THE SCENERY AND WATERFALLS OF MYSORE.
Mysore is a tract of country in Southern India approximating in area to Scotland, and with a general elevation of from two to three thousand feet above the level of the sea. It is commonly spoken of as the Mysore tableland, but this is rather a misleading description if we adopt the dictionary definition of the word tableland as being "a tract of country at once elevated and level," for, though there are in the interior of the province considerable stretches of rolling plains, the so-called tableland presents to the view a country intersected at intervals, more or less remote, with mountain chains, while scattered here and there in the interior of the plateau are isolated rocky hills, or rather hills of rock, termed droogs (Sanscrit, durga, or difficult of access) which sometimes rise to a total height of 5,000 feet above sea level. The surface of the country, too, is often broken by groups, or clusters of rocks, either low or of moderate elevation, composed of immense boulders, the topmost ones of which are often so finely poised as to seem ready to topple over at the slightest touch. The highest point of the plateau is about 3,500 feet, and is crowned as it were by the fine bold range of the Bababuden mountains, which have an average elevation of about 6,000 feet. There are three mountains in Mysore which exceed this elevation, and the highest of them, Mulaìnagiri, is 6,317 feet above the level of the sea. The province, which is completely surrounded by British territory, is flanked on the west and east by the Ghauts, or ranges of hills up the passes through which the traveller ascends on to the tableland, and on the south it is, as it were, pointed off by the Nilgiri hills. The greatest breadth of Mysore from north to south is about 230 miles, and its greatest length from east to west is 290 miles. On the western side one part of the province runs to within ten miles of the sea, though the average distance from it is from thirty to fifty miles. The nearest point to the sea on the eastern side is about 120 miles, and the most southerly extremity of the tableland is 250 miles from the most southerly point of India.
As regards climate, cultivation, and the general appearance of the country, Mysore may be divided into two very distinctly marked tracts—the forest and woodland region which stretches from the foot of the Western Ghauts to distances varying from about twenty to as much as forty-five miles, and the rolling and comparatively speaking treeless plains of the central and eastern parts of the province, which are only occasionally broken by tracts which have some of the characteristics of both. In the western tract are numerous plantations of coffee and cardamoms, and the cereal cultivation consists mainly of rice fields irrigated from perennial streams; while in the central and eastern parts of the tableland, which by far exceed in area the woodland tracts of the west, the cultivation is mainly of the millets and other crops which do not depend on irrigation, though these are interspersed at intervals, more or less remote, with rice fields, the water for which is chiefly derived from tanks, or artificial reservoirs. The rainfall, temperature, and quality of the atmosphere in the western tract varies considerably from those of the open country of the interior. The rainfall of the first varies from sixty to one hundred inches, and, on the crests of the Ghauts, is probably often about 200 inches,[[4]] while in the interior of the province the rainfall is probably about thirty inches on the average. The temperature of the western tract too is naturally much damper and cooler than that of the rest of the tableland, and at my house within six miles of the crests of the Ghauts at an elevation of about 3,200 feet, the shade temperature at the hottest time of the year and of the day rarely exceeds eighty-five, and such a thing as a hot night is unknown, as the woodland tracts are within reach of the westerly sea breezes, while in the interior the climate is much hotter and drier, and the maximum day temperature of the hot weather is about ninety, and, in very hot seasons, about ninety-five. In the woodland tracts the cold weather and the monsoon months have a very pleasant temperature, and then flannel shirts and light tweeds—in short, English summer clothing—are used, and a blanket is always welcome at night. The climate of Mysore is considered to be a healthy one for Europeans of temperate habits, and who take reasonable care of themselves. As we are now hearing so much of cholera in Europe, it may not be uninteresting to mention that, though the province was under British administration from 1831 to 1881, and there have since been a considerable number of European officials in the employ of the now native government of Mysore, only one European official has died of cholera during that period, and that, though there are a considerable number of planters, only one has been reported to have died of the disease, though his, I am told, was a doubtful case.
I have said that there are marked differences between the western tracts and the remainder of the province, but the most marked difference of course between the forest and woodland country of the west, and the country to the east, lies in the scenery of the two tracts, for, though in the latter case there are occasional bits of attractive landscape, and partially wooded hills, there is nothing at all to compare with the grand forest scenery of the Western Ghauts, or the charming park-like woodlands which stretch into the tableland at varying distances from the crests of the frontier mountains. Everyone who has seen the latter has been struck by their extraordinary and diversified beauty, and last year a friend of mine, who had for a considerable time been travelling all round the world, said to me, as he rode up to my house, "After all I have seen I have seen nothing to equal this." But this, I must add, was the very best of our Western Ghaut park scenery which is mostly contained in the talook or county of Manjarabad which stretches for about twenty-five miles along the western frontier of Mysore, a tract of country so beautiful that the laconic Colonel Wellesley (afterwards the great Duke of Wellington), who rarely put a superfluous word into his dispatches, could not refrain from remarking in one of them on the beautiful appearance of the country.[[5]] There are two things especially remarkable about this tract. The one is that throughout the best of it there is nothing distinctively Indian in the scenery. Bamboos are rare, and in much of the tract entirely absent, and as the palm trees are always concealed in the woods there is nothing to connect the country with the usual feature of Indian woodland scenery. Another point most worthy of notice is that the scenery which appears to one seeing it for the first time to be entirely natural, is in reality very largely the creation of man. And it has been much improved by his action for, as you leave Manjarabad to go northwards the jungle becomes too continuous, and it is the same if you go southwards into the adjacent district of Coorg, and when you compare the last mentioned tracts with Manjarabad you then begin to realize the fact that nature, if left to herself, is apt to become a trifle monotonous. But in Manjarabad man has invaded nature to beautify her and bring her to perfection—cutting down and turning eventually into stretches of grass much of the original forest—leaving blocks of from 50 to 200 acres of wood on the margin of each group of houses, clearing out the jungle in the bottoms for rice cultivation and thus forming what at some seasons appear to be bright green rivers winding through the forest-clad or wooded slopes, and here and there planting on the knolls trees of various wide-spreading kinds. And yet from the absence of fences, and of cultivation on the uplands, the whole scene appears to be one of Nature's creations, and all the more so because no houses nor farm-buildings are visible, as these are hidden amongst the trees on the margins of the forest lands. Then this long tract of beautifully wooded and watered country is fringed on its western border by the varied mountain crests of the Western Ghauts, while on the east it is traversed by the Hemavati river which is fed by the numerous streams, and brawling burns which descend from the frontier hills. But though Manjarabad has combinations of charms unrivalled in their kind, we must not forget that an examination of of them by no means exhausts the scenery of the Ghauts, for, on the north-western border of Mysore are the falls of Gairsoppa. Often had I read descriptions of them which I once thought must have been too highly coloured, but when I visited the falls some years ago I found that the accounts I had read were not only far below the reality, but that the most important parts of the wonderful combinations of the scenes had either never been noted, or been quite inadequately recorded. I do not now profess to give anything approaching an adequate account of them. Nor indeed do I think it would be possible to do so. But what follows will I think at least be of advantage in directing the attention of the traveller to the best way of observing the varied scenes, and noting the wonderful musical combinations, which are to be heard at these marvellously beautiful falls.
The falls of Gairsoppa are on the Sarawati, or Arrowborn[[6]] river, which, rising in the western woodland region of Northern Mysore, flows north-west for about sixty-two miles, and then, turning abruptly to the west, precipitates its waters over cliffs about 860 feet in height. When the river is at the full in the south-west monsoon an immense body of water rushes over the precipice, and from calculations made by some engineers, and which are recorded in the book at the Travellers' Bungalow, the volume and height of fall at that time, if taken together, would give a force of water about equal to that of Niagara. But, however that may be, a glance at the high water marks, and a knowledge of the immense rainfall on the crests of the Ghauts during the monsoon months, makes it certain that, at that time of year, the amount of water must be very large. At that season, though, the falls are almost invisible, as they are concealed by vast masses of mist and spray, and even were they visible, as the water then stretches from bank to bank, there would only be one vast monotonous fall. But after the heavy monsoon floods are over, the river above the falls-shrinks back as it were into a long deep pool which lies at a distance of several hundred yards from the brink of the precipice, and from this pool the water of the river then escapes by four distinct rapids which have cut their way to-the brink of the precipice, and fall over the cliffs in four distinct falls, each one of widely different character from the others. The falls at this season are only 834 feet high, but when the river rises to the full the fall, as I before mentioned, must be about 860 feet, or approximating in height to the loftiest story of the Eiffel Tower. Across the rapids light bridges of bamboo are thrown, at the end of each monsoon. There are thus two ways of crossing the river—one by the pool above the falls where there is a ferry-boat which can take over horses as well as people—the other by the bridges of the rapids—and it is necessary to cross the river because the only bungalow is on the north, or Bombay side of the river, and the best point for seeing the falls is on the southern side. The only way too of reaching the bottom of the falls is by the southern side.
The only objection to these falls is the difficulty of getting at them, owing to their being quite out of the usual travellers' route, and that is why they have, if I may judge by the travellers' book at the bungalow,[[7]] been, comparatively speaking, rarely visited. Then there is no railway nearer than about ninety miles, and though the falls are only thirty-five miles from the western coast, steamers do not call at the nearest port to them. Nor is it at all even probable that any line will ever be brought nearer to the falls than about sixty miles. It is, too, rather discouraging to have the prospect of a ninety mile road journey to see the falls, and then return by the same route. But I would suggest that a traveller might make a very enjoyable trip by going from Bombay to Hoobli on the South Maharatta line, and, on the way to Gairsoppa visit the Lushington Falls which are about 400 feet in height, the Lalgali Fall which has a series of picturesque rapids and cascades, with a total fall of from 200 to 300 feet, and the Majod falls where the Bedti-Gangaveli river forms a picturesque waterfall leaping in a series of cascades over cliffs varying in height from 100 to 200 feet in height, and together 800 feet high. I have not visited any of these last named falls. An account of them and other places of interest in the Kanara district is given in the "Bombay Gazetteer" for Kanara,[[8]] which gives a complete history of this interesting district, and is a book which the traveller should buy, as it is well worthy of a place in any library. I now proceed to give an account of my visit to the Gairsoppa Falls.
On the 12th of January, 1886 (I should not advise the traveller to visit the falls earlier than November 1st nor later than the middle of January, as the water lessens after the latter date), I arrived at the Travellers' Bungalow at the Falls, after having travelled there by the coast route from Bombay, which I found so troublesome that I cannot recommend its adoption. The bungalow, which is about thirty-five miles from the western coast, and on ground 1,800 feet above sea level, is situated in a truly romantic spot (in fact rather too romantic if we take the possibility of an earthquake into consideration), for it is close to the edge of a gorge 900 feet deep, and in full view of the face of the precipice over which the waters of the Arrowborn river precipitate themselves on their way to the western sea. To north, south, east, and west stretch hills and vales for the most part covered with the evergreen forest, and only here and there showing grassy slopes and summits. On the opposite side of the gorge as you peer down into it you can see emerging from the edge of the jungle about half way down from the top of the side of the gorge what looks like a long ladder of stone, but which really consists of the rough steps by which alone the bottom of the falls can be reached.
On the following morning I proceeded to cross the river by the bridges over the rapids. The first rapid is that of the Rajah Fall, the water of which shoots sheer from the cliff, and, without even touching a rock, falls 830 feet into a pool 132 feet deep. After crossing the bridge you sometimes walk through, and sometimes clamber over, the vast assemblage of rocks and huge boulders which form the bed of the river, and are deeply submerged when the river is full. The sight here is extremely curious and interesting as, after leaving the bridge of the Rajah rapid, there are about 1,000 feet of rock and boulders to pass through or over before you reach the next rapid, and, when half way, there would be nothing to show that you were not wandering through a mere wilderness of rocks were it not for the unceasing thunder, far below, from the bottom of the Rajah Fall. The next rapid to be crossed is that of the Roarer, which takes, before it goes over the precipice a most singular course—first flowing into a basin at the edge of the cliff, and then leaving this in a northerly direction, after which it rushes down a steep stony trough to fall into the same deep pool which receives the water of the Rajah Fall. After crossing the bridge of the Roarer rapid the bed of the river has again to be traversed and at a distance of about 700 feet you reach the rapid of the Rocket. This is a fall of wonderful beauty, for the water projects itself sheer from the cliff to fall about 100 feet on to a vast projecting piece, or rather buttress of rock, which causes the water to shoot out into a rocket-like course from which are thrown off wonderfully beautiful jets, and arrowy shoots of water, and spray, and foam, which seem to resemble falling stars or shooting meteors. You then pass over another section of the river bed for about 500 feet till you reach the rapid, or rather stream, of the la Dame Blanche Fall which glides gently over the precipice in a broad foaming silvery sheet. From the first rapid to the last the distance is about 733 yards. I have met with no estimate of the total width of the fall when the river is in full flood, but it can hardly be less than half a mile wide, and the depth of the water, as one can see from the high water mark, must be very great. It is interesting to note on the tops of the boulders here and there the circular stones that have, during each monsoon, been whirling round and round, each one in its own pothole.
After crossing the last bridge you then walk over the rocks into the forest beyond and strike the path which leads down through the forest on the Mysore side of the river, to a point called Watkin's platform—an open-sided shed about 100 feet below the top of the falls, and which commands a view of the gorge below the falls, and a fair, though rather distant view of the falls. When approaching the platform I was positively startled by a vast shrieking clang which suddenly burst on the ear and seemed to fill the air. This I afterwards found had come from the semi-cavernous gorge of rock about half a mile away, into which fall the waters of the Rajah and Roarer rapids, and though I afterwards heard somewhat similar sounds issuing from these falls, I never heard again anything approaching to this singular and startling burst of sound. These sounds have often been remarked upon, but no one seems to have attempted to trace their cause, but they most probably arise from the escape of air which has been driven by the falling waters into some deep fissures of the rock.
Having thus taken a general view of the situation, I then returned to the bungalow for breakfast, and in the afternoon at about two o'clock returned to Watkin's platform by the route of the ferry across the pool, and, with my companion, set out for the foot of the falls, first of all by a steep winding path, and then by a flight of very rough and uneven steps which had been formed by placing stones in places on and between the rocks. When descending, we often paused to view the constantly changing scene, for, as we got lower and lower, the rainbow hues across each fall, which were at first widely broken by the masses of cliff stretching between the falls, came closer and closer, till at last, when we reached the region where the spray of all the falls was mingled, the iris hues stretched across the gorge in an unbroken band of colour. At length, as we neared the foot of the fall, we reached a small open-sided shed, which had recently been erected on the occasion of the Maharajah of Mysore's visit. From this, which was probably fifty feet from the bottom of the gorge and about 100 yards from the falls, an admirable view was obtained of the entire situation, and we began to realize how impossible it is to form any adequate conception of the falls from the top, or from the higher sides of the gorge. We next descended to the bottom of the gorge, where the ground is strewn with vast boulders of rock, which had evidently fallen from the cliff as it had been eaten back by waters toiling through countless bygone ages. Many of these masses of rock lie at some distance from the foot of the falls, and on the partially decayed surfaces of some of them vegetation had evidently been flourishing for an indefinite period of time. Huge masses of rocks and boulders, as you look down the river, seem almost to block up its route towards the western sea, and indeed so completely seem to fill up the pass, that one seemed to be standing at the bottom of a rock-bound hollow which had been excavated by the agency of Nature, after a toil through periods of time far beyond the calculations of man.