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AN ALLIGATOR HUNT IN CEYLON.

In our second volume, we gave some account of the Alligator: we now propose giving a detail of the hunting that formidable creature, as described by Captain Basil Hall. It was got up for the amusement of the Admiral, Sir S. Hood, and performed by a corps of Malays in the British service.

Very early in the morning, the party were summoned from their beds, to set forth on the expedition. In other countries, the hour of getting up may be left to choice; in India, when any thing active is to be done, it is a matter of necessity; for after the sun has gained even a few degrees of altitude, the heat and discomfort, as well as the danger of exposure, become so great, that all pleasure is at an end. The day, therefore, had scarcely begun to dawn, when we all cantered up to the scene of action. The ground lay as flat as a marsh for many leagues, and was spotted with small stagnant lakes, connected by sluggish streams, scarcely moving over beds of mud, between banks fringed with a rank crop of draggled weeds. The chill atmosphere of the morning felt so thick and clammy, it was impossible not to think of agues, jungle-fevers, and all the hopeful family of malaria. The hardy native soldiers who had occupied the ground during the night, were drawn up to receive the Admiral, and a very queer guard of honour they formed. The whole regiment had stripped off their uniform, and every other stitch of clothing, save a pair of short trousers, and a kind of sandal. In place of a firelock, each man bore in his hand a slender pole, about six feet in length, to the extremity of which was attached the bayonet of his musket. His only other weapon, was the formidable Malay crease, a sort of dagger, or small two-edged sword.

Soon after the commander-in-chief came to the ground, the regiment was divided into two main parties, and a body of reserves. The principal columns, facing, one to the right, the other to the left, proceeded to occupy different points in one of the sluggish canals, connecting the pools scattered over the plain. These detachments being stationed about a mile from one another, enclosed an interval where, from some peculiar circumstances known only to the Malays, who are passionately fond of the sport, the alligators were sure to be found in great numbers. The troops formed themselves across the canals, in three parallel lines, ten or twelve feet apart; but the men in each line stood side by side, merely leaving room enough to wield their pikes. The canal may have been about four or five feet deep, in the middle of the stream, if stream it can be called, which scarcely moved at all. The colour of the water, when undisturbed, was a shade between ink and coffee; but no sooner had the triple line of Malays set themselves in motion, than the consistence and colour, became like those of peas-soup.

On every thing being reported ready, the soldiers planted their pikes before them in the mud, each man crossing his neighbour's weapon, and at the word "march," away they all started in full cry, sending forth a shout, or war-whoop, sufficient to curdle the blood of those on land, whatever effect it may have had on the inhabitants of the deep. As the two divisions of the invading army gradually approached each other in pretty close column, screaming, and yelling, and striking their pikes deep in the slime before them, the startled animals naturally retired towards the unoccupied centre. Generally speaking, the alligators, or crocodiles, had sense enough to turn their long tails upon their assailants, and to scuttle off, as fast as they could, towards the middle

This was

part of the canal. But every now and then, one of the terrified monsters floundered backwards, and, by retreating in the wrong direction, broke through the first, second, and even third line of pikes. the perfection of sport to the delighted Malays. A double circle of soldiers was speedily formed round the wretched aquatic who had presumed to pass the barrier.

By means of well-directed thrusts with numberless bayonets, and the pressure of some dozens of feet, the poor brute was often fairly driven beneath his native mud. When once there, his enemies halfchoked and half-spitted him, till at last, they put an end to his miserable days, in regions quite out of sight, and in a manner as inglorious as can well be conceived. The intermediate space was now pretty well crowded with alligators, swimming about in the utmost terror, at times diving below, and anon showing their noses above the surface of the dirty stream; or occasionally making a furious bolt, in sheer despair, right at the phalanx of Malays. On these occasions, half-a-dozen of the soldiers were often upset, and their pikes either broken or twisted out of their hands, to the infinite amusement of their companions, who speedily closed up the broken ranks. There were none killed, but many wounded; yet no man flinched in the least.

"Sauve

The perfection of the sport appeared to consist in detaching a single alligator from the rest, surrounding and attacking him separately, and spearing him till he was almost dead. The Malays, then, by main strength, forked him aloft, over their heads, on the end of a dozen pikes, and, by a sudden jerk, pitched the conquered monster far on the shore. As the alligators are amphibious, they kept to the water no longer than they found they had an advantage in that element; but on the two columns of their enemy closing up, the monsters lost all discipline, floundered up the weedy banks, scuttling away to the right and left, helter-skelter. qui peut!" seemed to be the fatal watch-word for their total rout. That prudent cry would, no doubt, have saved many of them, had not the Malays judiciously placed beforehand their reserve on each side of the river, to receive the distracted fugitives, who, bathed in mud, and half dead with terror, but still in a prodigious fury, dashed off at right angles from the canal, in hopes of gaining the shelter of a swampy pool, overgrown with reeds and bulrushes, but which most of the poor beasts were never doomed to reach. The concluding battle between these retreating and desperate alligators, and the Malays of the reserve, was formidable enough. Indeed, had not the one party been fresh, the other exhausted; one confident, the other broken in spirit; it is quite possible that the crocodiles might have worsted the Malays. It was difficult, indeed, to say which of the two looked at that moment the more savage; the triumphant natives, or the flying troop of alligators wallopping away from the water. Many on both sides were wounded, and all covered with slime and weeds. There could not have been fewer than thirty or forty alligators killed. The largest measured ten feet in length, and four feet girth, the head being exactly two feet long. Besides these great fellows, a multitude of little ones, nine inches long, were caught alive, many of which, being carried on board, became great favourites amongst the sailors, whose queer taste in the choice of pets has freqently been noticed. [CAPTAIN BASIL HALL.]

LONDON.

JOHN WILLIAM PARKER, WEST STRAND. PUBLISHED IN WEEKLY NUMBERS, PRICE ONE PENNY, AND IN MONTHLY Parts PRICE SIXPENCE, AND

Sold by all Booksellers and Newavenders in the Kingdom.

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UNDER THE DIRECTION OF THE COMMITTEE OF GENERAL LITERATURE AND EDUCATION APPOINTED BY THE SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING CHRISTIAN KNOWLEDGE.

No 153.

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EAST INDIA STATIONS.

No. V. BENARES. PART 1. BENARES, or as it is usually styled, "the most holy city," is certainly one of the most interesting cities we possess in the East. It is situated on the left or northern bank of the river Ganges, and is distant 136 miles from Patna, and 380 from Calcutta. It is the capital of an extensive and populous district of Hindostan, which bears the same name, and is remarkable not only for its sacred character, but for the singularity of its structure, its vast wealth, and its immense population.

The ancient name of the city was Casi, the Splendid, but this it afterwards lost, and probably when it fell into the hands of its Mohammedan conquerors. Its present title is said to be derived from the two rivers, the Benar and the Assee, which flow into the Ganges, the one above, and the other below the city. The city itself is very extensive, stretching as it does for several miles along the bank of the Ganges; but extensive as it is, it contains a far larger population than could be anticipated from the space it occupies. By a census taken in the year 1803, the number of the inhabitants was represented as exceeding 582,000, whilst the houses formed of brick and stone were calculated at 12,000, and those of mud at 16,000; and since that period the number of both, and more especially the latter, has considerably increased, the city having extended itself to the neighbouring villages. It is, in fact, without exception, the most populous city in Hindostan.

No written description, however elaborate, can convey even a faint idea of the extraordinary peculiarities of this singular place. Though strictly Eastern in its character, it differs very widely from all the other cities of Hindostan; and it is only by pictorial representations that any adequate notion can be formed of the mixture of the beautiful and grotesque, which, piled confusedly together, form that stupendous wall of buildings which spreads along the Ganges at Benares. No panoramic view has ever been exhibited of this extraordinary place. The river is about thirty feet below the level of the houses, and is attained by means of numerous ghauts, or landing-places, which spread their broad steps between fantastic buildings of the most curious description. The confused masses of stone, which crowd upon each other, sometimes present fronts so bare and lofty, as to convey the idea of a prison or a fortress. Others are broken into diminutive pagodas, backed by tall mansions seven stories in height, and interspersed with gothic gateways, towers, and arches, all profusely covered with ornaments, balconies, verandahs, battlements, mullioned windows, balustrades, turrets, cupolas, and round and pointed domes, the fancies of all ages. Since the conquest of the city by Aurungzebe, Mussulman architecture has reared its light and elegant formations amid the more heavy and less tasteful structures of Hindoo creation. From a mosque, built upon the ruins of a heathen temple, spring numerous minarets, which now rank amongst the wonders of the city. Their lofty spires shoot up into the golden sky from a dense cluster of buildings, crowning the barbaric pomp below with graceful beauty.

Notwithstanding its great antiquity, and the sums lavished upon its pagodas, Benares does not boast a single specimen of those magnificent temples which, in other parts of India, convey so grand an idea of the vast conceptions of their founders. Here are no pyramidal masses of fretted stone, no large conical

mounds of solid masonry standing alone to astonish the eye, as at Bindrabund; no gigantic town like the Cootub-Minar, at Delhi, to fill the imagination with awe and wonder; but the whole of this enormous city is composed of details, intermingled with each other without plan or design, yet forming altogether an architectural display of the most striking and imposing character. Amid much that is strange and fantastic, there are numerous specimens of a pure and elegant taste; and the smaller antique pagodas, which abound in every direction, are astonishingly beautiful. The lavish ornaments of richly-sculptured stone, with which they are profusely adorned, give evidence of the skill and talent of the artists of their day; and throughout the whole city a better taste is displayed in the embellishments of the houses than is usually found in the private buildings of India. The florid ornaments of wood and stone, profusely spread over the fronts of the dwelling-houses, bring to the mind recollections of Venice, which Benares resembles in some other particulars: one or two of the lofty narrow streets being connected by covered passages, not very unlike the far-famed Bridge of Sighs.

No European has ever been tempted to take up his abode in the close and crowded city. The military and civil station is about two miles distant, and is called Secrole. There is nothing striking or beautiful in the environs of Benares. The cantonments are flat and destitute of views, but are redeemed from positive ugliness by the groves which surround them. Immediately, however, beyond the military lines, the tract towards the city becomes interesting; several very handsome Mussulman tombs show the increase of the followers of a foreign creed, even in the sacred city of Brahma. A long straggling suburb, composed of houses of singular construction, in every stage of dilapidation, rendered exceedingly picturesque by intervening trees and flowering shrubs, leads to the gate of the city; and a short and rather wide avenue brings the visitor to the chokey, a large irregular square. From this point, vehicles of European construction are useless, and the party must either mount upon elephants, dispose themselves in tonjons, or proceed on foot; and very early in the morning, before the vast population is stirring, the latter affords by far the best method of visiting the temples; but the instant the tide of human beings has poured itself into the narrow avenues, it is expedient to be out of the thickly-gathering throng.

Benares, at day-break, presents less of animated life than most cities of the same magnitude and extent. A few sweepers only appear in the streets, and all the houses are shut up, and give no sign of the multitudes which swarm within. The shops are closely barricaded, the usual mode of fastening them being by a strong chain attached by a large padlock to a staple beneath the threshold. At this early hour, the streets are very clean, and the air of the city is much cooler and fresher than might be expected from its denseness and population. The members of the brute creation are up and abroad with the first gleam of the sun; the Brahminee bulls wander through the streets, monkeys spring from cornice to cornice, and flights of pigeons and paroquets dart from the parapets in every direction. As soon as it is broad day, the priests repair to the temples, and devotees are seen conveying the sacred water from the Ganges to the several shrines. At the doors of the pagodas, persons are stationed with baskets of flowers for sale. Long rosaries of scarlet, white, or yellow blossoms, seem to be in the greatest request, and are purchased as offerings to the gods: the pavements of the tem

ples are strewed with these, the only pleasing ceremonial connected with Hindoo worship. The too abundant supply of water, the dirty throng of religious beggars, and the incessant cries of Ram! Ram! almost compel the visiter speedily to escape from the noise and crowd.

The Observatory and the Minarets are the principal objects of attraction to parties resorting to the city; but in their way thither, those who take an interest in the homely occupations of the native traders may be amused by the opening of the shops, and the commencement of the stir, bustle, and traffic, which, by ten o'clock, will have reached its height. The rich merchandise with which the city abounds, according to the custom of Hindoostan, is carefully concealed from the view of passengers; but in the tailors' shops, some of the most costly products of the neighbouring countries are exhibited. Those skilful artists, who can repair a rent with invisible stitches, sit in groups, employed in mending superb shawls, which, after having passed through their practised hands, will sell to inexperienced purchasers as new and fresh from the looms of Thibet. The shops of the coppersmiths make the most show; they are gaily set out with brass and copper vessels of various kinds, some intended for domestic use, and others for that of the temples. In every street a shroff, or banker, may be seen, seated behind a pile of cowries, with bags of silver and copper at his elbow. These men make considerable sums by changing money, deducting a certain per-centage from every rupee, and by lending out money at enormous interest. Here, too, are confectioners, surrounded by the common sweetmeats, which are so much in request, and not unfrequently employed in the manufacture of their sugar-cakes. The dyers, punkah-makers, and several others, also carry on their respective occupations in their open shops; the houses of the dyers are distinguished by long pieces of gaily-coloured cloths, hung across projecting poles. In these, the bright red of the Indian rose, and the superb yellow, the bridal colour of the Hindoos, are the most conspicuous; they likewise produce brilliant greens, and rich blues, which, when formed into turbans and cummerbunds, very agreeably diversify the white dresses of an Indian crowd.

Bishop Heber, in his Journal, thus describes his visit to the city. After mentioning that their carriage was stopped short almost in the entrance, he goes on to say, "the rest of the way was passed in tonjons, through alleys so crowded, so narrow, and so winding, that even a tonjon sometimes passed with difficulty. The houses are mostly lofty, none, I think, less than two stories, most of three, and several of five or six, a sight which I now, for the first time, saw in India. The streets, like those in Chester, are considerably lower than the groundfloors of the houses, which have mostly arched rows in front, with little shops behind them. Above these the houses are richly embellished with verandahs, galleries, projecting oriel windows, and very broad overhanging eaves, supported by carved brackets. The number of temples is very great, mostly small, and stuck like shrines in the angles of the streets, and under the shadow of the lofty houses. Their forms, however, are not ungraceful, and there are many of them entirely covered with beautiful and elaborate carvings of flowers, animals, and palmbranches, equalling, in minuteness and richness, the best specimens that I have seen of Gothic or Grecian architecture. The material of the buildings is a very good stone from Chunar, but the Hindoos here seem fond of painting them a deep red colour, and, indeed,

of covering the more conspicuous parts of their houses with paintings, in gaudy colours, of flowerpots, men, women, bulls, elephants, gods and goddesses, in all their many-formed, many-headed, many-weaponed varieties. The sacred bulls devoted to Siva, of every age, tame and familiar as mastiffs, walk lazily up and down these narrow streets, or are seen lying across them, and hardly to be kicked up, (any blows, indeed, given them, must be of the gentlest kind, or woe be to him who braves the prejudices of this fanatic population,) in order to make way for the tonjon. Monkeys sacred to Hunimaun, the divine ape, who, as they pretend, conquered Ceylon for Rama, are in some parts of the town equally numerous, clinging to all the roofs and little projections of the temples, putting their impertinent heads and hands in every fruiterer's or confectioner's shop, and snatching the food from the children at their meals. Fakir houses, as they are called, occur at every turn, adorned with idols, and sending out an unceasing tinkling and strumming of vinas, biyals, and other discordant instruments, while religious mendicants of every Hindoo sect, offering every conceivable deformity, which chalk, filth, disease, matted locks, distorted limbs, and disgusting and hideous attitudes of penance can show, literally line the principal streets on both sides."

The Observatory, though abandoned by its magi, still remains, a gigantic relic of the zeal in the pursuit of science manifested in former days. The discoveries of modern times, adopted, though slowly, by eastern astronomers, have rendered it of little value for the purpose for which it was intended, and it has fallen into neglect and disuse. An extensive area, entered from the street, is divided into several small quadrangles, surrounded by cloisters, and forming cool and shady retreats, intended for the residence of those sages who studied the wonders of the firmament from the platform of the tower above. Broad flights of stairs lead to the summit of this huge, square, massive building, a terraced height well suited to the watchers of the stars, and which, at the time of its erection, was furnished with an apparatus very creditable to the state of science at that early period. The view from the Observatory is limited to the river, and the country on the opposite bank: but a far more extensive prospect is obtained from the Minarets. Adventurous persons who have climbed to the light cupolas, which crown those lofty spires, see the city of Benares under an entirely new aspect in this bird's-eye view. They perceive that there are wide spaces between the seven-storied buildings that form a labyrinth of lanes, and that gay gardens flourish in the midst of dense masses of bricks and mortar. The palaces of the city, in all their varied styles of architecture, appear to great advantage from these heights. Gothic, towers opening upon luxuriant parterres, afford a more pleasing idea of the seclusion to which the ladies of the city are doomed.

But the views of Benares from the river, also, are exceedingly fine, offering an infinite and untiring variety of scenery, of which the effect is greatly heightened by the number of trees, whose luxuriant foliage intermingles with the parapets and buttresses of the adjacent buildings. In passing down the stream in a boat, an almost endless succession of interesting objects is presented to the eye. Through the interstices which occur between tower and palace, temple and serai, glimpses are caught of gardens and bazaars stretching inland; an open gate displays the terraced court of some wealthy noble; long cloistered corridors lead to the secluded recesses of

the zenana, and small projecting turrets resting on the lofty battlements of some high and frowning building, look like the watch-towers of a feudal castle. The ghauts are literally swarming with life at all hours of the day, and every creek and jetty are crowded with craft of various descriptions, all truly picturesque in their form and effect. A dozen budgerows are moored in one place; the light bohlio dances on the rippling current at another; a splendid pinnace rears its gaily-decorated masts at a third; whilst large patalas, and other clumsy native vessels, laden with cotton, or some other equally cumbrous cargo, choke up the river near some well-frequented wharfs. Small fairy shallops are perpetually skimming over the surface of the glittering stream, and sails, some white and dazzling, others, of a deep saffron hue, and many made up of tattered fragments, which bear testimony to many a heavy squall, appear in all directions.

One of the most remarkable objects at Benares is a pagoda standing in the river without any connexion with the shore. The whole foundation is under water, and two of its towers have declined so much from the perpendicular as to form an acute angle with the liquid plain beneath them. This pagoda is a pure specimen of ancient Hindoo architecture; it is of great antiquity, and, from its position, now entirely deserted, for its floors are occupied by the waters of the Ganges, and there seems to remain no record respecting it. No one appears to know when it was built, to whom it was dedicated, or why its foundations were laid in the waters of this sacred river, unless it were on account of their sanctity. It is surprising, that it has so long resisted the force of the current, which during the monsoons is uncommonly violent. It is singular to see boats continually passing in and out between its porticos, which now stand amid the waters of the sacred Ganges, at once a venerable monument of the instability of human grandeur, and the vanity of human endeavour to perpetuate, in stone or marble, enduring records of its skill, its industry, or its wealth.

In no part of Hindoostan, moreover, can one of the most beautiful of the native Festivals be seen to greater advantage than at Benares. The Duwallee is celebrated there with the greatest splendour; and its magnificence is heightened by the situation of the city upon the bank of the river, and the singular outline of the buildings. The attraction of this annual festival consists in the illuminations. At the close of evening, small chiraugs (earthen lamps), fed with oil which produces a brilliant white light, are placed as closely as possible together on every ledge. of every building. Palace, temple, and tower, seem actually formed of stars. The city appears like the creation of the fire-king, and the view from the water affords the most superb and romantic spectacle imaginable; a seene of fairy splendour far too brilliant for description. Europeans embark in boats to enjoy the gorgeous pageant from the river; all the vessels are lighted up, and the buildings in the distance, covered with innumerable lamps, shine out in radiant beauty. European illuminations, with their coloured lamps, their transparencies, their crowns and stars, and initial letters, appear with poor effect when compared with the chaste grandeur of the Indian mode: for the outlines of a whole city are clearly marked out in streams of fire, and the caruscations of light shoot up into the dark-blue sky above, and tremble in long undulations on the rippling waves beneath. It is not an unpleasing part of this festival, that the Hindoo servants of an Anglo-Indian establishment are accustomed to offer little presents of sweetmeats

and toys to such members of the family as are likely to accept them, as the children and younger branches. On the occasion of this festival, the whole of the Mussulman, as well as Hindoo population, are abroad to witness the superb spectacle produced by the blaze of light; and as it is of a very peaceable character, it passes off without broil or bloodshed, and what is still more extraordinary, without occasioning the D. I. E. conflagration of half the houses.

[Chiefly from the Asiatic Journal.] In another paper will be given some account of Benares in its religious character.

A FABLE.

A SWAN and a donkey lived in the service of the same
master, and were fed and petted by all the family; the
patient animal bore his faculties so meekly, that he
never seemed to forget that he was but a donkey; but
the swan, intoxicated with the notice and admiration he
received, began to think that' the world, or at least the
river, was made for him, and he would let no one approach
his dominions. If a boy rode a horse down to the water
to drink, he would fly after him, and drive him away by
trying to mount the horse behind him; he would lie in
wait behind a bush, spring out, and chase the ladies round
the garden; and break all the sticks and umbrellas that
were flourished round his head; his pride sometimes
seemed quelled when the more adventurous part of the
family swept him into the water with a broom, but it was
only for a moment, he rose more glorious from defeat, and
was in a fair way of becoming lord of the village.
The donkey looked out from his meadow in astonish-
ment at the feats of his companion, but when reproached
by the swan for his meanness of spirit, he sagaciously
shook his head, saying "You will repent when too late;
these are good patient people, but they will not bear it for
ever." And so it proved; for, tired with the complaints of
the whole neighbourhood, the master at last gave orders for
the death of king swan, and that his fine white skin should
be given to the ladies. Honest Jasper quaked a little at
this unexampled severity: "My friend's pride," quoth he,
has cost him dear; I must take warning, and show that
I am no greedy tyrant over my meadow." The next day
he saw a neighbour's cows looking wistfully over the gate
at his grass, which looked much better than their own
because it was out of their reach: "Now is the time,"
quoth Jasper, "to show I have no pride:" so he pushed
the gate open with his nose, and held it to invite the cows
into the meadow; but their feast was soon interrupted;
they were driven back with most inhospitable haste, and
their entertainer was well beaten for his ill-timed polite-
ness. "Alas! alas!" said the unfortunate Jasper, drooping
his long melancholy ears, "my master is a good man, but
there is no pleasing him; who would have thought of his
killing the swan for pride, and beating me for humility."
How often are we unjust to others from ignorance of
their motives.

ON THE STUDY OF THE MATHEMATICS.

IT was not without reason that the Greeks bestowed on
this study the title of "the learning:" it well deserves the
highest encomiums. Languages may become obsolete;
systems of philosophy may spring up, flourish, fade, and
be forgotten; even what we are apt to account facts in
natural history, may, by future discoveries, be proved to be
fictions; but the truths of mathematics are unchangeable
and indisputable. Time cannot alter them, scepticism
cannot obscure them. It would be difficult to point out, in
the whole compass of human knowledge, one portion which
discipline of the powers, as mathematics.
so much tends to the enlargement of the mind, and the

It produces, in him who studies it thoroughly, a habit of patient investigation-of calm and deliberate judgment. it accustoms the mind to distinguish between that which is true and that which is false. It takes nothing for granted that can possibly be gainsaid. It ascends from truths, simple and easy of apprehension-truths that no man in his senses will venture to impugn-to the highest range of human thought and human intellect; while every step in the passage is as firmly fixed as the eternal rocks. J. R.

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