In this instance the surroundings were most appropriate. We had left the carriages in a grove close by; the sun was about setting; Goby Singh, who accompanied us, had taken us out in a boat to drift with the current on the Chambal (a fine river, which pours its contingent into the Jumna near Calpi); the evening was calm, and the banks of the river studded with magnificent foliage. As our boat, drifting with the current, rounded a headland, we noticed a small procession of men coming down the bank of the river carrying a litter covered with flowers. We dropped a small kedge and watched the sequel. Close to the water’s edge a pile of sandalwood had been prepared. Here the procession stopped, the litter—upon which lay the dead body—was carefully laid on tressles. Four of the party then led the nearest relative of the deceased person to the river, where he was bathed, anointed with perfumes, dressed in new white garments, and prepared for the sacrifice. During that time oil and perfumes, as well as flowers, had been placed on the pile of wood, the body of the dead placed reverently on the top, and actually covered with flowers. The chief mourner (being the next of kin) slowly approached the place. All those present knelt, with their heads touching the ground, whilst the chief mourner, with a lighted torch, set fire to the pyre at each corner, then at each centre. In an instant the flames encircled the body, and the mourners retired a short distance to recite the prayers for the dead.
The sun had sunk below the horizon—a soft twilight alone remained. The glassy surface of the water reflected most accurately every line of this sad ceremony—the flames, the smoke, the very figures of the mourners in their picturesque Eastern garments, being repeated on the water as in a mirror. The perfect stillness of everything around rendered the scene most impressive and touching. My ideas of cremation in this way were materially altered. Shocking as it seems to see human remains burnt in the ghât at Calcutta, cremation done in the open air, as we saw it on the banks of the Chambal, has a very different effect on one’s nerves. It would almost reconcile one with the notion of this fiery ordeal; and I must say that if I could ensure a similar end, I would feel very much inclined to add a codicil to my will, asking my heirs, executors, and assigns to adopt that plan of disposing of my remains.
The sight, however, had a depressing effect on our spirits that night, which did not escape the keen eye of our host. He made up his mind to dispel it, and accordingly, after dinner, improvised a musical entertainment, in which he himself took a leading part. Sitting at a magnificent grand piano, of exquisite tone and make, he played selections from all the best operas; sang French, Italian, German, and English music; and concluded by a serenade on the cornet, which he held in one hand while he accompanied on the piano with the other. At the conclusion he swerved quickly round on the piano-stool, saying—
“What do you think of that for a Nigger?”
Musical talent, however—besides a thorough knowledge of languages—are the least of the accomplishments of this young prince, who is barely out of his “teens.” Under the able tuition and guardianship of Colonel Deniehy the Maharajah of Dholpore has become a first-rate soldier, an able politician, and a thorough sportsman. His feats of horsemanship on bare-backed Arab horses would rank far above the best performances at Astley’s or Franconi’s.
Yet, strange to say, like all his countrymen, Dholpore has never been out of India—indeed, very seldom crossed the boundaries of his kingdom.
It was with sincere regret that we had to end our stay at Dholpore; but our time was limited. Indeed, we were due at Bombay, and had several other invitations on the road, whilst, on the other hand, the season was getting on, when I did not think it wise to keep my people in the part of India where fever and ague was prevalent. After a most affectionate leave-taking from the Maharajah, Col. Deniehy, Goby Singh, and the other charming officers of the prince’s household, we steamed on the iron horse to Delhi, where we were not allowed to stay then, being met in that city by our good friend Sri-Ram, the able Prime Minister of the Maharajah of Ulwur, who was watching for our arrival, with orders to take us straight on to the house which had been prepared for us.
