Akbar: An Eastern Romance

Akbar.

Akbar.

An Eastern Romance.

By
Dr. P. A. S. van Limburg-Brouwer.
Translated from the Dutch by
M. M.
With notes and an introductory life of the Emperor Akbar,
By
Clements R. Markham. C.B., F.R.S.

London:
W. H. Allen & Co., 13 Waterloo Place.
Publishers to the India Office.
1879.

London:
Printed By W. H. Allen and Co., 13 Waterloo Place.

Introductory Life of Akbar.

The object of the Romance which is now presented to English readers, in a translated form, is to convey a generally accurate idea of the court of Akbar, the greatest and best native ruler that ever held sway over Hindustan. The author, Dr. Van Limburg-Brouwer, was an oriental scholar, who strove, by this means, to impart to others the knowledge he had himself acquired, through the study of contemporary writers, of the thoughts and habits of the great Emperor, and of the manners and civilization of those who surrounded him.

If he has attained any measure of success in this attempt, his labours will certainly have been useful, and his work deserves translation. For on Englishmen, more than on any other people, is a knowledge of so important a period of Indian history incumbent. This romance of Akbar is, it is true, but a sketch, and is only intended to excite interest in the subject. But if it has that effect, and leads to further inquiry and research, it will secure the object with which it was written, and will have done useful service.

“Akbar, an Eastern Romance,” (“Akbar, een Oostersche Roman,”) was first published in Dutch, at the Hague, in 1872, the year before the author’s death.[1] A German translation appeared at Leipzig in 1877.[2] A native of Holland might not unnaturally undertake such a work, for the best European contemporary account of the reign of Akbar was written by a Dutchman, Pieter Van den Broeck.[3]

Students of Indian history are looking forward to the publication of the Life of Akbar by Prince Frederick of Schleswig Holstein. A really good biography of so great a ruler will be a work of the highest importance, and the Prince’s proved literary skill[4] and thoroughness in research justify the anticipation that his Life of Akbar will be worthy of the subject. The romance by Van Limburg-Brouwer, in its English dress, will answer its purpose if it gives rise to a desire for more full and complete information in a graver form, and thus serves as an avant courier to the life of Akbar by Prince Frederick.

The epoch of Akbar is the one of greatest importance to English students of the history of India, for two reasons. It is the period when administration under native rule was best and most efficient, and it is, consequently, the one with which a comparison with British rule should be made. It is also the period of which the most detailed and exact accounts have been written and preserved; so that such a comparison will be reliable and useful.

A brief introductory notice of the great Emperor’s life may, perhaps, be acceptable to readers of Van Limburg-Brouwer’s historical romance. Akbar was the third Indian sovereign of the House of Timur. Hindustan had been ruled by Afghans for two centuries and a half[5] when Baber crossed the Indus and founded the Mughal[6] Empire in 1525. Baber died in the Charbagh at Agra, on December 26th, 1530, and his son and successor, Humayun, was defeated and driven out of India by the able and determined Afghan chief, Shir Shah, in 1540. Shir Shah died on the throne, and was succeeded by a son and grandson, while Humayun took refuge with Tahmasp, the Shah of Persia. The restored Afghans kept their power for fifteen years.

The story of Humayun’s flight is told by his faithful ewer bearer, named Jauhar, who accompanied him in his exile.[7]

Jauhar tells us that, in October 1542, a little party of seven or eight horsemen and a few camels was wearily journeying over the sandy wastes of Sind, worn out with fatigue, and famished with thirst. The fugitive Prince Humayun, his wife the youthful Hamida,[8] the ewer bearer Jauhar, an officer named Rushen Beg, and a few others, formed the party. Extreme misery had destroyed alike the differences of rank and the power of concealing the true character. When Rushen’s horse was worn out, he insisted upon taking one which he had lent to the Queen, a young girl of fifteen within a few days of her confinement. Humayun gave his own horse to his wife, walked some distance, and then got on a baggage camel. A few hours afterwards the forlorn wanderers entered the fort of Amarkot, near Tatta, which is surrounded by a dreary waste of sand-hills. Here, under the shade of an arka tree,[9] young Hamida gave birth to a prince, who afterwards became the most enlightened thinker, and the ablest administrator of his age. Akbar was born on the 14th of October 1542. Jauhar, by Humayun’s order, brought a pod of musk, which the fugitive king broke and distributed among his followers, saying, “This is all the present I can afford to make you on the birth of my son, whose fame, I trust, will one day be expanded all over the world, as the perfume of the musk now fills this room.”

The fugitives then fled up the Bolan Pass, and the little Akbar remained for some time in the hands of his turbulent uncles at Kandahar and Kabul, while his parents took refuge at the court of Persia. Then the wheel of fortune turned. Assisted by Bairam Khan, a very able general and a native of Badakshan, Humayun fought his way back into military possession of Lahore and Delhi, and died in 1556, leaving his inheritance, such as it was, to his young son.

At the time of his father’s death, Akbar was only in his fifteenth year. He was then in the Punjab, with Bairam Khan, putting down the last efforts of the Afghan faction. Bairam Khan became Regent, and remained in power until 1560, when the young King assumed the sovereignty.

In order to appreciate the full extent of Akbar’s achievements, it must be considered that he had to conquer his dominions first, before he could even think of those great administrative improvements which signalized the latter part of his life and immortalized his name. In his first year he possessed the Punjab, and the country round Delhi and Agra; in the third year he acquired Ajmir; in the fourth, Gwalior and Oudh; and in 1572 he conquered Gujrat, Bengal, and Bihar; but it took several years before order could be established in those countries. Orissa was annexed to Akbar’s empire in 1578, by Todar Mall, who made a revenue survey of the province in 1582. In 1581 Kabul submitted, and was placed under the rule of Akbar’s brother, Mirza Hakim. Kashmir was annexed in 1586,[10] Sind in 1592, and in 1594 Kandahar was recovered from the Persians. In 1595 Akbar commenced a long war with the Muhammadan Kings of the Dakhin, ending in the acquisition of Berar. These wars, which were spread over nearly the whole of Akbar’s reign, need not further engage our attention. But in contemplating the reforms of this admirable prince, it must be borne in mind that their merit is enhanced by the fact that most of them were effected during troublous times, and at periods when there must have been great pressure on his finances. He was a renowned warrior, skilled in all warlike exercises, and an able and successful general. But it is not these qualities which raise Akbar so far above the common herd of rulers. His greatness consists in his enlightened toleration, in his love of learning, in his justice and magnanimity, and in the success with which he administered a vast empire. The excellence of his instruments is one striking proof of his capacity and genius.

The commencement of Akbar’s intellectual revolution dates from the introduction to him of Faizi and Abú-l Fazl, the illustrious sons of Mubarak. Their father, Shaikh Mubarak, traced his descent from an Arabian dervish, of Yemen, who settled in Sind. The Shaikh was a man of genius and great learning, and, having established himself at Agra, gave his two sons excellent educations. Faizi, the eldest, was born in 1545. He first went to court in 1568, at the age of twenty-three, and soon became the Emperor’s constant companion and friend. In 1589 he was made Poet Laureate, and he was employed on several diplomatic missions. He was a man of profound learning and original genius. He was loved by the Emperor, who was thrown into the deepest grief at his death, which took place at the age of fifty, on October 5th, 1595. “Shaikh Jío,” he exclaimed, “I have brought Hakim Ali with me, will you not speak to me?” Getting no answer, in his grief he threw his turban on the ground, and wept aloud.

Shaikh Abú-l Fazl, called Allami, the younger son of Mubarak, was born on January 14th, 1551, at Agra. He zealously studied under the care of his father; and in his seventeenth year, towards the end of 1574, he was presented to the Emperor Akbar by his brother Faizi.

Owing to the birth of his eldest surviving son Salim, at Sikri, in 1570, Akbar had made that place a royal abode. He built a palace and other splendid edifices there, and it became one of his favourite places of residence. It was called Fathpúr Sikri. Thither Akbar went after his campaign in Bihar in 1574, and there his intimacy with Abú-l Fazl commenced. It was at this time that the memorable Thursday evening discussions began. Akbar’s resolution was to rule with even hand men of all creeds in his dominions, and he was annoyed by the intolerance and casuistry of the Ulamas or learned men of the predominant religion. He himself said, “I have seen that God bestows the blessings of His gracious providence upon all His creatures without distinction. Ill should I discharge the duties of my station were I to withhold my indulgence from any of those committed to my charge.” But he invited the opinions of others on religious points, and hence these discussions arose. Akbar caused a building to be erected in the royal garden of Fathpúr Sikri for the learned men, consisting of four halls, called aiwán, where he passed one night in the week in their company. The western hall was set apart for Seyyids, the south for Ulamas, the north for Shaikhs, and the east for nobles and others whose tastes were in unison with those of the Emperor. The building was called Ibadat-Khana, and here discussions were carried on, upon all kinds of instructive and useful topics.

Besides Faizi and Abú-l Fazl, there were many learned men in constant attendance on the Emperor. Their father, Shaikh Mubarak, was a poet, and a profound scholar. Mulla Abdul Kadir, called El Badauni, was born at Badaun, in 1540, and studied music, astronomy, and history. He was employed to translate Arabic and Sanscrit works into Persian; but he was a fanatical Muhammadan, and in his “Tarikh-i Badauni,” a history brought down to 1595, he always speaks of Faizi and Abú-l Fazl as heretics, and all references to the speculations of Akbar and his friends are couched in bitter and sarcastic terms. He, however, temporized, and did not allow his religion to interfere with his worldly interests. His history contains much original matter. He also translated the great Hindu epic “Mahabharata” in 1582, and the “Ramayana” between 1583 and 1591. Of the former poem he says, “At its puerile absurdities the eighteen thousand creations may well be amazed. But such is my fate, to be employed on such works! Nevertheless, I console myself with the reflection that what is predestined must come to pass.” The Khwaja Nizamu-d din Ahmad was another historian of Akbar’s court. He also was a good, but not a bitter Musalman. His “Tabakat-i Akbari” is a history of the Muhammadan Kings of Hindustan from Mahmud of Ghazni to the year 1594, which was that of his own death. Other historians of the reign were Shaikh Illahdad Faizi Sirhindi, whose “Akbar-nama” comes down to 1602; Maulana Ahmad, of Tatta, who compiled the “Tarikh-i Alfi,” under the Emperor’s own superintendence, and Asad Beg, who related the murder of Abú-l Fazl and the death of Akbar, bringing his narrative down to 1608. The greatest settlement officer and financier of Akbar’s court was Todar Mall. There were also poets, musicians, and authors of commentaries who were encouraged by the liberality of the Emperor.

Professors of all creeds were invited to the court of this enlightened sovereign, and cordially welcomed. Among these were Maulana Muhammad, of Yazd, a learned Shiah; Nuruddin Tarkhan, of Jam, in Khurasan, a mathematician and astronomer; Sufi philosophers, fire-worshippers from Gujrat, Brahmans, and the Christian missionaries Aquaviva, Monserrato, and Henriquez.

The Thursday evening meetings at the Ibadat Khana, near the tank called Anúptalao, in the gardens of Fathpúr Sikri, were commenced in 1574. Akbar was at first annoyed by the intolerance of the Muhammadan Ulamas, and encouraged the telling of stories against them. Quarrels were the consequence. On one occasion Akbar said to Badauni, “In future report to me any one of the assembly whom you find speaking improperly, and I will have him turned out.” Badauni said quietly to his neighbour, Asaf Khan, “According to this a good many would be expelled.” His Majesty asked what had been said, and when Badauni told him, he was much amused, and repeated it to those who were near him. Decorum was, however, enforced after this, and the more bigoted Muhammadans had to curb their violence. But their feelings were very bitter when they saw their sovereign gradually adopting opinions which they looked upon as more and more heretical, and at last embracing a new religion.

El Badauni says that Akbar, encouraged by his friends Faizi and Abú-l Fazl, gradually lost faith, and that in a few years not a trace of Muhammadan feeling was left in his heart. He was led into free thinking by the large number of learned men of all denominations and sects that came from various countries to his court. Night and day people did nothing but inquire and investigate. Profound points of science, the subtleties of revelation, the curiosities of history, the wonders of nature, were incessantly discussed. His Majesty collected the opinions of every one, retaining whatever he approved, and rejecting what was against his disposition, or ran counter to his wishes. Thus a faith, based on some elementary principles, fixed itself in his heart; and, as the result of all the influences that were brought to bear on him, the conviction gradually established itself in his mind that there were truths in all religions. If some true knowledge was everywhere to be found, why, he thought, should truth be confined to one religion? Thus his speculations became bolder. “Not a day passed,” exclaims El Badauni, “but a new fruit of this loathsome tree ripened into existence.”

At length Akbar established a new religion, which combined the principal features of Hinduism with the sun-worship of the Parsís.[11] The good parts of all religions were recognized, and perfect toleration was established. The new faith was called Tauhid-i Ilahi, divine monotheism. A document was prepared and signed by the Ulamas, the draft of which was in the handwriting of Shaikh Mubarak. The Emperor, as Imam-i Adil (just leader) and Mujtahid, was declared to be infallible, and superior to all doctors in matters of faith.[12] Abú-l Fazl was the chief expounder of the new creed.

Had Akbar, as a private individual, avowed the opinions which he formed as an Emperor, his life would not have been worth a day’s purchase; but in his exalted station he was enabled to practise as a ruler the doctrines which he held as a philosopher. Or, as Abú-l Fazl puts it: “When a person in private station unravels the warp and woof of the veil of deception, and discovers the beautiful countenance of consistency and truth, he keeps silence from the dread of savage beasts in human form, who would brand him with the epithets of infidel and blasphemer, and probably deprive him of life. But when the season arrives for the revelation of truth, a person is endowed with this degree of knowledge upon whom God bestows the robes of royalty, such as is the Emperor of our time.” The disputations came to an end in 1579, and Akbar held the new creed to the end of his life.

Meanwhile Akbar’s learned men were engaged in compilations and translations from Arabic and Sanscrit into Persian. The history called “Tarikh-i Alfi” was to be a narrative of the thousand years of Islam from the Hijrah to 1592 A.D. Akbar held that Islam would cease to exist in the latter year, having done its work. The “Tarikh-i Alfi” was intended to be its epitaph. It was chiefly written by Maulava Ahmad, of Tatta, but Abú-l Fazl and others assisted. Faizi translated the Sanscrit mathematical work called “Lilawati”; and, as has already been said, Badauni, with the aid of others, prepared translated versions of the two great Hindu epics.

But the most famous literary work of Akbar’s reign was the history written by Abú-l Fazl, in three volumes, called the “Akbar-namah.” The first volume contains a history of the House of Timur down to the death of Humayun; the second is a record of the reign of Akbar, from 1556 to 1602; and the third is the “Ain-i Akbari,” the great Administration Report of Akbar’s Empire.

The first book of the “Ain-i Akbari” treats of the Emperor, and of his household and court. Here we are introduced to the royal stables, to the wardrobe, and kitchens, and to the hunting establishment. We are initiated into all the arrangements connected with the treasury and the mint, the armoury,[13] and the travelling equipage. In this book, too, we learn the rules of court etiquette, and also the ceremonies instituted by Akbar as the spiritual guide of his people.

The second book gives the details of army administration, the regulations respecting the feasts, marriage rites, education, and amusements. This book ends with a list of the Grandees of the Empire.[14] Their rank is shown by their military commands, as mansabdars or captains of cavalry. All commands above five thousand belonged to the Shah-zadahs or Emperor’s sons. The total number of mansabs or military commands was sixty-six. Most of the higher officers were Persians or Afghans, not Hindustani Muhammadans, and out of the four hundred and fifteen mansabdars there were fifty-one Hindus, a large percentage. It was to the policy of Hindu generals that Akbar owed the permanent annexation of Orissa.[15]

The third book is devoted to regulations for the judicial and executive departments, the survey and assessment, and the rent-roll of the great finance minister. The fourth book treats of the social condition and literary activity of the Hindus; and the fifth contains the moral and epigrammatic sentences of the Emperor.

It is to the third book, containing the details of the revenue system, that the modern administrator will turn with the deepest interest. Early in his reign Akbar remitted or reduced a number of vexatious taxes.[16] His able revenue officers then proceeded to introduce a reformed settlement based on the indigenous scheme, as matured by Shir Shah. The greatest among Akbar’s fiscal statesmen was Todar Mall, who settled Gujrat, Bengal, and Bihar, and introduced the system of keeping revenue accounts in Persian. Next to him was Nizam Ahmad, the author of the “Tabakat-i Akbari,” who spent his life in the Emperor’s service.

From time immemorial a share in the produce of land has been the property of the State in all eastern countries. From this source the main part of the revenue has been raised, and the land tax has always formed the most just, the most reliable, and the most popular means of providing for the expenditure of the government. In Muhammadan countries this land tax is called khiraj, and is of two kinds, the one mukasimah, when a share of the actual produce was taken, and the other wazifa, which was due from the land whether there was any produce or not.

In Hindu times, and before the reign of Akbar, the khiraj in India was mukasimah. The Emperor’s officers adopted the system of wazifa for good land, and carried the settlement into effect with great precision and accuracy in each province of his dominions. Bengal and part of Bihar, Berar, and part of Gujrat, however, appear to have been assessed according to the value of the crops, the surveys of the land not being complete. Akbar took one-third of the estimated value, and he left the option of payment in kind to the farmers, except in the case of sugar-cane and other expensive crops.

The lands were divided into four classes, with different revenue to be paid by each, namely:—

1. Land cultivated every harvest, and never fallow.

2. Land lying fallow at intervals.

3. Land lying fallow for four years together.

4. Land not cultivated for five years and upwards.

The principle of wazifa was only applied to the two first of these classes of land, and to the second only when actually under cultivation. The lands of these two classes were divided into good, middling, and bad. The produce of a bigah (5/8 of an acre) of each sort was added together, and a third of that was considered to be the average produce. One-third was the share of the State, as settled by Akbar’s assessment. Large remissions were allowed on the two inferior classes of land. The settlements were for ten years. In about 1596 the land revenue derived from the fifteen subahs or provinces of Akbar’s empire was as follows:—

A later return, referred to by Mr. Thomas, gives Akbar’s land revenue at £16,582,440. Under his grandson, Shah Jahan, it increased to £22,000,000, and Aurangzib’s land revenue, in 1707, was upwards of £30,000,000.[18]

On an average about a twentieth is deducted for jaghírs, or rent-free lands, and sayurghals or assignments for charitable purposes.

The “Ain-i Akbari” of Abú-l Fazl is rendered valuable not only by the varied information it contains, but also by the trustworthiness of the author. Mr. Blochmann says that Abú-l Fazl has been too often accused by European writers of flattery, and of wilful concealment of facts damaging to the reputation of his master. He bears witness that a study of the “Akbar-namah” has convinced him that the charge is absolutely unfounded. Abú-l Fazl’s love of truth, and his correctness of information are apparent on every page of his great work.

The last years of the reign of Akbar were clouded with sorrow. His eldest son, Salim, was dissipated, ungrateful, and rebellious, and bore special hatred against his father’s noble minister. The two younger sons died early from the effects of drink. “Alas,” exclaimed Abú-l Fazl, “that wine should be burdened with suffering, and that its sweet nectar should be a deadly poison!”[19]

In 1597 Abú-l Fazl left the court, and went for the first time on active service in the Dakhin. He had been absent for more than four years, when the rebellious conduct of Salim, the heir apparent, induced Akbar to recall his trusty minister. His presence was urgently needed. Abú-l Fazl hurriedly set out for Agra, only accompanied by a few men. Salim thought this an excellent opportunity of getting rid of his father’s faithful friend, and bribed Rajah Bir Singh, a Bundela chief of Urchah, through whose territory he would have to pass, to waylay him. On the 12th of August 1602, at a distance of a few miles from Narwar, Bir Singh’s men came in sight. The minister thought it a disgrace to fly, which he might easily have done. He defended himself bravely, but, pierced by the lance of a trooper, he fell dead on the ground. The assassin sent the head of Abú-l Fazl to his employer; and Akbar, with all the diligence of his officers and troops, was never able to secure and punish the murderer. His own son was the greater criminal of the two, and in his memoirs Salim confesses his guilt with unblushing effrontery.[20]

Mr. Blochmann thus sums up the career of Abú-l Fazl. “As a writer he is unrivalled. Everywhere in India he is known as the great Munshi. His letters are studied in all Madrasahs, and are perfect models. His influence on his age was immense. He led his sovereign to a true appreciation of his duties, and from the moment that he entered court the problem of successfully ruling over mixed races was carefully considered, and the policy of toleration was the result.”

The great Emperor did not long survive his beloved and faithful minister. Akbar died on November 10th, 1605, in his sixty-third year, and was buried in the magnificent tomb at Sikundra, near Agra. There his bones still rest, and his tomb is treated with all honour and respect by the present rulers of the land. A new cloth to cover the actual tomb was presented by the Earl of Northbrook, after his visit to Sikundra in November 1873, when he was Viceroy of India.

Akbar’s wives were Sultana Rajmihal Begum, a daughter of his uncle Hindal, by whom he had no children; Sultana Sulimah Begum, a daughter of a daughter of Baber, who was a poetess; Nur Jahan; and the Rajput Princess Jodh Bai, the mother of Salim.

His children were Hasan and Husain, who died in infancy; Salim, his successor; Murad and Danyal, who died of drink in the lifetime of their father, and three daughters.

Akbar is described by his son Salim as a very tall man, with the strength of a lion, which was indicated by the great breadth of his chest. His complexion was rather fair (color de trigo is the description of a Spanish missionary who knew him), his eyes and eyebrows dark, his countenance handsome. His beard was close-shaved. His bearing was majestic, and “the qualities of his mind seemed to raise him above the denizens of this lower world.”[21] The Emperor Akbar combined the thoughtful philosophy of Marcus Aurelius, the toleration of Julian, the enterprise and daring of his own grandsire Baber, with the administrative genius of a Monro or a Thomason. We might search through the dynasties of the East and West for many centuries back, and fail to discover so grand and noble a character as that of Akbar. No sovereign has come nearer to the ideal of a father of his people.[22]

Akbar was the contemporary of Queen Elizabeth. He began to reign two years before her, and outlived her for two years, but he was nine years younger than the great Queen. He was succeeded by his son Salim, under the name of Jahangir, who reigned from 1605 to 1627.

The native sources whence the story of Akbar’s glorious reign are derived, have already been indicated. To a considerable extent they are accessible in an English form. The translation of the “Ain-i Akbari,” by Gladwin, was published in 1800, and that of the historian Ferishta, by General Briggs, in 1829. Elphinstone gives a brief account of Akbar’s reign in his history of India. In 1873 Blochmann’s admirable translation of the two first books of the “Ain-i Akbari” was printed at Calcutta, for the Asiatic Society of Bengal. The work also contains many extracts from El Badauni and the “Akbar-namah,” and a perfect mine of accurate and well arranged information from other sources.

In Volumes V. and VI. of the great work edited by Professor Dowson,[23] the history of Akbar’s reign is very fully supplied by extracts from the “Tabakat-i Akbari,” the “Akbar-namah,” the “Tarikh-i Badauni,” the “Tarikh-i Alfi,” the work of Shaikh Nurul Hakk, and that of Asad Beg. Mr. Edward Thomas, F.R.S., has published a most valuable little book on the revenue system of Akbar and his three immediate successors.[24]

The slight notices of Akbar by contemporary or nearly contemporary Europeans are derived from reports of the Jesuit missionaries, from those of the Dutch at Surat, and from Hakluyt’s Voyages. As early as 1578 the Emperor had received a Christian missionary named Antonio Cabral, at Fathpúr Sikri, had heard him argue with the Mullas, and had been induced to write to Goa, requesting that two members of the Society of Jesus might be sent to him with Christian books. In 1579 Rudolf Aquaviva[25] and Antonio Monserrat were accordingly despatched, with Francisco Henriquez as interpreter. They were well received, and again in 1591 three brethren visited Akbar’s court at Lahore. Finally a detachment of missionaries was sent to Lahore, at Akbar’s request, in 1594, consisting of Geronimo Xavier (a nephew of St. Francis), Emanuel Pineiro, a Portuguese, mentioned by Captain Hawkins,[26] and Benedek Goes,[27] the famous traveller, who went with Akbar on his summer trip to Kashmir. Xavier and Goes also accompanied the Emperor in his Dakhin campaign; and when Goes set out on his perilous overland journey to China, that liberal monarch praised his zeal and contributed to his expenses. This was in 1602. Xavier celebrated Christmas with great solemnity at Lahore, and wrote a life of Christ in Persian, which Akbar read with much interest. Accounts of the visits of these missionaries to Akbar’s court, and of their journeys, are to be found in the Jesuit Histories.[28]

But the most valuable European account of the reign of Akbar was written by Pieter van den Broek, the chief of the Dutch factory at Surat in 1620. It was published, in Latin, by Johan de Laet, and forms the tenth chapter of his “De Imperio Magni Mogolis” (Leyden, 1631). De Laet calls it “a fragment of Indian history which we have received from some of our countrymen, and translated from Dutch into Latin.”[29] Mr. Lethbridge has supplied an English version in the “Calcutta Review” for July 1873.[30]

Ralph Fitch is the only English traveller who has written an account of a visit to the court of Akbar.[31] Accompanied by Mr. John Newbery, a jeweller named William Leedes, and James Story, a painter, he reached the court at Agra with a letter of introduction from Queen Elizabeth, in the year 1585. Thence Newbery started to return overland. Leedes entered the service of Akbar, settling at Fathpúr; and Fitch went on to Bengal, eventually returning home.

Abú-l Fazl tells us, casually, that, through the negligence of the local officers, some of the cities and marts of Gujrat were frequented by Europeans. Two centuries and a half after his master’s death, these intruders held undisputed sovereignty not only over the whole of Akbar’s empire, but over all India, a vast dominion which had never before been united under one rule. They approached from the sea, the base of their operations is their ships, and not, as in the case of Akbar’s grandsire, the mountains of the north-west frontier.

If the balance of administrative merit is in favour of the English, and this is not established, it in no way detracts from the glory of the great Emperor. Yet we may claim that the islanders who now occupy the place of Akbar are not unworthy to succeed him. The work that is before us is more prosaic than was the duty of the puissant sovereign. The charm of one central glory, round which all that was great and good in India could congregate; the fascination of one ruling spirit, combining irresistible power with virtue and beneficence; the pomp and circumstance of a brilliant court—all these are gone for ever. We have instead the united thought and energy of many sound heads and brave hearts, working without ostentation, and achieving objects of a magnitude and endurance such as no single brain of any despot, how great soever, could even conceive.

“The old order changeth, yielding place to new,

And God fulfils Himself in many ways.”

[1] “Akbar: een Oostersche Roman,” door Mr. P. A. S. Van Limburg-Brouwer. ’s Gravenhage: Martinus Nijhoff, 1872. 8vo. pp. 358.

[2] “Akbar. Ein Indischer Roman. Deutsche autorisirte ausgabe aus dem Niederlandischen des Dr. V. Limburg Brouwer,” von Lina Schneider (Wilhelm Berg). Leipzig: Heinrich Killinger, 1877. Small 8vo. pp. 346.

[3] Published by J. de Laet in his “De Imperio Magni Mogolis.” Leyden: 1631.

[4] Prince Frederick has visited India three times. He made an extensive tour in 1863–64, and again in 1867–69. After his first visit he published a narrative of his travels, in three volumes, “Altes und Neues aus den Landern des Ostens, von Onomander.” Hamburg: 1859.

[5] Mahmud of Ghazni, the first Muhammadan invader of India, reigned from A.D. 997 to A.D. 1030. His dynasty lasted until 1183. The Ghori dynasty lasted from A.D. 1192 to 1289. The Khilzi dynasty, from 1289 to 1321. The dynasty founded by Tuglak Shah, from 1321 to 1393. Then followed the inroad of Timur and subsequent anarchy; and the Afghan Lodi dynasty lasted from 1450 to the invasion of Baber in 1526.

[6] “Mogul” is the old form. Dowson and Thomas have “Mughal”; Blochmann and Hunter, “Mughul.”

[7] Jauhar wrote his “Tazkiratu-l Wákiat” thirty years after the death of Humayun. It was translated by Major Stewart, and printed for the Oriental Translation Fund in 1832.

[8] Humayun met this young lady, when on a visit to his brother Hindal’s mother. She was a daughter of a Seyyid, a native of Jami in Khurasan.

[9] Calotropis gigantea (Asclepiadaceæ). It is a shrub from six to ten feet high, generally found in waste ground or among ruins. An acrid, milky juice flows from every part of the plant when wounded, which is used by native doctors for cutaneous diseases. The bark fibre is spun into fine thread.

[10] Kashmir was ruled by Hindu princes until the beginning of the fourteenth century, when it was conquered by the Muhammadans. Owing to distractions in the reigning family, Akbar sent an army into Kashmir in 1586. The king then submitted, and was enrolled among the Delhi nobles.

[11] Akbar was also much interested in the gospels as explained to him by Christian missionaries; and, as Colonel Yule says, he never lost a certain hankering after Christianity, or ceased to display an affectionate reverence for the Christian emblems which he had received from his Jesuit teachers.—See “Cathay and the Way thither,” ii. p. 532, note.

[12] This was in 1579. See “Blochmann,” i. p. 185; “Elliot,” v. p. 531.

[13] For a plate of Indian arms and accoutrements in the time of Akbar see the very interesting work by the Hon. Wilbraham Egerton, M.P., published by order of the Secretary of State for India in Council, “A Handbook of Indian Arms,” p. 23. (Wm. H. Allen & Co., 1879.)

[14] Mr. Blochmann has supplemented this list with biographical notices of Akbar’s nobles, of which there are four hundred and fifteen. These notices are chiefly taken from the “Tabakat-i Akbari,” the work of El Badaoni, the “Akbar-namah,” the “Tuzuk-i Jahangiri,” and a manuscript called “Maásir ul Umará” in the collection of the Asiatic Society of Bengal.—Blochmann’s “Ain-i Abkari,” i. pp. 308 to 526.

[15] See Hunter’s “Orissa,” ii. p. 5.

[16] Namely the poll tax (jiziah), the port and ferry dues (mirbahri), the pilgrim tax (kar), the tax on cattle (gau shumari), tax on trees (sar darakhti), offerings on appointments (peshkash), trade licenses, fees to darogahs, tahsildars, treasurers, and landlords, fees on hiring or letting, for bags on cash payments, on the verification of coins, and market dues.

[17] Akbar’s returns are in dams, forty dams making one rupee.

[18] In 1877 the whole land revenue of India, including the Madras Presidency and Burma, was £19,857,152. Of this sum £3,993,196 came from Madras, and £835,376 from Burma, which provinces were not included in the empire of Akbar; nor was a great part of Bombay (probably about half) under Akbar’s revenue system. In Bombay land revenue (including Sind) in 1877 was £3,344,664; and half this sum £1,672,332. For a rough comparison these three sums (namely the amount of land revenue from Madras, Burma, and half Bombay) must be deducted from the land revenue of 1877, and £807,102 (the revenue of Kabul) from the land revenue of Akbar. This leaves £15,775,338 as Akbar’s land revenue, and £13,356,248 as the land revenue obtained by our Government in 1877 from the same provinces.

[19] Many Muhammadan princes died of delirium tremens before the introduction of tobacco, which took place towards the end of Akbar’s reign. Asad Beg says that he first saw tobacco at Bijapur. He brought a pipe and a stock of tobacco to Agra, and presented it to the Emperor, who made a trial. The custom of smoking spread rapidly among the nobles, but Akbar never adopted it himself.—“Dowson,” vi. 165.

[20] “Memoirs of Jehanghir.”

[21] “Memoirs of Jehanghir,” written by himself, and translated by Major David Price for the Oriental Translation Fund, 1829. When I was at Madrid Don Pascual de Gayangos gave me a copy of a very interesting Spanish manuscript by an anonymous missionary (probably Aquaviva) who describes the personal appearance and habits of Akbar. It was left at the Asiatic Society, before Mr. Vaux’s time, and was mislaid. Don Pascual has also mislaid the original, so that the loss is irremediable.

[22] Colonel Yule compares Kublai Khan with Akbar (“Marco Polo,” i. p. 340), and Mr. Talboys Wheeler has drawn a parallel between Akbar and Asoka (“History of India,” iv. p. 136).

[23] “History of India, as told by its own Historians—the Muhammadan Period; being posthumous papers by Sir H. M. Elliot, K.C.B., edited and continued by Professor Dowson.”

[24] “The Revenue Resources of the Mughal Empire in India, A.D. 1593 to 1707,” by Edward Thomas, F.R.S., pp. 54. Trübner: 1871.

[25] Rudolf Aquaviva was born in 1551. He was a nephew of Claudio Aquaviva, the fourth General of the Jesuits, and a grandson of Giovanni Antonio Aquaviva, Duke of Atri, in Naples. The Dukes of Atri were as famous for their patronage of letters as for their deeds of arms. The missionary, Aquaviva, after his return from Agra, was sent to Salsette, where he was murdered by the natives in 1583, aged only thirty-two. Akbar, on hearing of his death, sent an embassy of condolence to the Portuguese Viceroy, and to the Jesuit Fathers at Goa.

[26] See my “Hawkins’ Voyages” (Hakluyt Society), pages 396 and 403. Pineiro wrote an account of his travels.

[27] See Colonel Yule’s “Cathay and the Way thither,” ii. pp. 529–591, for the journey of Benedek Goes. The narrative is taken from a work entitled “De Christiana expeditione apud Sinas, suscepta ab Societate Jesu, ex P. Matthaei Ricii commentariis, auctore P. Nicolao Trigantio.” 1615.

[28] See the “Histoire de la Compagnie de Jésus composée sur les documents inédits et authentiques par J. Crétineau-Joly” (6 vols. 8vo. Paris: 1844), ii. p. 510–12; also “Ranke Histoire de la Papauté,” iv. p. 159. Colonel Yule refers to the work of Jarric.

[29] Johan de Laet was born at Antwerp in the end of the sixteenth century and died in 1649. He was a Director of the Dutch West India Company, had an extensive acquaintance with learned men, and had special opportunities of collecting geographical and historical information, of which he diligently availed himself. His chief work was the “Novus Orbis seu descriptionis Indiae Occidentalis” (folio 1633). He wrote works on England, France, Spain, Portugal, Holland, and Italy, which form part of the collection known under the name of “Les Petites Republiques,” printed by the Elzevirs at Leyden. De Laet also had a learned controversy with Grotius on the origin of the American races. He edited Pliny and Vitruvius.

[30] Fragments of Indian History, “Calcutta Review,” July 1873, No. cxiii. pp. 170–200. De Laet is quoted by Blochmann, and also by Mr. Thomas and Dr. Hunter.

[31] Fitch’s interesting account of this visit to the court of Akbar was published by Hakluyt.—See “Hakluyt Voyages” (2nd ed.), ii. pp. 375–399. Besides the narrative of Fitch, there are letters from Newbery, and the letter from Queen Elizabeth to Akbar.

Biographical Notice of the Author.

The author of the romance of Akbar, Dr. P. A. S. van Limburg-Brouwer, was the son of the Professor of Greek at Groningen. He was born at Liege in 1832, and was a Doctor of Law, residing chiefly at the Hague, and devoting himself to eastern and other studies. He held an appointment in the office of the Royal Archives, and was for a short time a member of the States General for the district of Trenthe.

With reference to his eastern studies, we find them bearing fruit in the periodical literature of Holland during the last ten years of his life. In 1863 Van Limburg-Brouwer contributed an essay on the Ramayana, to the “Gids,” a magazine published at Amsterdam.[1] In 1866 a historical sketch from his pen, entitled the “Java Reformers,” appeared in the same periodical.[2] In 1867 he contributed three articles, entitled, “The Adventures of an Indian Nobleman”; “The Book of Kings: an Essay of Indian History”; and “The Vedanta: an Essay on Indian Orthodoxy.”[3] In 1868 he published articles entitled “Eastern Atheism,” and “A Cure for Beauty.”[4] His metaphysical drama, “The Moon of Knowledge,” saw the light in 1869.[5] In the following year he seems to have given his attention to Arabian lore, and published two articles entitled “Poetry of the Desert,” and the “Kabbala.”[6] Towards the end of his life Van Limburg-Brouwer commenced the study of Chinese, and among the results of his labours in this field of research was his article on “The Sage of the Celestial Empire, and his School.”[7] He was a man of extensive and varied learning, endowed with a rich and fertile imagination, and with great powers of expression. In his romance of Akbar, his most carefully drawn character, and that on which he seems to have bestowed most thought, is the Hindu girl Iravati. In her he endeavoured to portray his conception of the class of devoted loving women of whom Damayanti is the type; and Siddha Rama is evidently intended to be the Nala of a later age. But he has bestowed equal care on his treatment of the more difficult part of his subject, and has brought considerable ability and much study and research to the task of presenting to his readers a vivid and at the same time a life-like picture of that remarkable prince round whom the action of the story centres, and of the two brothers who were his devoted friends.

Akbar is the work on which Van Limburg-Brouwer’s literary fame will mainly rest. It was only published in 1872, the year before the author’s death. He died at the Hague, in his forty-first year, on the 13th of February 1873.[8]

[1] “Het Ramayana,” Gids, 1863.

[2] “Javas Hervormers: een Historische Schets,” 1866.

[3] “De Avantoren van een Indisch Edelman,” Gids, 1867. “Het Boek der Koningen: eene proeve van Indische Geschiedenis,” Gids, No. 6, 1867. “Vedanta: eene proeve van Indische regtzinnigheid,” Gids, No. 12, 1867.

[4] “Oostersch Atheisme,” Gids, 1868. “Eene Schoonheidskuur,” Gids, No. 8, 1868.

[5] “De Maan der Kennis,” Theologisch-Metaphysisch Drama, Gids, No. 70, 1869.

[6] “Poesie der Woestijn,” Gids, No. 21, 1870. “De Kabbala,” Gids, No. 7, 1870.

[7] “De Wijze van het Hemelsch Rijk en zijne school.”

[8] An obituary notice of Dr. van Limburg-Brouwer (“Ter Nagedachtenis van Mr. P. A. S. van Limburg-Brouwer”) was written by Dr. H. Kern, the Professor of Sanscrit at Leyden, and published in the “Nederlandsche Spectator,” 1873.

The Author’s Preface.

The grand figure of the Emperor Akbar, the ruler of India during the last half of the sixteenth century (1556–1605), for many reasons appeared to me to be of such importance that I could not resist the temptation of making him the chief person in a romantic sketch which I now venture to offer to public notice.

Some readers may desire to be able to distinguish accurately between what is, and what is not historical. For their benefit I give the following explanation. To real history, besides Akbar himself, belong his son Salim, the Wazir Abú-l Fazl, and his brother Faizi, Abdul Kadir Badaoni, Rudolf Aquaviva the Jesuit, and a few others of less note. Parviz belongs to history, but he bore another name. Nandigupta is not a historical personage, but rather the type of a character often met with in the history of India, and especially of Kashmir. Gorakh and his Thugs are also types. Iravati was not a real person, but the image of a Hindu woman as she is often met with in the ancient dramas and legends of India. Many of the sayings and speeches placed in the mouths of the characters in the romance are historical. For reasons which may be easily understood, the events in the narrative are made to deviate slightly from historical truth. In the days of Akbar, for instance, Kashmir was no longer ruled by Hindu Princes, although the people were entirely Indian. Again; the attempt of Salim, concerning which many particulars are given, was not made during an expedition against Kashmir, but against the Dakhin. Faizi was older than Abú-l Fazl, and died before his brother’s murder. Fathpúr lies at a greater distance from Agra than would appear in the following pages. In the characters and acts of the people there are also some slight and unimportant deviations from historical fact.

The attempt has been made to follow the oriental forms, especially in the conversations, so far as was possible without slavish imitation. The poems, which are here and there woven into the narrative, have been translated by me from the originals.

It is scarcely necessary to give here an exact list of the sources which have aided in the composition of this work; nor is there much to impart, on this subject, that would be new to the historian. He knows well that the principal authorities for the life of Akbar, for his institutions and ideas, are the writings of Abú-l Fazl and Abdul Kadir, whence eastern as well as western writers have drawn their information. The reports of the Jesuits of that period, though often prejudiced, yet in many points supplement and illustrate the works of native historians. It is also necessary to add that various modern histories and books of travel have been used.

For what is purely Indian in this romance, Sanscrit literature, with its many legends, dramas, and romances, has been made use of. For the philosophical ideas of Akbar the best authority is his principal opponent, Abdul Kadir. The Vedas, from which the Emperor borrowed many of his ideas, have also been consulted.

One source of information merits special mention, as it is but little known. That is, the reports on the country and people made by merchants of our East India Company, who, shortly after Akbar’s reign, were established at Surat and Agra. Their letters are still preserved in our colonial archives.

How accurate soever one may strive to be, yet in an attempt of this kind there must always be the possibility of errors, especially in the descriptions of places. If here and there mistakes have crept into the text, the writer asks pardon in anticipation, and will be grateful for any corrections.

The Hague,
October, 1872.

Contents.

Akbar.

Chapter I.

The Hermit.

The last rays of the setting sun shot through the sky in crimson light, and were reflected back by the snows of Badari-natha[1] and the sharp peaks of the Himálaya, while a soft south wind wafted to the mountain tops the perfume of trees and flowers which all day had hung over the valleys. For centuries and centuries had the rays of the same sun lit up the same heights, and the perfume of flowers had risen to the mountains, with no change and no disturbance; while far in the distance men fought and struggled, mighty kingdoms rose and fell, and thoughtful minds vainly sought the aim and reason of the existence of the universe.

Towards the end of the sixteenth century of our era, when Jelalu-dín-Muhammad, surnamed Akbar the Great, had raised the empire of the Moghuls to the highest point of power and glory, the lofty Himálaya, once the scarcely accessible abode of the Devas,[2] still remained wild and inhospitable. These solitudes were scarcely ever trodden by human foot, and seldom even did the cry of some passing bird of prey, or the hum of dancing insects, break the intense and almost audible silence.

Still the place was not so entirely deserted as a careless observer might imagine. Nearly hidden in the long grass a tiger lay stretched out, his coat flecked with black, dreaming in philosophical rest, sometimes gazing upwards at the snow-crowned peaks, and then half closing his eyes before the still vivid light. He looked down on the lovely green valleys far below, stretching away until they met other mountains rising into the clear sky, losing themselves and seeming to melt and blend into the brilliant colours of the horizon. Of what did he think? sometimes gazing upwards, sometimes looking down into the depths below, perhaps in misty remembrance of the times when, in another form, he reigned—a mighty rajah over luxurious Kashmir, with vassals bowing before him and lovely women vieing with one another for the honour of his notice. Or was, indeed, the royal beast nothing more than a gigantic cat? a monster of the jungle? and not the lost soul of some former proud and haughty ruler. He was now, in truth, the king of the wilderness, where no rival dared to challenge his rights. That he well knew his power, could be seen in the proud glance he cast around him. But, suddenly waking from these day-dreams, he sprang to his feet and listened. A noise, the sound of men’s voices, had fallen on his quick ear.

Though still at some little distance, a group of riders was descending by the only accessible path in the mountains towards the valley. A young and handsome man, whose proud carriage and rich clothing showed that he was of noble birth, accompanied by another, older in years and more gravely clad, and followed by two servants, formed the party. The youth was mounted on a white Arab, small but powerfully built, and of great speed. The older man rode a larger horse of dark colour, while the servants bestrode rough but strong mountain ponies. The youth wore a blue silk jacket ornamented with golden buttons, wide trousers and red shoes, and a light cap with a long feather fastened by a diamond. A short sabre hung at his side, and a jewelled dagger was stuck into his richly ornamented girdle. In his right hand he held a long spear. He was tall and well formed, and his complexion was fair, being scarcely tanned by the sun’s rays. His eyes and hair were dark, and a brown moustache betokened, unmistakeably, that he sprang from the Aryan race. His companion was a powerful, broad-shouldered man of dark complexion, yet showing by his finely cut features that Aryan blood also flowed through his veins. A thick curling beard nearly hid his face, which was shaded by a white turban. His person was enveloped in a long robe of dark but fine material, which reached nearly to his feet, and was secured round his waist by a golden belt. He, also, was armed with sabre and spear, and from his shoulder hung a small round shield. The only clothing of the servants was a cloak thrown round their dusky limbs, and many bright copper rings on their wrists and ancles clanked against each other as they rode along. Short spears and small shields were their only weapons.

It was easy to discover from their conversation who these travellers were, whence they came, and the reason of their journey. The young nobleman, Siddha[3] Rama[4], was the son of the First Minister of Kashmir, entrusted by his father with important letters to the court of the Emperor Akbar at Agra, where he was to take command of a division of Rajput cavalry belonging to the imperial army. He was accompanied by Kulluka,[5] his tutor, a Brahman of high descent, a man of learning and a warrior, one who knew as well how to instruct his pupil in the arts of war and martial exercises, as in the sacred language with its classic and holy writings.

But before reaching Agra they had to visit a hermit in the mountains, and then to make their way to Allahabad, where Siddha’s uncle, in the Emperor’s name, commanded the fort at the junction of the Ganges and Jamuna. There too was Iravati, his daughter, and the betrothed of Siddha, counting the days to their coming and the meeting with her future husband.

“But, honoured Kulluka,” said Siddha, after having ridden for a time silently by the side of his tutor, “you, who know the way, tell me that we are close to the abode of Gurupada.[6] It may be so, but I can see nothing that is at all like a cell. Is it possible that the holy man has departed?”

“A little more patience,” answered the Brahman, “and we shall soon come to the turning, whence you will see the little wood in the valley where Gurupada has built his solitary dwelling. But it seems to me you might speak with more respect of one so venerable. You will, however, learn that when you meet him.”

“I intended no harm and no disrespect,” rejoined Siddha. “But what is that?” cried he, suddenly pointing with his spear towards the tall grass on the mountain side, which was waving gently, though unstirred by the wind.

Before his calmer companion could restrain him, the impatient hunter had turned his horse into the long grass, and was hurrying towards the spot where the movement had been seen. But before either Kulluka or the servants could hasten after him, they saw him draw rein and remain motionless, gazing before him.

All movement in the grass had ceased, not one blade stirred, and not a sound was to be heard. Then again the grass moved and bent, but much farther off, betraying the presence of a large glossy tiger bounding away.

Siddha put spurs to his horse, and the next moment lay full length on the ground. A hole, thickly covered with vegetation, had thrown horse and rider. But both instantly recovered their footing.

“It is nothing, Vatsa,”[7] he said to his servant, who had flung himself from his pony and hurried to his master. “I have fallen softly enough; nor, it is to be hoped, has any harm come to my horse.”

On examination they found that the noble grey was as uninjured as his headlong rider; but no sign of the tiger was any longer visible.

There was nothing left to be done but to spring into the saddle and continue the interrupted journey.

Siddha rode silently by the side of his guru, not a little ashamed of his foolish adventure, but the latter broke the silence by saying, “That was but a childish trick, dear lad.”

“Yes,” replied Siddha, in a shamefaced tone, “I must have indeed appeared ridiculous, rolling over in such a way.”

“But,” continued Kulluka, “that you could not help.”

“No one can see concealed holes.”

“What I mean is something quite different.”

“What then?”

“That you will soon learn, if what I suspect is the case.”

The smile that played round Kulluka’s mouth at these words only increased Siddha’s curiosity; but his questions were interrupted by their reaching a turn in the road where, spread out before them, bathed in golden sunshine, lay another part of the valley.

“See there,” said Kulluka, pointing with his lance to a thick clump of trees below them, near which, like a silver thread, flowed a little stream; “there lives Gurupada!” And, without more words, the riders descended a steep declivity, following a path partly formed by nature and partly by the labour of men, that led towards the plain.

Under the dense shade of trees stood a low building roofed with reeds, and built with slight bamboos overgrown with creepers, more like some resort of pleasure than the poor cell of a holy man passing his life in penance. Behind was the dark jungle, in front an emerald lake, reflecting back a hundred different tints, and bordered by blue and white lotus flowers. The clear silver stream entered at one end and, flowing out at the other side, continued its course to the lower valleys just seen in the haze of the distance. Far away the ranges of mountains rose like rocky giants to the heavens, their summits never trodden by the foot of man.

For a moment our travellers remained still, lost in admiration of a view at once so magnificent and so lovely. But quickly remembering that they had reached the end of their journey, they dismounted and entrusted the horses to their servants, while Kulluka advanced to the dwelling, meaning to give notice of their arrival. But he might have saved himself the trouble, for he had scarcely reached the door when the hermit appeared in the threshold, followed by a servant who, at a sign from his master, took charge of the visitors’ horses.

Extraordinary was the impression which the sight of this recluse made on Siddha. In his own country, among his mountains and forests, he had seen penitents, self-denying holy men, wandering mendicants, in numbers and of all kinds—some in foul and sordid rags, with long bamboo staves in their hands and rosaries at their sides, some with a cloth made of the bark of trees, others with no clothing, shaven, and covered with ashes, their foreheads and breasts smeared with white chalk: all supported by the strength of a boundless fanaticism. No wonder that the young man, used to the most polished civilisation, should have looked with the deepest contempt on such people; and in spite of his respect for his tutor, who had always named the hermit of Badrinath with veneration, he had expected but little from the man who now stood ready at his door to receive them. All the greater was the impression now made upon him by the tall and stately figure advancing to them, with dignity but at the same time with an air of friendly welcome.

He was an old man, in a dazzling white garment, with a few fine locks on the otherwise bald head, and a heavy silvery beard, but not in the least bent by the weight of years. His friendly though proud expression showed plainly that he had been accustomed to give, rather than to receive and obey, commands.

“You are welcome friends,” he said, taking his two visitors by the hand, who bent respectfully before him. “Welcome to my solitude. It is indeed a pleasure to hear again of”—here he seemed to hesitate, but proceeded in a firm voice, “of you and my country and people.”

Before either Kulluka and Siddha could reply, their attention was drawn to a low growl close to them, and in another instant, from behind the building, a magnificent tiger appeared with slow and stately tread, and drew near the three men, waving its heavy tail from side to side. Instantly Siddha drew back a step, and laid his hand on the dagger in his belt.

“Leave that plaything in its place,” said Gurupada, laughing. “Do not injure Hara.”[8] Then, turning to the tiger, he called him in a commanding tone, and instantly the powerful animal laid himself down at his master’s feet.

“Did I not tell you?” said Kulluka to Siddha, pointing to the tiger. “Do you now understand why it was a foolish trick you played?”

“Pardon, honoured lord, pardon!” said Siddha, turning with clasped hands to Gurupada, understanding that it was the tiger of the hermit that he had given chase to. “Indeed I did not know.”

“I understand,” interrupted Gurupada, “you have been hunting Hara. That has happened before, but has not always ended so well for the hunter as for my four-footed friend here. For he can become angry, though he has never harmed those who leave him alone. I have had him, as Kulluka knows, ever since he was a small cub, and we are now well accustomed to each other. Is it not so, Hara?” he said, bending towards the tiger, that, half raising itself up, rubbed its broad head against its master’s hand. “And my friends,” continued he, “are also his. See now!” And Siddha, drawing near, laid his hand gently on its shoulder, on which the tiger, looking alternately at both, laid down at Siddha’s feet, and leant its head against his hand. This time the young man did not step back, but stroked the animal’s head; nor was he startled when, yawning, it opened its mighty jaws, showing rows of white sharp teeth.

“That is right,” said Gurupada, as Hara returned to him. “I have seen many older than you who would not have remained so calm. But now let us think of other things. Travellers, after so long a journey through a wilderness where there is not much to be found, must need refreshment. Follow me.” And, going before them, the hermit entered his dwelling.

The interior contained nothing beyond necessaries, but all in most perfect order, and arranged with elegance.

After the guests had rested themselves with him, on fine mats spread on the floor, the servant, who had taken charge of the horses, brought in some dishes of food.

The simple and easy tone in which the otherwise dignified hermit spoke, showed that he was a man of the world, and soon gave confidence to the Minister’s son. Siddha answered Gurupada’s questions respecting his father, his betrothed Iravati, and his life in Kashmir, with frankness mingled with respect. To his astonishment the hermit appeared to know all that had happened in earlier days in Kashmir, and showed himself acquainted with circumstances that must have been a secret to all excepting those who had access to the most private parts of the royal palace. Without doubt, in earlier years, Gurupada must have been a trusted councillor of one of the princes. But Siddha dared venture no indiscreet questions touching the hermit’s former rank. He remarked that Gurupada’s conversation was cheerful, and that he appeared perfectly content with his present station. Yet at times, in talking over political events in the north, a dark cloud momentarily crossed his noble countenance, as though the strong will of the philosopher could not hinder a passing emotion from being visible.

It had become late, and night was drawing on, the moon throwing her silvery light over the landscape which was visible through the open bamboos.

“Now,” said Gurupada, rising, “pardon me, noble Siddha, if with your tutor and my friend I withdraw from the pleasure of your company. I have much to say to him which for the present must be a secret, and in which you probably would have but little interest. If you wish to refresh yourself there is the lake, and to a bath in the open air you are doubtless well accustomed.”

The two elder men left the room together, and for long after Siddha saw them arm-in-arm, walking up and down, deep in earnest converse. When they returned it was time to go to rest, and the travellers were well pleased to stretch their weary limbs on the sleeping-places prepared for them.

Early the next morning, after a fresh bath and hearty breakfast, our travellers were ready to continue their journey. While the horses were being saddled, Gurupada drew Siddha on one side, out of hearing of Kulluka, and said—

“Holy hermits, when young men visit them, are not accustomed to let them depart without some instruction and advice. You expect, perhaps, the same from me; but you are mistaken. I can add nothing to what Kulluka, your wise and learned guru has doubtless already taught you. The world you are going to seek, and life itself, must teach you what remains. Still, one word, to which I will add a request. Do not fear, when you enter the luxurious and magnificent court at Agra, to take your part in all lawful diversions and amusements; and thus you will learn to distinguish the real from the unreal. Think always of what doubtless your tutor has often taught you, keep your conscience pure, and take good care that no deed of yours shall ever give cause of shame either to others or to yourself. But should it happen that, in spite of your earnest striving to keep these precepts, the repose of your conscience should be disturbed, and you wish for some friend to whom you could open your heart, think then of an old friend of your father and your tutor, and come to the Hermit of Badrinath. Will you promise me this?”

“I promise it,” answered Siddha, simply, but with manly earnestness, as he folded his arms respectfully on his breast. With greater friendliness than before, Gurupada took him by both hands, and pressed them heartily.

The horses were soon brought forward, and the riders, after taking leave of the hermit, sprang into their saddles, and, followed by the servants, took their way from the jungle to the mountain path.

More than once Siddha looked back, casting a glance to where the figure of the wise man was still visible between the trunks of the tall trees, standing at the threshold of his dwelling, with the tiger by his side, and then rode silently by his companion, buried in thought.

Suddenly, as though waking from a day-dream, he drew in his horse with such force as almost to throw it upon its haunches.

“Kulluka,” he exclaimed, “I never saw such a man as Gurupada.” But at the same time he coloured to the ears, thinking, but too late, that this exclamation might not be very pleasing to his friend and teacher.

But he had needlessly alarmed himself. Kulluka’s countenance expressed unfeigned pleasure at the admiration of his pupil for his old friend.

“Indeed,” he said, “it gives me great pleasure that you should so think of him, and it speaks well for you.”

“But,” Siddha said, after a moment of silence, “who then is Gurupada?”

“Well,” was the answer, “that you have seen for yourself—a hermit of the Himálaya.”

“Yes,” replied Siddha, impatiently, “that I know well; but what was he first, before he came here and tamed tigers?”

“He attempted to tame men,” answered Kulluka, “but in that he did not always succeed. But why did you not ask him yourself who he was?”

“Would that have been discreet,—should you have approved of that?”

“Certainly not, and you acted rightly in not violating the rights of hospitality by indiscreet curiosity, even if it arose from real interest and for that you deserve that your curiosity should be set at rest. Gurupada gave me permission to recount his former life and tell you his name. So listen!

“He was once a king.”

“How now,” said Siddha, a little disturbed, “are you going to tell me a tale from Somadeva,[9] like those I heard so often from you when I was a little boy?”

“Listen or not, as you will, to my tale,” answered Kulluka, calmly. “He was, I say, once a king, who, supported by good councillors, governed his kingdom with wisdom and prudence. He had no children, only a younger brother, a young man of great ability, to whom he was warmly attached, and whom he had chosen as his successor when death should take him, or when the weight of affairs of state should become too heavy for him to bear. But the brother was ambitious, and, in spite of some good qualities, he had not patience to wait his time. He allowed himself to be led away by parties in the state inimical to the existing government. First he intrigued secretly, and in the end he took up arms against his brother and lawful prince. But he and his followers were defeated, and brought prisoners to the capital. However, this did not put an end to the insurrection. Disturbances still continued, and the only means that remained to the king to suppress them was by the death of his ambitious and dangerous brother, however dearly he loved him, and by subjecting his followers to the same fate. But by so doing his throne would be founded on the blood of his brother and others; which might call endless feuds into life, to which there could be no other end but the utter exhaustion of the kingdom. Yet hardly anyone doubted that the king would, in the end, have recourse to this now unavoidable measure. Suddenly, a rumour spread that he had disappeared from the palace, and in all probability, though not certainly, had fallen a victim to treachery. Since that time he has never been heard of, and his brother, released from prison, ascended the throne as the lawful heir, and has reigned ever since, wisely retaining his brother’s councillors at his side. Though not ruling with equal wisdom, yet his reign has been fortunate, and peace has been restored to his country.”

Here, for a moment, Kulluka broke off his tale to look at his companion and pupil, but his countenance showed neither astonishment nor special interest.

“What you tell me,” he said, “is simply the history of our present king and his predecessor and elder brother Nandigupta,[10] which is known to all, to me as well as to every other Kashmiri.”

“Certainly,” replied Kulluka, “the history of which I remind you is well known. What is not known to every one, only to a few, is that King Nandigupta did not fall through treachery, is not dead, nor was he driven away. Of his own accord, and without the knowledge of his brother, nor of any but a few most trusty friends, he took refuge in a distant retreat, where by spreading a report that he had been slain, he saved his brother from a shameful death and his country from probable destruction.”

“And so Nandigupta still lives,” cried Siddha, “and he is——”

“As you doubtless have already guessed,” answered Kulluka, “the hermit we have just left; but you must hold his secret sacred. The secret of his kingdom and his race is entrusted to your honour. The son of his most faithful servant and friend should know it, and will know well how to guard it.”

“Why,” asked Siddha, half dissatisfied, “did you not tell me this while we were still there? I might then have thanked the prince for all the benefits which, in the days of his greatness, my father and all our race received at his hands. But, it is true, you had no right to speak as long as he himself did not do so. But I still have an opportunity; for Gurupada, if he will be so called, made me promise to seek him if ever I should find myself in circumstances of difficulty and need good advice.”

“And you have done well in giving your promise,” said Kulluka. “Keep your word. Gurupada is better and wiser than any of us.”

But Siddha scarcely heard. He was again immersed in thought. The meeting with the hermit, and the discovery of his secret, made a deep impression on him: that in the beginning of his journey he should have met with a princely philosopher, who, possessing almost unlimited power, and living in luxury, had willingly sacrificed all for love of his brother and his country; and who, happy in the consciousness of having done well, showed himself cheerful and contented with his simple life in the wilderness, with no other companions than a faithful servant and a beast of prey. Now he was on his road to the court of the fortunate and far-famed ruler of a great empire, who ruled his people more by wisdom than by the power of the sword; who had at his disposal enormous revenues; and who might call himself the ally of mighty princes in most distant countries, and protector of all known religions in the world.

The good Siddha, who had been accustomed to pride himself somewhat on his nobility and consequence, suddenly felt how small he was in comparison with two such men. It was indeed difficult to decide which was the greater of the two, and he wisely determined to suspend his judgment until he should have seen the Emperor Akbar himself.

This decision brought him back to the next goal of their journey, a visit to Allahabad, where his dearly loved bride—the beautiful Iravati—awaited his coming. His countenance, which for some minutes had been grave and earnest, brightened up, and striking spurs into his horse, as a long flat piece of country stretched out before them, he cried, joyfully, “Come, now for a gallop!” and darting forward, Kulluka saw brandishing his light spear, and shouting the name that carried off the victory in his thoughts—“Iravati!”

“Forward! forward, then!” muttered the Brahman to himself, setting his horse to a gallop, “until the end is reached; for me it is almost done, but for him the journey of life is only beginning. Oh that he may always find it smooth as this! but he also must meet with rocks and slippery precipices, and perhaps also—abysses. But may they only,” he added, smiling to himself, as he thought of the adventure of the preceding evening, “be harmless precipices.”

[1] Badari-natha is a place sacred to Vishnu in the Himálayas. The Badari-natha peaks, in British Gurwhal, form a group of 6 summits from 22,000 to 23,400 feet above the sea. The town of Badari-natha is 55 miles N.E. of Srinagar, on the right bank of the Vishnu-ganga, a feeder of the Alakananda. The temple of Badari-natha is situated in the highest part of the town, and below it a tank, supplied from a sulphureous thermal spring, is frequented by thousands of pilgrims. The temple is 10,294 feet above the sea.

[2] Deva, in Sanscrit, is a god, a divinity.

[3] Siddha, in Sanscrit, means perfected, hence an adept. Siddhanta, a final conclusion, or any scientific work. The Siddhas are a class of semi-divine beings, who dwell in the regions of the sky.

[4] Rama is a name in common use. Rama was the hero of the Ramayana epic, and the form taken by Vishnu in two of his Avataras.

[5] Sanscrit name. Kulluka Bhatta was the famous commentator whose gloss was used by Sir W. Jones in making his translation of Manu.

[6] Guru, a teacher. Pada, a word.

[7] A common Sanscrit name.

[8] Hara is the name of a branch of the Chuhan Rajpúts. It is also a name of Siva.

[9] The most popular of the collections of old Hindu tales was the Kathâ-Sarit-Sâgara, or, “Ocean of the Streams of Narrative.” It originated in the desire of a queen of Kashmir to provide amusement and instruction for her grandson. Somadeva, the Prime Minister, produced, in consequence, this collection of tales in verse.

[10] Nandi is the bull of Siva usually placed in front of temples. Gupta is a concealed ascetic. The Guptas were a dynasty of kings reigning at Magadha.

Chapter II.

Iravati.

A young girl was seated on a balcony, all overgrown with trees and plants, in the great castle of Allahabad—palace and fortress in one. Her head rested on her hand as, musing, she gazed on the landscape stretched out before her on both sides of the two rivers that met here, and were now glittering in the light of an unclouded morning sun. To the left the rocky heights and sandy shores of the Jamuna; to the right the valley of the Granges; everywhere thick masses of mango-trees, in which numberless parrots and other bright-plumaged birds made their homes. Here and there small islands raised themselves above the surface of the water, and in the background there were rocky hills crowned with pagodas. Judging only by her dress, it would not have been supposed that the girl, sunk in a day-dream, was of exalted rank. She wore a simple white robe, with a narrow border of dark red, clasped by a golden girdle; a golden band held back her thick black locks, in which a single flower formed her only ornament, and that was all. But what need had the slight graceful figure, the fine-cut face, with its great dark eyes shaded by long silken lashes, for other ornament than that given by nature, and by Rama the god of love? And assuredly no offshoot of degenerate stem, no daughter of low degree, could have arrayed herself with so much elegance, and at the same time with such simplicity.

But the longing eyes did not, as of yore, rest with delight on the magnificent scene around. To-day, as yesterday and many days before, she gazed on the far-off mountains, in the direction from which the long-expected one must come; but long had she watched in vain. Where did he tarry? What could keep him? And did he think of her, or was it only occasionally that his thoughts wandered to her, who for days and months had devoted every thought to him and to him alone?

Then a heavy step was heard behind, in the room which opened on the verandah, and, preceded by a servant who flung back the curtain hanging before the door, a short, thick-set man of middle age approached, in a close-fitting garment that came down to his feet. A short sword with a richly ornamented hilt, stuck in his belt, was the only token of his rank.

“Noble lady,” said the servant, respectfully waking his mistress from her day-dream, “Salhana the governor, your father, comes to visit you.”

“He is welcome,” answered the girl, accustomed from infancy to be addressed with respect; and rising, she advanced to meet her father.

“Iravati,”[1] said he, looking at her with his black, penetrating eyes, which gave the only expression to his pale countenance, “some time ago I told you that I expected Siddha Rama, from Kashmir, your cousin and betrothed, with Kulluka his tutor. They have just arrived, and are now in the neighbouring gallery. We will go there to receive them.”

On hearing these tidings, for one moment Iravati seemed to forget all the calm reserve to which she had schooled herself, and would have hurried past her father to welcome him whom she had so long waited for; but Salhana delayed her by a slight motion of his hand.

“First one word,” he said. “It is known to me that the professors of Islam, under whom we live, disapprove most highly of free intercourse between unmarried youths and young girls, and that many of our Hindus have adapted themselves to the opinions of our governors; but for my part, as you know, I am a follower of our old customs, however much I wish to see observed all fitting forms, and so I give you permission, as in early days in our own country, freely to speak with your cousin and bridegroom, but only allow our most trusted friends to know it, otherwise my influence here, where I govern, and your good name, may suffer. Now come.” And going before her, he led the way to the open verandah looking down on the river, where their two visitors stood awaiting their appearance.

“You are welcome, my lords and friends,” said Salhana, with dignity; “and I thank you for granting my request, and coming straight to my dwelling, instead of taking up your abode in the town, as many do.” These words sounded cordial, though the tone in which they were pronounced was as expressionless as his stiff countenance.

Some might have remarked this, but not Siddha, who, barely greeting his stately uncle or giving Kulluka time to receive the reverent greeting of Iravati, flung himself on his knees before her, and pressed a burning kiss on the hand she held out to him.

“Welcome,” she said, signing to him to rise, (and how sweet sounded that gentle voice!) “welcome, friend. How long we have watched for your approach, looking towards yonder mountains, and almost doubting if you would ever come!”

“You did not believe, beloved,” cried Siddha, almost indignantly, “that I would have delayed my arrival in Allahabad for one moment longer than was necessary. If I could have leapt over rivers and mountains to have been sooner with you, and had my horse had more wings than Vishnu’s Garuda,[2] I should not, indeed, have spared him.”

“I believe you willingly,” said Iravati, with a friendly smile, “and indeed I meant no reproach to you or to our trusty friend Kulluka, and we must rejoice all the more at being together, as I hear from my father that it is only for a very short time.”

“Indeed,” said Salhana, after a few words with Kulluka, interrupting the conversation of the two lovers, “our friends must leave us early to-morrow; but I did not expect otherwise. Yet, noble Siddha, I must shorten by a few minutes your interview with your bride, as I wish to speak a few words with you, and at once, for my time is precious, and before our mid-day meal I have many things to do. Will it please you to follow me?”

This request was not to be refused, and unwillingly and with many a longing look towards Iravati, Siddha followed his courteous but imperious uncle to the garden on the other side of the palace. There, under the thick shade of trees, Salhana seated himself on a carpet, signing to his nephew to take a place by his side.

“And so you are going,” he began, “to seek your fortune in the immediate service of the great Emperor. In truth you may hold yourself fortunate that you have a father who knows how to give you so favourable an opportunity, and also, if I may add it without presumption, an uncle who, by the accident of his position, may be able to afford you help in case of need.”

“For that I am very grateful,” answered Siddha, “and I hope never to forget that you, perhaps more than my father, have aided to make easy to me the first step on the ladder, not only because it may be that I shall have opportunities of distinguishing myself, but that I shall be able to achieve more here than in our own beautiful but far-away country; and at the same time I shall see the Emperor living in all the splendour of his court, of which I have heard so much at home.”

“Certainly,” said Salhana, “but a word of counsel; beware of exaggerated expectations, not as regards the magnificence of palaces and courts, of which in the north we can hardly form an idea, but of the Emperor himself; it is better to begin without highly wrought expectations.”

“How,” asked Siddha, in astonishment; “in truth does not Akbar deserve his name? is he not, as my father and my tutor have always represented him, a great man as well as a mighty prince?”

“That I did not say,” was the answer; “but our great men can have their faults, which may threaten to become dangerous for others. Listen,” continued the governor, looking round to see there was no one within earshot, and sinking his voice to a whisper: “whenever a man attains such power as Akbar, through his own courage and prudence, then is the longing to attain more not easily satisfied. The Emperor, who has subdued states and people to his rule, can hardly bear that your and my fatherland should remain so entirely independent. You know, moreover, do you not, how every now and then, although it was kept secret from most, divisions have broken out in Kashmir between our king and his two sons, in the same way as in earlier days between him and his brother Nandigupta?”

“No, I did not know it,” said Siddha; “this is the first time it has come to my ears.”

“Well,” rejoined the other, “you should inquire about it when the opportunity offers. I can tell you somewhat of it at once, but do not speak of it to Kulluka; for that, I think, might not be well. The divisions between the king and his two sons were stirred up—you understand by whom. If open feuds once broke out, and the country was divided into parties, then a pretence for declaring war on us would easily be found, and the Emperor would invade our country with a strong army, guided through the mountain passes by his spies, and so our country would be incorporated in his empire. This does not prevent my acknowledging with admiration his wonderful conquests, but the same ambition which has made his people great may be the cause of the destruction of our independence.”

“But how,” asked Siddha, after a moment’s thought,—“if this is so, how can you remain the servant of a man who has sworn the destruction of our country?”

“And why not?” said Salhana, in his turn surprised. “Is it not well that one of us, without harming the Emperor, but, on the contrary, serving him in many important affairs, should keep an eye on his plans and actions. It is well that you yourself, under my recommendation and protection, should come still more closely in contact with our ruler. Certainly you will be less suspicious than I, but still in this respect you can be of great service.”

“But,” asked Siddha, doubtfully, after a moment’s thought, “is that honourable?”

“Young man,” answered Salhana, in a dignified tone, although his countenance expressed no anger, “let me remark to you that a man of my age and experience should know well what is honourable and what is not; and you, only just commencing your part in life, should not attempt to give counsel on such a subject.”

“Forgive me, uncle,” answered Siddha, “you know that I am still so little acquainted with the principles of state affairs, that I cannot understand them at once; and, also, Kulluka, my guru,[3] has always impressed on me to follow the right path, and never to act ambiguously towards anyone, and——”

“Kulluka, my best friend,” interrupted the other, “is an excellent man, for whom I have the greatest respect; but he is a man of learning, not of facts; a man of theory, not of what is practical. See, now, your country and people, who are dear to you, are threatened by a prince whom you look upon with admiration, and would willingly serve in all but that one thing. You should hold it as a duty to work against him in this, as far as possible. The opportunity is now opened to you, not entirely, but in a certain measure. Should you now spurn this opportunity, because of an exaggerated idea of political honour? And does he himself act with honour in accepting your services and mine while at the same time he has designs on our king and country? and if not, what claim has he on such special loyalty on our side? Moreover, go, if you will, to Akbar, and say to his face, if you dare, that you see through his plans and will oppose them; and before the day is over, my good friend, you will be fettered in a dungeon, or on your way banished to the furthest bounds of the Dakhin or Bengal, if worse does not befall you. Such opposition would be of no service to us; far otherwise would it be to make good use of favourable opportunities. By doing so, there would be no harm done to the prince, while, on the other hand, we may perchance save our fatherland from destruction.”

Not convinced, but still not knowing how to refute such reasoning, Siddha vainly sought for an answer, and remained silent, waiting for what his uncle might have further to say. But he appeared to consider the interview at an end, and made a movement to rise, when, in the path leading to the place where they were seated, a figure appeared, just such a one as would attract Siddha’s attention and draw his thoughts from the preceding conversation. He was tall, brown, and closely shaven all but a single long lock of hair; his right arm and breast were naked excepting for the sacred cord of the Brahmans; a narrow white garment was thrown round his emaciated limbs. His sunken dull eyes and hollow cheeks spoke of long fasts and severe penances. Although not easily alarmed by man or beast, and accustomed to strange appearances, yet for a moment Siddha started back. Many a tiger had he slain in the jungle, and without fear killed many a deadly snake, yet he could not overcome a feeling of horror at this sudden appearance.

“Gorakh[4] the Yogi,”[5] explained Salhana, “priest of the Durga[6] temple, yonder on the hills. Meet him with respect; he deserves it, and has more to impart to you than you suspect.”

Gliding rather than walking, the priest approached the two men who had stood up to receive him, and, raising his clasped hands to his forehead, he said, in a slow, drawling voice, “Om, Om![7] You, the favoured of the Lord of the World, and of Durga his glorious consort. Om!”

“I greet you well, most honoured Gorakh,” answered Salhana to this curious salutation; “you see here my nephew Siddha Rama, from Kashmir, of whom I have already spoken to you.”

“He is welcome,” was Gorakh’s reply; “and may he, above the strife of disunion, know how to lay the foundation that leads to the endless blessings of union, wherein you, my friend, begin more and more to recognise the true part of salvation. Yet,” continued he, after a moment of dignified silence, “the experience of life must teach him the way, as it has done for you and me. We must allow the time needed for the scholar. In truth, I know him, and know that he will belong to us.” And here he turned to Siddha: “It is but lately that I met you.”

“Pardon me, honoured lord,” was the reply; “that I cannot recall.”

“You could not,” was the answer, “for at that moment I was invisible to human eye.”

Too well acquainted with the extraordinary claims to the power of rendering themselves invisible asserted by the Yogis, Siddha contented himself with listening in silence to the priest, who, to his astonishment, continued:—

“It was on that evening when you gave chase to the hermit’s tiger;—but we will speak to each other later. Now the noble Salhana wishes to converse with me, so for the present farewell, and may Durga’s mighty consort bless you.” And murmuring in a low tone his “Om, Om!” the priest of Durga and Salhana left him in the garden, his uncle crying to him, “We shall meet again soon.”

The last communication of the Yogi was well calculated to excite Siddha’s astonishment. How could the man know what had happened to him yonder in the mountains, where, excepting his own companion, he had seen no human being? But here the sight of his servant at a little distance, wandering through the trees, brought to his mind the way by which the riddle might be unravelled.

“Vatsa,” said he, beckoning to the man, “have either you or Kulluka’s servant just spoken with a priest?”

“No, my lord,” answered Vatsa, “we have not even seen one.”

“No!” said Siddha, now really astonished. “Good; you can go.” And turning away, he murmured to himself, half disturbed and half alarmed, “I will speak to Kulluka about this.” But how could a priest or anyone else occupy his thoughts when, having gone but a little way, he caught sight of the white robe and slight figure of Iravati, seated under the thick shade of a mango, close to a pool of lotuses, while the air was filled with the sweet music of a sparkling fountain, and cooled by its falling waters. Flowers lay scattered around, and in her hand was a half-finished wreath. Hearing footsteps approaching, and catching sight of Siddha, she flung the wreath away, and hastened to meet her lover, raising her clasped hands to her forehead. Siddha seized them in his own, and, leading her back, flung himself on the moss at her side.

“What a cruel man your father is,” said he, “to part us so soon, when we had scarcely exchanged two words!”

“Well,” answered Iravati, “you must thank him for allowing us to talk together, since it is long since this was allowed to those who are betrothed to each other.”

“From my heart I will be grateful to him,” said Siddha, “and more highly prize the happy moments spent with you. But you do not seem quite to share in my joy; tell me the reason.”

“Ah!” sighed Iravati; “how can our meeting be unclouded happiness, when we are to part again so soon? Perhaps, and even probably, these are the only short moments in which, for a long time, we shall speak freely one to another; and to-morrow you depart for the luxurious, turbulent city, where a simple girl like me may easily be forgotten.”

“Forgotten!” cried Siddha; “have I deserved such suspicion from you? and what is the absence of a few months! Returns not”—asked he, in the words of Amaru, as, taking her hand in his, he drew her nearer to him—“Returns not he who departs? Why, then, beloved, art thou sad? Do not my heart and word remain yours, even though we part?”[8]

“Ah,” answered Iravati, “if poets could comfort us! But tell me, Siddha, have you never made any verses on me?”

“I wish that I could,” was the modest reply; “and indeed I have tried, but what I wrote was never worthy of you. Still, there is another art in which I am more accomplished than in poetry, and my attempt in that line you shall see.” And drawing from his girdle a small locket, set with jewels, he showed a miniature, in which she recognised her own image.

“Siddha!” she exclaimed, joyfully; “but I am not so beautiful as that.”

“Not so beautiful!” repeated he. “No; but a hundred times more beautiful than my pencil or that of any other could represent.”

And he was right, for according to Indian taste he had exaggerated the eyes and mouth, when their regularity was one of the beauties of Iravati’s face.

“But why,” said he, as she suddenly drew herself up and quickly escaped from his arms, “why are you now going to leave me?”

“Wait a moment,” she replied; “in an instant I will be back.”

With the swiftness of a gazelle he saw her taking her way through the trees to the palace, ascending the broad marble steps as though she scarcely touched them, and in a few moments return, holding in her hand an object which, in the distance, he could not distinguish, but as she drew nearer, and, with a blush, held it out to him, with an exclamation of admiration, he recognised his own portrait. But this, in truth, was an idealized likeness.

“My dearest!” he said, in ecstasy; and before she could draw back he had thrown his arms round her, and pressed a burning kiss on her lips.

“See,” said she, gently disengaging herself; “my father should be well pleased with us, for we have done just like the princes and princesses in our old national legends, and have drawn each other’s portraits.”

“Not exactly so,” added Siddha, “for they drew their own likenesses, and then exchanged with one another. But I think our way is much the best; theirs appears to me extravagant vanity, in our way of looking at it, or utterly aimless.”

“Fie!” said Iravati, reproachfully; “do you make such remarks on the writings of the ancients? Who knows if you will not next criticise our holy books!”

“And why not,” asked he, “if they here or there make mistakes, or show a want of taste, or——”

“But you are not, I hope, an unbeliever?”

“An unbeliever in what?”

“In the law of the Holy Veda, for example.”

“Come, dear one,” interrupted Siddha, laughing, “do not let us employ the few moments allowed us as many of our countrymen do, who can hardly meet each other without at once discussing theological and philosophical questions.”

“You are right,” she answered, “and I know of a game that is far prettier, and one that you also know.” And bending over the brink of the tank, she gathered a dark-blue lotus, and picking up a long leaf that lay on the ground, and weaving it into a kind of boat, she placed the lotus in it and let it float on the surface of the water, which was gently stirred by the falling fountain. “The lotus is my Siddha,” said she, half to herself; “let us see if he will remain faithful to me.”

“No,” said Siddha, in his turn reproachfully, “that is a foolish game, and one that you should not play.”

Iravati hardly listened to him, but watched with breathless attention the waving leaf that was dancing on the rippling water. “Faithful, faithful!” she cried; but then a sigh from the south wind caught the frail vessel. It turned over and floated bottom upwards, while the lotus disappeared. “Alas!” cried Iravati, as she let her head sink in her breast; “my forebodings, then, have not deceived me.”

“Fie! I say now in my turn,” said Siddha; “a noble, well educated lady to hold to such follies, that are only to be excused in ignorant peasant girls. And so you place more faith in the leaf of a tree than in the word of honour of a nobleman who has pledged you his troth, as you have to him?”

“Ah! Siddha,” sighed Iravati, “you must forgive me if I do seem rather childish; and does not my uneasiness show you how much I love you? However great my faith in your word is, I cannot help thinking with anxiety of the city to which you go; and who knows what temptation awaits you there? But I confess that I was wrong, and,” continued she, leaning her head on his shoulder, “I know that Siddha is mine, now and always, and no other woman lives who can rob me of his heart.”

Putting his arm around her, Siddha gazed at her in silence; but his look said more than the warmest assurance could have done. A jingling of bangles made them look up, and Iravati said, “Our interview, my friend, is ended; there comes Nipunika, my servant, to warn us.” And a moment after, the servant appeared, her brown ancles and arms clasped with golden bangles, and announced to her mistress that the Governor requested her to return to her apartments, and begged his nephew to join him and Kulluka at their meal. Giving him her hand for a moment, Iravati, accompanied by Nipunika, returned to the palace. Siddha followed to seek his uncle and his travelling companion. The meal was not wanting in magnificence and luxury, and was served in one of the smaller apartments, from the open verandah of which there was a magnificent view of the country around. There were cushions of silk with richly embroidered borders, on which the guests took their places; gold and silver vessels; choice meats and wines; numbers of servants of all nations, and in every costume; in a word, everything that was conformable to the rank of Salhana, governor of the fortress, and, for the moment, the man of the highest rank of all the inhabitants of the royal palace. But merriment was wanting to the courtly feast, and confidential intercourse was not possible. All was formal, stately, and stiff, and the conversation meaningless and polite, and only sustained by the three men because silence would have been uncourteous. How different, thought Siddha, was their simple meal with the hermit of the mountain; and it seemed that Kulluka was of the same opinion, for, stealing a glance at his guru, he saw a smile on his face, unobserved by Salhana. At last their repast came to an end, but the remainder of the day brought no pleasure to Siddha. He wandered for some time under the balcony of the apartments which Nipunika, whom he met, pointed out as those of her mistress. But Iravati did not show herself, and when, towards evening, she appeared in the presence of her father and his guests, it was only to take leave of him with the same formality that had attended their meeting in the morning.

At dawn next morning they were to recommence their journey, to avoid the heat of mid-day, and the travellers withdrew early to their apartments. Needful as rest was, the younger man was not inclined at once to seek it. Taking off his arms, instead of throwing himself on his bed, he stood for some time at the open window, from which there was a view of the whole fortress, and all the thickets of trees, half-hidden in the dimness of night. Behind them rose hills, with here and there temples and other sacred buildings. His mind was not alone occupied with Iravati’s image, but also with the conversation with his uncle, and the strange meeting with the mysterious priest, who, by some artifice or accident, had become acquainted with his adventure with the tiger, though how, he could not guess. But to what did all this tend? What did the man want? And Salhana the governor; could he trust him? and were his instructions to be followed, and all that had happened this morning kept secret from Kulluka? or would it not be better to consult him about it?

An unexpected appearance made Siddha for an instant lose the thread of his thoughts, though they were at once brought back to him. On the nearest wall, where the low breastwork stood sharply out against the light that still lingered in the sky, two figures suddenly showed themselves above the parapet, who, though he could not distinguish their features, he recognised as his uncle the governor, and Gorakh the priest of Durga. Again the two were together, and at so late an hour. But the most wonderful part of this apparition was the entirely changed bearing of both. There was no trace of their former stiffness and stateliness, and one gesticulated more violently than the other, carried away by their engrossing conversation, as they walked up and down, now towards the castle, and now towards the hills. This continued until they were suddenly disturbed by the appearance of other figures, which, one by one, moved along the outer wall, their emaciated forms entirely naked with the exception of a white cord round their necks, which here in the half light was visible in contrast with their dark skins. On their approach Salhana disappeared, probably through some stairs leading to the palace, invisible from where Siddha was. The priest, immediately regaining his dignity, and pointing with his right hand towards one of the temples, placed himself at the head of the band, and led the way along the wall to the dark wood lying at the foot of the rocks. A long row of figures followed him, and Siddha had long ceased to count them ere the last disappeared in the jungle.

In spite of himself a slight feeling of horror had seized on him as he saw their strange forms pass by, and associated them with the name of the goddess to whose service Gorakh was dedicated, and to whose temple they appeared bound. Could it be true that the sect still existed, of which he had so often heard, but believed to be either rooted out or to have died out—that mysterious league of demons in human form that had so long been the plague and terror of Hindustan, the most terrible product that religious fanaticism had ever brought to life? And with the leader of such a band was it possible that his uncle, the servant of the Emperor, should be allied! It was indeed not to be believed, and laughing at his foolish fancies, Siddha left the window, and hastily throwing off his clothes, flung himself on the bed prepared for him. But it was long before he could sleep, for the conflicting images of Iravati, Salhana, Gorakh, and his naked followers, kept passing through his head; and before he fell asleep he had come to the determination not to speak to Kulluka of what he had that day seen and heard. That his uncle was mixed up with secret affairs was clear to him; still for a statesman that was not unnatural, and there was nothing to make him suspect they were criminal, though their discovery might be injurious to Salhana, and perhaps to his nearest relatives. He would not, he felt, be justified in betraying what confidential conversation and a pure accident had made him acquainted with. Kulluka himself would certainly condemn such a course of action.

[1] Iravati is the Sanscrit name of the river Raví or Hydrastes. Iravat was a son of Arjuna.

[2] Vishnu, the god, rides on a mythical bird called Garuda.

[3] A spiritual teacher or guide.

[4] Goraksh or Gorakh, a cow-herd.

[5] Yogi, a follower of the Yoga philosophy. An ascetic.

[6] Durga, a goddess, the wife of Siva, and destroyer of evil beings and oppressors. Also called Kali.

[7] The mystic monosyllable to be uttered before any prayer. It is supposed to consist of three letters, a u m, combined, being types of the three Vedas, or of the three great divinities, Brahma, Vishnu, Siva.

[8] From the hundred love sentences of the Amaru-Sataka, a poem written by a king named Amaru.

Chapter III.

Agra.