his authority; his ill

fortune culminated in the capture of Delhi by the celebrated Nadir

Shah, who in that year invaded India, and, after defeating the army of

Shah Mahmoud at Kurnaul, entered as conqueror into the Capital. Then,

in consequence of the hostile acts of some of the people, he delivered

over the whole City to massacre and pillage; and from the dawn of

light till the day was far advanced, without regard for age or sex,

all were put to the sword by his ferocious soldiery.

"Fifty-eight days afterwards Nadir Shah commenced his march homewards,

carrying with him treasure amounting to twenty millions sterling,

jewels of enormous value, and the Koh-i-noor, which was considered

by the Persian conqueror to be his greatest prize. Nadir Shah, ninth

possessor of the Koh-i-noor, was no more fortunate with it than the

previous owners had been, for shortly after his return to Persia, in

the height of his glory, he was assassinated, leaving no heir to his

kingdom; while Ahmed Abdallee, chief assassin, and once his trusted

officer, went off, carrying with him most of Nadir Shah's treasure,

and amongst it the Koh-i-noor. He meant to found a kingdom for himself

out of the territories now known as Afghanistan.

"The dynasty which Abdallee, this tenth possessor of the Koh-i-noor,

founded, having been crowned at Kandahar in the year 1747, met with

the same fate that attended the dynasties of all the possessors of

this celebrated stone. His son Timour, after a short and inglorious

reign, left his throne to his eldest son Humayoon, twelfth possessor

of the Koh-i-noor, who fell into the hands of his next brother, Zemaun

Shah, by whom he was cruelly blinded, and rendered incapable of

reigning. The same fate befell Zemaun Shah, the thirteenth possessor

of the Koh-i-noor; he in turn fell into the hands of another brother,

Mahmoud, who also put out his eyes and succeeded him, but who was

in his turn soon conquered by another brother, Shah Shooja, our

Afghan ally. This last did not long maintain his position, and, after

various vicissitudes, fled to the Punjaub with his brother Zemaun

Shah, carrying with them the Koh-i-noor, of which Shah Shooja was the

fifteenth and last Mohammedan possessor. His fate is known to all

who have heard or read the story of our fatal expedition to Cabul

and its consequences, including Shah Shooja's end. Shah Shooja being

now dependent on Runjeet Sing, the then sovereign of the Punjaub,

for his very existence, soon found himself compelled to yield to the

requirements of this powerful and most unscrupulous potentate, who

insisted upon the Koh-i-noor being given up to him. The captive prince

had no alternative, and yielded, when the great Sikh potentate became

the sixteenth possessor of the Koh-i-noor.

"At that time no native sovereign in India was so great as Runjeet,

and no kingdom seemed more likely to last than the great Sikh monarchy

he had founded, but by a curious coincidence the same ill fate that

had always followed the possessor of the Koh-i-noor pursued it into

this great family. Runjeet himself died, leaving the Koh-i-noor,

which he valued at £1,000,000 sterling, to the priests of Jagannath

(Juggernath); but it was preserved in the Lahore Treasury. Runjeet

was succeeded in 1839 by his son, Kurruck Sing, who was poisoned the

following year. Before the funeral ceremonies were completed, his

son was purposely killed by a falling archway. A competition for

the throne (now vacant) ensued, between the widow of Kurruck Sing

and a reputed son of Runjeet Sing, named Shere Sing, who, though

born in wedlock, had been stigmatized by his father as illegitimate.

Shere Sing, however, succeeded, but his triumph was of a short

duration. Near the close of 1843 he was assassinated, and this led to

wide-spreading anarchy, culminating in the two successive wars with

the British, that of 1846 and 1848-9, ending in the final annexation

of the Punjaub by the British, and the acquisition by it of the

celebrated diamond, the Koh-i-noor.

"The natives, with their belief as to the peculiar properties of

the stone, prophesied what would happen. The East India Company

carried off the booty, which should have been sold and converted

into prize-money. They broke up almost directly after the 'Accursed'

had entered their hands, when Lord Dalhousie, the Viceroy of

India, presented it to her Majesty (3rd of July, 1850, forty-three

years ago). It was considered by loyal natives the most sinister

circumstance that could have befallen our royal family. Lord Dalhousie

did not live very long, and died just as he might have expected to be

raised to the highest honours of the State. The Duke of Wellington,

who gave the first turn to the cutting, died three months after. We

then lost Prince Albert, and I do not believe we any of us knew what

we were losing until he was gone.

"When my friend, the then Collector of Hyderabad, was sitting with

the Nawáb Mahmoud Khan, the former Minister of that State, and one of

the Queen's most loyal subjects after the conquest of the province,

he informed the Nawáb of the stone's destination. The latter spat

upon the ground, and with an expression of horror uttered the usual

Mohammedan exclamation under the circumstances, 'Tobah! repentance in

the name of God! Are they going to send that accursed thing to the

Queen? May she refuse it!' All natives spit with an exclamation of

horror whenever they hear it mentioned. It is impossible for me to go

into the causes, nor perhaps ought I to say how, according to Eastern

theory, the curse may be averted. Nevertheless I have done so. May I

ask if, barring _£ s. d._, our position or _prestige_ has progressed

or declined since we became the possessor of the 'Accursed Stone'? I

ask all non-_£ s. d_. Englishmen whether they consider the Koh-i-noor

a comfortable ornament for the English crown, or a pleasant legacy for

our most deservedly popular Prince of Wales?"

[Sidenote: _Regret at leaving the Deccan_.]

Our last recollections of Hyderabad are brilliant. Sir Salar Jung gave

a magnificent evening _fête_, which was like a scene in the "Arabian

Nights." One of the large courts of the palace is a quadrangle, the

centre of which is occupied by a huge basin of water as big as a small

lake full of fountains. The _salámliks_ all open out into it with

flights of marble stairs. The starlight was above us, and a blaze of

wax lights and chandeliers lit up every hall, and coloured lamps and

flowers spangled the whole centre. The company consisted of the Nizam's

Court and Ministers, and about thirty-six picked Europeans. It began by

a _Nach_; then a beautiful dinner of about fifty-six covers was served

in the principal _salámlik_ by retainers in wild picturesque costumes.

The band played; we afterwards walked about and conversed, and were

presented with attar of roses. We were very sorry to be obliged to

leave before we could accept an invitation from the Nizam's 3rd Lancers

to witness their _Holee Tamasha_ in their lines at Assuf Nagur, which

answers very much to our Carnival, but the day after this we were

bound to go to Secunderabad, a prosperous European station with three

regiments, which, however, is not the least interesting.

BACK TO BOMBAY.

[Sidenote: _Towers of Silence_.]

The Towers of Silence, or Parsee charnel-house, the burying-place

of the Fire Worshippers, one should not omit to see. Ascend a giant

staircase overhung by palms and tropical vegetation to a large garden

on a hill summit. On the way you pass a clock, and a hand points to the

following notice: "None but Parsees enter here." This is one of the

four splendid views of Bombay; the other three are from Kumballa Hill,

Mazagon Hill, and Parel Hill. The palms immediately around us are thick

with myriads of large black vultures, gorged with small-pox and cholera

corpses. The air is heavy with their breath; they breathe and exhale

what they feed upon; they fatten upon what bare contact with would kill

us, and they cluster in thousands.

This garden is full of public and private family towers. The great

public tower is divided into three circles, with a well in the middle.

It has an entrance and four outlets for water. First, there is a place

for clothes, and a tank to bathe in. Here the priests (the operators)

leave their garments. The procession of Parsees who accompany the body

here desist, and wait outside. The priests then place the body, if a

man, on the first circle; if a woman, on the second; if a child, on the

third. The centre is a dry well covered with grating. The priests are

obliged to stop and watch. A body is picked clean in an hour by these

vultures, who fly down the moment they see the procession coming, and

have to be kept at bay till the right moment. It is considered very

lucky if they pick the right eye out first instead of the left, and the

fact is recorded to the relatives. When the bones are perfectly clean,

the priest pushes them into the well; when the rain comes, it carries

off the ashes and the bones, and the water runs through these four

outlets, with charcoal at the mouths to purify it before entering and

defiling the earth, which would become putrid, and cause fever. They

will not defile the earth by being buried in it, and it is an honour

to have a living sepulchre. When there is no epidemic, they have about

three bodies a day. The priests then descend, wash, and resume their

garments, when they are reclaimed from being impure, and the procession

returns to the City. Once descended from this melancholy height, there

is no smell.

We saw a great deal here of the Sassoon family, who showed us much

hospitality. Sir Charles Sargent and Mr. Melville gave several

garden-parties, also private theatricals, in a very nice bungalow at

Breach Candy. We also had a delightful bachelor dinner at Mr. Pedder's.

One of the notable things was seeing the departure of Lord Napier of

Magdala. Besides the regular guard of honour, all his old Abyssinian

Wallahs (21st), by force of habit, "off duty" and without arms, formed

themselves into a guard to bid farewell to their cherished Commander.

We all had misty eyes as we saw the splendid old soldier move away from

the crowd of "swells" and go and speak touching words of parting to his

men. It must be a strange moment in a man's life resigning a Command

after a brilliant forty-eight years' career, such as his was, and being

turned out to grass e'er the fire and energy of work has flickered out,

if one may use such an expression regarding the Command of Gibraltar.

We then witnessed the arrival of Lord Lytton. The Chinese bazar was

also a great amusement.

[Sidenote: _Sects_.]

There was a new sect arising among the Maharattas, and we used to go

to their meetings at the Brahm Somaj, a Hindú temple. They believe in

one God, no idol, and no revelation. There was an old lady named Mrs.

Hough, who died three years before we came here, at Kolaba, who used to

relate that in 1803 she danced with Sir Arthur Wellesley at a _fête_.

Mr. MacLean, the editor of the Bombay paper, regretted that before her

death she burnt all her memoirs, extending over three-quarters of a

century, from 1798 to 1873, which would have been invaluable material

for a domestic history of Bombay at that time. I dare say she knew why

she burnt them; I dare say thousands of people's descendants have cause

to bless her for it. A house was now pulled down at Malabar Point,

which was inhabited by the subsequent Duke of Wellington.

There is an old new church in Travancore belonging to the Syrian

Christians, founded personally by St. Thomas the Apostle, in the year

of our Lord 57; anyway, it traces clearly to the second century. Their

leader, Justus Joseph, has a flock of five thousand Syrian Christians

and eighteen priests. I hear their doings are wonderful.

Not the least curious thing near Bombay is Walkeshwar; most visitors

and many residents do not know what it is. Just off the road to Malabar

Point, and close to Frere Town, quite unsuspected, lies concealed a

most interesting remnant of ancient India, pure and undefiled. We

descended several flights of steps, and came in view of a splendid

tank some hundred yards wide and broad, which you reach by other

flights of steps extending the whole length and breadth of the tank.

The water looked nasty and unwholesome, and was covered with insects,

some stinging and venomous. The banks are surrounded by innumerable

Hindú temples, great and small, dedicated to Mahadevi and their other

gods. The village around was inhabited entirely by Hindús. A holy

Brahm Pundit came out of a Hindú convent, or ascetic place. My husband

said something to him, and told him that he had been admitted to the

Brahminical thread, and he took us to see everything. It was already

evening; there was a lighting of lamps and a ringing of bells, and we

stayed to see their worship.

[Sidenote: _The Hindú Smáshán_.]

The next day we went to the Hindús' _Smáshán_, or burning-ground, in

the Sonápur quarter. The corpse was covered with flowers, the forehead

reddened with sandal-wood, and the mouth blackened. The bier was

carried by several men; one bore sacred fire in an earthenware pot.

The burial-ground men made four holes in the ground with a crowbar,

into which they drove four stout stakes; then they piled up logs of

wood cross-barred of the same length and breadth, six or eight layers

high; it is teakwood. Then they lay the body on it. Everybody walked

up and put a little water in her mouth--first the husband, then the

father, father-in-law, relatives and friends, just as we throw dust

on the coffin. They pile more layers of wood on the body, leaving it

in the middle; then the husband comes out, and walks backwards to the

fire, and takes, with his hands behind him, a burning brand, and sets

the first light to the wood. The whole party in similar order (as

before named with the water) do the same, but _they_ face the pile,

and apply the fire to the four quarters, one at each cardinal point.

The rich burn with wood and ghee. The ashes and bones are thrown into

the sea. The ordinary ceremony costs sixteen rupees, and three hours

consumes a corpse. The burning of the Hindú is thus explained: He has

three births; the first physical, from his parents; the second his

religious ceremony, which makes him a _Dwija_, or twice-born man; the

third is the heavenly birth, attained by passing through the purifying

fire. All present at this funeral were Hindú except ourselves. They

throw sugar down to feed the ants. The clothes caught fire first, and

then the feet, and then you only see a great blaze and smell roasted

flesh. The burning-ground is a long, large, enclosed yard with a long

shed, or covered verandah, and seats for mourners. The yard is dotted

with these burning-places; a sacred cow is stalled at one end. Outside

is a little burial-ground for Hindú babies, as they are not burnt.

[Sidenote: _The Pinjrapole_.]

Another very curious place is the Pinjrapole, in the heart of the

native quarter called Bhuleshpsar--a hospital for sick, maimed, and

incurable animals, which covers two thousand square yards. There were

old bullocks that had been tortured, orphan goats and calves, starved

kittens and dogs, and blind and lame and wounded beasts. It was founded

fifty-seven years ago by Sir Jamsetji Jijibhoy, supported by his money

and piety, and that of the well-known banker, Mr. Khamchund Motichand,

and by Hindú contributions to the amount of eight lakhs a year. I

admire immensely a religion that believes in animals having a kind of

soul and a future. To me this, is the missing link between Nature and

Grace. Perhaps I had better not say what I do think about it.

We then went for a little excursion to Jhinjeera, and one to Bassein,

for we found it extremely hot in March in Bombay. Bombay is a City of

large public buildings; every great man builds one, and it is called by

his name. But in 1876 there was no general hospital, no assembly-room,

no theatre, no lunatic asylum.

[Sidenote: _Bhendi Bazar_.]

One cannot say enough of the Bhendi Bazar. It is unrivalled in India,

and there one really sees what India is in the present time. It has a

totally different cachet to any other Eastern bazar. You have Hindú,

Parsee, Portuguese, Chinese--every race, caste, and family between

Cathay and Peru, Marocco and Pekin, Moscow and the Malay Peninsula.

Every house is of a different architecture and different colour--green,

blue, Cashmere shawl pattern, the names written in English, in

Maharattee, Guzaratee, and Hindostani. Here and there are inserted

small oratories dedicated to as many different gods as races, and you

are mostly attracted to them by a black, almost naked worshipper,

dancing furiously before it to the jangling of bells. Here are three

hundred and three jewellers and dealers in precious stones, fine

diamonds, carved blackwood furniture, cocoanut-fibre matting and reed

matting, brass and copper work, bronzes, ivory, and tortoiseshell,

Bombay box-work, carving in sandal-wood and ebony, turquoise ornaments,

shawls, and all sorts of silver and gold work, and old china. The

"swells'" houses are also the quaintest things under heaven, with every

colour in the rainbow, and all sorts of shapes.

The crowd, seething and frying in the gorgeous glare of the tropical

sun, is as remarkable as the houses which lodge it. Konkani Moslems,

Persian Shí'ahs, Bohrahs, Arabs from the Persian Gulf, or from the

stables of Abd el Rahman or Ali bin Abdullah, Afghans, Beloch Sindis,

and Brahmins and Mahmans, schismatic Shí'ahs and Khiyahi and Wáhhabis,

Hindú women in wonderful colours, the best-dressed women in India,

making the place look like a garden with their bright-coloured _sáris_.

A great object of curiosity is the variety of turban, every size and

shape, every colour and manner of wearing--some of the size of a

good-sized tea-table; some fit the head tight, some are red and horned,

some are worn straight, and some are jauntily cocked sideways. There is

the Pattewála (the local Janissary), the dark Portuguese, the Sisters

of Mary and Joseph, in black robes and white-frilled caps, gliding

meekly in and out the crowd, Souters canaries (policemen), Sepoy

riflemen, the Bheestie under his huge water-skin, Sulaymanis (Afghans)

from the hills, and Rohillas, also hill-men. After being there a week

one begins to learn the _tilak_--the Hindú forehead mark, the sign

that denotes his caste; and we saw eight various sorts. The colouring

of this crowd is truly wonderful, and the Hindú waggon, a painted box

on wheels, dating from the year 1, completes the scene. Nowhere in the

world, except perhaps at Damascus, are there so many varieties of race,

nationality, and religion as in Bombay.

MÁHÁBÁLESHWAR.

Máhábáleshwar is the favourite of all the sanitaria save the

Neilgherries, which, fortunately for the other poor stations, is

eight or ten days' journey by sea and land, very expensive, and rough

travelling for invalids. We took a ticket to Bassein, and to our right

were the far-famed Kanheri Caves (called "Kennery" by the English),

which are very like those of Karla. There are plenty of places which

could be advantageously converted into sanitaria--Khandála, Lanáuli,

Sinhgarh, Purunbhur, Punalla near Colapur, and Kalsabai in the Deccan,

and Tunga in the Northern Konkan. _It is no use waiting until you are

sick to look for sanitaria_; while you are healthy seek them all out,

and find which suits you best.

No private family can form a sanitarium. Some great official must

go there with all his Staff; then bungalows, inns, necessaries, and

comforts begin to grow; roads have to be cleared, water looked after,

wild beasts to be hunted out, regular supplies for man and beast to be

sent from the next greatest town, and things come round of themselves.

Máhábáleshwar was made by Sir John Malcolm, Governor of Bombay 1827-30.

To reach it you have first got to make for Poonah, and after that you

have to go seventy-five miles.

The air was like blasts of a heated furnace on the 16th of April, and

the thermometer we pinned to the cushion showed 105º F. We ordered a

trap; the springs were broken, the projections stuck through the hard,

narrow cushions into our unhappy bodies, the carriage was lopsided

and bumped fearfully; but we were well, hearty, and happy. It was a

charming night, and we enjoyed it awfully, sleeping through the dark,

and drinking a lot of water. In the morning we passed a beautiful clean

bungalow at Soorool, where we brought down our provision basket, ate,

and had tea and milk with the old soldier that kept it; and we stopped

at Wali, the prettiest and most interesting village in Western India,

from its temples up to the river-bed.

We passed several most interesting things, which we inspected; and when

we arrived at the bottom of the mountain the horses were taken out,

and sixteen coolies took us up to the top. After every two minutes we

had to tie up our broken springs, but when we got under the verdure of

Máhábáleshwar at the summit, 4780 feet above sea-level, we found the

carriage-roads so broad and the vegetation and trees so plucked as to

give no shade, though the luxuriant woods extend over seventeen miles

long to five broad. The distances seemed intolerable, and the last

thirteen miles we were very tired. We had been eighteen hours out, but

on arrival we went off for a drive with Lady Agnes Danyell, who drove

a pair of "tattoos" the size of a dog. At the end of the day we were

thoroughly tired. We had been out twenty-five hours, and had had no

sleep for forty-one hours; we dined, and we do not remember the end of

the dinner nor how we got to bed. Dorabjee Sorabjee, the civil Parsee

of "Máhábáleshwar Hotel," treated us very well, and was most reasonable

in charges. One drives everywhere in a _tonga_, a little tea-cart with

small tattoo ponies; but it is an agony to drive with hired "tats,"

they are so ill-treated; so that Richard did nothing but swear at the

driver in his own particular dialect for being cruel. My fox-terrier

did nothing but struggle and fly at his throat, for she could not stand

cruelty either; and Richard, in contradiction, scolded me all the way

for my ridiculous tender sensibilities.

There were magnificent mountain scenes, with piles of Gháts on all

sides; the points went out into the air with a fall of four thousand

feet into the Konkan, and the ravines are wild and jagged. Sívaji,

born in 1627, was one of the greatest leaders of light cavalry ever

known. His character was fiery, and fascinated all bold adventurers.

He formed a large body of wild horsemen, whom he led to great military

enterprises, and at his death left a kingdom four hundred miles long

by a hundred and twenty broad, though only a subject of the Rajah of

Bijapur, with whom he broke faith. On yonder eminence is Purtabghur,

where this Sívaji, the founder of the Maharatta Empire, murdered the

Moslem General, Afzul Khan, in a disgraceful manner; whilst embracing

him he stabbed him with a dagger, called _waghnak_, a thing like a

tiger-claw, worn on the hand like a knuckle-duster.

The village of Máhábáleshwar is a Brahm settlement, where five rivers

in the dry and seven in the wet season arise; this is the Krishna

source, and these Maharattas are a very fine race. We went to Lingmálá,

where lie utterly neglected plantations of quinine (cinchona). Why!

when quinine is so dear?

At nine a.m. the sun is too hot; at five begins the cool afternoon.

At nightfall a horror of deep gloom settles upon the world up there.

The sun is as hot as Sind, the nights are cold. Here we again found

the Petersons. We went off to look at the iron mines; this is the

best iron, from which all the Damascus and Khorasán blades were made.

It is soft and pliable, and when the blade is made they harden it.

Richard brought away a lump of the iron, and Mr. Joyner, C.E., has

since had it made into an inkstand as a remembrance, which always stood

on Richard's writing-table, and which I keep now as a treasure. The

bridle-paths, and the shady dingly walks of Mátherán, are far better

than the broad carriage-roads of Máhábáleshwar, that, in spite of the

lovely green, give you no shade. Besides, Society is always on duty up

there. Tall carriages instead of basket chairs, and sables capped with

black chimney-pots, look queer in the wild woods. There is none of the

_abandon_ of the country.

The Dangar tribes linger here, the Thakurs cling to Mátherán, and

the Kátkaris haunt the lowlands. After a few days here, which Lady

Agnes Danyell made very pleasant to us, with drives and breakfasts

and dinners, we started for our return journey. We were twelve hours

getting down, stopping to admire Wali, and have some tea at Soorool.

There was just enough moon to show us the dark and awful parts of the

Gháts, and the windings of the woods and the very sharp turns suggested

tigers, jackals, and brigands (which do not exist here). We arrived

at the station at two in the morning, ate from our basket, got into

the train, reached Lanáuli at seven, and were at Bombay by midday. I

will not insert an account of the hill races and tribes, which would

overload this book, but will insert it amongst my husband's "Labours,"

as he taught them to me.

GOA.

[Sidenote: _Goa and West India_.]

As soon as we arrived in Bombay we caught the "British Indian steamer"

going down south, coasting along. They are middle-sized steamers,

beautifully clean, good table, excellent wine, airy cabins, great

civility, and fairly steady ships--which they have need to be in such

a sea as is often on. The fares are extravagantly dear--£10 for a

thirty-six hours' passage; but there is no opposition.

Richard had always such ready, sparkling wit, and it was never

offensive nor hurtful. One day, as we were on board a ship, going to

a rather uncivilized place, a Catholic Archbishop, and a Bishop with

a Catholic party, stepped on board. My husband whispered, "Introduce

me." I did so, and they became very friendly, and sat down to chat. The

Archbishop was a very clever man, but no match for Richard. My husband

began to chaff, and said, "My wife is the Jesuit of the family."

"What a capital thing for _you!_" answered the Archbishop. Presently

some apes were jumping about the rigging, so the Archbishop looked

up and said playfully, "Well, Captain Burton, there are some of your

ancestors." Richard was delighted; he pulled his moustache quietly,

looking very amused and a little shy and apologetic, and said with

that cool drawl of his, "Well, my lord, I at least have made a little

progress, but--what about your lordship, who is descended from the

angels?" The Archbishop roared; he was delighted with the retort, and

treasures it up as a good story till this day.[1]

At nine at night we reached Vingorla; the coast is very bad and

dangerous, and in the monsoon all but impossible. Vessels are often

wrecked, so steamers never go near, but put boats off. We disembarked

a Sister Marie (_fille de la Croix_), a young German nun, bound for

some desolate spot where they are forming a convent for educating

children, nursing the sick, and reclaiming the savage. This young,

interesting-looking girl of about twenty had to make her own way up

country; these are the true "Soldiers of Christ," and our hearts

yearned to her as she calmly and smilingly bid us good-bye, and went

over the ship's side.

Arrived opposite Goa, we were cast adrift in the open sea, as is usual,

on account of an unbuoyed and doubtful shoal, and we had eight miles

to row before we could reach Goa. You may imagine what that means in a

storm. The mail agents must do this, monsoon weather as well, once a

fortnight all the year through, and the return ships are in the dead of

the night, besides living in a fœtid hole, where they get none of the

comforts of life, and never see a soul.

The Portuguese manage to make every place look like Lisbon; actually

the features of the country grow the same. There is the same abrupt

entrance to the sea between mountainous cliffs, up a broad winding

river or sea arm, with wooded rising banks, with the same white town

perched on its banks, a perfect Santos in Brazil, which is 24º south of

the Equator. We rowed a mile and a half of open sea, five miles of bay,

and one and a half of winding river, to a little stone pier landing at

Panjim (New Goa).

All Portuguese India is only a strip of about seventy miles long, and

very narrow, which they would do much better to sell to the British

Government; for of all the God-forgotten, deserted holes, a thousand

years behind the rest of the creation, I have never seen anything to

equal Goa, and I pitied from my heart the charming, kindly, gentle,

hospitable people who have to live there. I have lived in sandy

deserts, in primeval forests; I have suffered hunger, thirst, cold,

heat, fatigue, privation, and danger, and thought it charming; but I

hated the sort of life at Goa. It is dead, and there is nothing to

reward one; only we were here for a purpose.

[Sidenote: _Life there_.]

There are three Goas, full of history and romance. There is the

Inquisition to study, and there is the tomb of St. Francis Xavier.

No. 1 is the _old_ Hindú Goa, now called San Lourenço, about six miles

from Panjim (New Goa), upon the winding river, and two miles to the

southward of Old Goa, or Goa Velha. It is only marked by a salt plain,

and two hills with a church upon each, and a bit upon the plain. It is

pretty healthy, and no one knows why it was deserted. Old Goa, or Goa

Velha, is that of St. Francis Xavier; it is nine and a half kilometres

from Panjim, by a good road along the winding river--a most picturesque

locality, full of history, Catholic tradition, and the scene of the

infamous Inquisition. It was deserted on account of malaria and

fever for New Goa (called Panjim), where we landed, and where the

few personages who are obliged to be there vegetate, except with an

occasional change to Cazalem, the six cottages on the open beach of the

bay corresponding to our Barra at Santos.

In Panjim are the barest necessaries of life; there is no inn, no

travellers' bungalow, no tents, and you must sleep in your filthy open

boat and have fever. Kind-hearted Samaritans (Mr. and Mrs. Major) gave

us their only small spare room and spare single bed. I had, luckily,

one of those large straw Pondicherry reclining chairs and a rug, so we

took the bed in turns, night about, the other in the chair. It is the

worst climate we were ever in, and we know pretty bad ones. The thirst

was agonizing. All the drinks were hot (no ice); the more you drank

the more you wanted. The depression was fearful, and never a breath of

air _even at night_. The blazing sun poured into our little room all

day, and baked it quite red-hot for the night. I used to look upon the

people who lived there as miracles--a truly purgatorial preparation for

death.

We found for hire only one small _gári_, a small open wooden cart with

room for two; the wheels wobbled, the spring on one side was broken,

the lamps dangled, there was a deal box for the driver, the harness was

old rusty chains tied together with bits of string. Our coachman and

footmen were two little boys with something round their loins. The pony

was broken down by mange, starvation, and sores. I insisted on keeping

him myself. He was put into a comfortable shed in Mr. Major's garden,

and had as much as ever he could eat and drink, and was groomed daily.

We started at dawn, for at nine it is too hot. At first the pony had to

be led by a rope by No. 1 boy. We used the whip gently and mercifully

from the cart, and the wheels had to be rolled round by No. 2 boy and

a help; but as soon as his sores healed, and he began to resume a

respectable appearance, he followed me about like a dog, and looked

after me with almost human eyes; and if he stopped needlessly after

that, the _gharawála_ running in front of him for a moment was enough,

without any whip or any rope. He trod his old forage underfoot with

contempt and used it as litter.

Richard was very fond of collecting native music from various parts of

the world, and we tried very hard to get them to treat us to some of

the music of Portugal and Brazil; but they are foolishly ashamed of it,

and will only sing in French and Italian, which does not suit their

voices. It would be difficult to find an uglier or meaner-looking race

than the people here. Black Christians are a mixed breed of European

and Indian blood. The _mestiços_ (Eurasians) or mixed breed compose

the mass, the Government officials are mostly from Portugal. The white

families settled here, native Portuguese, were called _castissos_. The

few who consider themselves pure Portuguese are very proud of it. The

officials from Portugal are, of course, pure, but the descendants of

the first great families have intermixed with the natives.

The mesquin rhubarb-coloured race are dressed in a scanty dirty-white

bit of decency, or the refuse of European rag-shops. A great sign

of respectability is the top hat. The poorest man who considers

himself a Portuguese twenty times removed, will wear a seedy patched

black coat and a black tile in a cocoanut-forest-hut to distinguish

himself from the natives, as a mark of respectability. The shabby

demi-semi-civilization, the enervating climate, the poverty, the utter

uninterestedness of everything, bears the curse of the Inquisition.

They bear, however, one mark of St. Francis Xavier's teaching, who

was a true gentleman (Hidalgo), besides being a saint. He preached

courteousness, and the manners of the lower orders are excellent.

The merest beggar has the manners of a gentleman; the poor all doff

their caps as you pass, and seem formed to exchange civilities with

Europeans. Richard found them just as he left them thirty years ago,

the women scolding, making a noise almost like pig-killing, the

children whining and crying as if they were perpetually teething, the

animals starved and ill-treated.

There is no escaping the heat of Goa; no ice, no punkahs, no tatties.

The houses have no verandahs, have no shade, all white paint, and the

sun bakes the walls the first hour it comes out. There is no milk and

no servants. They export annually twenty-eight thousand _excellent_[2]

servants, but they won't stay there.

If any extraordinary law could oblige anybody to live here, they should

bring a dozen tents, and pitch them under the trees, half a dozen good

horses, a tent servant, a first-rate cook who could market, a groom,

and a general servant and messenger. They should make a contract with

the British Indian steamers to supply them with everything, keep a

steam launch to go out and meet those steamers. But if any one were

rich enough to do all that, they would not live at Goa. However, we

were most lucky to have found the kind Majors.

[Sidenote: _What to see_.]

Richard had to revisit old scenes, and I had my work to do amongst the

old Portuguese manuscripts at Old Goa. This must have been once a very

extensive City, and you are deluded by its magnificent appearance,

until you find yourself wandering in utter desolation in a City of the

Dead, amongst Churches and old Monasteries; the very rustling of the

trees, the murmur of the waves, sounded like a dirge for the departed

grandeur of the City. The Church and House of the Bom Jesus belonged

to the Society of Jesus, was dedicated to Xavier, and given to the

Jesuits in 1584, till they were expelled in 1761, when it was given

to the Lazarists. The Jesuits were the first to pioneer civilization

to all lands, to choose healthy sites, to build tanks, to teach the

people, and how badly they have been rewarded! Here the new Governors

are invested, and here they are buried if they die during the term of

office.

The body of St. Francis Xavier is in a magnificently carved silver

sarcophagus placed on a splendid base of black marble. On the

sarcophagus are beautifully cast alto-relievi, representing the various

acts of his life and death, all surmounted by a gold and silver top.

The actual body of the saint is inside, in a gold shell, and is shown

to the people once in a century on the 3rd of December. The last time

was in 1878; the body was found in its normal state of freshness. There

is a real old portrait of him in oils outside his chapel, done in 1552.

A print found in rags in a convent dusthole is so like it, that I put

it together, brought it home, and had it copied.

We used always to leave our vehicle here, and have the pony taken out

and fed, watered, and rested, whilst we scrambled all the day over the

hills, looking at the different remnants of Churches and Monasteries.

The site of the once so-called "Holy Office" is on the right hand of

the Cathedral and the Archbishop's Palace, a heap of ruins, covered

with luxuriant growth, and poisonous plants and thorns; not one

stone left upon another; not a wholesome shrub springs between the

fragments of masonry which, broken and blackened with decay, are left

to encumber the soil, as unworthy of being removed, or contaminating

another building with their curse. You must not think we walked through

comfortable paved streets to these different buildings, of which I only

mention two, but there were dozens. We scrambled through woods, over

hill and dale, and the distances tell us how large Goa must have been,

especially ascending a stony Scala Santa through briars and brambles

to the place where the victims used to be scourged. There was the

chapel where Xavier first started a school and a chapel for converting

and preaching, where he used to educate children; and hard by was the

well where he took his morning bath. It is like the Arab's "City with

impenetrable gates, still, without a voice or cheery inhabitant; the

owl hooting in its quarters, and night-birds skimming in circles in

its ruins, and the raven croaking in its great thoroughfare-streets,

as if bewailing those that had been in it." How thirsty we used to be!

But at the sight of a bit of silver, boys would climb the trees like

monkeys, pick off cocoanuts, chop off the little round piece at the

top, and hand them to us to drink. How beautifully white the inside

of the nut; how refreshing the milk, clean and cold as ice! Each nut

containing enough to quench the greatest thirst, leaving a refreshing

coolness in the mouth, throat, and interior. In a dry, parched, thirsty

land without water, there is drink for you at the top of the trees that

shade you--harmless drink, iced by nature.

The moonlit scenery of the distant bay smiles in all eternal Nature's

loveliness upon the dull-grey piles of ruined, desolate habitations,

the short-lived labours of man; delicately beautiful are the dark

hills, clothed with semi-transparent mist, the little streams

glistening like lines of silver over the opposite plain, and the purple

surface of the creek stretched at our feet. Musically, the mimic waves

splashing against the barrier of stone, and the soft whisperings of the

night breeze, alternately rose and fell with the voice of the waters.

During all our drives and long walks we were chiefly struck by the

poverty of the people and the unhealthiness of the air: but we were

healthy and strong, and we did not mind it. We drove once to a large

village called Ribandar for the purpose of seeing the Convent of the

Misericordia. Here are closely kept under strict surveillance, both

religious and civil, seventy orphan girls of all colours, class, and

ages, educated by the nuns, and who, when grown up, remain in the house

till they receive an offer of marriage. They look like birds in a cage,

and I pitied them; for, with the world full of nice pretty girls and

spontaneous love affairs, who would think of going to the World's End

to overhaul this cage of forgotten captives? Richard gives a rather

amusing account of his visit to this convent when he was a young

lieutenant thirty years before.[3]

We had two nice boat expeditions; one to Mr. Major's coffee plantation,

in which is a petrified forest, and one to Seroda; each expedition

occupying two or three days.

Seroda is a Hindú town of houses, pagodas, tombs, tanks, lofty

parapets, and a huge flight of steps, people, trees, and bazars, all

massed together. It is fearfully hot, dirty, and shut in on all sides.

In old days it was a nursery for _Nach_ girls.

[Sidenote: _The Inquisition_.]

Goa is well worth visiting, its history well worth learning. It is one

of those kingdoms that has been; that grew, reigned in magnificence,

declined, and is now a pauper. I studied its history on the spot in

Portuguese, and I thought that none of the English books upon it are

worth reading. I cannot give an account of it here, for the reason

of overweighting my book, but of all its grandeur there are only

two interests attaching to its name that _last_--one infamous, the

Inquisition; the other glorious, the poor Jesuit, St. Francis Xavier.

The Inquisition practically ceased in 1732, and was officially effaced

in 1812, being abolished by the interference of the British Government,

and its offices were shut up in the reign of the Count of Sarzedas, who

was Viceroy from 1807 to 1816; but for eighty years the Inquisition had

been _only a name_.

The religious history of Goa is even more striking than its civil

Government. It seems to have been a sort of sacerdotal republic--a huge

collection of Churches and Convents in a desert place. The province

was in its meridian, both civil and religious, 324 years ago. In 1571

it contained 150,000 practical Catholics, and owned half a million of

subjects in Portuguese India, and in Old Goa alone there were 200,000

inhabitants. It only _absolutely_ flourished during a space of 135

years. How it must have been cursed by the victims of the tortures of

the Inquisition, till God heard their cry, and avenged their blood, so

that not one stone remains upon another, whilst the only thing that

lives is the shrine of the one saint and gentleman, Xavier, and the

tomb of the Christian hero, João da Castro--as if God had preserved

them to shine out as everlasting treasures from the ruins of crime!

Xavier was the apostle of the Indies; his mission was to reform the

manners of Europeans in the Indies, whose lives were a disgrace to the

Christian profession, and on the other hand to preach the gospel to

the pagan population of the East. There is no space in this book to

give an interesting account of him and his works, but he went to India

in April, 1541, and was thirty-five years of age. He only lived ten

years, and there was no Inquisition in his time. They used to call him

the "God of Nature."

[Sidenote: _Xavier's Death_.]

In April, 1552, he set sail with a little band of apostles for an

expedition to China. A shipwreck drove them to Malacca, where they were

persecuted and detained. The Governor sent Xavier's vessel, the _Santa

Cruz_, to trade at the island of San Chan (Sancian), off the coast of

China, with orders to erect no buildings, save shelters of mats and

branches. Xavier resolved to embark with the three companions he had

kept back--a Chinese, a young Indian, and a lay brother, and after

great storms and difficulties Sancian was reached--a desolate sandy

region invested only by tigers. To please the Governor of Malacca, the

merchants and men on board all turned against Xavier; they denied him

sufficient food, and he was struck down by fever.

One morning of late November, 1552, amidst a breaking surf, a boat was

lowered from the ship's side, and made towards the island where they

had abandoned Xavier. The lay brother, the Chinese, the Indian, and one

Portuguese merchant named Alvarez, ascended a sandy hillock and hurried

to the prostrate body of a man. There, on a bed of sand, lay the great

apostle of the Indies, his head, grey with toil and suffering, exposed

to wind and sun. His face was flushed with fever, his thin hands

clasped his crucifix, and beside him was a little knapsack containing

the necessaries for Mass. They bore him to a shed of mats and leaves;

they bled him, but, being ignorant, pricked a vein which only produced

convulsions, and the operation was twice repeated. He was delirious,

and muttered only, "My Lord and my God! Jesus, Son of David, have mercy

on me! O most Holy Trinity! Queen of Heaven, show thyself a Mother!"

He came to his senses, smiling sweetly, and thanking those around him,

and told them his end was near. At two o'clock on Friday, December 2nd,

1552, he kissed his crucifix, and saying, with a gleam of joy upon his

face, "In Thee, O Lord, I have hoped; let me not be confounded for

ever," life departed. He was forty-six years of age, and these events

happened 343 years ago.

What makes the freshness of the body at the present time extraordinary,

is that the merchant Alvarez put the body in a large Chinese chest,

filled up with unslaked lime to consume the flesh, and they buried

it, set up a cross, and two heaps of stones at the head and feet.

The following 17th of February, two months and a half later, by the

Captain's orders, the coffin was uncovered; but when the lime was taken

off, the body was found ruddy and flesh-coloured as though asleep, and

on making a puncture the blood flowed, and the priestly vestments were

unhurt. In June it was taken to Malacca, where the whole place (except

the Governor who had persecuted him, whose name was D'Atayde, and who

mocked at it) came to meet it in procession; then it was conveyed to

Goa, and all Goa went twenty miles out to sea to receive the body, with

great pomp and ceremony. This happened on the 15th of March, 1554. He

was already canonized by the people, but Pope Paul V. beatified him,

and he was canonized by Gregory XV. in 1622, and promulgated by Urban

VIII.

This place had a great attraction for Richard, and this was the third

pilgrimage he had made here since 1844.

Baldæus, a Protestant, in his "History of the Indies," says, "Had

Xavier been of the same religion as ourselves, we should have esteemed

and honoured him as another St. Paul;" and he concludes his elegy thus:

"Oh that it had pleased God that, being what you were, you had been, or

might have been, one of us!" Hakluyt, a Protestant, and Tavernier, a

Huguenot, and many other Protestants, speak equally in his praise.

In 1221 the Inquisition was introduced by Pope Innocent IV., and in

1255 by Pope Alexander III. It found little favour in France, Italy,

and Germany; but in the thirteenth century it crept into Spain; but

it was in Portugal where it grew and flourished, and in 1478 became

cruel. In the reign of Ferdinand and Isabella of Spain, Torquemada,

the great Chief Inquisitor, worked it up to its maximum of full energy

and bloodthirsty ferocity; but it did not reach Goa till 1560, eight

years after the death of Xavier. This vile institution is said to have

existed two hundred and fifty years, and the last person burnt was a

Jesuit named Malagrida, about 1732. Every writer says that Goa was

the very worst City of the Inquisition. It was used for all manner of

private spites, and political intrigues under the name of religion. It

was this that caused the Portuguese to lose India, as no one who could

fly from it would run the risk of staying, and ships did not even like

to call in port. We were very much impressed by the booming of the

Cathedral bell, which had tolled so many to their _auto da fé_.

The Rev. Dr. Claude Buchanan, Vice-Provost of the College of Fort

William of Calcutta, went there in 1808, and worried the Inquisitors

considerably, which he could afford to do, as Buchanan's regiment, the

78th Highlanders, was at Panjim, only eight miles off, and would have

blown the Inquisitors and their Holy Office into the air if he had been

touched. Even Buchanan said that "Xavier was counted a first-rate man

_even_ amongst the English." He was there after it had been abolished

in 1770, but it was re-allowed under great restrictions in the reign

of Donna Maria (1779), until its final and total abolition. Colonel

Adams of the 78th, when Buchanan went up to Old Goa, said, half in

joke, half in earnest, "If we don't hear from you in three days, I

shall march the 78th up and take the Inquisition by assault."

[Sidenote: _The Inquisition perishes_.]

Buchanan _did_ forget to write, and, at the end of three days, the

Colonel sent him a note begging of him to come down to Panjim every

night to sleep in the fortress (a ride of eight miles), on account

of the unhealthiness of Goa. In 1812 the letters of the King from

Lisbon ordered liberty of conscience and total annihilation of the

Inquisition, being, as the King said, "so terrifying to all nations,

so contrary to the true spirit of the Institution, so opposed to the

original pious intention of his august and royal ancestors." The

Conde de Sarzedas wrote thanking the King, and begging that he might

also burn the enormous quantity of processes and documents, _as too

great scandals would result_ therefrom; so we have lost about forty

thousand _procés_, inexhaustible matter for historians, novelists, and

dramatic writers, showing the manners and customs of those centuries in

Portuguese India.

It only shows what the Catholic religion is, and that "Hell's gates

cannot prevail against Christ's Church," when the Faith could stand

unmoved and flourish under three centuries of this tribunal of fire and

woe, composed of serpents in its own bosom, traitors in the camp; worse

than internal civil war, covering even its own members with infamy.

From this monster's brutal claw all fled,--Godliness, Manliness, and

Nature.

Moreover, Arabs, Persians, Armenians, Jews, and Indians found the

Christian God even more cruel than Brahma or Allah; they deserted the

country and commerce, and fled from low envy, vile cowardice, and

calumny, which dealt brutally and safely--like vivisection--not with

crime alone, but with the most trivial actions of their home-life.

Sufficed a little success in an enterprise, a few more thousands, a

gallant action winning praise, a rise in the social scale, public

esteem for a good work done,--anything that raised a man above his

fellows was quite enough.

It is, perhaps, the same now, _as far as evil tongues and pens can

wag_, and will always be, and people wince with moral pain; but it

breaks no bones, scorches no skin, and the object of envy may still

breathe fresh air and light, and enjoy life and liberty, though a

few _soi-disant_ friends may fall away. Nay, the fact of being of

a different race, tongue, and creed, a variance of opinion, family

rivalries, an unhappy love, a little spite or jealousy,--all was turned

to account, all was of use to denounce one's enemy _on a religious

ground_. It was enough for a "familiar" to open his mouth to make

people lose their judgment and reason.

I have had a sight of all the documents existing, exclusively Goanese,

by the present descendants of the Inquisitors, and the authorities of

that time.

We had a charming Portuguese dinner with Dr. Da Gama. Our last evening

Mr. Major took us an excursion in his boat to Cazalem. We coasted along

for an hour and sang glees under a fine moon, accompanied by a heavy

swell, and we were carried ashore through the surf on native shoulders,

and passed a very merry evening.

[Sidenote: _Sea Journey to Suez_.]

At last the time came round for us to leave Goa. The steamers are due

once a fortnight, but this one was long past her time. At last we had a

telegram to say, "The steamer would pass Goa at midnight." We started

in a large open boat in the evening with Mr. Major, his secretary, four

men to row and one to steer. We rowed down the river in the evening,

and then across the bay for three hours against wind and tide to open

sea, bow on to heavy rollers, and at last reached the mouth of the bay,

where is the fort. We remained bobbing about in the sea, in the trough

of the big waves, for a considerable time. A violent storm of rain,

thunder, and lightning came on, and Mr. Major proposed we should put

back to the fort, at the entrance of the bay, and take shelter under

some arches, which we did. Then we went to sleep, leaving the secretary

and the _boatwála_ to watch for the steamer.

At 1.30 I was awoke by the sound of a gun booming across the water. I

sprang up and roused the others; but the storm was so heavy we could

see no lights, and returned to sleep. We ought to have gone off when

the gun fired; the ship had been laying to for us for three-quarters

of an hour. If the ship went without us, we should have lost our

passage to Europe, we should have been caught in the monsoon, we

should have had to return another fortnight to Goa, of which we were

heartily tired, and knew by heart, only to renew the same a fortnight

hence. We were soon under way again, and by-and-by saw the lights of

the steamer about three miles off. Knowing the independence of these

captains, the monopoly, and the futility of complaints, and seeing

that my husband and Mr. Major slept, I began to be very disagreeable

with the boat-hook. I got the secretary to stand in the bows and wave

a lamp on a pole. I urged the _boatwálas_ with perpetual promises of

_bakshish_. Everybody else was leaving it to Kismet. Our kind host had

been holloaing at the _boatwálas_ the whole evening because the boat

was dirty, and making them bale out the horrid-smelling bilge water,

and now we wanted him, he was sound asleep and as good as gold. "Can't

you shout?" I cried to him; "they might hear you. You can shout loud

enough when nobody wants you to." At last, after an hour's anxiety, we

reached the ship, and heavy seas kept washing us away from the ladder.

No one had the energy to hold on to the rope, or to take the boat-hook

to keep us to her, so at last I did it myself; my husband roaring with

laughter at their supineness, and at me making myself so disagreeably

officious and energetic. An English sailor threw me a rope. "Thanks,"

I said, as I took advantage of an enormous wave to spring on to the

ladder. "I am the only man in the boat to-night." All came on board

with us, and we had a parting stirrup-cup, and said farewell, and often

after, our good host and his wife used to write to me, and call me the

"only man in the boat."

We had been six months in India, and had made the most of it, and the

day of departure came round. We were glad and sorry--glad to leave

the intolerable heat, to escape the coming monsoon; sorry to leave

the ever-increasing interest and the daily accumulating friends. We

generally chose Austrian-Lloyd's steamers. They owned at that time

a fleet of sixty-nine keel, covering twenty-two different lines,

reasonable in charges. An Italian _cuisine_, everything clean, with a

certain style and refinement. They are safe ships, and their sailors,

mostly Dalmatians, are a brave seafaring race, quiet, docile, and

sober, stalwart, honest, and civil, and mind their ship in a storm.

On calm nights, say a delightful evening with balmy air, crescent

moon, with its attendant star, our Dalmatian crew sing better than

many a usual opera chorus, though quite untutored. They are thorough

sailors, gay in fine weather, hard-working and brave in the worst

of storms, and never drink. I know nothing pleasanter than a voyage

in Austrian-Lloyd's in fine weather with few passengers. This time,

however, we were physically uncomfortable. The boats were not fitted

for regular English passengers from India. They steam very slow--eight

knots an hour. They then carried no stewardess or doctor; they do now.

Then they had no ice or soda-water, no skylight for wind-sails, only

one awning instead of three, no punkahs and tatties. I believe all that

is changed. So we were seventeen English passengers, and we fried alive

in the Indian Ocean and the Red Sea.

The average English people, if not made comfortable at sea, are as

troublesome as a mustard plaster--nothing was right. They wanted their

huge lumps of beef and mutton four times a day; they ate up all the

provisions like locusts, and drank the cellar dry almost before we got

to Aden. What would last Italians and Greek six weeks, does not last an

Englishman one.

Italians and Greeks have quite another form of being troublesome.

They would send every half-hour for the captain to ask if there is

any danger; if the sea and wind are going down; to say that they feel

very bad, and ask him what they shall take. He, with the greatest good

nature, instead of giving them the hearty "blessing" that ours would,

recommends a little _eau sucrée_, and says we shall be in smooth water

in another hour, though he knows quite well that the glass is down, and

that we are going straight into a gale, which will last several days.

Richard and I were exceedingly comfortable, as we always were,

and it amused us to hear "our boys," as we called our English

fellow-passengers, swearing at the Triestine stewards in Hindostani,

and talking louder and louder in the hopes of being understood. We

used to hear all day shouts of, "Where is Captain Burton? where is

Mrs. Burton?" We were wanted to interpret. We were the connecting link

between Austrian-Lloyd's and the discontented Britishers. But at last

we all became exceedingly jolly. We slept on deck in rows, and read

and talked. In the evening we sang glees and duets. We women abolished

toilette for white tea-gowns.

After a very pleasant time, albeit very rough weather, Richard and I

left the ship at Suez, and were soon surrounded by a little band of

Richard's old friends of Mecca days. We put off, with them, afterwards

to the Arabian shore, to rest after our journey at "Moses' Wells,"

about three miles in the Arabian desert--the scene of poor Palmer,

Gill, and Charington's departure. It was a lovely scene, with its blue

sea, yellow sands, azure sky, and pink and purple mountains. The sun

was hot, but the pure desert air blew in our faces, as we went across

the sand to the picturesque spot. The wells or springs are surrounded

by tropical verdure, intermingled with Fellah huts. The most romantic

spot of all is a single tiny spring, under an isolated palm tree,

standing all alone on a little hillock of sand and desert, far from all

else, as if that tree and that spring had been created for each other

to live alone. It was delightful after India and the rough voyage. We

took our _kayf_ there with the Arabs, who gave us delicious coffee and

_narghílehs_, and we rode camels. We were there at the time of Abdul

Assiz's death.

[Sidenote: _After a Stay in Egypt, to Trieste_.]

After stopping some time at Cairo, Alexandria, and Ramleh, we

embarked for Trieste on another Lloyd's, which carried Jamrach and

his menagerie. During our stay in Cairo, we saw a great deal of poor

Marquis de Compiègne (afterwards shot in a duel), Dr. Schweinfürth, and

Marietta Bey and the Bulak Museum; poor John Wallis, legal Consul, once

editor of the _Tablet_; Baron de Kremer, our old Austrian colleague

at Damascus, afterwards Minister of Finance at Vienna (now dead). We

found the voyage very cold, even in July, after India. We first went

to Candia, passing Gavdo, Cape Spaltra, the two islands Cerigotto and

Cerigo.

We glide by Cape Matapan on the Greek coast. We passed Cabrera and

Sapienza. We leave the lighthouse on Strophades to the left, and

reach Zante, which is a lovely island, with a large picturesque town,

and where mareschino is made. We run between Cephalonia and Ithaca

(of Ulysses); then we change the Greek coast for Acarnania, and pass

Santa Maura, or Leucadia, with "Sappho's Leap." We changed then to the

Albanian coast, gloriously green to the water's edge, with, cliff and

cave, with the Cimariote hills, and its wild people and their lawless

legends behind them. We passed two islands, Anti Paxo and Paxo, to

Corfú. After we leave Corfú, we coast along Albania, passing Capo

Linguetta and Isole Sasseno; then we changed to the Dalmatian coast,

to Bocca di Cattaro and Ragusa, afterwards the islands of Lagosta

and Cazza; then Lissa, where two great battles were fought, one 13th

of March, 1811, and the other 20th of July, 1866. Then we passed the

islands of Spalmadore, Lesina, Incoronati, and Grossa; then Punta

Biancha, and the island of Sansego. Here we changed to Istria, and

are upon our own ground, beginning with Punta di Promontore and Pola,

our great Austrian naval station, with its Coliseum and interesting

ruins. Then Rovigno and Parenzo, harbour towns on the coast. At Punto

Salvore we enter our own "Gulf of Trieste," passing Pirano, which we

can see from our own windows, and finally Trieste. The coming into

Trieste is very sweet from the sea. The beautiful little City, nestled

in its corner in the mountains at the very top of the Adriatic, seemed

to us the greenest and most beautiful spot we had ever beheld, after

hot India and barren Egypt and Arabia. The hills plumaged to the sea,

dotted with white villages and villas; Miramar standing well out to sea

in the warm haze; the splendid Carniola Mountains on the opposite side,

still slightly tipped with snow, were most refreshing to our eyes, and

we settled down in our little home with a feeling of rest, and enjoyed

our ever-warm reception from our Trieste friends after our sea voyage.

[1] I put this story in the _New Review_ last November. Hardly had I

done so when it was claimed by an American for Professor Henry, of the

Smithsonian Institute at Washington. It could hardly have happened to

two men, and Richard was much too witty to need to copy. It happened at

eleven o'clock on the 22nd of April, 1876. I was present, saw it with

my own eyes, heard it with my own ears, and thinking it too good to be

forgotten wrote it down there and then. The Archbishop and I mentioned

it in letters a few months ago.--I. B.

[2] Richard always took Goanese boys on his wildest travels, and they

were always true to him.

[3] "Goa and the Blue Mountains," which will later be in the "Uniform

Library."--I. B.