Read Ebook: The Phase Rule and Its Applications by Findlay Alexander

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The island of Bombay is separated from the mainland by an arm of the sea, and forms, in conjunction with the adjacent islands of Salsette on the north, Colabah and Old Woman's Island on the south, a magnificent and well-sheltered harbor. Handsome causeways raised above the sea at high water span the narrow channels on the south, and connect Bombay with two of the most picturesque islands I have ever seen. To the north, Bombay is again connected with Salsette by a causeway with a fine arched stone bridge, and yet another causeway has been thrown over the strait, so as to connect the great India Peninsular Railway with the mainland. Thus Bombay and the islands which surround it form a continuous breakwater extending from north to south for several miles. Toward the east lies the celebrated island of Elephanta; just opposite to the mouth of the harbor lies a thickly-wooded island of little elevation, with the exception of two remarkable projections which are shot upward almost perpendicularly from the level of the land, called Great and Little Caranja Hills.

One of our first drives was to the fort and town of Bombay. The latter is situated within the fort, and is almost a mile in length from the Apollo Gate to that of the bazaar, but hardly a quarter of a mile in its broadest part, from the Custom-house across the great Green to what is called Church gate. It is now called Fort George, and with its moats, drawbridges, and gateways is still in tolerably good repair. There are two gateways facing the beautiful harbor, having commodious wharfs and cranes built out from each, with a fine broad stone quay or landing-place for passengers. Passing through these gates, we visited the famous Bombay Castle, a regular quadrangle built of hard stone. In one of the bastions we saw a spacious reservoir for water. The fortifications are sufficiently formidable, and are frequently repaired, if not improved. Dungarree Hill, which commands the town, has now been included within the fort, by which accession the seaward points of the island are rendered extremely strong, the harbor being completely commanded by successive ranges of batteries placed one above the other. The Government House, a showy but a most inconvenient building, the old church, and a spacious Maidan, or Common, are also situated within the fort.

The rise of the tides has been found such as to admit of the construction of docks on a truly magnificent scale. Indeed, the dry-dock of Bombay is said to be unequalled in the East for its immense size and convenience. It has been built with three divisions, each of which is furnished with a pair of strong gates, so that it is capable of receiving three ships-of-the-line at a time. This operation is generally entrusted to Parsees, and executed with great rapidity and skill. These docks have sprung up here since the days when the island passed into the possession of the East India Company. Another remarkable feature of this part of Bombay is the so-called ropewalk, which is said to be equal to any in England . Here rope cables and every variety of lesser cordage are manufactured in great abundance. The workmen can be seen seated under covered awnings diligently plying their respective occupations--some cleaning the caiah, or cocoanut-husks, others plaiting, and yet again others twisting heavy ropes and cords.

The Bombay dockyard is also worth visiting; it is admirably contrived, and abounds in fine stone warehouses well stocked with timber for building and repairing vessels and ships of all kinds and sizes, with forges, and well-instructed Parsees, who, among other qualifications, are counted the best ship-carpenters to be found in the East. Many of the merchantmen and ships-of-the-line in the service of the late East India Company have been built here from time to time, and are still built, of Malabar and Mylonghee teak-wood, which is much esteemed throughout India. One of the most magnificent teak forests, from which supplies of wood are obtained, lies on the north-western boundaries of the kingdom of Siam; the other on the western side of the Ghauts and all along the mountains lying north and east of the old Portuguese town of Bassein. They are floated down to Bombay by means of the numerous streams which descend from these mountain-ridges.

Another curious feature is the celebrated cotton-press, of which there are a great many in use here--marvellous in themselves, but more striking amid the mountains of cotton piled up waiting to be pressed before transportation to Europe, China, and other parts of the world. Not very far from these one comes upon a square around which cluster most of the European warehouses and the banks, huge blocks of masonry, dark and dismal as the tomb, impregnated with the odors of tea, coffee, spices, and every other known Indian commodity or manufacture.

It was my first initiation to the commerce of the world to visit this spot. Previous to this day I had hardly so much as purchased a ribbon for myself, and could not conceive what trade really meant. But, driving here about ten o'clock one morning, the whole scene dawned upon me with peculiar force. The great square was thronged with a motley crowd of dark- and white-faced foreigners, all eager, jostling, and contending with each amid the confused hubbub of all languages and all manner of dialects. Here were strange specimens of every nationality and every phase of life, from the lordly English and Scotch merchants, the skilful and assiduous Parsees, to the half-nude, wretched-looking fakeers and beggars who haunt this spot in the hope of getting a few pice.

For six hours these masses of humanity struggle, work, barter, buy and sell, load and unload, and carry on the strangely-exciting warfare, not of flesh and blood, but of pounds, shillings, and pence, straining every nerve each to outdo his neighbor, to enrich himself, at great sacrifice of life, health, and at times even of honor, in the hope of returning to his native land to enjoy the spoils--a hope which, alas! is realized only in rare instances.

But at four o'clock, as if by magic, the eager, bustling, jostling crowd suddenly vanishes; the din and confusion cease. Long lines of carriages and handsome equipages drive up to the great stone warehouses, and dash away with their white-faced occupants. Where is now the commerce of the world? Gone with the powerful, all-grasping white man. A silence profound as the grave succeeds to the rush, noise, and turmoil of the day. In less than half an hour not a human being is to be seen anywhere, save the solitary begrimed watchmen seated here and there in dim nooks and corners, and the armed white-faced sentinels standing grim and silent at their posts.

On this first visit we were the last to quit the scene. Nothing ever made so deep and, I might truly say, so depressing an impression on my mind as the fierce and unnatural activity which pervaded this spot.

A day or two after we drove through the markets or bazaars of the Parsees, or Fire-worshippers, and another and peculiar class of native traders called the Borahs--the two most enterprising of the many different peoples who occupy this island. These markets, nearly three miles in extent, are perhaps the most picturesque in the world, composed entirely of lofty, handsome Oriental houses, with projecting lattice windows and wooden balconies elaborately carved and hung in many places with rich tapestries. The upper stories of the houses are the dwellings of the merchants and their families; the lower portions are given up to stalls, shops, and alcoves where the most delicate fabrics and the most exquisite work of all kinds are manufactured by native artisans--boxes, fans, drinking-cups carved out of cocoanut-shells, with stools, tables, chairs, and other articles of furniture for the homes of European residents, as well as for exportation. Here are made kinkaubs, or cloths of gold; mulmuls, or muslins, of such transparent texture as to be called "running waters;" and many other articles are wrought out here by half-nude, savage-looking men and women with tools of the rudest and most primitive kind. Nearly all the Oriental work done here, though very beautiful and delicate of its kind, is imitative, and it lacks that freedom and diversity so peculiar to European manufacture.

The street that Europeans most visit in this quarter, and the best worth seeing for its unmixed and purely Oriental character, is called the "Bhendee Bazaar." It abounds in the queerest and most picturesque sights--solemn merchants, turbaned and with long flowing robes, seated cross-legged in their dens smoking long hookas; native women, handsomely dressed, in a variety of costumes, and half-nude beggars, who seem to beg for fun or for a wager; cripples, vagabonds; coolies with great heavy burdens on their backs, beneath which head and shoulders have disappeared, and only two bare legs can be seen struggling along amid the crowd; peddlers yelling like fiends; turbaned Mohammedans; Hindoo and Parsee ladies closely veiled, either on foot or in draped carriages drawn by milk-white bullocks instead of horses; indolent loungers sleeping in the shade; dogs yelping and native soldiers crushing through this great crowded aisle of the Bhendee Bazaar. It is not only full of everything Oriental, but everything Occidental, even to the idols so largely manufactured in Europe for the Indian markets--from the costliest gems from the mines of Punnah and Golconda to the commonest English prints; and since the introduction of free trade one can absolutely purchase English goods cheaper in this market than in the cities where they are manufactured.

Not far off there is a less picturesque but much more densely-crowded market called the "Chine Bazaar." It runs along the filthiest part of the city, and leads to a stone pier devoted to the native population and to the loading and unloading of native craft and vessels. The people who inhabit this part of the city are chiefly Lascars, or native sailors, and foreigners from different parts of the East. On any day and at any hour one may see what seems the entire produce of the East piled on this stone wharf; merchandise and mankind are in great masses here. Every inch of ground is thronged with moving forms, presenting a wild masquerade of extravagant dress and of the most perfect undress. Everywhere there is more filth and dirt than is possible to conceive at first sight; odors of ghee, or clarified butter, and fish in every stage of decomposition, assail you amid all manner of deafening sounds.

On one occasion, when visiting this part of Bombay, I saw the landing of some pilgrims from Mecca--a dirty, ill-looking set of men, but the moment they touched land the crowd was hushed; they walked in file counting their beads through the parted crowds, who almost to a man sal??med in abject reverence to the holy strangers.

I also saw some beautiful girls landed here, and that they were slaves, brought for private sale among the rich natives, I could not doubt. I afterward learned that women were brought here every year, and disposed of privately to fill the hareems of the rich Musulman merchants in spite of British laws. Riding through these bazaars, it has impressed me that whatever Great Britain might do for the improvement of the island of Bamb? D?vi in the way of governing it, it would take very many centuries before she could destroy its purely Oriental character.

At one time a very curious organization existed in Bombay for upward of thirty years, consisting of a body of forty or more individuals who bound themselves into a sort of secret society, the sole object of which was systematic plunder. This society had in its employment about three hundred men as subordinates, instructed to receive goods stolen from the merchants' ships. The harbor was the chief scene of their secret operations. Here those of the members who were on duty were ordered to distribute themselves at the various wharves and piers, whence boats went off to ships either when loading or unloading. These employ?s of the secret society either detained the boats' crews in conversation, and thus purloined goods, or hired themselves for a very low sum of money to work with them for the night. In this way they managed to drop into the water or into another and confederate boat some of the goods surreptitiously obtained. The plunder was then conveyed openly to the shore, and sold by auction next morning, without any attempt at concealment, so far as the natives were concerned; and as few Europeans frequented this part of the native town, they had no fear of detection. It is said that the books of this robber society were scrupulously kept, the division of the profits made with strict honesty, and, what is more remarkable still, two shares of the profits were bestowed on charitable institutions among the various tribes and castes of Bombay. It was not until the year 1843 that this secret robber society was detected in some wholesale plunder; the chiefs concerned in it were brought to justice and the whole thing broken up.

The late East India Company, in order to protect the trade of the country against such societies, as well as against the hordes of pirates who have ever since the days of Alexander the Great infested the western coast of India, found it necessary to maintain an armed marine force.

Not far from the extreme point of the Oriental bazaars, so full of mystery, romance, and dirt, is a spot I have often visited, called Colabah--more properly Kal?aba, or Black Water--where the sea is of the deepest blue, and where an entirely different picture is presented to the eye. Bungalows, as the better class of Indian houses are called, with broad, open, and shady verandahs, each with its beautifully kept garden, stretch along this promontory, making a charming scene. These are the residences of some of the wealthiest inhabitants of the island. Bright, airy-looking dwellings, nestling amid the most graceful evergreen foliage, and standing as they do between two bays, they occupy the most beautiful spot in Bombay.

At the extreme end of this promontory are the European barracks, built with reference to the exigencies of the climate and replete with comfort for the British soldiers and their officers. It is really both pleasing and interesting to see that these are well cared for in this foreign land; but the curiosity and charm born in the native parts of the island, and especially in the bazaars, lessen by sure degrees as you see your countrymen quietly and comfortably established in a spot with which they seem so out of harmony in form and color. On the southern extremity of Colabah is the lighthouse, a graceful circular building standing on a desolate rock which stretches far into the sea and commands the entrance to the fort. It rises from the sea-level one hundred and fifty feet, flashing its light to the distance of twenty-one miles. I remember going to the top of it one moonlight night. We remained there two or three hours, and saw the moon rise higher and higher, silently scattering the deep shadows one by one, revealing the half-hidden beauties of that strange shore; and at length, when she climbed over head and looked down in the full splendor of her light, the mountain-ridges, feathered with wavy palms, the glimmering peaks and spires of the land, were all magnificently pictured in richest and softest colors in the polished mirror of the sea.

The "Maidan," or Plain, is a fine esplanade in front of the fort. Here passing European officers, and those Europeans who are obliged by business or any other circumstance to live within the fort during the cool months, erect bungalows; some of these are remarkably elegant buildings, but wholly unfit to resist the violence of the monsoon. At the moment that the early showers of rain announce the wet season these temporary homes vanish and their place is very soon occupied by a vast sheet of water. The Esplanade serves to separate the European from the native part of the island, the latter being vulgarly called the "Black Town."

Toward the north of the island are scattered many picturesque and thriving villages amid native groves of mangoes, palms, and fine timber trees, cities of the dead, and some very interesting ruined portions once occupied by the Portuguese conquerors.

Lying on the opposite side of the palm-groves of Mazagaum, a fishing village, about an hour's drive over a beautiful strand brings us to an interesting spot called Breach Candy. On our way, especially in the afternoon, we meet carriages full of handsome Parsee ladies, generally brilliantly attired in their peculiar costumes, surrounded by numbers of happy-looking children, taking their evening airing. Grand mohguls and nabobs, driving out in magnificent European equipages, drawn by two and not infrequently by four spirited Arabian horses, pass rapidly by. At length, leaving the grand and princely occupants of all these brilliant equipages, we arrive at a spot desolate and yet peaceful beyond description--the cemeteries of the dead of all peoples and all creeds. No sound is heard. One solitary Hindoo, robed in pure white, with his bare shaved head, is praying over a smouldering spot covered with hot ashes, which shows signs of a body having been recently burned there. These graves are separated, it is true, but hardly distinguishable from one another. Desolate homes of the dead, we cannot tell which are Christian and which pagan. All sleep quietly in the same dust. But kind nature has decked them in tender living green, with here and there a beautiful wild flower, while the ever-encroaching sea washes away every year, bit by bit, the tombs of Hindoo, Moslem, Jain, Buddhist, and Christian alike.

There is one place that one should not miss seeing in Bombay, and that is the Pinjrapoore, or the Jain hospital for animals. It is one of the most peculiarly Oriental institutions in the East, and the largest to be found in India--pagan in everything, even in that disposition which has become almost a natural instinct to the Hindoos, the Buddhists, and the Jains, to feel respect not alone for what is stronger and more beautiful than themselves, but for what is weaker and more helpless, and even hideous. The Pinjrapoore is situated in one of the most densely-populated portions of the native town.

We were conducted by two very civil men, low-caste Jains, into what appeared a large courtyard. A number of low sheds and several other courts ran all round it. I must confess I was greatly disappointed in the appearance of the building itself; it was mean and wretchedly dirty. But as for the aspect of the inmates, it was at once both ludicrous and pathetic. I felt inclined to laugh and cry by turns. Never was such a medley of sick and aged animals seen anywhere else. A number of sick oxen were undergoing treatment at the hands of several native physicians who live near the hospital, and whose sole care is to attend to its inmates. One poor old, lean cow was having her leg dressed, and she seemed to be pretty conscious of the physician's kind intentions, for she stood perfectly still and quiet during the operation, which must have lasted an hour at least. The other aged and sick cattle, some blind, others scarred, not a few with bandages over their eyes or with halting steps, presented a singularly pathetic sight. We passed into several small courtyards where cats and dogs and many aged greyhounds find a pleasant home. Some of these were old and infirm to such a degree that it was painful to look at them. One big dog was pointed out to me by one of the men as the "bura kahnah wallah," one who delighted in big dinners; they certainly did not aid in fattening him, for he was the leanest creature I have ever seen.

The monkey part of the hospital was the most entertaining. A big ape supported itself on crutches; another sick inmate was lying stretched full length on the floor, gazing most piteously into the keeper's face. It seemed to be an object of deep interest to all the other monkeys, who clustered around it. The native doctor shook his head solemnly, and if it had been a human being he could not have said more tenderly, "Bachara! bachara! whoo murta hai" . Almost all of the infirm inmates looked on their dying comrade with peculiar intelligence in their faces, as if they had a sort of vague idea of what was happening. As I looked on, I could not doubt but that each one had somehow divined the meaning of the doctor's foreboding shake of the head.

In these compartments were collected, as it almost seemed, every known quadruped and biped on the face of the globe. Old elephants, dilapidated buffaloes, deplumed ravens, vultures, and buzzards hobnobbed together with gray-bearded goats and most foolish-looking old rams; rats, mice, rabbits, hens, herons, lame ducks, forlorn old cocks, and sparrows, jackals, old owls, and geese, live here in harmony side by side. I have been shown through palaces which interested me less.

We waited to see this curious medley of inmates dine. When the food which suited each class was being conveyed by a band of attendant boys to their various pens, troughs, etc., the noise and confusion were deafening. The monkeys in particular, with the peacocks--birds the most sacred to the Hindoos and Jains--raised such a howl and were so importunate to be served first that we were glad to escape. Such is the extreme limit to which Oriental charity is carried. At first sight it seemed absurd beyond words.

Nevertheless, there is something very noble and touching about this "infirmary" for the brute creation. Every one who finds any animal wounded, sick, aged, or dying is authorized to bring it here, and here it is really well cared for until death comes to relieve it from all suffering. Who can estimate the power of an institution that is continually caring for the dumb mutes of the animal kingdom, who bear not only man's burdens, but his harshness and neglect, with the patience of almost sanctified beings?

At dinner numbers of dusky-hued attendants moved about us so softly that they did not seem to touch the floor with their feet; gliding noiselessly in and out, offering us costly viands and sparkling wines, laying down plates and removing them so dexterously as not to make the faintest sound, they seemed even to repress their breathing. Everything was done with magical effect. The punkahs overhead moved softly to and fro; the light fell from cocoanut-oil chandeliers in peculiarly softened splendor on the rare flowers, the glass, and the silver below. Everything went on with the ease and precision of clockwork, without the faintest echo of a click or sound. Even those domestics who did not wait at dinner-table stood with arms folded across their breasts under the shadows of doors or pillars, waiting their turn to serve, and so still and motionless were they that they might almost, save for the glitter in their eyes, have passed for bronze statues.

They impressed me very unpleasantly, and that in spite of all the laughter and merriment, the exaltation of British power and British supremacy in India. I had, somehow, a feeling of reserved force pervading those mute, motionless figures around us, and I involuntarily felt, for the first time, that it was a very solemn affair for the Briton to be in India luxuriating on her soil and on her spoils.

With those dark, restless eyes watching every turn, motion, and expression of our faces, in vain were the delicious coffee and the sumptuous dinner, the music of the fountains playing before each window. I was anxious to escape. If I laughed or talked or moved, those dark eyes seemed to observe me, even when they were seemingly fixed on vacancy. If I had dared, I believe I should have risen and gone away. But of course this would have been a shocking breach of etiquette, so I sat still, hushing secret perturbations and longing for dinner to end.

The conversation continued in a lively strain. I noticed that every one seemed to have a pet theory about home government and how it could best be administered; all of which I was then too young to comprehend, but I did comprehend, and that very painfully, that no one seemed to mind those dark, silent, stationary figures any more than if they had been hewn out of stone. On coming out of that house I drew a long deep sigh of relief and felt just as if I had escaped from some imminent danger.

There are no less than three government residences in the island of Bombay. One is within the walls of the fort, used for holding special meetings of the council durbars, or assemblies, and for various other public business. It has little or no architectural beauty, and looks more like a stadthouse in a German free city. The one at Malabar Point is a charming English cottage, situated on a rocky and well-wooded promontory, commanding a beautiful view of the sea, and is often washed by the sea-spray during stormy weather. The third is at Parel--a magnificent building, said to have been founded on the remains of an old Jesuit college which flourished here during the Portuguese supremacy in India. It was bought by a Parsee, from whom it was purchased by the East India government about a century ago and fitted up in its present style. A noble flight of stone steps leads to the entrance-hall, whence a fine staircase opens into two of the most spacious rooms I have ever seen in Bombay, about eighty feet long, one above the other, and each very handsomely furnished. It commands a fine view of the town and harbor.

There is a curious rock at the extreme point of Malabar Hill which is very difficult to approach at high tide. Here are the remains of an ancient Hindoo temple, and a hole famous as a place of resort for Hindoo devotees, who endure great hardships in order to get access to the hole and pass through it, believing that in doing so they are regenerated, born again, and purified from all their sins.

Among the places worth attention in the neighborhood of Bombay are Byculla and Mazagaum. The former has a fine English school-house for all classes of children. It is placed under the supervision of a number of English ladies of high rank, who take turns in visiting it.

Mazagaum is a very old part of the island of Bombay, formerly a fishing village, which its name indicates, but now a densely-populated town, inhabited chiefly by the descendants of the early Portuguese settlers. The Roman Catholic church here is a most venerable and picturesque building, standing under the shadow of great forest trees. Their foliage is certainly magnificent beyond description. The mango, the tamarind, the graceful peepul, and the banyan attain great height and breadth, and are covered with marvellous specimens of huge parasitic creepers and plants forming miles of sheltered walks. The fruit-bearing trees come to great perfection here. But with all its beauty the spot is considered so unhealthy that it is often called the "white man's grave."

I have seldom seen a pleasanter sight than that which is presented at Mazagaum on every Sunday morning in the year, when the whole native Christian population turns out to church almost simultaneously. The streets are filled with handsome women and children. The women in their long flowing mantles and costumes, half Hindoo and half European, are very picturesque. But the men and boys present an appearance at once both grotesque and ludicrous. Most of them are dressed as Europeans, and not a few as English and Portuguese generals; gold lace, plumed hats, helmets, and striped pantaloons are the prevailing fashion. They seem to have no idea of the fitness of things. Their passion for European dress is carried to such an extreme that I have seen a native Portuguese sailing down the lane without any shoes on his feet, but sporting the military dress, with the cocked hat and feathers, of some English general. This love of dress is exceedingly queer, but it is quite as much a characteristic of the Portuguese men of education and culture in India as of the more ignorant and illiterate.

FOOTNOTES:

The name Mahratta is applied to all the Indo-European races who dwell in that portion of India extending from the Arabian Sea on the west to the Satpura Mountains in the north, to which in ancient times was given the Sanskrit name of Maharashtra, or "the good country." The Mahrattas are Hindoos, divided like them into four castes--the Brahmans, priests and professors; the Kumbis, cultivators of the soil; the Rajpoots, or warriors; and the Sudras, or menials. The Mahratta Brahmans are remarkable for the high physical, intellectual, and moral qualities of that caste. Their language, a fine sonorous and flexible tongue, is a dialect of the Sanskrit, called Mahratti.

Pieces of money each of the value of one-fourth of a penny.

The Jains, a very curious sect found in India proper to-day, and known only to the learned in Europe as the sole representatives in Hindostan of the once-numerous adherents to the tenets of Buddhism in that region, hold an intermediate place between Buddhists and Brahmans, but approach more closely to the Buddhists. They hold that Mahavira the hero, their greatest teacher, and the last of a number of deified spiritual legislators called by them Tirthankaras, was the preceptor of the great Gautama, the Buddha, whose followers embrace nearly three-fourths of the human race even to-day. They have, like the Brahmans, castes, and abstain most rigorously from flesh of all kinds. But, on the other hand, like the Buddhists of Siam, Burmah, Japan, etc., they disavow the sacredness of the V?das and the Hindoo gods, but in their place worship twenty-four sanctified legislators or Tirthankaras.

The descendants of the early Portuguese settlers who have intermarried with the Hindoos and other castes of India, and now form a very large portion of the population of Bombay and Goa.

Malabar Hill, and Domestic Life of the English in Bombay.

My first stay in Bombay was a comparatively short one, and was spent partly with friends at Colabah and partly in tents on the great green in front of Fort George.

My stepfather being connected with the engineer or public works department at the military station of Poonah, my life for a year or two was passed at that strange city. Upon the occasion of my marriage, however, I returned to Bombay for a settled residence, from which time I began my real experience of life in India.

We established ourselves at Malabar Hill, in a house completely isolated from the rest of the world, where my husband and I took up the study of the Sanskrit and Hindostanee languages. Malabar Hill is a rocky promontory on the south of the island of Bombay, and covered with beautiful houses, many of which are almost palaces. At its highest point, detached and alone, stands a lofty tower, the largest "dohkma," or "tower of silence," of the Parsees. Here the followers of Zoroaster deposit their dead. It is rendered not the less sombre by the birds of prey that hover around it in great numbers.

There are two other and smaller towers of silence on the island, all erected in the most isolated positions. No one is ever allowed to approach them save the Fire-priests and those who carry their dead. These strange towers or tombs are mysterious, grand, and barbaric in their very forms--at their base screened by huge branching trees from all human observation, open only to the blue sky, the free air, and the gloomy birds of prey hovering always near.

Two fine roads led to the "Aviary," as we named the house, one of which was cut into the hillside and descended to the base of the hill, whence at low tide you might step from rock to rock away out into the bay. The other was connected with a beautiful road which winds along Malabar Hill, affording a favorite carriage-drive for the residents of the island.

As for the house, it was the most curious bit of architecture one had ever seen--so fanciful, it seemed more like something that belonged rather to the mysterious land we visit in our dreams than to an actual house made of solid stone and wood standing fast, bound to the hard, dull, practical earth.

The building consisted only of two stories, of great length, and a high chamber, called the "Teak Tower," which rose above the east corner of the house and commanded the most extensive and beautiful views to be found anywhere on the island. The upper story was the part designed for human habitation. The wood of which it was built was a fine-grained teak and very durable. The balcony, running all around the upper story, was elaborately carved. The lower part was chiefly of stone pillars, enclosing a spacious ground-floor united by screens of fine open wire wrought in Oriental patterns of the Persian rose and the Buddhistic lily. The pillars rested firmly on broad stone foundations, and the open wire walls let in all the wind, rain, and sunshine that the feathered inhabitants for whom the enclosure was intended could possibly desire.

But this was not all: on the ground-floor of the hall flourished some beautiful fruit-bearing trees. Right under our bedroom chamber stood that most exquisite of Indian trees, "the gold-mohur acacia," with its rich clusters of golden flowers; the slender, graceful p?piya, with its heavy drooping leaves and round fruit of a rich yellow when ripe, so much sought after by birds. One gigantic baob?b, which had stood here, no doubt, for centuries, for whose growth and preservation the builder had made ample provision by leaving a well or circular opening through the lower and upper stories and in the roof, gave the house the singular appearance of growing around a great tree. Forcing themselves through this opening to the sky, the branches of the baob?b shot straight up on one side and overshadowed the tower chamber, covering it, after each rainy season, with masses of fragrant blossoms and fine fruit. It was very evident that in the course of time there would be, possibly, a prolonged but mighty struggle between the house and the tree, which should go first, and it was not hard to tell, for already the tree had found its way to the open sky, and its branches were seen pushing here and there and penetrating the woodwork of the chambers adjoining. There were one or two more trees that deserve mention. These were a beautiful Chinese pine and a heart-shaped peepul. The ground-floor of this hall was covered with weeds and a perfect jungle of brushwood. The gardener told me that it abounded in all kinds of reptiles, but I never saw any signs of them until some large snakes were called out one morning by a party of samp-wallahs, or snake-charmers. The fruit trees had long ceased to bear, and were gradually crowding out and killing each other.

All the more rare and beautiful birds with which Mr. Morgan had stocked this place had died or taken flight to homes less confined; only a few still remained. Among them were the sooruk, or scarlet breast, an exquisite singer; the m?ina, the Java sparrow, the bulbul or Indian nightingale, and the zeenah, a little quarrelsome brown and red-spotted bird,--all hardy birds. They lingered here, partly from association and partly because of the grain still thrown in and around the "Aviary" morning and evening by the pious Hindoo employed by the Parsee agent to look after the garden.

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