We visited the Peishwa's palace. Our syce, or groom, looked like a bedizened prince as he led the way with his gay turban and brilliant sash. We kept close to his horse's heels, and the pundit, whose long white robe gave him the appearance of a lady on horseback, brought up the rear.
The palace, temples, and pavilions of the late Peishwa all cluster about a most beautiful hill called Parbuttee, a corruption of the Sanskrit word Pharvati, "Sacred Mountain." A magnificent garden called "Hira Bâgh" ("the gem or diamond garden"), and a fine reservoir with an old pavilion on its bank, are some of the features of this sacred spot. The palace is in no way worthy of notice, and is fast crumbling away, but it is approached by a magnificent staircase of stone steps cut out of the mountain, and so gradual that we rode up it on horseback. The hill is covered with temples. The view is very fine; seen over the lake with its pretty little tree-covered islands and wide fields studded with palm- and mango-plantations, it was one vast beautiful picture.
Our syce pointed out to us the spot where a young Mahratta prince dashed himself headlong from his pavilion because he was publicly reprimanded for some breach of etiquette by his prime minister, Nana Furnaveez.
There was much to interest us, however, in the temples, that are still kept in good repair, filled with the monstrous idols of the Hindoos; and here are held great annual festivals in their honor. Over two hundred Brahman priests worship here, and are supported by the voluntary contributions made to their shrines.
We went into the temple of Parvati. Our pundit led the way, accompanied by a singularly interesting Mahratta Brahman priest, but I noticed that the sectarian marks on his forehead and those on the pundit's were very different. The former wore the marks of Siva, two straight lines crossed, and the pundit those of Maha Dèo, two concentric circles with a straight line. Before our eyes had become accustomed to "the dim religious light" of this temple, the power of which the Hindoos so well understand, I looked and saw right in front of me, and immediately at the foot of the altar, the prostrate figure of the pundit, and the Brahman priest beside him, their arms and hands stretched out, their faces hidden on the pavement, their limbs stiff and rigid, and their long white robes clinging to their persons.
Within full sight and hearing of the beauty of Christianity, with all the wonders and marvels of scientific discoveries taught hard by in the public native school and in the Sanskrit college, here were these men, neither of whom lacked intellectual training, bowing down to idols of wood and stone. Surely, the more earnest and spiritual of these lowly worshippers see something of the truth, beauty, and goodness of God, denied to less ardent natures, and only discernible with closed eyes and in moments of deep, silent emotion.
There is a massive silver statue of Siva seated on the altar, holding on his knees his wife Parvati and their son Ganesa. These smaller idols, it is said, are of pure gold; a princely fortune in precious gems adorns their headdresses, their necks, and gleams out of their eyes. There were dusky arches and dingy, time-stained columns and all kinds of figures on the walls, and over them all a smoky atmosphere and an odor of incense mingled with that of burnt-offerings.
We went out almost faster than we had gone in. Pundit and his guru, or spiritual guide, were still going through some genuflexions. A Brahman is a Brahman indeed, but are Christians always the followers of Jesus? We sat down on the steps of the temple, and by and by the pundit came out with his spiritual guide, looking calm and serene.
We visited the English school for the natives in the Budhwar[65] portion of the city, also the Sanskrit college, and saw there hundreds of handsome, eager-looking students, and we were assured that it produced men of very great learning, who could hold their own in Sanskrit, Mahratta, Hindostanee, and English even, with some of the greatest scholars in England, France, or Germany.
A spot is shown at Sangam, not far from where we took up our abode, where the devoted Hindoo widows formerly underwent cremation with the dead bodies of their husbands. These monuments can only be seen when the water at Sangam (the spot where the Moola and Moota Rivers meet) is at its lowest ebb. They consist of flat stones or slabs laid in the river-bed, with two female feet engraved on each of them. Even in this, the most hideous and barbaric of Hindoo customs, is found lingering a beautiful and tender sentiment. The feet engraved on the slabs prove the willingness with which these unknown women followed their loved ones through the ordeal of a fiery death into the world beyond, and the meeting of the two rivers typifies the final reunion of their souls.