The bazaars appear to be well stocked with everything but vegetables and butcher’s meat, these two articles being as scarce and bad as the poultry; fish and fruit are plentiful and good. The shops are poor; there is not a single Parsee or European store in the town, so that all supplies must be procured from the neighbouring stations. Everywhere the houses are much more comfortably and substantially built than in the Bombay presidency; the nature of the climate requires a good roof, and as much shade on and around it as possible: the streets and roads, also, look civilised compared with the narrow and filthy alleys of our native towns in general. But we shall find little amusement in inspecting the mass of huts and hovels, mosques and schools, gardens and tanks, so we might as well prolong our stroll beyond the town, and visit the venerable pagoda of Varkool.
It is, you see, a building by no means admirable in point of outward appearance; the roof is tiled, and there is little to excite your curiosity in the woodwork. Its position is remarkable—perched upon the summit of a pile of laterite rock rising abruptly from a level expanse of sand. But it is great, very great, in its historical importance. That edifice was one of the hundred and eight Maha Chaitrum, or temples of the first order, built by the demigod Parasu Rama, upon this coast, and dedicated to the Hindoo Triad. Equally notable it is for sanctity. Early in the month of October, water appears bubbling from a fissure of the rock, and this, learned Brahmans, by what test we know not, have determined to be the veritable fluid of the Ganges, which, passing under ground,[65] viâ Central India, displays itself regularly once a year to the devotees of Rama. Kindly observe that there is a crowd of Nairs gathered round the temple, and that some petty prince, as we may know by his retinue of armed followers, is visiting the shrine. We will not venture in, as the Hindoos generally in this part of the world, and the Nairs particularly, are accustomed to use their knives with scant ceremony. Besides, just at present, they are somewhat in a state of excitement: they expect a partial eclipse of the moon, and are prepared to make all the noise they can, with a view of frightening away the wicked monster, Rahu, who is bent upon satisfying his cannibal appetites with the lucid form of poor Luna.
The present Samiry Rajah is a proud man, who shuns Europeans, and discourages their visiting him on principle. Wishing, however, to see some sample of the regal family, we called upon a cadet of the house of Yelliah, an individual of little wealth or influence, but more sociable than the high and mighty Mana Vikram.[66] After a ride of about three miles, through lanes lined with banks of laterite, and over dykes stretching like rude causeways along paddy fields invested with a six-foot deep coating of mud, we arrived at the village of Mangaon. The Rajah was apparently resolved to receive us with all the honours: a caparisoned elephant stood at the gate of the “palace,” and a troop of half-naked Nairs, armed as usual, crowded around to receive us. We were ushered through a succession of courts and gateways—the former full of diminutive, but seemingly most pugnacious cows—and at last, ascending a long flight of dark and narrow steps, suddenly found ourselves in the “presence.” Our Rajah was a little dark man, injudiciously attired in a magnificent coat of gold cloth, a strangely-shaped cap of the same material, and red silk tights. The room was small, and choked with furniture; chairs, tables, clocks, drawers, washing-stands, boxes, book-shelves, and stools, were arranged, or rather piled up around it, with all the effect of an old curiosity-shop. The walls exhibited a collection of the cheapest and worst of coloured prints—our late gracious queen dangling in dangerous proximity to the ferocious-looking Beau Sabreur, and La Belle Americaine occupied in attentively scrutinising certain diminutive sketches of Richmond Hill, and other localities, probably torn out of some antiquated Annual. Our host met us à l’Anglaise—that is to say, with a warm, moist, and friendly squeeze of the hand: he was profuse in compliments, and insisted upon our sitting on the sofa opposite his chair. With the assistance of an interpreter—for the Rajah understands little Hindostani, and we less Malayalim—some twenty minutes were spent in conversation, or rather in the usual exchange of questions and answers which composes the small-talk of an Oriental visit. Presently we arose and took polite leave of our host, who accompanied us as far as the door of his little den: the regal rank and dignity forbidding him to pass the threshold. Not a little shuffling and shrieking was caused by our turning a corner suddenly and meeting in the gateway a crowd of dames belonging to the palace. They and their attendants appeared as much annoyed as we were gratified to catch a sight of Nair female beauty. The ladies were very young and pretty—their long jetty tresses, small soft features, clear dark olive-coloured skins, and delicate limbs, reminded us exactly of the old prints and descriptions of the South Sea Islanders. Their toilette, in all save the ornamental part of rings and necklaces, was decidedly scanty. It was the same described by old Capt. Hamilton, who, when introduced at the Court of the Samorin, observed that the queen and her daughters were “all naked above the waist, and barefooted.”
People are fond of asserting that native prejudices are being rapidly subjugated by the strong arm of English civilization. We could instance numerous proofs of the contrary being the case. Two hundred years ago the white man was allowed to look upon a black princess in the presence of her husband. How long will it be before such privilege will ever be extended to him again in India?
On the way homewards our guide pointed out what he considered the great lion of Calicut. It is a square field, overgrown with grass and weeds and surrounded by a dense grove of trees. Fronting the road stands a simple gateway, composed of one stone laid horizontally across two of the same shape, planted perpendicularly in the ground. Not detecting instantly any great marvel about the place we looked our curiosity for further information.
“In days of old a strong fort, and a splendid palace adorned that spot—their only remains now those two mounds”—said the guide, pointing at what appeared to be the ruins of bastions—“and that raised platform of earth at the other end. Upon the latter a temporary festive building is erected whenever a Rajah is invested with the turban of regal dignity, in memory of the ancient dwelling-place of his ancestors, and the city which is now no more.”
We had half an hour to waste, and were not unwilling to hear a detailed account of old Calicut’s apocryphal destruction. So we asked the man to point out its former site. He led us towards the shore, and called our attention to a reef of rocks lying close off the mouth of the little Kullai River; they were clearly discernible as it was then low water.[67]