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Rufus Coleman is now a respectable member of society, an editor of the

New York Eclipse. He is hoping to marry Majory Wainwright despite her
father's reservations. As the war between Turkey and Greece erupts we
find Majory unable to return from he

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.
 Several large white warships lay at anchor in the harbour, and
lent a touch of gay colour by being decked with strings of bunting
from stem to stern in honour of our Queen Alexandra’s birthday. A
German liner got in just before us and we saw the coal lighters
being rowed up to her. “La Nera” coaled here also, but it was a less
grimy proceeding than at Port Said, as the coal was in sacks. The
type of coolies, too, was very different, and there were many African
negroes (Soumalis) among them, whose skins could hardly be made
blacker than they were by nature. In addition to its cluster of coaling
lighters, our vessel, now at anchor, was soon surrounded by boats
filled with natives who swarmed round the gangways, and soon
invaded the ship—a crowd of Soumali traders offering ostrich
feathers and feather fans (of a European look), ostrich eggs, wicker
bottle-shaped baskets, shell necklaces, and amber beads, who drove
their trade amongst the passengers on deck, whilst others
endeavoured to catch their eyes from the boats. Thin, lithe young
natives with fuzzy hair were very numerous, and some had dyed
their hair red, which had a grotesque effect with the black skin. I
noted a strange contrast in the same boat, too, which contained two
natives, one of whom wore a sort of large-checked suit of pyjamas
with his mop of red-dyed hair, while his companion had his head
clean shaved with “nodings on”! Some natives seemed to have used
face powder—at any rate had smeared some kind of whitening over
their countenances with ghastly effect.
 IN THE SAME BOAT—A CONTRAST AT ADEN

The scene was a strange one altogether. The crowd of

Europeans on deck, in which nearly every nationality was
represented, mostly clad in topis and white garments, the black
traders moving about them; the swarm of boats at the sides of the
vessel full of bright spots of colour—scarlet turbans, white, orange,
yellow, and purple in the costumes—swaying on the turquoise-
coloured sea; brown-backed gulls flapping over the water and kites
hovering over the harbour; and all steeped in the bright sunshine of
the East. Many of the passengers went ashore in the native boats,
but the scene seemed more amusing from the ship and we remained
on deck.
Aden itself looked more interesting at night, with bright lights
here and there on the shore and on the ships, and the rising moon
translated everything into terms of mystery and romance.
I watched an Arab dhow set sail. It is one of the most beautiful
of sailing vessels, and has a high old-fashioned poop—the line of the
gunwale making a fine curve from stem to stern—a mainmast with a
big lateen sail, two jibs on a short bowsprit, and a secondary smaller
mast astern. The sun set behind the Arabian coast, the jagged peaks
of which we had previously passed. The coaling did not finish till
nightfall. The coolies seemed to undertake all the mechanical
arrangements for the work, fixing the hauling gear and the
necessary ropes and planks, and often in the process seeming to
hang on to the ship with little more than their eyelids. When they
pulled a rope together the cry to keep time sounded like “Leesah!”
or “Leeshah!” with emphasis on the first syllable.
The coaling finished, and the curious swarm of native life that
had surrounded us departed, “La Nera” weighed anchor and pursued
her course eastwards, skirting the rocky coast bathed in the
moonlight as she made for the open Arabian Sea.
The next day in the early morning we had sight of some flying-
fish. They have almost the appearance of swallows at a distance,
especially when seen against the light, but, glancing, as they leap
out of the water, to disappear into it again very quickly, they flash in
the sun like silver.
The Arabian coast was still faintly visible towards the north, but
gradually faded from view. The pleasant light breeze continued and
it was not nearly so hot as in the Red Sea, in fact quite pleasant
either on deck or below—especially with a “windle” fixed to the cabin
port.
We had made an interesting acquaintance on board, a French
gentleman who knew India well and who was on his way to revisit
that country, intending to join an English friend there on a shooting
expedition. He was an old sportsman and had shot big game in
Tibet. He united the keenness and experience of a sportsman with
literary tastes and a love of history and archæology. This gentleman
introduced us to “the green ray,” a phenomenon peculiar to the
Eastern seas, I believe. Just at the moment when the sun disappears
beneath the horizon there is the appearance of a vivid green spark
flashing like a gem which seems to detach itself from the glowing
orb and fly upward, instantly disappearing in the reddening haze. We
witnessed this on several occasions, but in order to see it a clear
sunset is absolutely necessary—that is to say that one must be able
to see the sun sink below the horizon clear of cloud. The lovely
moonlight nights continued, the moon being now ahead, and the
apparent goal of the vessel’s course. One night, however, was
disturbed by the steamer stopping in mid-ocean. One gets so
accustomed to the throb of the engines on board a steamer that its
sudden cessation is quite startling. Passengers clustered near the
engine-room to learn the cause, which turned out to be something
wrong with “a washer” which affected the movement of the shaft.
After about three hours this was repaired and the “Nera” continued
her course. She generally made about 300 miles in the twenty-four
hours.
Incidents in the Indian Ocean were few and far between. Flying-
fish were to be seen, but only in the early morning as a rule; a
whale was noticed spouting, and two sharks were sighted. I saw,
too, a large turtle turn over close to the ship’s side, but such sights
very occasionally varied the wide seascape, and many were glad to
turn to deck games or bridge for diversion, if they could not find it in
books, or in observing their fellow passengers.

SOME TYPES AMONG OUR FELLOW PASSENGERS

Certainly amongst these latter there was no want of interest or

variety; they were quite an international group, and included English
and Anglo-Indians returning after leave of absence in Europe to take
up their official duties, civil or military, on new appointments with
their wives and families; a large proportion of French (it being a
French steamer); then there were Portuguese and Dutch (going out
to Australia), Germans and Canadians, Armenians from Rangoon,
and Indians from Bombay; several Armenian priests also, probably
missionaries; there were negroes and Arabs in the fo’castle, and
among the second-class passengers a characteristic group of English
workmen—foremen engineers and navvies. They were bound for
Bombay, having been engaged to direct coolie labour on new and
extensive docks at that port, their contract being for three years,
and their passage paid. I think they got very tired of doing nothing
and did not feel quite happy with the French dinners, although the
heaviest man of the party made it a rule to devour everything that
was set before him, taking Saint Paul’s advice, and “asking no
questions.” I think all the ages of man—and woman—were
represented on board, including more than one infant “mewling and
puling in its nurse’s arms.” A little sample of the big world chipped
off and sent adrift on the ocean—a ship of life, not without its
enigmas, its little ironies and uncertainties, tossed upon the very
type of uncertainty—the sea.
A ship, however, is a castle of indolence as far as the passengers
are concerned, though the crew, I suspect, would tell a very
different story, as, apart from the severe work of the engineers and
stokers, their work never seems at an end, and it is only by constant
washing, scrubbing, and sweeping that a steamer can be kept
decently clean and habitable.
To break the monotony of the five days’ voyage on the Indian
Ocean a concert was got up by an energetic young lady and her
friends. They went round the ship to discover what hidden musical
or histrionic talent might be concealed under the more or less
disguised personalities of the passengers, and they succeeded in
drawing out enough for an evening’s entertainment on the saloon
deck, which was picturesquely draped with bunting for the occasion,
and a piano was wheeled into position. Various songs were given,
and a French princess, who was among the passengers, recited. The
young lady who had been the leading spirit in organising the concert
herself gave some charming songs which she accompanied on a
guitar, and a pretty song in Japanese costume and umbrella from
“The Geisha,” I think, with much spirit. The proceeds went to the
benefit of the orphans of the Messageries Maritimes sailors.
After this violent excitement the days passed as days do at sea,
the fine weather continuing with delightful monotony. The fresh
easterly breeze was strong enough to fleck the blue plain with
“white horses,” yet not cause any trying movement of the vessel,
which ploughed steadily through the waves, driving the spray from
its bows, and causing dancing rainbows on the foamy crests as they
rebounded from the ship’s side. The sun rising in clear glory from
the sea, disappeared each evening in tranquil splendour, showing
the green ray, and the deep red along the horizon in the west
afterwards, over the dark blue sea. The dark blue above and the
illuminated sky between, recalled the favourite effect in Japanese
prints by Hiroshigi, and at the same time testified to its truth.
But all things have an end, even ocean voyages, and about four
o’clock on the morning of Friday, December the 7th, our steamer
slowed down and took on board the pilot, and we, cautiously
steering past mysterious islands under the dawn, finally cast anchor
in Bombay harbour.
 CHAPTER II

BOMBAY AND THE CAVES OF ELLORA

T he first impression of Bombay from the sea is perhaps a little

disappointing from the pictorial point of view. The town
spreads along the low flat coast, lined with long quays without any
great domes or conspicuous noble buildings. One is aware of
wharves and factory chimneys, and even the palms and gardens of
Malabar Hill, and blue mountains inland do not altogether mitigate
the commercial and industrial aspects of the place; but the light and
colour of the East fuse all sorts of incongruities, and the feeling of
touching a strange land and of setting foot for the first time in India
is sufficiently exciting to throw a sort of glamour over everything.

The steamers cannot disembark their passengers at the quays,

so they have to be landed in boats which cluster about the sides of
the big liner. The official tug comes alongside first, and the official
visit is paid. We were due the evening before, and inquiries as to the
why and wherefore of the delay had to be satisfied. Busy agents and
eager hotel touts come on board, and all is bustle and preparation
for landing.
 LANDING AT BOMBAY

Our Indian friend had been unexpectedly called away and was
unable to meet us, but he committed us to the care of other friends
at Bombay. We landed, however, with our friend the French explorer,
with all our baggage, in a native boat, and by dint of a ragged lateen
sail and oars plied by a swarthy, wild-looking crew, soon reached the
quay, where a crowd of coolies waited to spring upon our
belongings.
 AWAITING THE CUSTOMS—BOMBAY

Our French friend spoke Hindustanee fluently, fortunately for us;

and amid the clamour of tongues which surrounded us, was able to
arrange for an ox-cart to take our united baggage to the Custom-
House, where, after an interview with some languid English officials
clad in white drill and topis, having nothing contraband, we were
duly passed, though our friend, possessing firearms, was delayed
longer, and of course had to pay. The Bombay ox-carts are two-
wheeled with high sides of timber, forming a square open lattice,
and drawn by a pair of oxen. Committing our worldly goods to this
delightful prehistoric vehicle, we took a carriage—a little, one-horse,
open victoria, which is the street cab of Bombay, and similar to those
in use in the towns of Italy—and drove to the Taj Mahal Hotel, a
vast, new, modern caravanserai—which, however, was quite full, so
we went on to the old-established “Watson’s” on the Esplanade,
where we got a good room with a balcony and a view. There was
also a pleasant covered terrace, or verandah, extending the whole
length of the building, which on the north side, always in shade,
faced a garden green with well-watered lawns and thickly planted
with umbrageous mango and banyan trees, amid which the
ubiquitous crows of India (resembling our hooded crow) kept up a
continual cawing chorus as they flitted about, now swooping down
on some ill-considered trifle in the street, or perching expectantly
about the hotel precincts, on the lookout for scattered crumbs. Great
brown kites hovered in the air, forming a second line of watchful but
silent scavengers. The terrace also commanded a view of the street
with all its varied types in costume, race, and colour and character.
The prosperous, sleek Parsee merchant in his curious shiny, sloping
high hat, long black alpaca or white tunic, and loose white nether
garments and umbrella; Europeans in white drill and grey or white
pith helmets, which gave a superficial family likeness to all who wore
them; native servants, Hindu, Portuguese, and half-caste, in every
variety of turban and costume, sitting or standing about in groups,
waiting to be hired; wandering minstrels, dancing women, and
jugglers and tumblers trying to catch the eye—and the small change
—of the traveller; men with tom-toms and performing monkeys,
water-carriers with their dripping goat-skin slung at their side,
coolies and coolie women constantly passing to and fro from the
quays, bearing their burdens on their heads; the bearer and the
ayah in charge of faired-haired English children, passing in and out
of the gardens; the British soldier in khaki, and the native policeman
in blue with a flat yellow cap. These and such as these were the
prevailing types in the scene from the hotel balcony, from whence,
also, we could see the tram-cars, drawn by horses in big white topis,
trailing up and down the Esplanade, while motors flashed by, and
smart European ladies drove in their dog-carts. Beyond the trees of
the garden rose a modern clock tower which told the burning hours
in the familiar Westminster chimes.
 STREET PERFORMERS—BOMBAY

The modern British buildings of Bombay would probably in

newspaper language be described as “handsome.” There were many
showy and pretentious structures in a sort of Italian Gothic style, but
they looked imported, and were decidedly out of place in a country
which possesses such magnificent specimens of architecture of its
own growth—as one might say. The many balconied and shuttered
fronts, with projecting stories, the ridge-tiled roofs and plastered
walls that we saw in the older quarters of the town seemed, as types
of dwelling-houses at least, much more suitable and characteristic,
and such types would surely be capable of adaptation to modern
requirements. The Crawford Market is one of the sights of Bombay.
Outside, with its steep roofs, belfry, and projecting eaves it has a
rather English Gothic look, but inside the scene is entirely oriental,
crowded with natives in all sorts of colours, moving among fish, fruit,
grain, and provisions of all kinds, buying and selling amid a clamour
of tongues—a busy scene of colour and variety, in a symphony of
smells, dominated by that of the smoke of joss-sticks kept burning at
some of the stalls as well as a suspicion of opium, which pervades all
the native quarters in Indian cities. There is a sort of court or garden
enclosed by the buildings, and here the live stock is kept—all sorts of
birds and animals.
A drive through the native bazaar of Bombay is a revelation. The
carriage works its way with difficulty through the narrow, irregular
street, crowded with natives in every variety of costume (or next to
no costume), forming a wonderful moving pattern of brilliant colour,
punctuated by swarthy faces, gleaming eyes, and white teeth. Shops
of every kind line each side of the way, and these are rather dark
and cavernous openings, shaded by awnings and divided by posts or
carved pillars on the lowest story, but raised from the level of the
streets by low platforms which serve the purposes of counter and
working bench to the native merchant or craftsman who squats
upon it, and often unites the two functions in his own person. He
generally carries on his work in the presence of his whole family,
apparently. All ages and sexes crowd in and about the shops,
carrying on a perpetual conversazione, and the bazaar literally
swarms with dusky, turbaned faces, varied by the deep red sari of
the Hindu women, with their glittering armlets and anklets, or the
veiled Mohammedan in her—well, pyjamas!
The older house fronts above the shops were often rich with
carving and colour, the upper stories being generally supported over
the open shop by four columns. It reminded one of the arrangement
of a mediæval street, as also in its general aspect, the shops being
mostly workshops; and, as in the old days in Europe, could be seen
different crafts in full operation, while the finished products of each
were displayed for sale. There were tailors stitching away at
garments, coppersmiths hammering their metal into shape, leather
workers, jewellers, cook-shops, and many more, the little dark shops
in most cases being crowded with other figures besides those of the
workers—each like a miniature stage of life with an abundance of
drama going on in all. The whole bazaar, too, was gay with colour—
white, green, red, orange, yellow, and purple, of all sorts of shades
and tones, in turban or robe—a perfect feast for the eye.
In the course of our drive through the bazaar we met no less
than three wedding processions, though rather broken and
interrupted by the traffic. In one the bridegroom (who, with the
Hindus and Mohammedans, is considered the most important
personage in the ceremony as well as the spectacle) was in a
carriage, on his way to fetch the bride, in gorgeous raiment and with
a crown upon his head. He was followed by people bearing floral
trophies, perhaps intended for decoration afterwards. These
consisted of gilt vases with artificial flowers in them, arranged in
rows close together, and carried in convenient lengths on a plank or
shelf by young men bearers.
Another of the bridegrooms was mounted on a horse, crowned
and robed like a Byzantine emperor with glittering caparisons and
housings, a tiny little dusky girl sitting behind him and holding on,
who was said to be his little sister.
The third bridegroom we saw was veiled, in addition to the
bravery of his glittering attire. Flowers were strewn by boys
accompanying him, and a little bunch fell into our carriage as we
waited for the procession to go by, in which, of course, the
musicians went before. We afterwards passed the house where the
wedding was being celebrated, the guests assembling in great
numbers to the feast, a tremendous noise going on, drums beating
and trumpets blowing. In one of the processions very antique-
looking trumpets or horns were carried of a large size, much
resembling the military horns of ancient Roman times. These were
Hindu weddings.
We also had a glimpse of a Parsee wedding. This was in the
open court of a large house arcaded from the street, brilliantly
illuminated, where sat a great crowd of guests all attired in white.
Working right through the native bazaar we reached the Victoria
Gardens, a sort of Kew and Zoological rolled into one, being well
stocked with fine palms and many varieties of tropical trees, as well
as birds and animals, and all looking in good condition and well kept.
Many Eurasians were here walking about, looking very weird in
European dress. In these gardens are situated the Victoria and
Albert Museum of Bombay.
Sir George Birdwood had given me an introduction to H.H. the
Aga Khan and we drove out to his abode, only to find, however, that
His Highness had gone to Calcutta on his way to Japan. I was not
much more fortunate with my other introductions to the eminent
Parsee Sir Jamsetji Jijibhai, and Sir Cowasji Jehangir Readymoney.
Although the son of the latter magnate did call upon us and brought
us an invitation from Lady Jehangir, we were unable to accept it
owing to the shortness of our stay in Bombay. I understood that the
Calcutta Races in December attracted a great many of the rich
Bombay residents, and this accounted for the absence from their
homes of many at that time.
We had a glimpse of some of the palaces on Malabar Hill, seeing
the latter first against a glowing sunset. Fringed with palms and
plantains, with its fantastic buildings silhouetted on the sky, it
recalled the banks of storm cloud I had seen on the voyage, with
their vaporous trees and aerial hanging gardens.
A closer acquaintance did not impress us with any conviction of
the healthiness of Malabar Hill, though of the sumptuousness of its
houses, and often their fantastic character, and the luxuriance of its
palms and gardens, there could be no doubt. We passed the grey
wall of the Tower of Silence, the burial (?) place of the Parsees,
where the crows, the kites, and the vultures were gathered together,
but did not linger there. From the hill there is certainly a magnificent
view of the city of Bombay: especially if seen just before sundown,
when a golden glow seems to transfigure the scene; and later,
looking down on the vast plain, the white houses partly hid in trees
scattered along the shore, the quays, and the ships at anchor in the
bay, all seem to sink like a dream into the roseate atmosphere of
sunset. But even that lovely light is darkened by a heavy smoke
cloud drifting on the city from the forest of gaunt factory chimneys
rising in the East like the shadow of poverty which is always cast by
the riches of the West.
One rather wondered that Bombay was content to allow its best
drive to be disfigured by a continuous succession of hideous
commercial posters painted along the walls of one of its sides, the
other being lined with palms and open towards the sea. This is,
however, not worse indifference—in fact not so bad—as ours at
home in allowing the posters along the railway lines to disfigure the
charming and varied landscape of our own country.
 INTERVIEW WITH CANDIDATES FOR THE POST OF BEARER—MOSTLY
UNBEARABLE!

One of the first necessities to the traveller in India, especially if

he be ignorant of Hindustanee, is the engaging of a native bearer or
servant. There is always a large class of these seeking engagements.
They may be seen hanging about Messrs Cook’s Tourist Offices in
groups. They usually wear white clothes and turbans, but the half-
caste Portuguese are dressed in semi-European fashion with their
cloth suits and small, flat, round caps of the sort which used to be
termed “pork pie” in England, only lower. These are embroidered
round the rim, and a similar sort of head covering is also worn by
superior caste Hindus. For the post of bearer the traveller will find
plenty of applicants when he makes his requirements known, in fact
their number is rather embarrassing, and they all produce “chits” or
letters of recommendation from former employers. These, indeed,
are the only references to go upon, unless one happens to come
with the personal testimony of a friend. The bearers mostly register
their names at Cook’s offices, but they do not take any responsibility
there for them in any way. These native servants expect 35 rupees
(and upwards) a month, with an allowance for clothes, but out of
this pay they find their own food. If, however, their food is provided,
they take less pay—about 25 rupees—but prices generally have an
upward tendency. The engagement may probably be for three or
four months, which gives the ordinary European tourist time to get
round India, visiting the principal places of interest en route. A rupee
in India is now only worth one shilling and four-pence, and fifteen
rupees are the equivalent of a sovereign, it should be remembered.
Of course the bearer’s travelling expenses and washing are paid
as long as he is with his master, and his fare home when his
engagement comes to an end, and then, too, probably he would get
a present if his conduct has been satisfactory. One does not
generally expect mirrors of virtue and trustiness on such terms. No
doubt native bearers vary considerably in capacity and experience as
well as in appearance, to say nothing of honesty and fidelity, and
some are better as couriers than as body or camp servants, or vice
versa. Some claim to be efficient valets des places in addition to
ordinary services, but it should be remembered that the bearer caste
are not allowed to enter the sacred precincts of the great temples in
India. Our choice, influenced mainly by a personal recommendation,
fell on one Moonsawmy—a not unusual Hindu name. He had been in
the service of Sir Samuel Baker and had had some experience in
tiger-shooting, or at any rate had been out on such expeditions and
in camp with the famous traveller and sportsman, but he had also
acted as courier to English parties travelling in India, and professed
to know the country well. We had planned an excursion to the caves
of Ellora from Bombay with our friend M. Dauvergne, who had never
seen them and was anxious to do so. Having mapped out our route
we started on our expedition on December the 10th. Leaving Victoria
Station, Bombay, at noon, we travelled by the G. I. P. (Great Indian
Peninsular Railway), making our first train journey in India. The line
crossed a cultivated plain at first, getting clear of Bombay; groups of
date palms here and there were suggestive of Egypt. We passed
native villages of different types, some with thatched roofs and some
with tile—brown ridge tiles not unlike what one sees in Italy, and
even corrugated iron was visible (alas!) here and there. The low huts
built of sun-dried bricks or mud with flat roofs were the strangest
and most eastern-looking. One could get glimpses, too, of the
inhabitants, the Hindu women in saris, often of red or purple or blue,
bearing on their heads water jars or bright brass or copper vessels,
with much natural grace, some also carrying little brown babies
supported by one arm on their hip.
 A BED AT THE DAK BUNGALOW! MUNMAD (KEEP IT DA(R)K)

Leaving the plains we entered a very interesting hill country

covered with jungle and forests where we saw many teak trees and
banyans, besides many varieties of acacia. Mountains of striking
form came into view, suggestive of castled crags. We soon
afterwards passed the Thull Ghat, where the line rises as much as
1050 feet in a distance of about ten miles—which means a steep
gradient. We passed rice fields, also sugar canes, and a kind of
Indian corn, but not maize, and castor-oil plants which are cultivated
extensively. There were interesting and picturesque groups of
natives at all the stations. Finally Munmad was reached towards six
o’clock in the evening. This was our first stage, and the junction for
Daulatabad our next, in the territory of the Nizam of Hyderabad. We,
however, decided to stay the night at Munmad and go on the next
morning—in fact, if I remember right, it was a case of necessity, as
there was no train on that evening. So we were conducted to the
Dak Bungalow, some little walk from the station, through a native
village, with our baggage carried on the heads of women coolies. We
found the bungalow a most inhospitable place of incredible
bareness, and nothing to sleep on but narrow wooden framed
couches, having a sort of stringy webbing full of holes. The gaunt
draughty rooms were almost destitute of other furniture and had no
conveniences of any kind. The native keeper of the place seemed
helpless. There was no food to be had, and he could not have
cooked it if there had been, so we had to make shift as best we
could with what we had in our tea baskets. I should not advise any
one to travel in India, at least at all off the track of hotels, without
provisions and bedding. There was not much sleep to be had that
night. The beds were frightfully uncomfortable and the room was
cold. An Anglo-Indian official on the forest service occupied the best
room, we afterwards discovered, but he, as is usual, travelled with
his horses and several servants, including a cook, and a supply of
necessaries of all sorts. We left the inhospitable bungalow early the
next morning, processing through the village in the same way as
that in which we had come, with our baggage on the heads of the
coolie women. We made the acquaintance at Munmad of the
charming, frisky little palm squirrels which abound everywhere in
India—delightful little greenish-grey creatures with dark longitudinal
stripes extending from their noses to their tails. They play about the
dwellings quite familiarly, but are off like a shot up a tree and out of
sight at the smallest alarm. Scaling the trunk of a tree spirally, they
have almost the appearance of lizards, and they are certainly as
nimble.
The buffalo cow, too, is seen in every Indian village, a strange,
dusky, rough-coated beast, with a weird, half-human, but rather
sinister expression in its dark eyes, with long horns turned back
upon their necks. They walk scornfully along to be milked, with an
air which seems to say they thought the world but a poor place.
We took train to Daulatabad and entered the Nizam’s territory. A
police officer in his service was in the train, and was very intelligent
and gave us much useful information. We now passed through a
more arid-looking country than before, where cactuses and low trees
grew sparsely on burnt yellow slopes and rocky hills, often of
strange form, the country showing signs of a great upheaval from
the sea.
At Daulatabad, a small road station, a tonga was waiting for us,
drawn by two poor broken-down ponies and a rather ragged red-
turbaned driver. Our destination was the town of Rozah, a drive of
some ten miles and mostly uphill, on a loose, rough road.
A conspicuous object in the landscape at Daulatabad is the
ancient fortress upon a steep hill rising abruptly from the plain. It
was a famous stronghold, but was conquered by the Mohammedans
in the thirteenth century. There are the ruins of the ancient city
which it once protected, and within the citadel are remains of Hindu
temples, one transformed into a mosque by the Moslems. Our road
lay through the shattered gates which still marked the extent of the
city with fragments of the outer walls, the whole area overgrown
with trees and herbage, and clusters of native huts here and there.
The road to Rozah is an almost continuous ascent, and in some
places very steep, which made it very hard work for the wretched
ponies which dragged our tonga, though, of course, we relieved it of
our weight by walking up the worst hills. The sun was blazing, but
there was a little shade to be had occasionally under the fine banyan
trees which skirted the roadside.
Towards evening we saw the domes of Rozah on a high plateau
in front of us, and presently entered the town through a
battlemented gate. It was a Mohammedan town with many
important domed tombs, but it had a neglected and sparsely
peopled aspect and a look of departed splendour. We made our way
along a straggling street, and, passing through another gate, came
out upon the other end of the plateau, from which we saw, opening
before us as far as the eye could reach towards the west, the vast,
green, fruitful plains of the Deccan. In command of this view we
found our quarters for the night—the Travellers’ Bungalow—but this,
the Nizam’s bungalow, was a great contrast to the one at Munmad,
being clean and comfortable, with good beds and sufficient furniture
and rugs, and a bath-room. The native in charge was able to provide
food, too, and to cook a dinner, which, if not exactly Parisian, was, at
all events, a vast improvement upon our last one. The sun set
without a cloud, the last golden light lingering upon the white and
black domes of the tombs around us. Then followed the afterglow,
and then the darkness fell like a curtain, but the stars were intensely
bright in the clear sky. The air was very pure and the silence of the
place was profound. We were glad to rest after our long, hot, dusty
journey, but I managed to get a sketch done before the light went.
After breakfast the next morning (December 12) we started to
walk to the caves at Ellora, which we found were only a short
distance down the hill. A winding road led us past another of the
Nizam’s bungalows to a sort of terrace in front of the first great
cave, or, more properly, rock-cut temple, the Kylas, which, coming
down the hill from above, one does not see until close upon it, and it
is only on entering the court through the great gateway that one
slowly realises the wonder of it. A huge temple of symmetric ground
plan cut clean out of the great cliff, the straight sides of which are
seen rising like a vast wall above it. A mass of intricate and richly
carved detail, a veritable incrustation of carving of extraordinary
richness rises before one. Standing clear in a spacious court,
enclosed on three sides by a deep arcade cut in the sheer sides of
the cliff (which shows the tool marks), having an outer row of
massive detached columns and an inner row of engaged columns,
and deep recessed chambers.
 THE KYLAS, CAVES OF ELLORA

On each side of the entrance to the temple in the court stand

two isolated columns or pylons, and near these two great stone
elephants. These columns and elephants really flank a big pedestal
of stone with steps cut in it which lead up to a huge image of a
Sacred Bull within a square chamber, from which a bridge is crossed
and the portico of the temple is reached. Through this the great
central hall, or nave, of the temple is entered, divided into four parts