expect, owing to the heavy state of the roads, produced by late continued rain, which frequently plunged the unhappy bearers up to their knees in mud. Night found us still many miles distant from our destination, and necessitated a halt of several hours beneath the spreading branches of some wayside trees.

The afternoon had been showery, but the air had gradually cleared as night drew on, and the moon shone brightly upon our little encampment, close to which flowed a babbling stream, the murmur of which, added to the almost imperceptible hum of a neighbouring native village, were the only sounds to break the stillness of the quiet night hours. A fire was quickly lighted by my servant underneath a large tree, and tea, that best of all refreshments when on a journey, soon prepared.

The bearers, after refreshing themselves inwardly, disposed their forms in various attitudes round the blaze, wrapped in the large coarse cotton garments common to the natives of the country, and soon were lost in the sound sleep which the hard-worked so well earn. It was a time for dreamy thoughtfulness; alone in that wondrous land of the East, so rich in mysterious traditions of elder days, with the quiet stars looking down on one, through the soft brilliancy of an Indian night, such as our cloudier western skies can give little idea of-I was roused from my contemplations, and (probably) slumbers, by our bearers preparing for another start, and soon after midnight we were again under weigh. I remember little more until I found myself and palanquin resting upon the road, the bearers directing the "sahib's" attention to the first view of Beejapore, now visible in the glowing light of sunrise.

Towering above everything else, at a distance of some miles, rose a vast dome, not unlike that of St. Paul's, when viewed from afar. This, I afterwards learned, was the tomb of Mohammed Shah, one of the former chiefs of Beejapore, and, seen through the morning mist, its gigantic proportions appeared almost like the creation of some vast mirage. Owing to its great elevation, the dome is said to be visible from fourteen to twenty miles distant.

When, farther on, we gained a slight elevation about two miles from the city, the gorgeous panorama of this wonder of the Deccan spread itself out before my eyes, conveying the idea, at first sight, that we were approaching some densely populated capital, the residence of royalty and abode of unbounded wealth. Domes, minarets, spires, and towers, of infinitely varied shape, stretch for miles over the rather elevated land upon which the city is built, while one unfinished edifice, rude in form, arrests the eye amid this maze of architectural beauties. Shapeless almost when contrasted with the buildings which surround it on every side, the Upari Burj appears to frown upon those finished creations of the architect's taste and skill, as if, although destitute of adornment, it were conscious of the grander designs of its founder. This "over tower," as the native words signify, was built for the purpose of overlooking the whole city (so the story runs) by one of the Sultan's nobles, who, being absent on a journey when the king commanded each of his chiefs to build a portion of the outer fort, complained that no task had been assigned to him. "Then," said the king, "you shall build a tower to overlook all." The Upari Burj accordingly sprang into existence; but, like the Tower of Babel, whose top was to have reached heaven, this edifice appears to have been

suddenly arrested in its course, and left (tradition does not say on what account), as one of the landmarks which strew the path of Time in every land, a memento of the longings of the human mind after the Great and Sublime, but also of the imperfection and weakness of man's fallen

nature.

On nearing the walls of Beejapore, the illusion of an inhabited city becomes gradually dissipated, as ruined mosques, tombs, battlements, tanks, &c., crowd upon the traveller's path, interspersed with luxuriant tropical foliage. Without the walls of the city (strictly so called), towards the west, there is an immense suburb named Torwa, consisting of ruined palaces and fanes, amidst which a few native workmen have built their mud-huts, while in the spacious courts where chiefs once held their state, surrounded by all that wealth and power could give, the dyer of stuffs now plies his humble task. Not far from the "Mecca," or western gate of the city, stands the Ibram Rozah, a building now used as a traveller's bungalow. An arched doorway through a low wall leads into a large court, shaded with tamarind-trees of great size and luxuriance. The tomb and adjacent mosque are built upon a raised platform, which adds not a little to the imposing appearance of the building, and a terraced walk upon the same level runs all round the enclosure-somewhat similar to the terraces often seen about old English country-houses. From this walk enchanting glimpses of the mosque and tomb catch the eye through the graceful foliage of the tamarind-trees, beneath which camels are reposing beside their burdens-the whole picture illuminated by the gorgeous light of an Indian sun, the fierceness of whose rays is softened by the intervening shadow, while the plash of water in the marble tank of the court adds to the air of dreamy repose which pervades the tomb and its enclosure. Beautiful as the scene is by day, the traveller cannot then so fully enter into its charms as when viewing it by the soft radiance of moonlight pouring over minaret and tower. At this still hour of night an unearthly brilliance seems to surround each delicately carved arch and pillar, and to shine through the traceried windows of the tomb, which are formed by a meshwork of Arabic characters, representing sentences from the Koran, cut out of the solid stone, while the balmy night breeze, whispering through the marble colonnade, invites the wayfarer to stretch. his weary limbs beneath its arches, where, with no disturbing sound save the low murmur of the fountain, he may soon either lapse into forgetfulness, or wander in dreams through the realms of Oriental fairyland.

Owing to the kind hospitality of an English officer, who was making a halt of some days at the Ibram Rozah, I experienced no want of any comfort or necessary during my stay there, although the capabilities of the mosque, as a wayside inn, are of the rudest description. My new acquaintance, however, was an old traveller, and carried with him all needful apparatus for making a tolerably comfortable home in the wilds, when occasion required, and in the most generous manner made me his guest at the Rozah. He knew the ruins well, from former visits to the place, and most fortunate was I in possessing such a cicerone. Our mode of locomotion-camel-back-is rather startling to a novice; we took our seats, pillion-fashion, while the animal was resting on the ground, and, during his three movements in rising, I was jerked backwards and forwards alternately from my seat. Once started, however, we went merrily

on-the quick stride of the camel getting over the ground in great style.

A massive wall, flanked by towers at regular intervals, divides the ruined suburb, where the Ibram Rozah is situated, from the citadel and chief buildings of the ancient city, which contained, according to native records, sixteen hundred mosques and nearly a million houses; but the latter figure is certainly overrated.

The innumerable number, however, of mosques, tombs, palaces, and other edifices which have resisted the ravages of time, give abundant evidence of the ancient splendour of the place, and have procured for it the title of the "Palmyra of the Deccan." This once opulent and splendid city was ruled for several generations by a line of native sovereigns, until about the middle of the seventeenth century, when Shah Jehan compelled them to become tributary to him. Shortly after, their monarchy was totally subverted by his successor, Aurungzebe. Subsequently, the city appears to have fallen into the hands of the Nizam of the Deccan; and last of all, after Mahratta invasions, it became the property of the British, by whom it was included in the territory assigned to the Rajah of Sattara. During these various changes the city seems to have been gradually deserted by its inhabitants, and its magnificent buildings to have been laid waste by the repeated inroads of Mahratta hordes. It has now become a wilderness of ruins, amid which the native peasant rears his mud cabin-a place in which to muse sadly on the common lot of earthly greatness and man's ambition, and to call to mind the perhaps hackneyed adage, "Sic transit gloria mundi." The first object of interest upon entering the walls of the city is the enormous gun, called Malik-o-maidan, or the "Monarch of the Plain," of which the most incredible stories are related by the native inhabitants of Beejapore, who appear to labour under an intense dread of the results which would follow from the firing off of this piece of ordnance. The gun is of brass, cast in the year 1549, and capable, it is said, of carrying an iron ball of 2646 lb. weight! It was intended at one time to send this gun to England, but the imperfect state of the roads rendered its removal to the coast impracticable.

Following a path in many places closely bordered with jungle, we first visited the mausoleum of Mohammed Shah, the vast dome of which was so plainly visible from the road I had arrived by that morning. This is said to be not only the largest tomb ever built by a Saracenic architect, but the largest domical edifice now known to exist anywhere. The interior of the building quite carries out the impression conveyed by its exterior, being spacious and lofty. In the centre, beneath the dome, are the tombs of the Sultan and two of his dancing slaves-fit associates in death for a follower of the Prophet, who taught that heaven was but a renewal and intensification of the earthly career of the faithful! A long flight of steps brought us to the base of the dome, round which runs a whispering-gallery, quite equal, it appeared to me, in its acoustic effects, to the celebrated one at St. Paul's.

Again mounting our trusty camel, we thread our way through a succession of mosques and palaces, grand even in desolation, and bewildering from their extent and variety-some resembling the unfinished cloisters of an abbey, others taking the appearance of the vaulted arches of a

cathedral aisle; but though the space within the city walls is so thickly strewed with ruins, fields of corn and other crops wave in the midst, and great forest trees shadow our path in some places. The interior of the city (properly so called), or citadel, formerly contained the king's palace, the houses of the nobility, large magazines, and extensive gardens, now inhabited only by snakes and other reptiles, and overrun by rank vegetation, amidst which the shrub called "gold mohur" is conspicuous, with its brilliant blossoms of scarlet and yellow.

The feathery palm and broad-leaved plantain have struck their roots deep in what were once the courts of the king's palace, and jungle has shot up through the very walls, while plants of luxuriant tropical growth twine and coil round the "eyeless" windows and deserted doorways.

Amid all this rich confusion, one building strikes the eye more particularly by the beauty of its form and its exquisite sculptured ornaments, the architect having apparently revelled in the luxuriance of the "Eastern Gothic." It usually goes by the name of Mehtri-Mahal, or the Sweeper's Palace, but I cannot now recal the legend which gave rise to this name. Perhaps, on the Roman principle of "Lucus a non lucendo," this architectural gem, once fitted for the abode of nobility, was named as the domicile of the lowest and most degraded caste of Hindoo society. However this may be, the Mehtri-Mahal is unequalled for elaborate elegance among the buildings of Beejapore. The fretwork on the ceilings and verandahs, the rich carving of the balcony, and stone trellises pierced with Oriental characters, cannot be surpassed for delicacy of execution and artistic workmanship. To give a detailed account of even the principal buildings of this wondrous collection of ruins would be both beyond my powers of description, and foreign to the purpose of this sketch. Suffice to say, that after two days spent in exploration, I retained a confused mental photograph of mosques, minarets, and tanks, with vast flights of steps, upon which native figures pass and repass, some enveloped in the graceful "saree," or Hindoo female dress, bearing earthen vessels for water on their heads, and bright brazen lota, or drinking-cups, in their hands.

These, with the ever-present palm-trees in all their tropical luxuriance, and the strange amble of our camel (long painfully remembered), form some of my chief impressions of Beejapore; but, had time permitted, weeks could have been spent in examining the details of its buildings. The interior of some of the mosques is even still rich in gilding and colouring, passages from the Koran, thus illuminated, covering the walls and pillars, although in some instances rain and storm have made sad havoc with the work of the builder and decorator. It is, perhaps, worthy of mention, that in the midst of these ruins, belonging exclusively to the style of architecture common to Mohammedan nations, a solitary example of the ancient Hindoo religion remains in a low temple built in the earliest and rudest style of Brahminical architecture, and popularly supposed to have been raised by Pandoos, a mythological race; an evidence of the great antiquity of the superstition which preceded the religion of the False Prophet, and which still holds powerful sway over so many millions in the East.

When returning to our temporary home at the Ibram Rozah, we passed through the only inhabited street in this once splendid city, a

miserable row of mud-built huts, in which the owners offer for sale such articles of food and small ware as meet the demands of the citizens and small body of native troops usually stationed here, under the command of one European subaltern, who has to take his turn of six months' outservice at this place, where perhaps for two months or more at a time he never beholds the face of a countryman.

After discussing dinner with an appetite considerably sharpened by our late excursion, in company with the only other European in the place, the young officer above mentioned, we chatted pleasantly over various matters with the ease which even a short residence in India produces between countrymen. Soon after, I was wrapped in calm and refreshing sleep upon the bed prepared by my servant beneath the pillared colonnade of the tomb, without fear of night-long agony from the bites of mosquitoes, as would have been the case in Bombay had I dared to dispense with the gauze curtains, which are an absolute necessary in the Concan, or seacoast district of the presidency.

Next morning I was sorry to bid adieu to my new and kind friend, Captain, who shortly after breakfast started on his journey to some distant station, preceded by camels carrying his servants and travelling gear.

Long shall I remember the pleasant hours spent in his society, and his cordial and hearty hospitality; the more welcome because experienced in such a remote and unfriended region. During the day I strolled again through the ruins, accompanied by the young English officer already mentioned, and who endeavoured to do the solitary honours of his station in the kindest manner; indeed, this hospitality between Englishmen is general throughout India, I have heard, and, no doubt, is to be found in whatever clime the British race may make their temporary home. The afternoon of this day was dark and lowering, and towards evening heavy showers of rain came on, accompanied by gusts of wind, which seemed to howl wailing notes through the deserted chambers of the tomb-a melancholy night on which to set forth on my return journey to Sholapore; but I was obliged to be back in Bombay by a certain day, so could not delay my departure longer. Saying farewell, then, to the solitary white man in Beejapore, we set out through the dark night, the bearers' torches throwing fitful gleams of light on many a ruined shrine or tomb as we passed along. A sudden burst of heavy rain obliged us to take refuge in one of these, just without the walls of the city, and caused many gloomy looks and muttered grumblings on the part of the bearers at having to face such weather. A temporary lull, however, succeeding, we at length got under weigh again, and soon left behind "the impregnable city," as the native word signifies. The roads were heavy with the rain which had lately fallen, and I could gather, from the tone of the singsong melody with which my bearers lightened their task of jolting my palanquin along, that they were in no good humour either with the "sahib" or the state of affairs in general. The rain, too, again became thick; so much so, that I was obliged frequently to turn the small mattress which lay along the bottom of my palkee, in order to find a "dry spot," if possible. I think that, notwithstanding all these discomforts, I must have fallen asleep, for the next thing I was conscious of was being set down on the road in a heavy pour of rain and total darkness,