About two miles from Parell are the Victoria Gardens, which owe their existence to the genius and energy of Sir George Birdwood. He found a swamp, and he drained it, made broad paths and smooth lawns, laid out a garden, and with lavish hand filled it with botanical treasures. Palms of all variety and tropical plants of every kind are, of course, growing there in the greatest luxuriance, but also trees and shrubs gathered from every quarter of the globe seem at home and happy : there is a fine tree with long pinnate foliage covered with yellow and scarlet flowers that came from Africa, its seeds having been found in the Indian Ocean by a sailor who brought them to the Gardens ; a bush from Australia, whose leaves glow like gold ; and a plant from Brazil, a blaze of crimson blossoms. Around the stem of a stunted palm trails a creeper, a convolvulus, with long blue flowers, very similar to the English flower, which was introduced into Bombay from the Canarese country.
Brighter than the flowers are the Parsee women, with their brilliant-coloured silk robes, which suit their slim, lissom figures. They are talking, gesticulating, and laughing, with olive-complexioned mites with large black eyes and long eyelashes. Hindu women in white robes, and the marigold in their great coils of shiny black hair, are showing the animals to intelligent, bright-looking children, with little, soft, round faces. Men, women, and children all seem amused and happy. It is a pleasure to stroll about the grounds, all fragrance and flowers, and note the gentleness, the attention, and polished behaviour which marks a people whose manners are some thousand years old.
Life in India is a life of startling contrasts. A broad, dusty road leads us from the Victoria Gardens to the Byculla Club, one of the most famous and comfortable clubs in the East, and we are transplanted into London life. A group of men are sitting in the large and airy verandah, discussing the last news from England, the infinite sins of Mr. Glad stone, and then, naturally, modern democracy. There is not unanimity, however. An ex-Cabinet Minister who, like Ulysses, " has been in many cities, and knows the thoughts of many men," warmly defends his old chief, and he vigorously tilts against the pet prejudices of the Anglo Indian official. He has studied Indian problems in blue books, and the men around him have devoted their lives to solving them. They have the advantage of experience ; he has the of regarding them from the wider and more intellectual atmosphere of European statesmanship.
But we must not loiter long at Byculla, for we have to dine in the Fort. We leave London club life, and plunge into the native city, a paradise of luxury and splendour, stench and squalor. The richness and variety of the out lines of the narrow and curving, but not crooked streets, take hold of the imagination. The many-tinted houses, the colours white, yellow, and red, the luxurious or wild carving lavished on the pillars of wood, the balconies, rosettes of the windows, and the architraves of the roofs, give an air of refinement, of subtle grace which defies description or criticism. The Hindu temple with its gaudy-coloured mythological subjects, and the Mussulmans' simple white mosque, are vividly contrasted. It is a world of wonder. Here all races have met : Persians in huge shaggy hatS, and British sailors in white ; the strong, lithe, coal-black Afreedee seaman, tall martial Rajpoots, peaceful Parsees in cherry coloured silk trousers, Chinamen with the traditional pig tail, swaggering Mussulmans in turbans of green, sleek Marwarees with high-fitting parti-coloured turbans of red and yellow. This tide of human life rolls down the centre of the street, unruffled by the vehicles from all quarters of the earth ploughing their way through it. There is the tramcar from New York drawn by walers from Australia, with pith helmets to protect them from the rays of the sun ; the phaeton from Long Acre drawn by high-stepping Arabs ; the rude vehicle of the land, innocent of springs, with a single square seat, drawn by handsome sleek bullocks. With much trouble and much shouting the driver works his way through the enchanted street, and we see the im mortal eunuch, the porter, and the veiled lady standing near a shop filled with gold and silver stuff. Each trade has its own locale, as it was in the days when " Zedekiah the king commanded that they should commit Jeremiah into the court of the prison, and that they should give him daily a piece of bread out of the bakers' street." There are rows of bakers' shops, with large ovens, and vast round loaves of unleavened bread. There are long lines of confectioners', in which the
sweetmeats are piled up in all sorts of fantastic shapes, and behind his pile sits the fat, greasy, half-naked confectioner. Then come the shops of the bunias, which are crowded with baskets filled with pulse and grain ; and the Oriental grocer kindly chatters to three or four women as he weighs their flour in a pair of primitive scales, and after much bargaining they purchase for a farthing a lump of salt and two green chillies, which are their sole luxuries in life. Long and sharp is the ting-ting that proceeds from the shops where Javan, Tubal, and Meshech trade " their vessels of brass in thy market." They are filled from floor to roof with large pots and small pots ; for as the Hindu eats and drinks only from vessels made of brass, the brazier's art is an important one in the land. There are the shops of the money-changers, who are seated square-legged on their carpet, with heaps of rupees and shells before them. In a small hovel is a lean old man who, with a blowpipe and small hammer and a pair of pincers, is manufacturing "the chains and the bracelets, the ear-rings, the rings and the nose jewels." Sable eve spreads swiftly, and the great brass lamps hanging from the roof are lighted, and the earthenware cressets before the dark shrines are illuminated. As we lift up our faces to the richly carved balconies, one blaze of light, we see what Jehu saw as he entered in at the gate—" Jezebel, who painted her face and tired her hair, and looked out of a window." The dawn had hardly broken in the East when we went on board a small yacht to sail to Elephanta. After a couple of hours' sail the landing-place at Elephanta is reached. Here, in the days of old, there used to be a colossal stone elephant, from which the Portuguese named the place. After ascending the steep path, and a steeper flight of stairs, we find ourselves on a small plateau, and before us opens a wide cavern. We enter, and when the eye becomes ac customed to the darkness we see before us a gigantic tri murti, or three-formed god. The expression of the first face is one of far-off, deep contemplation, and is grand and noble in its calm serenity. It represents Shiv in the character of Brahma, the creator ; in his left hand he holds a citron, an emblem of the womb. The right hand is broken. The breast is adorned with a necklace of pearls, and below it is a deep, richly-wrought heart ornament. The head-dress consists of the hair raised and crowned by a royal tiara most beautifully carved. The face to the east, with its stern, commanding, Roman expression, is Shiv in the character of Buddha, the destroyer, and the brow has an oval swelling above the nose, representing a third eye. He is smiling at a cobra, which is twisted round his arms, and with stretched hood looks him in the face. Among his ornaments are some of the peculiar symbols of Shiv—a human skull over the temple, a leaf of the Gloriosa superba, a branch of the milk bush, twisted snakes instead of hair, and high up a cobra erect with outstretched hood. To the west there is a gentle, placid face, which is Shiv in the character of Vishnu the preserver, and he holds a lotus flower in his hand. The Trimurti is the main object of interest in the cavern, but many hours can be profitably spent in examining the different compartments, with their sculptures full of power and life, representing the gods and goddesses of the Hindu Pantheon, and the stories of their lives. Shiv, with his consort Parvati, is a favourite subject. In one compartment we have Shiv and Parvati seated on the holy hill of Kailas ; and Parvati being in a pet, or mana, has her head slightly turned away. Legend says that the demon Ravan chanced to pass by at the time, and being angry at the hill stopping his progress, took it in his arms and shook it. Parvati, feeling the hill to move, ran for protection to Shiv's arms. One story states that Shiv in his rage stamped Ravan under foot ; another (probably more true) that he blessed him for stopping Parvati's fit of ill temper. Behind Parvati is the figure of a nurse executed with great spirit, and she carries a child astraddle on her left hip, as carried in India at the present hour. These sculptures illustrate how unbroken in the East are the links between the past and the present ; they are an epitome of the religious and social life that makes the continent of India so deeply interesting. The gross and passionate effigies of Hindu Mythology completely express the Oriental mind—" humorous, amorous, obscene, subtle, and refined."