BOOKS.
INDIA AND ITS PRINCES.*
India and as Plisses. By hi. Rousselet. Translated by Colonel Buckle. lr,a4cal : Chapman and Hall. WHO was or is M. Rousselet ? That he is a Frenchman, he repeatedly asserts ; that he is a man of science, he hints once or twice ; that he is an artist of no mean rank is apparent on the face of his drawings ; and that he is an acute and patient observer within a range designedly limited, no one who reads his work will doubt ; but all that does not explain his position in India. He lived there for six years, almost exclusively in Native Courts, and was everywhere an honoured and welcome guest, trusted and petted by men like the truculent Guicowar Xhunderao—who seems to have allowed him access even to his harem—and by Hindoo maharajahs and great Mussulman nobles everywhere. Hardly any European has ever had his opportunities of observation in Native States. He wandered into capitals of which Anglo-Indians scarcely know the names. In one State the Premier insisted on receiving him with a salute of -eleven guns, and in another he sat by the Maharana's side ; let he was only a French traveller, with no official rank, and no defined and visible position. Nothing in his book suggests the idea either of falsehood or of brag, its tone is throughout quietly truthful, and yet any traveller who endea- voured to follow his footsteps, and expected the same reception, -would find himself woefully deceived. Was he, perchance, the bearer of a secret commission from the Emperor as well as an -artist, or how did he contrive so suddenly to win so much -confidence from men who usually place an impassable wall between themselves and foreigners ? Be that as it may, M. Rousselet had an unusual opportunity of seeing Native India, and he has used it as an artist would, to bring before us all that is most striking, or picturesque, or beautiful, or separate in the externals of life in palaces and cities unbarbarised by European influence. The descriptions, and still more the drawings, of native architecture in his book will come upon the majority of English readers like a revelation. " Are these the people," they will say, as they gaze at sketches of domed mauso- leums, stately palaces, delicious retreats, vast loggias—loftier, airier, and with deeper shadows than those of Italy—at gardens studded with graceful monuments, at lakes whose waters are heavy with the shadows of fairy palaces, "whom we have ac- -counted barbarians, whom we will not trust with engineers' commissions, who can never rise to the control of any public work ? Why, they had architects who were poets, who could build like Italians of the Renaissance or Egyptians under the Pharaohs." M. Rousselet enters as few European artists in India have ever entered into the spirit of all his sub- jects, except, indeed, the faces of the native women. He rarely catches their peculiar charm, and his sketches of the reigning ladies of Bhopal are, we hope, libels ; but his men are perfect, exactly life-like, and full of character, and what is more remark- able, of caste. M. Rousselet can put the look of birth and breeding into a native face as no artist we remember ever has done. Look at the face of the Maharajah of Ulwur .page 257), or for a still better example, at that of the Jat Zemindar, turning up his face to his dependants, on page 280, .and compare them with any likeness of a native you ever saw. Compare them specially with those horrid photographs in the great book on the races of India just issued by the India Office, a book which creates an impression that all Indians of all castes are either snobs or cut-throats, and measure the difference in artistic —appreciation produced by a little sympathy. That Zemindar's face is a gem, gives better than any picture we ever saw or ever expect to see the true impression of the type-face of a fighting -native noble, with its capacity for truculence and for humour, for -daring and for laughter of the cynically jovial kind, and M. Rousselet has troubled himself to bring out all its qualities as he would in a European portrait. He takes the same trouble with his archi- tecture. Artists have a trick of drawing Indian buildings as if they had no human idea in them, or as if they stood in some atmosphere different from the atmosphere of this world. M. Rousselet draws them as if they were in Italy, until you catch, as in the sketch of the great hall of Aidin at Ajmere (p. 210), the idea of the native architect, the wonderful depth of the stone glades he was endeavouring to create ; or, as in the De- wani Khas of Amber, the coolness, impression of space, and grandeur he was determined to produce ; or, as in that of the Dewani Khas at Digh, his luxurious enjoyment of fantastic, superornate, and yet lightsome arches. That must be one of the most marvellous halls in the world, and M. Rousselet shows us that it is marvellous, for beauty, and not merely for grotesqueness. He creates the impression, which is quite true, that the Indian architects were architects who built to fulfil a purpose, and were not mere dreamers, sick with a bad mythology, but men who could make a king's house palatial, and a reception- room imposing, and a fortress awful, and were not always piling up monstrous structures in honour of their gods. Let any reader compare the sketch (page 382) of the room in which M. Rousselet dines with the Rais of Myhere with any thought he has of such a scene, and he will see what M. Rousselet has done for him, as he will also, if he will compare Nursingurh (page 456) with any European scene in which he has ever taken delight, or the temple and lake at Umritsur with any shrine in Asia Minor or Greece, and then ask himself if he had previously believed that any such scene could exist in India. Take this single paragraph:— "At length we passed round the last hill, and Oudeypoor, the capital of Meywar, was before us. My men shouted and danced for joy. As for myself, I stood in ecstasy gazing on the sublime panorama spread out at my feet. Never had I even hoped to see anything so beautiful ; it resembled one of the fairy cities in The Arabian Nights. In the foreground a long line of forts, pagodas, and palaces stood out from a background of gardens, above which appeared the town, a fantastic assemblage of bell-turrets, towers, and kiosks, built up the side of a pyramidical hill ; on the summit of which was an immense palace of white marble, which contrasted finely with the dark blue of the mountains behind it. This palace, with its splendid proportions, appeared to soar like the New Jerusalem above a terrestrial city. Neither pen nor pencil could give the marvellous effect of that town, which is well named Oudeypoor, 'the City of the Rising Sun.' Soon, however, this beautiful sight disappeared, as we descended with difficulty into the desolate ravines which guard this paradise." Or this :—" One of the most curious features of the palace of Oudeypoor is, un- doubtedly, its extensive hanging garden. It seems astounding to find trees of a hundred years' growth and lovely flower-beds situated at so great a height, and covering so many roofs of dif- ferent elevations. In the centre of the garden there is a fountain, from which avenues paved with white marble diverge in all direc- tions; the water being carried off in narrow channels, and lost to sight amidst groves of pomegranate and orange trees. A marble gallery encircles this enchanting spot, where the grandees of the Court, reclining on velvet sofas, indulge in pleasant day-dreams whilst taking their siesta. The view embraces the whole valley; and, while gazing on this scene, they can call to mind the great feats of arms of their ancestors, who defended this country for centuries against the Mussulman hordes, and converted it into a paradise. When fatigued with the grandeur of this immense panorama, they can turn and contemplate the fairy scene presented by the garden." It is in this that the merit of M. Rousselet's book seems to us to consist. We could find quite as good sketches of ceremonials, processions, nautches, or hunts, and much better sketches of Indian cities—those of Benares strike us as curiously wanting in the couleur locale—but he alone has so represented Indian scenes, buildings, and men as to enable us to compare them with those more familiar to our eyes, to assign them a place, and not set them apart in a corner by themselves. We rise from his work with a fresh, a more appreciative, and, as we believe, a truer impression of the genius of the native peoples of the Indian Empire than we have ever obtained, and with only one regret, that M. Rousselet has not sketched, side by side, say, with the gate of the Kootub (494), that proof of English superiority in the specially English sphere of practical art, a barrack for European soldiers.
The letterpress will, we fear, disappoint some readers. M. Rousselet has not written a book on the Princes of India, as Colonel Buckle says, and never pretended to write one, but has only described " Hole des Rajahs,"—that is to say, Native India; and his sketches of great men are only incidental. He has, how- ever, very observant eyes, and the reader who will follow him patiently, and try to call up the strange scenes he depicta,—the Court of Baroda, so like the idea one forms of that of Caligula ; the grand processions, the wild ceremonials, the mad, baccbic revelry of the Hoolee--as it is seen in a native State, not in an Indian province—when Paganism lets itself loose, and decent men fling themselves into orgies of which Greeks would have been ashamed as vulgar and ungraceful ; the marches across country, in camps half-military, half-royal, half-brigand ; the grand receptions, in which haughty nobles and more than semi-naked bayaderes chat together under the very throne, he will know more of native life than from a library of ordinary books. His account of Baroda is, perhaps, the best account of a native Court, or the best with the exception of the one written by the barber of the King of Oude, called the Private Life of an Eastern King. M. Rousselet is a perfectly independent witness, but he describes the late Guicowar Khunderao as a Caligula, a madman, kindly enough occasionally, but capable of revolting cruelties ; who ordered a procession of nobles to escort his new diamond, the " Star of the South ;" who held elephant-fights, like Spanish bull-fights, with trained men as picadors and toreadors ; who could laugh and joke with his jesters, and order habitually punishments like these :- "A month before our arrival, a Waghur noble came to Baroda in Order to make terms. He was graciously received, but Khun- derao refused to enter into any negotiation with rebels. The chief then determined to rid his country of the oppressor by assassinating the Guicowar. The King obtaining information of the plot, the Waghur, then at the palace, did not hesitate to throw himself from the terrace. Strange to say, he reached the ground unhurt, and mounted a horse which was in waiting at the gate ; but the Guicowar called out to the Arab guards to kill him, and they struck him down with their sabres. The plot had also the object of contriving the escape, from the State prison, of four Wiighur chiefs, who bad been confined there for many years. They did escape, but the cavalry recaptured them, together with the man who had opened the gates for them,—a locksmith of the town. Their trial was brief ; the chiefs were beheaded, one in front of each gate of the city, and the unhappy locksmith was condemned to undergo the punishment of death by the elephant. This punishment is one of the most frightful that can possibly be imagined. The culprit, bound hand and foot, is fastened by a long cord, passed round his waist, to the elephant's hind leg. The latter is urged into a rapid trot through the streets of the city, and every step gives the cord a violent jerk, which makes the body of the condemned wretch bound on the pavement. The only hope that remains for the unhappy man is to be killed by one of these shocks ; if not, after traversing the city, he is released, and, by a refinement of cruelty, a glass of water is given him. Then his head is placed upon a stone, and the elephant executioner crushes it beneath his enormous foot." There is the very spirit of Caligula in this scene, which M. Rousselet himself saw with a sensation, we are happy to say, of angry loathing :— "Another sort of combat, much more terrible than those already mentioned, and which is only to be seen nowadays at Baroda, is the Nucki-ka-kousti, that is to say, 'fight with claws.' Here the combatants, almost naked, but adorned with crowns and garlands, tear each other with claws of horn. These claws were formerly of steel, and caused certain death to one or other of the com- batants; but they have been abolished, as too barbarous for modern times. Those now in use, are, as I have said, of horn, -and are fixed on the closed fist with thongs. I was only once present at a combat of this kind, for my heart was so moved by the horrible spectacle that I refused to go again. The wrestlers, intoxicated with bang—liquid opium, mixed with an infusion of hemp—sing as they rush upon one another ; their faces and heads are soon covered with blood, and their frenzy knows no bounds. The king, with wild eyes and the veins of his neck swollen, surveys the scene with such passionate excitement that he cannot remain quiet, but imitates by gestures the movements of the wrestlers. The arena is covered with blood; the defeated com- batant is carried off, sometimes in a dying condition ; and the conqueror, the skin of his forehead banging down in strips, pro- strates himself before the king, who places round his neck a neck- lace of fine pearls, and covers him with garments of great value. One episode, moreover, disgusted me to such a degree that, with- out any heed of the effect my sudden departure might have upon the Guicowar, I at once withdrew. One of the wrestlers, whom the bang had only half intoxicated,after receiving the first few blows, made a show of wishing to escape ; his antagonist threw him, and they rolled together on the ground before us. The victor, seeing the unhappy wretch demand quarter, turned to the king to know whether he should let the other rise : but, inflamed with the spectacle, the monarch cried out, ' Maro ! mare P (strike! strike!) and the scalp of the unfortunate fellow was torn without mercy. When he was taken away he had lost all con-
sciousness. That same day, the king distributed amongst the victorious wrestlers necklaces and money to the amount of more than four thousand pounds." There are few sketches like this, and M. Rousselet either avoids or never made any political re- flections; but he observed closely, ventured everywhere, and was even present during a bacchic festival, with which, as a specimen, of his descriptive power, we close our notice of this magnificent volume. This is the Hoolee, at Oodeypore, the central city of Hindooism:—
" Towards the middle of the month of Thalgnn, the revels reach their climax. Troops of men and women, wreathed with flowers, and drunk with Meg, crowd the streets, carrying sacks fall of a bright red. vegetable powder. With this they assail the passers-by, covering them with clouds of dust, which soon dyes their clothes a startling colour.. Groups of people stationed at the windows retaliate with the same pro- jectiles, or squirt with wooden syringes red and yellow streams of water into the streets below. No one is spared, not even the richly dressed. courtier, or the phlegmatic European, who finds himself in the crowd. And yet none complain, though in a country where the grades of society- are so rigidly defined, and the pride of the nobles is carried to such a. pitch. All recognise the license of the season, and the most cheerful. good-humour is always maintained. But this powder is not their only weapon. They keep up a running fire of jests and repartee; • and, though. actual abuse is never resorted to, no dignitary who ventures into the. streets is allowed to escape without a shower of cutting remarks, to- which he retorts with ironical menaces. Tho palace is by no means the. least noisy part of the town. The king and the nobles throw off all' restraint, and give themselves up to mirth and revelry ; and even front. the Residency we can see a purple cloud rising above the royal abode. One of the prettiest sights during these festivities is a kind of mimics tournament held by the nobles on the great terrace ; when, armed with little vessels of talc filled with red powder, they commence a sham-fight,. by dexterously flinging these light projectiles at each other, which on- breaking cover them with the powder. The elephants also take their- part in the sport, and appear to find great pleasure in covering each, other with powder. After this game has lasted a few days, the houses,. trees, men, women, and children are all dyed the same uniform colour- The Nantch girls enjoy unbounded liberty during this carnival. They have special dances for the occasion, when all propriety is forgotten;: and the couplets which they recite during the dance are most unseemly, and always allude to the people present. During the festival of the Holi, the Bheel tribes assemble from all parts of the mountain to keep. their carnival at the village of Ahar. They choose this place for a. general rendezvous in memory of their ancestors, who, according to tra- dition, inhabited a city which once flourished on the site of this village' and was the capital of their empire. Major Nixon advised me to go- and see these wild sports. On entering Ahar, I found the village Ellie& with a yelling crowd, who were pressing round the sheds where mhowah% spirit was served out to them. Men, women, and children, crowned. with flowers, appeared completely intoxicated. Never have I witnessed' so revolting a spectacle. Groups of naked wretches, dead-drunk, were- wallowing in the gutters, and at every step the most disgusting de- bauchery was exhibited with unblushing effrontery. The Mahe Sad was invaded by them, and the crowd overran the marble palaces withp riotous uproar. We could not even walk out with safety, as the in— - furiated state of these wretches, excited with drink, resulted in frequent; broils."
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