Bhainsror attacked by Alāu-d-dīn.
—Before, however, we altogether quit the wilds of the Chambal, we must record that Bhainsror had been visited by another man of blood, the renowned Alau-d-din, in whose epithets of Khuni, or ‘the sanguinary,’ and Sikandaru-s-sani, or ‘the second Alexander,’ by which history has given him perpetuity of infamy, we recognize the devastating [658] and ferocious Khilji king, who assailed every Hindu prince in India. Obedient to the letter of the law, he had determined to leave not one stone upon another of the temples or palaces of Bhainsror. Everywhere we searched for memorials of the Hun, whose name is also connected with the foundation of Bhainsror; of the Pramar, or the Dudia; but in vain. The vestiges of these ages had disappeared, or been built up in the more modern fortifications. Two such inscriptions we indeed discovered, reversed and applied as common building materials in the walls around the town; one was dated S. 1179 (A.D. 1123), but being in the old ornamented Jain character, would have required time and labour to decipher. The other is also anterior to Ala, and the ornaments in this are decidedly Jain; its purport is as follows: “On the parab (full moon) of Sheoratri (the birthday of Siva), Maharae Dariyai Rae Singh Deo bestowed, in the name of Rameswar, the village of Tatagarh in pun (religious gift). Those who maintain the grant will enjoy the fruits resulting therefrom”; or, in the words of the original:“Samvat 1302 (A.D. 1246).” This form of sasan, or religious charity, is peculiar, and styled sasan Udayaditya, which proves that the Pramar, of whom this is a memorial, was a feudatory of the prince of Dhar, whose era has been fixed. These discoveries stimulated our research, and my revered friend and Guru, who is now deeply embued with antiquarian enthusiasm, vainly offered a large reward for permission to dig for the image of Parsvanath, his great pontiff, of whose shrine he has no doubt the first inscription is a memorial. When about to leave this place (indeed our baggage had gone on), we were informed of some celebrated temples across the river at a place called Baroli, anciently Dholpur. The shrine is dedicated to Ghateswara Mahadeva, with a lingam revolving in the yoni, the wonder of those who venture amongst its almost impervious and unfrequented woods to worship. As I could not go myself, I dispatched the Guru to hunt for inscriptions and bring me an account of it.
Dābhi, February 20, eleven miles; thermometer 48°.—Reascended the third steppe of our miniature Alp, at the Nasera pass (ghat), the foot of which was exactly five miles from Bhainsror, and three and a half furlongs more carried us to its summit, which is of easy ascent, though the pathway was rugged, lying between high peaks on either side. This alone will give a tolerable idea of the height of the Patar above the level of the river. Majestic trees cover the hill from the base to its summit, through [659] which we could never have found a passage for the baggage without the axe. Besides some noble tamarind (imli) trees, there was the lofty semal, or cotton-tree; the gnarled sakhu, which looks like a leper amongst its healthy brethren; the tendu, or ebony-tree, now in full fruit, and the useful dhao, besides many others of less magnitude.[14]—The landscape from the summit was grand: we looked down upon the Charmanvati (vulg. Chambal) and the castle of Raghunath; while the eye commanded a long sweep of the black Bamani gliding through the vale of Antri to its termination at the tombs of the Saktawats. The road to Dabhi was very fair for such a tract, and when within four miles of our tents, we crossed a stream said to have its fountain at Menal, which must consequently be one of the highest points of Uparmal. This rill afforded another means of estimating the height of our position, for besides the general fall to the brink of the chasm, it precipitates itself in a fine cascade of three hundred feet. Neither time nor place admitted of our following this rill to its termination, about six miles distant, through a rugged woody tract. From the summit of the pass of Nasera, we had a peep at the tomb of a Muslim saint, whence the ground gradually shelved to the end of our journey at Kotah.
Monuments to Warriors.
—Dabhi is the line of demarcation between Mewar and Bundi, being itself in the latter State, in the district of Loecha,—dreary enough! It produces, however, rice and makkai, or Indian corn, and some good patches of wheat. We passed the cairns, composed of loose stones, of several Rajputs slain in defending their cattle against the Minas of the Kairar. I was particularly struck with that of a Charan bard, to whose memory they have set up a paliya, or tombstone,[15] on which is his effigy, his lance at rest, and shield extended, who most likely fell defending his tanda. This tract was grievously oppressed by the banditti who dwell amidst the ravines of the Banas, on the western declivity of the plateau. “Who durst,” said my guide, as we stopped at these tumuli, “have passed the Patar eighteen months ago? they (the Minas) would have killed you for the cakes you had about you; now you may carry gold. These green fields would have been shared, perhaps reaped altogether, by them; but now, though there is no superfluity, there is ‘play for the teeth,’ and we can put our turban under our heads at night without the fear of missing it in the morning. Atal Raj! may your sovereignty last for ever!” This is the universal language of men who have never known peaceful days, who have been nurtured amidst the elements of discord and rapine, and who, consequently, can appreciate the change, albeit they were not mere spectators. “We must retaliate,” said a sturdy [660] Chauhan, one of Morji’s vassals, who, with five besides himself, insisted on conducting me to Bhainsror, and would only leave me when I would not let them go beyond the frontier. I was much amused with the reply of one of them whom I stopped with the argumentum ad verecundiam, as he began a long harangue about five buffaloes carried off by the Thakur of Nimri, and begged my aid for their recovery. I said it was too far back; and added, laughing, “Come, Thakur, confess; did you never balance the account elsewhere?”—“Oh, Maharaja, I have lost many, and taken many, but Ramdohai! if I have touched a blade of grass since your raj, I am no Rajput.” I found he was a Hara, and complimented him on his affinity with Alu, the lord of Bumbaoda, which tickled his vanity not a little. In vain I begged them to return, after escorting me so many miles. To all my solicitations the Chauhan replied, “You have brought us comfort, and this is man ki chakari, 'service of the heart.'” I accepted it as such, and we “whiled the gait” with sketches of the times gone by. Each foot of the country was familiar to them. At one of the cairns, in the midst of the wood, they all paused for a second; it was raised over the brother of the Bhatti Thakur, and each, as he passed, added a stone to this monumental heap. I watched, to discern whether the same feeling was produced in them which the act created in me; but if it existed, it was not betrayed. They were too familiar with the reality to feel the romance of the scene; yet it was one altogether not ill-suited to the painter.Karipur, February 21, 9½ miles.—Encamped in the glen of Karipura, confined and wild. Thermometer 51°, but a fine, clear, bracing atmosphere. Our route lay through a tremendous jungle. Half-way, crossed the ridge, the altitude of which made up for the descent to Dabhi, but from whence we again descended to Karipura. There were many hamlets in this almost impervious forest; but all were desolate, and the only trace of population was in the altars of those who had defended to the death their dreary abodes against the ruthless Mina of the Kairar, which we shall visit on our return.
Sontra.
—About a mile after we had commenced our march this morning, we observed the township of Sontra on our right, which is always conjoined to Dabhi, to designate the tappa of Dabhi-Sontra, a subdivision of Loecha. Being informed by a scout that it contained inscriptions, I requested my Guru and one of my Brahmans to go there. The search afforded a new proof of the universality of the Pramar sway, and of the conquests of another “Lord of the world and the faith,” Alau-d-din, the second [661] Alexander. The Yati found several altars having inscriptions, and many paliyas, from three of which, placed in juxtaposition, he copied the following inscriptions:“Samvat 1422 (A.D. 1366). Pardi, Teja, and his son, Deola Pardi, from the fear of shame, for the gods, Brahmans, their cattle, and their wives, sold their lives.”
“S. 1446 (A.D. 1390). In the month of Asarh (badi yakam): Monday, in the castle of Sontra (Sutrawan durg), the Pramar Uda, Kala, Bhuna, for their kine, wives, Brahmans, along with the putra Chonda, sold their existence.”
“S. 1466 (A.D. 1410), the 1st Asarh, and Monday, at Sontragram, Rugha, the Chaora, in defence of the gods, his wife, and the Brahmans, sold his life.”
The following was copied from a kund, or fountain, excavated in the rock:
“S. 1370 (A.D. 1314), the 16th of Asarh (sudi yakam), he, whose renown is unequalled, the king, the lord of men, Maharaja Adiraj, Sri Alau-d-din, with his army of three thousand elephants, ten lakhs of horse, war-chariots and foot without number, conquering from Sambhar in the north, Malwa, Karnat, Kanor, Jalor, Jaisalmer, Deogir, Tailang, even to the shores of the ocean, and Chandrapuri in the east; victorious over all the kings of the earth, and by whom Sutrawan Durg, with its twelve townships, have been wrested from the Pramar Mansi; by whose son, Bilaji, whose birthplace (utpatti) is Sri Dhar, this fountain was excavated. Written and also engraved by Sahideva the stone-cutter (sutradhar).”
Beneath the surface of the fountain was another inscription, but there was no time to bale out the water, which some future traveller over the Patar may accomplish. Sontra, or as classically written, Satrudurg, ‘the inaccessible to the foe,’ was one of the castles of the Pramar, no doubt dependent on Chitor when under the Mori dynasty; and this was only one of the subdivisions of Central India, which was all under Pramar dominion, from the Nerbudda to the Jumna—an assertion proved by inscriptions and traditions. We shall hear more of this at Menal and Bijoli on our return over Uparmal, which I resolve to be thoroughly acquainted with.
Kotah, February 22, eleven miles to the banks of the Chambal.—Although not a cloud was to be seen, the sun was invisible till more than spear-high, owing to a thick vapoury mist, accompanied by a cold piercing wind from the north-west. The descent was gradual all the way to the river, but the angle may be estimated from the fact that the pinnacle (kalas) of the palace, though one hundred and twenty feet above the level of the Chambal, was not visible until within five miles of the bank. The barren [662] tract we passed over is all in Bundi, until we approach Kotah, where the lands of Nanta intervene, the personal domain of the regent Zalim Singh, and the only territory belonging to Kotah west of the Chambal. Karipura, as well as all this region, is inhabited by Bhils, of which race a very intelligent individual acted this morning as our guide. He says it is called by them Baba ka nund, and that they were the sovereigns of it until dispossessed by the Rajputs. We may credit them, for it is only fit for Bhils or their brethren of the forest, the wildbeasts. But I rejoiced at having seen it, though I have no wish to retrace my steps over this part of my journey. Half-way, we passed a roofless shed of loose stones, containing the divinity of the Bhils; it is in the midst of a grove of thorny tangled brushwood, whose boughs were here and there decorated with shreds of various coloured cloth, offerings of the traveller to the forest divinity for protection against evil spirits, by which I suppose the Bhils themselves are meant.[16]
Maypoles.
—We must not omit (though we have quitted the Patar) to notice the ‘Maypoles’ erected at the entrance of every village in the happy basant or spring, whose concluding festival, the Holi or Saturnalia, is just over. This year the season has been most ungenial, and has produced sorrow rather than gladness. Every pole has a bundle of hay or straw tied at the top, and some have a cross stick like arms and a flag flying; but in many parts of the Patar, the more symbolic plough was substituted, dedicated to the goddess of fruition, and served the double purpose of a Spring-pole, and frightening the deer from nibbling the young corn.Kotah City.
—The appearance of Kotah is very imposing, and impresses the mind with a more lively notion of wealth and activity than most cities in India. A strong wall with bastions runs parallel to, and at no great distance from, the river, at the southern extremity of which is the palace (placed within a castle separated from the town), whose cupolas and slender minarets give to it an air of light elegance. The scene is crowded with objects animate and inanimate. Between the river and the city are masses of people plying various trades; but the eye dwells upon the terminating bastion to the north, which is a little fort of itself, and commands the country on both banks. But we shall have more to say regarding this during our halt, which is likely to be of some continuance [663].1. [About 120 miles E.N.E. from Udaipur city.]
3. [Rāwat, Rājaputra, ‘King’s son.’]
4. [In the Indore State, 9 miles S.W. of Mhow cantonment (IGI, x. 134).]
5. [By another tradition, Bhainsa Sāh was a merchant, servant of the Chauhān kings of Sāmbhar and Ajmer (Erskine ii. A. 96).]
6. [The “cradle of the Rāthors,” now in Mallāni.]
7. [The ‘cleft or fissure of the Rāni.’]
8. [The feudal levy.]
9. [About 70 miles N.E. of Udaipur city.]
10. [A criminal tribe, known in the Panjāb as Bāwaria, and as Moghias in Mārwār (Census Report, Mārwār, 1891, ii. 190 f.).]
11. [The ‘annual knot.’ The custom still prevails among Indian Muhammadans, and the mother of the Mughal Emperor used to keep a string in the harem, and added a knot, probably as a magical protective, for every year of her son’s life. The custom of using in this way a thread of red or yellow silk was adopted by the Rājputs (Āīn, i. 267; Jaffur Shurreef, Qanoon-e-Islam, 26; Manucci ii. 346).]
12. [The usual form is: Bher bakrī ek ghāt pītē hain, ‘The wolf and the goat drink at the same river steps.’]
13. [This is the reading by Dr. Tessitori, who remarks: “The above, of course, is Sanskrit.”]
14. [Imli, Tamarindus indica; semal, Bombax heptaphyllum; sākhu or sagwān, the teak, Tectona grandis; tendu, Diospyrus embryopteris; dhao, Anogeissus latifolia.]
15. [Pāliya, ‘a protective, guardian,’ or ‘home of the guardian spirit’; often erected to Rājputs or others dying on the field of battle. At the Kāli Chaudas festival, 14th dark half of Āsho, these stones are daubed with red lead, and coco-nuts are offered (Enthoven, Folklore Notes, Gujarāt, 90; BG, ix. Part I. 218, 363 f.; Forbes, Rāsmāla, 691).]
16. The same practice is described by Park as existing in Africa. [Such trees are known in Gujarāt as ‘Rag Uncle’ (Forbes, Rāsmāla, 452). On rag-trees see E. S. Hartland, Legend of Perseus, ii. 175 ff.; W. Crooke, Popular Religion and Folklore of N. India, 2nd ed. i. 161 ff.]
CHAPTER 7
Unhealthiness of Kotah. Nanta, September 10, 1820.—A day of deliverance, which had been looked forward to by all of us as a new era in our existence. The last four months of our residence at Kotah was a continued struggle against cholera and deadly fever: never in the memory of man was such a season known. This is not a state of mind or body fit for recording passing events; and although the period of the last six months—from my arrival at Kotah in February last, to my leaving it this morning—has been one of the most eventful of my life, it has left fewer traces of these events upon my mind for notice in my journal than if I had been less occupied. The reader may be referred, for an abstract of these occurrences, to Chapter 6, which will make him sufficiently acquainted with the people amongst whom we have been living. To try back for the less important events which furnish the thread of the Personal Narrative, would be vain, suffering, whilst this journal is written, under fever and ague, and all my friends and servants in a similar plight. Though we more than once changed our ground of encampment, sickness still followed us. We got through the hot winds tolerably until the dog-days of June; but, although I had experienced every vicissitude of temperature in every part of India, I never felt anything to be compared with the few days of June at Kotah.
It was shortly after we had shifted the camp from the low paddy-fields to the embankment of the Kishor sagar, or ‘lake,’ immediately east of the city, the sky became of that transparent blue which dazzles the eye to look at. Throughout the day and night, there was not a zephyr even to stir a leaf, but the repose and stillness of death. The thermometer was 104° in the tent, and the agitation of the punkah produced [664] only a more suffocating air, from which I have fled, with a sensation bordering on madness, to the gardens at the base of the embankment of the lake. But the shade even of the tamarind or cool plantain was still less supportable. The feathered tribe, with their beaks opened, their wings flapping or hanging listlessly down, and panting for breath, like ourselves, sought in vain a cool retreat. The horses stood with heads drooping before their untasted provender. Amidst this universal stagnation of life, the only sound which broke upon the horrid stillness, was the note of the cuckoo; it was the first time I had ever heard it in India, and its cheerful sound, together with the associations it awakened, produced a delightful relief from torments which could not long be endured. We invariably remarked that the bird opened his note at the period of greatest heat, about two o’clock in the day, and continued during intervals for about an hour, when he changed his quarters and quitted us. I afterwards became more familiar with this bird, and every day in the hot weather at Udaipur, when I resided in one of the villas in the valley, I not only heard but frequently saw it.[1]
The reader can easily conceive the scene of our encampment; it was at the north-eastern angle of the lake, having in front that little fairy islet with its light Saracenic summer abode (p. 1521). Gardens fringed the base of the embankment, which was bordered with lofty trees; the extended and gigantic circumvallation, over the parapets of which peeped the spires and domes of temples or mosques, breaking the uniformity, and occasionally even showing the distant and elevated land beyond the Chambal. We had also close to us a spot sacred to the manes of the many heroes of this noble family. I frequented the cenotaphs of the Haras, which, if less magnificent than those of Marwar or Mewar, or even of the head of their line of Bundi, may vie with them all in the recollections they conjure up of patriotism and fealty, and of the deadly rancour attendant on civil strife. This cluster of monuments approaches near to the city wall, but is immediately under the dam of the lake, and being enveloped in foliage, almost escapes observation. I was rejoiced to see the good order in which they were maintained, which was another of the anomalies in the regent’s character: for what can so much keep alive the proud spirit of the Haras as these trophies of their sires? But whatever the motive of the act, it is a tribute to virtue; nor could I resist an exclamation of respect to the veteran regent, who is raising a monument to the last prince, which, if it survive to distant times, will afford room to some future [665] traveller to say, that, with Maharao Ummed Singh, Kotah appears to have attained the summit of its power. Nor should I deny myself the praise of having something to do with this harmless piece of vanity; for I procured for the regent free permission from the Rana of Mewar to take from the marble quarry at Kankroli[2] whatever suited his purpose, without price or duty: a request he was too proud to make himself since their ancient quarrel. We had also the range of Madho Singh’s magnificent gardens, of many acres in extent, abounding in exotic flowers and fruits, with parterres of rose-trees, each of many roods of land. But what were all these luxuries conjoined with cholera morbus, and tap tijari, ‘tertian fever,’ and every other fever, around us? But even these physical ills were nothing compared to the moral evils which it was my duty to find remedies for or to mitigate; and they were never adverted to in the many despatches addressed, during our residence in this petit enfer, to supreme authority.
The enthusiast may imagine how delightful travelling must be amongst such interesting races; to visit the ruins of ancient greatness, and to read their history in their monuments; to march along the margin of such streams as the Chambal or the Bamani; to be escorted by these gallant men, to be the object of their courtesy and friendship, and to benefit the condition of the dependant class; but the price of this enjoyment was so high that few would voluntarily pay it, namely, a perpetuity of ill-health. Fortunately, however, for ourselves and our country, if these offices are neither sinecures nor beds of roses, we do not make them beds of thorns; there is a heart-stirring excitation amidst such scenes, which keeps the powers of mind and body alert: a feeling which is fortunately more contagious than cholera, and communicable to all around. How admirably was this feeling exemplified this morning! Could my reader but have beheld the soldiers of my escort and other establishments, as they were ferried over the Chambal, he would have taken them for ghosts making the trajet of the Styx; there was not one of them who had not been in the gripe of pestilential fever or ague. Some of them had had cholera, and half of them had enlarged spleens. Yet, although their muskets were too heavy for them, there were neither splenetic looks nor peevish expressions. It was as delightful as it was wonderful to see the alacrity, even of the bedridden, to leave their ills behind them east of the Chambal.
Scarcely any place can be more unhealthy than Kotah during the monsoon. With the rise of the Chambal, whose waters filtrate through the fissures of the rock, the [666] wells are filled with mineral poison and the essence of decomposed vegetation.[3] All those in the low ground at our first encampment were overflowed from this cause; and the surface of each was covered with an oily pellicle of metallic lustre, whose colours were prismatic, varying, with position or reflection, from shades of a pigeon’s breast (which it most resembled), to every tint of blue blending with gold. It is the same at Udaipur during the periodical rains, and with similar results, intermittent and tertian fevers, from which, as I said, not a man, European or native, escaped. They are very obstinate, and though not often fatal, are difficult to extirpate, yielding only to calomel, which perhaps generates a train of ills.
Meeting with Zālim Singh.
—The last few days of our stay were passed in the ceremonials of leave-taking. On the 5th, in company with the regent, I paid my last visit to the Maharao, who with his brothers returned my farewell visit the day following; and on the 8th and 9th the same formalities were observed with the regent. The man who had passed through such scenes as the reader has perused, now at the very verge of existence, could not repress his sorrow. His orbless eyes were filled with tears, and as I pressed his palsied hands which were extended over me, the power of utterance entirely deserted him. I would expunge this, if I did not know that vanity has no share in relating what I consider to be a virtue in the regent. I have endeavoured to paint his character, and could not omit this trait. I felt he had a regard for me, from a multitude of kind expressions, but of their full value was always doubtful till this day.A Restive Elephant.
—I did not get down to the point of embarkation for some hours after my suite, having been detained by the irresistible hold of ague and fever, though I started before the hot-fit had left me. The regent had prepared the grand barge, which soon landed me on the opposite bank; but Fateh Bahadur, my elephant, seemed to prefer his present quarters to Udaipur; after his howdah, pad, and other gear had been taken off and put into the boat, he plunged into the Chambal with delight, diving in the deepest water, and making a water-spout of his proboscis. He had got a third of the way across, when a new female elephant, less accustomed to these crossings, turned back, and Fateh Bahadur, regardless of his master, was so gallant as to go after her. In vain the mahout (driver) used his pharsi,[4] digging it into his head behind the ear; this only exasperated the animal, and he made one or two desperate efforts to shake off his pigmy driver. Fortunately (being too weak to mount a horse), I found a baggage-elephant just beginning to be loaded: I put my howdah upon her, and the “victorious warrior” suffered the indignity of carrying a load.We passed the town of Kanari, belonging to Raj Gulab Singh, Jhala, a relation of [667] the regent, and one of the Omras of Kotah. It is a thriving comfortable place, and the pinnacled mahall of the Raj gave to it an air of dignity as well as of the picturesque. Our route to Nanta[5] was over a rich and highly cultivated plain, studded with mango-groves; which do not surprise us, since we know it is the family estate of the regent. The patrimonial abode is, therefore, much cherished, and is the frequent residence of his son Madho Singh, by whom I was met half-way between Kanari, and conducted to the family dwelling.
Nānta. Rājput Music.
—Nanta is a fine specimen of a Rajput baronial residence. We entered through a gateway, at the top of which was the Naubat-khana, or saloon for the band, into an extensive court having colonnaded piazzas all round, in which the vassals were ranged. In the centre of this area was a pavilion, apart from the palace, surrounded by orangeries and odoriferous flowers, with a jet-d’eau in the middle, whence little canals conducted the water and kept up a perpetual verdure. Under the arcade of this pavilion, amidst a thousand welcomes, thundering of cannon, trumpets, and all sorts of sounds, we took our seats; and scarcely had congratulations passed and the area was cleared of our escorts, when, to the sound of the tabor and sarangi, the sweet notes of a Panjabi tappa saluted our ears. There is a plaintive simplicity in this music, which denotes originality, and even without a knowledge of the language, conveys a sentiment to the most fastidious, when warbled in the impassioned manner which some of these syrens possess. While the Mahratta delights in the dissonant dhurpad,[6] which requires a rapidity of utterance quite surprising, the Rajput reposes in his tappa, which, conjoined with his opium, creates a paradise. Here we sat, amidst the orange-groves of Nanta, the jet-d’eau throwing a mist between us and the group, whose dark tresses, antelope-eyes, and syren-notes, were all thrown away upon the Frank, for my teeth were beating time from the ague-fit.It was in this very area, now filled with the youth and beauty of Kotah, that the regent exhibited his wrestlers; and it was from the very seat I occupied, that Sriji of Bundi challenged these ruffians to the encounter related in the annals.[7] Having sat a quarter of an hour, in obedience to the laws of etiquette, and in courtesy to the son of the Regent, who had come thus far to escort me, we took leave and hastened to get a cup of tea.
Talera,[8] September 11.—Two miles north-west of Nanta we passed the boundary of the regent’s estate and the Bundi territory. The roads were good, over a well-cultivated and well-wooded plain, the cotton particularly thriving. Talera is a large [668] village on the margin of a fine clear stream, its banks delightfully wooded, abounding in fish, which even tempted my invalid friends to try their luck. Talera is in the jagir of the wakil who attends me on the part of the Bundi Raja, but is still a heap of ruins, and being on the high road, is open to parties of troops.
Nawagāon, September 12.—The road very fair, though a little winding, to avoid some deep ravines. The land rich, well-watered, and too much wooded; but man is wanting to cultivate the fertile waste. The encamping ground afforded not a single tree to screen us from a scorching sun. We passed two cenotaphs, where Rajputs had fallen; but there was no inscription, and no one could reveal their history.
PALACE AND FORTRESS OF BŪNDI.
To face page 1710.
Būndi, September 13.—The country and roads, as usual, flat, with an apparent descent from Talera to the base of the Bundi range, whose craggy and unequal summits showed it could be no buttress to the tableland with which it unites. The general direction of the range is east-north-east, though there are diverging ridges, the course of which it is impossible to delineate.
As we neared the capital of the Haras, clouds of dust, gradually obscuring the atmosphere, were the first signal of the Raja’s approach: soon the sound of drums, the clangour of trumpets, and tramping of steeds, became audible, and at length the Sandnisawars, or camel-messengers, announced the Raja’s presence. He was on horseback. Instantly I dismounted from my elephant, and although too weak to contend with the fire of my steed Javadia, it would have been an unpardonable sin against etiquette to have remained elevated above the prince. All Javadia’s[9] warlike propensities were awakened at the stir of this splendid retinue, from which ever and anon some dashing young Hara issued, “witching the world with noble horsemanship”; and as, in all the various evolutions of the manège, there was not a steed in Rajwara could surpass mine, to my vast inconvenience and no small danger, he determined on this occasion to show them off. In one of his furious bounds, he had his fore-feet on the broken parapet of a reservoir, and as I turned him short, he threw up his head, which came in contact with mine, and made my Chabuk-sawar[10] exclaim, “Ali madad!” “The help of Ali!” and a few more bounds brought me in contact with my friend, the Rao Raja, when we dismounted and embraced. After going through the same ceremony with the principal chiefs, he again gave me three fraternal hugs to prove the strength of his friendship, as he said, with blunt sincerity, “This is your home, which you have come to at last.” With other affectionate welcomes, he took leave and preceded me. His retinue was striking, but not so much from tinsel [669] ornament, as from the joyous feeling which pervaded every part of it. As my friend twirled his lance in the midst of about eight hundred cavaliers and fifteen hundred foot, I thought of the deeds his ancestors had performed, when leading such a gol, to maintain their reputation for fealty. It recalled his words on the formation of the treaty, when the generosity of Britain again restored his country to independence. “What can I say, in return for the restoration of my home? My ancestors were renowned in the time of the kings, in whose service many lost their lives; and the time may come when I may evince what I feel, if my services should be required: for myself, my chiefs, are all yours!” I would pledge my existence that performance would not have lagged behind his promise. We allowed a quarter of an hour to elapse, in order to avoid the clouds of dust which a Rajput alone can breathe without inconvenience; and accompanied by my worthy and dignified old friend, the Maharaja Bikramajit, we proceeded to our tents, placed upon the bank of a tank beyond the town.
The Būndi Palace.
—The coup d'œil of the castellated palace of Bundi, from whichever side you approach it, is perhaps the most striking in India;[11] but it would require a drawing on a much larger scale to comprehend either its picturesque beauties or its grandeur. Throughout Rajwara, which boasts many fine palaces, the Bundi-ka-mahall is allowed to possess the first rank; for which it is indebted to situation, not less than to the splendid additions which it has continually received: for it is an aggregate of palaces, each having the name of its founder; and yet the whole so well harmonizes, and the character of the architecture is so uniform, that its breaks or fantasies appear only to rise from the peculiarity of the position, and serve to diversify its beauties. The Chhattar-mahall, or that built by Raja Chhattarsal, is the most extensive and most modern addition. It has two noble halls, supported by double ranges of columns of serpentine from his own native quarries, in which the vassals are ranged, and through whose ranks you must pass before you reach the state apartments; the view from which is grand. Gardens are intermingled with palaces raised on gigantic terraces. In one of these I was received by the Raja, on my visit the next day. Whoever has seen the palace of Bundi, can easily picture to himself the hanging-gardens of Semiramis. After winding up the zig-zag road, I passed by these halls, through a vista of the vassals whose contented manly looks delighted me, to the inner palace; when, having conversed on the affairs of his country for some time, the Raja led the way to one of the terraces, where I was surprised to find a grand court assembled, under the [670] shade of immense trees, trellised vines, and a fine marble reservoir of water. The chiefs and retainers, to the number of at least a hundred, were drawn up in lines, at the head of which was the throne. The prospect was fine, both for near and distant views, as it includes the lakes called the Jeth-Sagar and Prem-Sagar, with the gardens on their margins, and in the distance the city of Kotah, and both banks of the Chambal; and beyond these successive terraces and mahalls, to the summit of the hill, is seen the cupola of the Dhabhai’s tomb, through the deep foliage, rising above the battlements of Taragarh. This terrace is on a grand bastion, which commands the south-east gorge of the valley leading to the city; and yet, such is the immense mass of building, that from the town one has no idea of its size.It were vain to attempt a description of Bundi, even were I inclined. It was the traitor of Karwar who raised the walls of Taragarh, and it was Raja Budh Singh who surrounded the city with walls, of which Ummed Singh used to say “they were not required against an equal foe, and no defence against a superior—and only retarded reconquest if driven out of Bundi, whose best defence was its hills.”
Illness of Dr. Duncan, September 21.—Partly by business, partly by sickness, we were compelled to halt here a week. Our friend the doctor, who had been ailing for some time, grew gradually worse, and at length gave himself up. Carey found him destroying his papers and making his will, and came over deeply affected. I left my bed to reason with my friend, who refused all nourishment, and was sinking fast; but as much from depression of spirits as disease. In vain I used the common arguments to rouse him from his lethargy; I then tried, as the last resort, to excite his anger, and reviled him for giving way, telling him to teach by example as well as precept. By this course, I raised a tinge of blood in my poor friend’s cheek, and what was better, got a tumbler of warm jelly down his throat; and appointing the butler, Kali Khan, who was a favourite and had great influence, to keep rousing and feeding him, I left him. No sooner was he a little mended, than Carey took to his bed, and nothing could rouse him. But, as time passed, it was necessary to get on; and with litters furnished by the Raja we recommenced our journey.
Banks of the Mej River,[12] September 26, distance ten miles.—I this day quitted my hospitable friend, the Rao Raja. As I left my tent, I found the Maharaja of Thana, with the Dablana[13] contingent (zabita), amounting to a hundred horse, appointed to escort me to the frontier. Our route lay through the Banda-ka-nal, ‘the valley of Banda,’ whose gorge near the capital is not above four hundred yards in breadth, but [671] gradually expands until we reach Satur, about two miles distant. On both sides of this defile are numerous gardens, and the small temples and cenotaphs which crown the heights, in many places well wooded, produce a most picturesque effect. All these cenotaphs are perfectly classical in form, being simple domes supported by slender columns; that of Suja Bai is peculiarly graceful. As we reached Satur, the valley closed our last view of the fairy palace of the Haras, rearing its domes and gilded spires half-way up the mountain, the kunguras of Taragarh encircling it as a diadem, whilst the isolated hill of Miraji, at the foot of which was the old city, terminates the prospect, and makes Bundi appear as if entirely shut in by rocks. Satur is a sacred spot in the history of the Haras, and here is enshrined their tutelary divinity, fair Hope (Asapurna), who has never entirely deserted them, from the sakha of Asi, Gualkund, and Asir, to the present hour; and though the enchantress has often exchanged her attributes for those of Kalima,[14] the faith of her votaries has survived every metamorphosis. A high antiquity is ascribed to Satur, which they assert is mentioned in the sacred books; if so, it is not in connexion with the Haras. The chief temple is dedicated to Bhavani,[15] of whom Asapurna is an emanation. There is nothing striking in the structure, but it is hallowed by the multitude of sacrificial altars to the manes of the Haras who have “fallen in the faith of the Chhatri.” There were no inscriptions, but abundance of lazy drones of Brahmans enjoying their ease under the wide-spreading bar and pipal trees, ready, when well paid, to prepare their incantations to Bhavani, either for good or for evil: it is chiefly for the latter purpose that Satur-ki-Bhavani is celebrated. We continued our journey to Nawagaon, a tolerable village, but there being no good encamping ground, our tents were pitched a mile farther on, upon the bank of the Mej, whose turbid waters were flowing with great velocity from the accumulated mountain-rills which fall into it during the equinoctial rains.
Thāna, September 27.—This is the seat of Maharaja Sawant Singh, the eldest son of my friend Maharaja Bikramajit of Khini. He affords another instance in which the laws of adoption have given the son precedence of the father, who, while he receives homage in one capacity, must pay it in another; for young Sawant was raised from the junior to the elder branch of Thana. The castle of Sawant Singh, which guards the western frontier, is small, but of solid masonry, erected on the crest of a low hill. There are only six villages besides Thana forming his fief, which is burdened with the service of twenty-five horse. In Bundi, ‘a knight’s fee,’ or what should equip one cavalier, is two hundred and fifty rupees of rent. In the afternoon the Maharaja brought [672] his son and heir to visit me, a fine little fellow six years of age, who with his sword buckled by his side and miniature shield on his back, galloped his little steed over hill and dale, like a true Rajput. I procured several inscriptions, but none above three hundred years old.
Jahāzpur,[16] September 28.—At daybreak I again found the Maharaja at the head of his troop, ready to escort me to the frontier. In vain I urged that he had superabundantly performed all the duties of hospitality; “Such were his orders, and he must obey them.” I well know the laws of the Medes were not more peremptory than those of Bishan Singh; so we jogged on, beguiling the time in conversation regarding the semi-barbarous race of the tract I was about to enter, the Minas of Jahazpur and the Karar or fastnesses of the Banas, for ages the terror of the country, and who had studded the plains with cenotaphs of the Haras, fallen in defending their goods and chattels against their inroads. The fortress of Jahazpur was not visible until we entered the pass, and indeed had nearly cleared it, for it is erected on a hill detached from the range but on its eastern face, and completely guards this important point of ingress to Mewar. This district is termed Chaurasi, or consisting of eighty-four townships, a favourite territorial subdivision: nor is there any number intermediate between this and three hundred and sixty. Jahazpur, however, actually contains above a hundred townships, besides numerous purwas, or ‘hamlets.’ The population consists entirely of the indigenous Minas, who could turn out four thousand kamthas, or ‘bowmen,’ whose aid or enmity were not to be despised, as has been well demonstrated to Zalim Singh, who held the district during fifteen years. Throughout the whole of this extensive territory, which consists as much of land on the plains as in the hills, the Mina is the sole proprietor, nor has the Rana any property but the two tanks of Budh Lohari, and these were wrested from the Minas by Zalim Singh during his tenure.[17]
I was met at the frontier by the taiyunnati[18] of Jahazpur, headed by the old chief of Basai and his grandson Arjun, of whom we have spoken in the journey to Kotah. It was a very respectable troop of cavalry, and though their appointments were not [673] equal to my Hara escort, it was satisfactory to see assembled, merely at one post, a body which the Rana two years ago could not have collected round his own person, either for parade or defence: as a beginning, therefore, it is good. Received also the civil manager, Sobharam, the nephew of the minister, a very good man, but without the skill to manage such a tract. He was accompanied by several of the Mina Naiks, or chiefs. There is much that is interesting here, both as matter of duty and of history; we shall therefore halt for a few days, and rest our wearied invalids.