A gentleman truly remarked to us, "There are three stages through which Englishmen pass when travelling or living in India. First there is extreme sympathy with the native, and surprise at the rough treatment of the Anglo-Indian; this is followed by intense disgust at their cruelty, laziness, and ingratitude; and, lastly, he passes into an indifferent state, accepting the native as he is." This second stage I think we reached to-day, after having certainly gone through the first on landing.
The Grand Duke and Duchess of Mecklenburg Schwerin, with Don Carlos, the unsuccessful candidate for the Spanish throne, are staying in the hotel. When we arrived home this evening we found the balcony covered with baskets of fruit and vegetables, bouquets of flowers, with baked sweet-meats, brought to them as offerings of respect by the natives. The laughing of jackals around the house, and the trumpeting of a neighbouring elephant, made night hideous for us.
Tuesday, January 20th.—We had again to be up very early, and drive down to the ghât, where the Secretary of the Maharajah of Benares (the Maharajah himself being away on a pilgrimage to Allahabad) had promised to have a boat in readiness to take us across the river to the Old Fort and Palace. Through some misunderstanding we failed to find the boat, but we were just as happy and interested in again rowing up and down the ghât for two hours, seeing a repetition of yesterday's gay scene, till it was time to go to the station for the train to Allahabad.
At the junction of Mogul Serai we saw an amusing scene. Some purdah ladies on a pilgrimage to Benares were hurried out of their compartments, and, with their heads completely covered, hustled across the platform and pushed into a reserved carriage. Here a curtain was hastily hung up over the open grating which alone divides the third-class carriages.
During the afternoon we passed Chunar, celebrated for its quarries of fine yellow durable stone, and Mirzapore, a large cotton-manufacturing town. At five o'clock we were crossing the Jumna on a magnificent bridge, and about to reach Allahabad.
Allahabad, or the "City of Allah," is a very sacred place, situated as it is on a tongue of land formed by the junction of two such hallowed rivers as the Ganges and the Jumna. The Hindus say there is a third river which is invisible, flowing direct from heaven, and adding its waters unseen to the others. We are fortunate in being here now, as January and February are the great months of pilgrimage, and during that time hundreds of thousands come down to bathe. Allahabad is known to the ordinary and non-religious world as the seat of the Government of the North-West Provinces and Oude.
In the dusk we explored the compound, where polo was just ending, and the wandering length of miles about Canning Town. Up and down the broad and dreary roads bordering the burnt-up plains of grass we drove in search of Mr. Lawrence's, the District Commissioner's bungalow, which we found, only to be told he was away. Quite familiar we became that evening with the principal feature of Allahabad, the long straight military and civil lines, with their rows of bungalows.
Wednesday, January 21st.—A cold, bright morning. After that indispensable meal of the Anglo-Indian, chota hazri, or early tea and toast, we drove out to the Fort. Such a wonderful spectacle presented itself to us as we emerged out into the open. Across the broad plain flocked thousands of pilgrims, in one continuous stream, all going down in the early morning to bathe at that sacred spot where the Ganges and Jumna effect a junction. They formed a bright ribbon of rainbow colours, streaming across the flat plain, winding with the turnings of the road. For a mile or more the line extended, and the throng was constantly swelled by stragglers hurrying across the plain to join them. As we drew near we saw what a motley procession it formed. Crowded ekkas with the members of an entire family perched up or clinging to its sides, solitary horsemen, children mounted on donkeys, vendors and mountebanks, mingling with the throng of pedestrians,—of men, women, and children, all bound on the same errand, all hurrying to the same spot.
From the earthen ramparts of the Fort we looked down on the curious sight. The delta of sand was covered with a rude encampment, and at the furthermost point where the rivers joined, the banks were invisible from the swarm of human beings. This is where the stream we had followed along the plain became absorbed in the black moving mass. The pilgrim, on arrival here, sits down on the bank, and has his head and body shaved, allowing each hair to fall separately into the water, in sure belief in the promise of the sacred writings, which tells him that for every hair thus deposited a million years' residence in heaven is secured.
The redstone Fort was built by Akbar in 1572, but it presents but a very modern appearance now, filled with the scarlet coats of our regiments, and the "carkee" of the sepoys, whilst the magnificent bullocks of the Transport Department occupy a corner of the compound. In the centre of the Fort stands a beautiful monolith, surrounded by a garden. The jagged top shows it has been broken off short, and there are two very ancient Pali inscriptions, barely decipherable on the polished sides. It is one of the "three Asoka's columns," dating from 235 B.C.; the second we had seen at Benares, and the other has been recently set up at Delhi.