7th.—Quitted Rāj ghāt early, and tracked slowly past Benares, stopping every now and then to take a sketch of those beautiful ghāts. The minārs rear their slender forms over the city, and it is not until you attempt to sketch them that their height is so apparent, and then you gaze in astonishment at them, marvelling at the skill that has reared structures of such height and elegance, and at the honesty of the workmen, who have given such permanent cement to the stones.
A little farther on is a cluster of Hindū temples of extreme beauty and most elaborate workmanship, with a fine ghāt close to them; one of these temples has been undermined by the river, and has fallen—but not to the ground; it still hangs over the stream,—a most curious sight. How many temples the Ganges has engulphed I know not; some six or seven are now either deeply sunk in, or close to the water, and the next rains will probably swell the river, and undermine two or three more. A fine ghāt at the side of these has fallen in likewise.
Above this cluster of falling temples is a very beautiful ghāt, built of white stone,—I know not its name; but I sketched it from the boats. It is still uninjured by time, and is remarkable for the beauty of its turrets, over the lower part of which a palm-tree throws its graceful branches in the most picturesque manner. On the top of a small ghāt, just higher than the river, at the bottom of a long flight of steps, two natives were sitting, shaded from the sun by a large chatr; groups of people in the water were bathing and performing their devotions,—many were passing up and down the flight of stone steps,—whilst others, from the arched gallery above, were hanging garments of various and brilliant colours to dry in the sun. On the outside of some of the openings in the bastions straw mats were fixed to screen off the heat.
Just above this fine structure, on a small ghāt, a little beyond the minarets, is a gigantic figure in black stone of Bhīm Singh, a deified giant, of whom it is recorded that he built the fortress of Chunar in one day, and rendered it impregnable. The giant is represented lying at full length on his back, his head, adorned with a sort of crown, is supported on raised masonry; at his right side is erected a small altar of mud, of conical form, bearing on its top a tulsī plant; the natives water these plants, and take the greatest care of them. The tulsī had formerly the same estimation amongst the Hindūs, that the misletoe had amongst the ancient Britons, and was always worn in battle as a charm; on which account a warrior would bind a mala of tulsī beads on his person. The scene was particularly picturesque; below the ghāt, on which reposed the gigantic hero, were some native boats; and near them was a man dipping a piece of cloth embroidered in crimson and gold into the water; while, with a brilliant light and shade, the whole was reflected in the Ganges.
A little distance beyond I observed a number of small ghāts rising from the river, on each of which a similar conical tulsī altar was erected, and generally, at the side of each, the flag of a fakīr was displayed from the end of a long thin bamboo. A man who appeared to be a mendicant fakīr, came down to the river-side, carrying in one hand a long pole, and in the other one joint of a thick bamboo, which formed a vessel for holding water, and from this he poured some of the holy stream of the Ganges on the little shrub goddess the tulsī.
In the midst of hundreds and hundreds of temples and ghāts, piled one above another on the high cliff, or rising out of the Ganges, the mind is perfectly bewildered; it turns from beauty to beauty, anxious to preserve the memory of each, and the amateur throws down the pencil in despair. Each ghāt is a study; the intricate architecture, the elaborate workmanship, the elegance and lightness of form,—an artist could not select a finer subject for a picture than one of these ghāts. How soon Benares, or rather the glory of Benares—its picturesque beauty—will be no more! Since I passed down the river in 1836 many temples and ghāts have sunk, undermined by the rapid stream.
The Bāiza Bā’ī’s beautiful ghāt has fallen into the river,—perhaps from its having been undermined, perhaps from bad cement having been used. Her Highness spared no expense; probably the masons were dishonest, and that fine structure, which cost her fifteen lākh to rear a little above the river, is now a complete ruin.
The ghāt of Appa Sāhib is still in beauty, and a very curious one at the further end of Benares, dedicated to Mahadēo, is still uninjured; a number of images of bulls carved in stone are on the parapet of the temple, and forms of Mahadēo are beneath, at the foot of the bastions.
We loitered in the budgerow for above six hours amongst the ghāts, which stretch, I should imagine, about three miles along the left bank of the Ganges.
At the side of one of the ghāts on the edge of the river sat a woman weeping and lamenting very loudly over the pile of wood within which the corpse of some relative had been laid; the friends were near, and the pile ready to be fired. I met a corpse yesterday in the city, borne on a flat board; the body and the face were covered closely with bright rose-coloured muslin, which was drawn so tightly over the face that its form and features were distinct; and on the face was sprinkled red powder and silver dust; perhaps the dust was the pounded talc, which looks like silver.