We next visited the tank in the citadel, noted for the purity of its water, but it looked muddy enough we thought, and felt no inclination to test the sample offered us by a native in a cup.
Near the tank was a very plain Christian church, dating from about the end of the 18th century or the beginning of the 19th, absolutely bare of ornament or symbol, with the exception of a small mural monument at the west end—a bas-relief in marble by Flaxman, in memory of one Schwartz, a British missionary. Not, however, a very good specimen of the sculptor’s work, and looking as if it had been rather done to order, and though it had Flaxman’s characteristic broad simple treatment, was rather over smooth and “goody-goody” in expression—a missionary looking benevolent on his death-bed, clerical attendant and probable successor at his side, group of good boys in front, and row of turbaned Indians, presumably converts, on the other side of the bed.
It was curious to see this bare, gaunt, puritanical-looking church, planted almost in the shadow of the great Hindu temple with its frank nature worship, pantheism, and riot of symbolism and imagery.
From the citadel and the temples we drove over the bridge across the river into the city to see the palace of the Maharajah. Not a very beautiful building—a big, rambling, yellow-washed pile, looking rather untidy and neglected. In the guardroom at the entrance gate, there was a portrait of the father of the present prince. Through a corridor, the walls of which were painted with quaint figures, we reached a small chamber, open on one side, but painted on the three other walls with large equestrian portraits of three Maharajahs—grandfather, father, and son. They were in profile, very richly dressed, and on finely caparisoned horses, with hunting dogs—the dogs running underneath the horses. These mural portraits were painted in tempera, apparently, on the white-washed wall, and had flaked off in places, but they were good characteristic Indian work, and reminded one a little in treatment of European mediæval design, such as may be seen in Burgundian tapestries of the end of the fifteenth century.
We next came to a small court where we saw the Durbar Hall, divided from the court by an open colonnade. Inside was a miscellaneous collection of objects—portraits, rather dreary ones of the Maharajahs and favourite hounds, some on very dilapidated canvasses with holes through them—old-fashioned French lithographs of the early “fifties,” much fly-blown; a handsome palanquin, with dragons’ heads on the ends of the poles; another one was carved, and plated with ivory. There was also a beautiful ivory fan, of a large size and peculiar shape, probably to be used as a punka. Then, too, there was a bronze bust of Lord Nelson, presented by some English lady to a former Maharajah, and her own work. Then we saw the library, which contained quite a large collection of old-fashioned English books—in eighteenth and early nineteenth century bindings—such as a set of The Spectator, Hayley’s Poems, Burns, Scott, etc., and also an extensive library of Hindu and Tamil manuscripts. These were peculiar in form, and consisted of long oblong sheets of a roughish sort of paper, rather resembling papyrus in quality, protected by thin boards on loose covers of thin wood, secured round the middle by ties. These covers were sometimes lacquered on their outsides in various designs. On one I noticed the typical design representing Vishnu, with the lotus flower springing from his navel which contains the figure of Buddha, Laksmi looking on in wonder. These figures were drawn in black outline on gold, the gold high-toned with coloured lacquers. A smell of naphtha or some such moth antidote pervaded the place.
We were then shown the armoury, where there were some rather showy sporting guns of English make, bearing the name of Mortimer & Co., and elaborately chased. There were very vile portraits of King Edward VII. and Queen Alexandra.
After this we saw another Durbar Hall—the Maharana’s—adorned with more dreary portraits of the family and a few stuffed birds. The most curious thing was a real skeleton in a real cupboard, side by side with a skeleton beautifully imitated in ivory. There they hung inside a plain upright cupboard, looking like a hanging wardrobe—but what a wardrobe! What hung there needed no robes!
Down the main street of Tanjore there were placed at intervals very curious and richly carved wooden pagodas, apparently very old, upon cars with massive wheels of wood, somewhat like rude ox-cart wheels, some of them being discs. These were probably used in processions at the festivals.
The houses were generally low, and of only one story, with the low-pitched ridge-tiled roofs as at Madras, the porches and raised terraces on platforms in front forming the shops, being further protected from the sun by lean-to extra roofs or screens of matting and bamboo, sometimes supported on uprights of cocoa palm stems. Occasionally these screens are supported by growing trees which spread their foliage above. Pumpkins and gourds are often grown upon the tiled roofs, and have a charming effect with their wandering stems, green leaves, and golden spheres of fruit scattered over the rich brown tiles.
The roads are deep in red-brown dust as at Madras, and there is a continual traffic of little covered tongas drawn by little trotting zebus in single harness. We had a broken-down victoria to drive in, and a fearful old crock of a horse, given to jibbing and really not fit to drive. The carriage seats were sliding ones, too!