MADRAS, CALCUTTA, AND BENARES
From Hyderabad we went to Madras to fulfil our promise of paying a visit
to Mr. Bourke, who had now become Lord Connemara. We stayed there for over
three weeks and became much interested in the Presidency. Being rather
remote from the usual routes of visitors it is perhaps less known, and has
been called the "Benighted Presidency," but many of the natives are
exceptionally intelligent, and there appears to be more opportunity than
in some other parts of India of seeing the Hindu faith in working order
and less affected than elsewhere by the influence of the Mohammedan
conquerors. Lord Connemara's Private Secretary, Mr. Rees (afterwards Sir
John Rees, so sadly killed by falling from a train) was very kind in
securing two Brahmins of different varieties of the Hindu faith to come
and talk to me and explain their views--both spoke excellent English. One
was a Munshi who belonged to the "Advaita" sect, which holds that
everything is part of the Divinity; the other--an ascetic--held a refined
form of what is called the "Sankhya" philosophy, which presupposes eternal
matter with which the Eternal Mind unites itself. After all, such fine
drawn distinctions are quite congenial to the spirit of the early
Gnostics, the Schoolmen of the Middle Ages, and even to Christians of
to-day who are ready to start fresh communities from differences on
tenets which seem to the ordinary mind without practical bearing on the
Two Great Commandments.
[Sidenote: BRAHMIN PHILOSOPHERS]
To return to my Brahmin friends. Both those here mentioned and others to
whom I have spoken claim a faith certainly different from the vast mass of
the Indian peoples. They claim to believe in One God, and say that all
proceed from Him and that all effort should be directed to reabsorption
into Him. Good acts tend to this result by the gradual purification in
successive incarnations of "Karma," which may perhaps be described as the
residuum of unconquered passions and unexpiated sins after death. When the
Munshi was explaining this theory of upward progress Mr. Rees asked him
what happened to devil-worshippers and such like out-caste races. "They go
to hell," was the prompt reply. Observing my look of surprise, Ramiah
hastened to add, "Oh, we have plenty of hells, twenty, thirty,
forty"--evidently thinking that I was astounded not at the sweeping
perdition of his countrymen, but at the probably overcrowded condition of
the infernal regions.
Shiva, Vishnu, and the other gods and goddesses adored by the populace
were regarded by the illuminati as embodiments of various divine
attributes, or incarnations to reveal the divine will and to deliver men
from evil. There seemed no unwillingness to accept Christ in some such way
as this. As one said to me, "I do not know His history as well as I know
my own sacred books, but if what is told of Him is true, I believe that he
must have been a saint, if not a Divine Incarnation." Another thought that
each race had its own revelation. "We," he said, "have Krishna, you have
Christ. You say that your Christ was crucified--our Krishna was shot."
To an inquiry why if their own faith was so elevated they left the masses
to idol-worship I had the crushing reply: "Ignorant people and _females_
cannot at once comprehend the universal presence. We teach them first that
God is in the image--so He is, for He is everywhere--and from that we go
on to explain that He pervades the universe." I asked my ascetic friend,
Parthasaradi, whether in that case they might find the deity in the leg of
a table--to which he retorted with Tyndall's views about the mutability of
atoms, from which he deduced that being everywhere He was certainly also
in the leg of the table--and he cited Roman Catholic teaching on his side
as justifying idol-worship. Parthasaradi had a marvellous store of
quotations from Tyndall, Leibnitz, Matthew Arnold, and others at his
fingers' ends. He kindly said that if I were as good as my creed he would
be satisfied, and hoped that I would be content if he were as good as his.
He had catechised Mr. Rees about me before he would condescend to talk to
me, as he did not think that "European females" were generally
sufficiently interested in Hindu religion to make them worthy of his
expositions. He had been a Vakil of the High Court, but had given up his
position to embrace an ascetic life, and had devoted his property to
founding a library, only reserving enough for himself and his wife to live
upon. His wife had become a sort of nun. He was a curious-looking man with
long shaggy black hair and very white teeth--rather handsome. His costume
consisted of a cotton dhoti (cloth) of doubtful whiteness wrapped round
his legs and a green shawl twisted about his body. There is no doubt that
he was very earnest in his faith in the Almighty, and I was really touched
by his appeal one day to Mr. Rees, who chanced to be present at a visit
which he paid me. Mr. Rees told him that he was so eloquent that he almost
converted him to the need for greater religion. Whereupon said the
ascetic, with evident emotion: "Why don't you come at once? You need not
wait for an invitation as to a _Governor's breakfast_." He spoke just like
a member of the Salvation Army, and I am sure with an equally genuine
feeling. It would be absurd to generalise from a superficial acquaintance
with India, but it seemed to me from conversation with these and other
educated Indians that, while quite willing to accept the high Christian
morality and also to profit from the education in Christian schools,
working out a man's own salvation appealed to them more than the doctrine
of Atonement.
[Sidenote: FAITH OF EDUCATED HINDUS]
The Dewan Rao Behadur Kanta Chunder, a highly intelligent man whom we met
later on at Jeypore, allowed that the Atonement was his stumbling-block.
He had been educated in a Mission School and had a great respect and
affection for the Principal, but he was not a professing Christian. He
said that he believed in one God, but was obliged to continue
Shiva-worship to please his mother. I hope that he received the same
dispensation as Naaman! He further said that he believed in the
transmigration of souls, but thought that all spirits would ultimately
return to the Great Spirit whence they came.
I asked this Dewan about a point on which I was curious--namely, whether
as a child, before he came under Mission influence, his Hindu faith had a
practical influence on his daily conduct. "Oh, yes," he said; "if I did
anything wrong I was quite frightened of the images of the gods in the
house"--so I suppose they have a real effect, but no one seemed to think
that anything made the native Indian truthful! However, it is to be
feared that with the majority even of Christians truth is not a primary
virtue.
To return to Madras and our adventures there. I do not attempt
descriptions of the cities or scenery which we visited. Much as we enjoyed
such sights, they are fully described in guide books, and I keep to our
personal experiences. The length of our visit to Madras was partly due to
unfortunate circumstances which it is unnecessary to detail at length,
though they have since in broad outline become public property. Briefly,
shortly after our arrival Lady Connemara, who had been staying at
Ootacamund, arrived at Government House accompanied by the doctor and one
of the staff. The following day she migrated to an hotel just as a large
dinner-party was arriving, and we had to conceal her absence on plea of
indisposition.
After several days' absence and much negotiation she consented to
return--but Lord Connemara implored us to remain while she was away, and
even after she came back, to help him look after his guests, particularly
some who came to stay in the house. We were rather amused, when later on
we visited the Prendergasts at Baroda, to discover that Sir Harry
Prendergast and his daughters, who had stayed at Government House in the
midst of the trouble, had never discovered that Lady Connemara was not
there, but thought that she was ill in her own rooms all the time! I
cannot help thinking that some of us must have been rather like the
policeman before the magistrate of whom the cabman said "I won't go for to
say that the gentleman is telling a lie, but he handles the truth rather
carelessly." I fear that we must have handled the truth rather
carelessly.
Fortunately the native servants could not speak English, and the better
class natives in the city behaved extraordinarily well in wishing to keep
things quiet as far as possible. Anyhow, Lady Connemara came back for a
time, and ultimately--some time in the following year, I think--returned
to England. The end, as is well known, was a divorce. She married the
doctor, and Lord Connemara a rich widow--a Mrs. Coleman. They are all dead
now and the causes of dispute do not matter; they may be summed up with
the old formula, "Faults on both sides."
The delay was rather tiresome for us, as we had planned to get to Calcutta
well before Christmas, but on the other hand it enabled us to see a good
deal that we could not have done in the short time which we had originally
destined to the Presidency, and Lord Connemara and his staff did
everything for our entertainment.
[Sidenote: THEOSOPHISTS AT ADYAR]
Among other excursions we had an amusing visit to our ship acquaintance,
Colonel Olcott, at the headquarters, or Library, of the Theosophical
Society at Adyar. Adyar is a pretty place, and there are nice shady drives
near it with banyan, tamarind, and other trees. As we approached we saw a
large bungalow on the top of a small hill, and noticed a number of people
seated in the verandah. It was evident that they saw us from their
elevation, but it did not seem to have struck them that we could also see
them from below. When we arrived at the door everyone had disappeared
except Colonel Olcott, who was seated in an attitude of abstraction, but
jumped up holding out his hands and expressing great pleasure at our
visit.
We were taken into a long hall, hung round with the shields of the various
theosophical Lodges in India and elsewhere. There were several rooms, and
as we were shown into them the people whom we had seen on the verandah
were either "discovered" or "entered" like actors on a stage, and duly
introduced: "A Russian Countess"--the "Countess of Jersey"; "a Japanese
nobleman"--the "Earl of Jersey." We were shown the doors of Kathiawar wood
rather well carved, and beyond there was a kind of Sanctuary with two
large paintings of Mahatmas behind doors like those of a Roman Catholic
altarpiece. I believe that it was behind those doors that Madame Blavatsky
was supposed to have performed a miracle with broken tea-cups, but I am
not clear as to details and Colonel Olcott was too cute to attempt to
foist the story upon us. What he did tell us was that the artist
Schmiechen painted the Mahatmas without having seen them, implying some
kind of inspiration. We happened to know Schmiechen, as he had painted
several of our family, so when we were back in England I remarked that I
had seen the pictures which he had painted without having seen the
subjects. "Yes," said he, "but I had very good photographs of them!"
Olcott told us that he intended to have portraits of the Founders of all
religions in this Sanctuary, but so far the only companion of the Mahatmas
was a photograph of Paracelsus. He, however, produced another photograph
from somewhere and bade me prepare to respect a bishop. The bishop proved
to be black! Poor Olcott! He made another attempt to convert me while at
Madras by lending me copies of a rather colourless magazine--always
assuring me that his Society was in no sense anti-Christian. When he
called to see the effect which this publication had had upon me I remarked
that I had read not only the magazine, but its advertisements, which
advertised distinctly anti-Christian books. He turned the colour of
beetroot, for he had never thought of the advertisements.
[Sidenote: THE RANEES OF TRAVANCORE]
While we were at Madras the then Maharajah of Travancore was invested with
the insignia of the Grand Cross of the Star of India. He was a gorgeous
figure wearing over a long coat of cloth-of-gold with small green spangles
the pale-blue satin cloak of the Order, which cost him two thousand rupees
at Calcutta. His white turban was adorned with beautiful emeralds. The
right of succession in Travancore is peculiar, being transmitted to males
through females. As there were no directly royal females in 1857, this
Maharajah's uncle adopted two Ranees to be "Mothers of Princes." The elder
Ranee was charming and highly educated, but unfortunately had no children,
and her husband, though a clever man (perhaps too clever!) got into
difficulties and was banished. The Ranee declined all the suggestions of
her friends that she should divorce him, and her constancy was rewarded by
his recall to her side. This marital fidelity pleased Queen Victoria so
much that she sent the Princess a decoration.
The younger Ranee had two sons, of whom one, called the First Prince, was
considered Heir Presumptive and was present at the Investiture. He did not
strike me as much of a man, and he and the Maharajah were reported not to
be on friendly terms. Ladies marry in Travancore by accepting a cloth
(i.e. sari) from a man--if they do not like him they have only to send it
back, which constitutes a divorce.
Sir Mount Stuart Grant Duff, when Governor of Madras, was admiring the
embroidered cloth of one of these Travancore ladies and innocently said
that he would like to send her a cloth from Madras as a specimen of the
handiwork executed there, to which she promptly retorted that she was much
obliged, but that she was quite satisfied with her present husband.
Although I refrain from descriptions in a general way, I must include some
reference to a journey in the southern part of the Presidency which Lord
Connemara kindly arranged for us, as it is less well known than Madras
itself and other cities generally visited. Also this part of the country
will doubtless change rapidly, if it has not already done so.
A long day's journey took us to Tanjore, where the temporary District
Judge, Mr. Fawcett, was good enough to receive us in his bungalow
and show us the sights. The great Temple rejoices in the name of
Bahadeeswara-swami-kovil and is said to have been built in the eleventh
century. The Gopuram or great pyramidical tower, 216 feet from the base to
the top of the gilded Kalasum, which takes the place of our Cross, is most
imposing. It is covered with carvings, and amongst them we were shown the
head and bust of an Englishman in a round hat commonly called "John
Bright." The attendants point to this with pride, saying that it was put
there when the temple was originally built, on account of a prophecy that
the English would one day possess the land. We were struck by the
wonderful foresight of the Hindu prophets in the time of William the
Conqueror, as they foretold not only the advent of the English, but also
their costume 800 years after the date of the prophecy.
[Sidenote: THE PRINCESSES OF TANJORE]
The Sivajee dynasty had ruled that part of the country till a Rajah called
Serfojee ceded his territory to the British. His granddaughter, the senior
lady of his son Sevajee, was the last real Princess of the family. She
was dead before the date of our visit, but some ladies of the zenana still
lingered on in the Palace. Some years after our visit Lord Dufferin told
me of his experiences at Tanjore. As Viceroy he was admitted to the
zenana, though of course other men could not enter. He was shown into a
large, dimly lighted room at the end of which was a Chair of State covered
with red cloth. The attendants made signs for him to approach the chair,
and he was just about to take his seat upon it when he suddenly perceived
a small figure wrapped in the red cloth. He had been about to sit down on
the Princess!
We did not see the ladies, but we visited the large rambling Palace, in
which were three very fine halls. One was rather like a church, with a
nave and two narrow side aisles, and two rows of dim windows one above the
other. This appeared to be utilised as a Museum with very miscellaneous
contents. There was a silver-plated canopy intended to be held over bridal
pairs--and a divan on which were placed portraits of Queen Victoria and
the late Ranee attended by large dolls or figures presumably representing
members of the Sivajee family. All about the halls were cheap ornaments,
photographs, and, carefully framed, an advertisement of Coats' sewing
cotton! Another hall contained a fine statue of Serfojee by Flaxman, a
bust of Nelson, and a picture representing the head of Clive with mourners
for his death.
There was also an interesting library with many Sanscrit and other
manuscripts. One book in particular, full of paintings of elephants
executed for Serfojee, was really amusing. Towards the beginning was a
picture of angelic white elephants, and other black, red, and purple
elephants all with wings. An attendant declared that elephants supported
the various quarters of the globe and used to have wings, but one day in
flying they fell down upon a Rishi (Saint) and disturbed his devotions,
whereupon he induced the gods to deprive them of their flying powers. It
is always dangerous to offend Saints.
From Tanjore a night's journey took us to Madura, where we stayed with Mr.
Turner, the Collector of the District, in an interesting and remarkable
house. At the time of our visit it belonged to the Johnston family, but
they let it to the Government that the rent might pay for a Scholarship at
the Madras College. The principal living-room was rather like a church,
having forty columns in it, and, the floor being on different levels and
divided in various ways, it served for sitting-room, dining-, and
billiard-room. From one corner a winding staircase led to a terrace from
which opened bedrooms. Below the living-room were vaults or dungeons where
wild beasts and prisoners were confined in the old days when the house was
a sort of Summer Palace. In one of these vaults tradition said that a
queen was starved to death.
[Sidenote: "THE HEART OF MONTROSE"]
My bedroom, a very large room, was rendered additionally attractive as
having been the temporary resting-place of the heart of Montrose, enclosed
in a little steel case made of the blade of his sword. Lord Napier of
Merchiston, descended from Montrose's nephew, gave this to his daughter
(afterwards Mrs. Johnston) on his death-bed, 1773, in a gold filigree box
of Venetian workmanship. When Mr. and Mrs. Johnston were on their way to
India their ship was attacked by a French frigate and Mr. Johnston with
the captain's permission took charge of four quarter-deck guns. Mrs.
Johnston refused to leave her husband and remained on deck holding her
son, aged five, by one hand and in the other a large velvet reticule
including, with several treasures, the gold filigree box. A shot wounded
the lady's arm, bruised the child's hand, knocked down the father, and
shattered the filigree box, but the steel case with the heart resisted the
blow.
Arrived at Madura Mrs. Johnston employed a native goldsmith to make a
filigree box after the pattern of that which was damaged, and also a
silver urn in which it was placed and which stood on an ebony table in the
then drawing-room. The natives soon started a legend that the urn
contained a talisman, and that whoever possessed it could never be wounded
in battle or taken prisoner. Owing to this report it was stolen, and for
some time could not be traced, but at last Mrs. Johnston learnt that it
had been purchased by a neighbouring chief for a large sum of money.
Mr. A. Johnston, her son, in a letter to his daughters dated 1836 and
published as an appendix to Napier's _Life of Montrose_, relates the
particulars which he had heard from his mother, and further his own
experiences, which give an impression of very familiar friendship between
English and natives in days when the former were largely isolated from
intercourse with home.
Young Alexander Johnston was sent each year by his father during the
hunting season to stay with one or other of the neighbouring chiefs for
four months together to acquire the different languages and native
gymnastic exercises. On one occasion he was hunting in company with the
chief who was supposed to have the urn, and distinguished himself by so
wounding a wild hog that his companion was enabled to dispatch it.
Complimenting the youth on his bravery, the chief asked in what way he
could recognise his prowess.
Young Johnston thereupon told the history of the urn and its contents, and
begged the great favour of its restoration to his mother if it were really
in his friend's possession. The chivalrous native replied that he had
indeed purchased it for a large sum, not knowing that it was stolen from
Mrs. Johnston, and added that one brave man should always attend to the
wishes of another brave man no matter of what country or religion, and
that he felt it a duty to carry out that brave man's wish who desired that
his heart should be kept by his descendants. With Oriental magnanimity he
accompanied the restored heart with rich presents to the youth and his
mother.
In after years this chief rebelled against the authority of the Nabob of
Arcot, was conquered by the aid of English troops, and executed with many
members of his family. He behaved with undaunted courage, and on hearing
that he was to die, at once alluded to the story of the urn and expressed
the hope that his heart would be preserved by those who cared for him, in
the same way as that of the European warrior.
Mr. and Mrs. Johnston returned to Europe in 1792, and being in France when
the Revolutionary Government required the surrender of all gold and silver
articles in private possession, they entrusted the urn and its contents to
an Englishwoman at Boulogne, who promised to secrete it. Unfortunately she
died shortly afterwards, and the Johnstons were never able to trace the
lost treasure.
Mr. Alexander Johnston adds that he ultimately received from the French
Government the value of the plate and jewels which his parents had been
compelled to give up to the Calais municipality. It is, however, unlikely
that he would have recovered the heart thirty or forty years
afterwards--unless indeed Mrs. Johnston had kept it in its little steel
case and surrendered the urn.
[Sidenote: THE PALACE OF MADURA]
The old Palace at Madura is a fine building, now used for a court of
justice. At the time of our visit recollections of the Prince of Wales
(Edward VII) still prevailed. When he arrived at the Palace a row of
elephants was stationed on either side of the court on to which the
principal buildings opened. All the elephants duly salaamed at a given
signal except one--perhaps inoculated with Bolshevik principles. Whereupon
the stage-manager of the proceedings called out in Tamil to the mahout of
the recalcitrant animal, "I fine you five rupees!"
One of the purdah Ranees still occupied a side room of the Palace, and our
host Mr. Turner with another man was stationed to guard the door. The
Prince, however, feeling that "nice customs curtsy to great kings," put
them aside and entered the apartment with all his suite. The Ranee was
much flurried at first, but finally fascinated, and afterwards gave him a
handsome necklace.
From delightful terraces on the Palace roof you get an extensive view of
the town and surrounding country. There are two fine hills, one called
Secundermullai, as Alexander the Great is supposed to have camped there,
the other Elephantmullai, from a legend that the Chola (Tanjore) King's
magician made him a gigantic elephant, but the Pandyan (Madura) King's
magician changed it into a mountain. As the mountain bears a decided
resemblance to an elephant, who will doubt the tale?
The most striking feature of Madura is the immense Temple, of which the
size, the decorations, and the wealth displayed are impressive evidence of
the vitality of the Hindu faith. Four gopurams or towers guard the
entrances to the halls, galleries, arcades, and courts within the sacred
precincts. One hall is called the Hall of a Thousand Pillars and is said
really to contain 997. In the galleries are colossal figures of dragons,
gods, goddesses, and heroes, groups being often carved out of one gigantic
monolith.
The presiding deity is Minachi, the old Dravidian fish-goddess adopted by
the Brahmins as identical with Parvati, wife of Siva. The Brahmins
constantly facilitated the conversion of the lower races to their faith by
admitting their tutelar deities to the Hindu Pantheon. The great
flag-staff of Minachi (alias Parvati) is overlaid with gold. There are a
thousand Brahmins and attendants employed about the Temple, which has an
annual income of 70,000 rupees, and shortly before our visit the
Nattukottai Chetties or native money-lenders had spent 40,000 rupees on
the fabric.
The Treasury contains stores of jewels, particularly sapphires, and
"vehicles" for the gods in the form of elephants, cows, lions, or peacocks
constructed of, or overlaid with, gold or silver of fine workmanship. Two
cows, late additions, were pointed out to us as having cost 17,000 rupees.
The Chetties are an immensely wealthy caste, and lavish money in building
both temples and commodious houses for themselves. At one corner of the
latter they put a large figure of an Englishman attended by a small
native, at another an Englishwoman in a crinoline and with rather short
petticoat. They evidently like to propitiate the powers both seen and
unseen.
Before the Prince of Wales's visit the Collector asked them to contribute
a specified sum towards the fund being raised for his entertainment. They
refused, but offered so much less. They were then shut up in a place
enclosed with palisades, while a series of notes and messages was
interchanged with them. They were much amused by the proceedings, which
they evidently regarded as the proper method of negotiation, and kept
refusing with roars of laughter, till feeling that they had played the
game long enough, they consented to give the sum originally asked and were
released.
[Sidenote: ROUS PETER'S SACRED DOOR]
Among the many objects of interest in the temple one of the quaintest was
a _door_ dedicated to a former Collector called Rous Peter. He used to
worship Minachi in order to obtain any money that he wanted from the
Pagoda Treasury for the repair of the roads and other public purposes.
After his death the Brahmins placed him among their devils, and used to
light little lamps round the door in his honour. A devil was quite as much
respected as a beneficent deity, indeed it was even more necessary to keep
him in a good humour. Mr. Peter unfortunately did not always distinguish
between his own and the public funds and finally poisoned himself.
He had a great friend, one Colonel Fisher, who married a native woman, and
he and Peter were buried side by side near the Pagoda. Colonel Fisher's
family were, however, not satisfied with this semi-heathen arrangement and
later on built a Christian church destined to include their remains. There
was some little difficulty with the Christian authorities about this, but
ultimately it was amicably settled. When we were at Madura a screen behind
the altar shut off from the rest of the church the part where they were
buried, to which the natives came with garlands to place on Peter's tomb.
As is well known, such semi-deification of Europeans who had captivated
Indian imagination was not uncommon. We heard of a colonel buried in
another part of the Presidency on whose grave the natives offered brandy
and cheroots as a fitting tribute to his tastes.
A twenty-three hours' journey brought us back to Madras on the afternoon
of December 16th. We had greatly enjoyed our few days in the new world of
Southern India, and were impressed with the hold that the Hindu faith
still had on the population.
During the whole of our stay at Madras Lord Connemara and his staff made
every effort for our enjoyment. Mr. Rees (Private Secretary) was
especially kind in arranging that I should see, not only the Public
Museums and other Institutions, but also some of the private houses to
which Europeans were not generally admitted. Among the excellent
representatives of the British Government were the Minister of Education,
Mr. Grigg, and Mrs. Grigg. Madras owes much to them both--the native girls
particularly to Mrs. Grigg. Their son, who acted as one of Lord
Connemara's pages at the Investiture of the Maharajah of Travancore, is
now Sir Edward Grigg, whose knowledge of the Empire has been invaluable to
the Prince of Wales, and who is now Secretary to the Prime Minister.
One of the most prominent educational institutions at Madras was the
Scottish Free Church Mission which had a College for boys and Schools for
girls of different castes. These included some Christians, but there was
no claim to any large number of conversions. All scholars learnt to read
the Bible, and no doubt a good system of morality was inculcated. I
believe that had we gone to Trichinopoly we should have found many more
Christians. It is much easier to convert pariahs and low-caste natives,
numerous in Southern India, than those of the higher castes, who have to
give up social position and worldly advantage if they change their faith.
Lord Connemara often received very amusing correspondence. One letter was
from a luckless husband who wrote: "Nothing is more unsuitable than for a
man to have more than one wife. I have three, and I pray your Excellency
to banish whichever two you please to the Andaman Islands or some other
distant country."
[Sidenote: LOYALTY OF NATIVE INDIANS]
When we first visited India at all events the natives had implicit faith
in English power and justice even when their loyalty left something to be
desired. An Englishman was talking to a man suspected of pro-Russian
sympathies, and pointed out to him the way in which Russians treated their
own subjects. "If Russia took India," he said, "what would you do if a
Russian tried to confiscate your property?" "In that case," was the prompt
reply, "I should appeal to the High Court." For the most part, however,
they were intensely loyal to the person of the Sovereign.
When Queen Victoria's statue was unveiled at the time of the First Jubilee
the natives came in thousands to visit it, and to "do poojah," presenting
offerings of cocoa-nuts, etc. The statue was in bronze, and they expressed
great pleasure in finding that their Mother was brown after all; they had
hitherto imagined her to be white!
We had arranged to sail from Madras to Calcutta by a British India named
the _Pundua_, which ought to have landed us there in good time for
Christmas, but our voyage had many checks. First the hydraulic unloading
machinery of that "perfidious bark" went wrong, and we were only taken on
board three days later than the scheduled time for starting. Starting at
all from Madras was not particularly easy in those days, for the harbour
had been constructed on a somewhat doubtful principle; nature had not done
much for it, and the results of science and engineering had been seriously
damaged by a cyclone. As Sir Mount Stuart Grant Duff had sagely remarked,
"Any plan is a good one if you stick to it," but the damaged walls were
being rebuilt somewhat tentatively and there was no conviction as to the
ultimate outcome. Probably there is now a satisfactory structure, but in
our time there was not much protection for the boat which carried us to
the _Pundua_. Mr. Rees was to accompany us to Calcutta, and Lord Connemara
and Lord Marsham took us on board. We had taken tender farewells of all
our friends ashore and afloat--the Governor had gone back in his boat,
when we heard an explosion followed by a fizzing. A few minutes later the
captain came up and said, "Very sorry, but we cannot start to-day." "What
has happened?" "The top of the cylinder has blown off." Much humiliated we
had to return with our luggage to Government House, and to appear at what
was called "The Dignity Ball" in the evening.
Next day (December 22nd) we really did get off; the wretched _Pundua_
possessed three cylinders, so one was disconnected, and she arranged to
proceed at two-third speed with the others. This meant something over nine
knots an hour, and, after sticking on a sandbank near the mouth of the
Hoogli, we ultimately reached the neighbourhood of Diamond Harbour on
December 26th, and by means of a Post Office boat, and train, reached
Calcutta and Government House late that evening.
[Sidenote: PASSENGERS ON THE "PUNDUA"]
When I went on board the _Pundua_ I was shown into the good-sized "Ladies
Cabin" and told that I could have that and the adjoining bathroom to
myself. In reply to my inquiry as to whether the other ladies on board
would not want it, I was told that there was only one other lady and she
was not in the habit of using the bath! This seemed queer, till I
discovered that she was the heroine of one of the tragedies which
sometimes occur in the East. She was the daughter of a family of mixed
European and Indian parentage. The other children were dusky but
respectable. She was white, and rather handsome, and fascinated a luckless
young Englishman of good family, who married her, only to discover that
she was extravagant and given to flirtation. They were on their way to a
post--tea-planting if I remember aright--somewhere to the North of India.
When they first left England the husband was very sea-sick, and the wife
carried on a violent flirtation with another passenger and was also
described as swearing and drinking. When the husband recovered she
insisted on his shooting her admirer, and on his declining tried to shoot
her husband. The captain, however, seized the revolver and shut her up in
a second-class cabin. She was only allowed to dine with the first-class
passengers on Christmas evening. Poor husband! I believe that he was quite
a good fellow, but I do not know their subsequent fate.
We also had on board an orchid-hunter who had given up the destination
which he had originally proposed to himself, because he discovered that a
rival was going to some new field for exploration, and as he could not let
him have the sole chance of discovering the beautiful unknown flower of
which there were rumours, he set off to hunt _him_. All the material for a
novel, if only the lady with the revolver had formed an alliance,
offensive and defensive, with the orchid-hunter. Unfortunately we did not
learn the after-history of any of these fellow-passengers.
We were warmly welcomed at Government House, Calcutta, by Lord and Lady
Lansdowne. Lord Lansdowne, an old school and college friend of Jersey's,
had just taken over the reins of Government from Lord Dufferin. Lord
William Beresford, another old friend of my husband's, was Military
Secretary, and Colonel Ardagh Private Secretary. Sir Donald Mackenzie
Wallace, who had been so eminently successful as Private Secretary to the
late Viceroy, was staying on for a short time to place his experience at
the service of the new rulers. The aides-de-camp were Major Rowan
Hamilton, Captain Streatfeild, Captain Arthur Pakenham, Captain Harbord,
and Lord Bingham.
We found that the tardy arrival of our unfortunate _Pundua_ had not only
been a disappointment to ourselves, but, alas! a great grief to many of
the Calcutta ladies, as it was bringing out their new frocks for the
Viceroy's Christmas Ball. I hope that it proved a consolation to many that
the Lieutenant-Governor of Bengal gave a ball at Belvedere two days after
the ship came in, when no doubt the dresses were unpacked. Lady
Lansdowne's pretty daughter, now Duchess of Devonshire, was just out and
therefore able to attend this ball.
[Sidenote: THE BRAHMO SOMAJ]
We spent a few very pleasant days at Calcutta and met various interesting
people. Amongst them was Protap Chunder Mozoondar, Head of the Brahmo
Somaj (i.e. Society Seeking God). He paid me a special visit to expound
the tenets of his Society, which, as is well known, was founded by Babu
Chunder Sen, father of the (Dowager) Maharanee of Kuch Behar. Briefly, the
ideas of the Society are based on natural theology, or the human instinct,
which tells almost all men that there is a God. The Brahmo Somaj accepts a
large portion of the Holy Books of all nations, especially the Vedas and
the Bible. It acknowledges Christ as a Divine Incarnation and Teacher of
Righteousness, but again it does not regard His atonement as necessary to
salvation. My informant's view was that Christian missionaries did not
sufficiently take into account Hindu feelings, and enforced unnecessary
uniformity in dress, food, and outward ceremonies. This is quite possible,
but it would be difficult for a Christian missionary not to insist on the
Sacraments, which form no essential part of the Brahmo Somaj ritual.
Babu Chunder Sen's own sermons or discourses in England certainly go
beyond a mere acknowledgment of Christ as a Teacher and express deep
personal devotion to him and acceptance of His atonement in the sense of
at-one-ment, or bringing together the whole human race, and he regards the
Sacraments as a mystical sanctification of the ordinary acts of
bathing--so congenial to the Indian--and eating. However, in some such way
Protap Chunder Mozoondar seemed to think that a kind of Hinduised
Christianity would ultimately prevail in India.
It is impossible for an ordinary traveller to form an opinion worth having
on such a point, but the Brahmo Somaj, like most religious bodies, has
been vexed by schism. Babu Chunder Sen among other reforms laid down that
girls should not be given in marriage before the age of fourteen, but his
own daughter was married to the wealthy young Maharajah Kuch Behar before
that age. This created some prejudice, though the marriage was a
successful one, and she was a highly educated and attractive woman. She
had a great reverence for her father, and in after years gave me some of
his works. Another pundit, later on, started another Brahmo Somaj
community of his own. The explanation of this given to me by Kuch Behar
himself was that he was a "Parti" and that this other teacher (whose name
I have forgotten) wanted him to marry his daughter, but he chose Miss Sen
instead! I fear that this is not a unique example of church history
affected by social considerations.
While at Calcutta we received a telegram to say that Villiers had reached
Bombay and we met him at Benares on New Year's Day, 1889. He had come out
escorted by a Mr. Ormond, who wanted to come to India with a view to work
there and was glad to be engaged as Villiers's travelling companion.
Rather a curious incident was connected with their voyage. A young Mr. S.
C. had come out on our ship the _Arcadia_--on Villiers's ship a youth
travelled who impersonated this same man. The amusing part was that a very
excellent couple, Lord and Lady W. (both now dead), were on the same ship.
Lady W. was an old friend of Mrs. S. C.--the real man's mother--but, as it
happened, had not seen the son since his boyhood. Naturally she accepted
him under the name he had assumed, and effusively said that she had nursed
him on her knee as a child. The other passengers readily accepted him as
the boy who had been nursed on Lady W.'s knee, and it was not until he had
landed in India that suspicion became excited by the fact that there were
_two_ S. C.'s in the field and that number Two wished to raise funds on
his personality. This assumption of someone else's name is common enough,
and every traveller must have come across instances, but it was rather
funny that our son and ourselves should have travelled with the respective
claimants.
[Sidenote: MAHARAJAH OF BENARES]
At Benares we were taken in hand by a retired official--a Jain--rejoicing
in the name of Rajah Shiva Prashad. We stayed at Clark's Hotel, while
Shiva Prashad showed us all the well-known sights of the Holy City, and
also took us to pay a formal visit to the "Maharajah _of the people_ of
Benares." It is curious that the Maharajah should have adopted that name,
just as Louis Philippe called himself "King of the French" rather than "of
France" to indicate less absolute power. The Maharajah's modesty was due
to the fact that Shiva is supposed to uphold Benares on his trident, and
bears the name of "Mahadeva"--Great God, or Ruler of the City--so the
earthly potentate can only look after the people--not claim the city
itself.
The Maharajah's Palace was on the river in a kind of suburb called
Ramnagar, to which we were taken on a barge. We were received at the
water-steps by a Babu seneschal, at the Castle steps by the Maharajah's
grandson, and at the door of a hall, or outer room, by the Maharajah
himself--a fine old man with spectacles. It was all very feudal; we were
seated in due state in the drawing-room, and after some polite
conversation, translated by our friend the Rajah, who squatted on the
floor at the Maharajah's feet, we were entertained with native music and
nautch-dancing. After we had taken leave of our host we inspected his
tigers, kept, I suppose, as an emblem of his rank. Shiva Prashad told us a
romantic tale of his own life, according to which he first entered the
service of the Maharajah of Bhurtpore, but was disgusted by the cruelty
which he saw exercised--prisoners thrown into miserable pits, and only
given water mixed with salt to drink. He left the Maharajah, and thought
of becoming an ascetic, but being taunted by his relatives for his failure
in life, he (rather like St. Christopher) determined to enter the service
of someone "greater than the Maharajah." He discovered this superior power
in the British Government, which gave him an appointment in the Persian
Department.
While there he somehow found himself with Lord Hardinge and three thousand
men arrayed against sixty thousand Sikhs. The Council of War recommended
falling back and waiting for reinforcements, "but Lord Hardinge pronounced
these memorable words--'We must fight and conquer or fall here.'" They
fought--and first one three thousand, then another three thousand friendly
troops joined in, so the Homeric combat ended in their favour, and Prashad
himself was employed as a spy. Afterwards he retired to the more peaceful
occupation of School Inspector, and when we knew him enjoyed a pension and
landed property.
[Sidenote: MARRIAGES OF INFANTS AND WIDOWS]
He posed as a perfect specimen of a happy and contented man, and had much
to say about the excellence of the British Raj and the ignorance and
prejudice of his own countrymen, whom he said we could not understand as
we persisted in comparing them with Europeans--that is, with reasonable
beings, whereas they had not so much sense as animals! All the same I
think a good deal of this contempt for the Hindu was assumed for our
benefit, particularly as the emancipation of women evidently formed no
part of his programme. He gave an entertaining account of a visit paid by
Miss Carpenter to his wife and widowed sister. Miss Carpenter was a
philanthropic lady of about fifty, with hair beginning to grizzle, who
carried on a crusade against infant marriage and the prohibition of the
remarriage of widows. "Well," was the comment of Mrs. Prashad, "I married
when I was seven and my husband nine and I have been happy. How is it that
this lady has remained unmarried till her hair is growing grey? Has no one
asked her? There ought to be a law in England that no one shall remain
unmarried after a certain age!" The sister countered an inquiry as to her
continued widowhood with the question, "Why does not the Empress marry
again?"