Nothing appealed to me or touched me save the
extraordinary beauty of those grey walls rising some
forty feet, with sculptured surfaces and delicately
ornamented pediments and pointed arches, and the
grand entrance turned fittingly to the west that the
setting sun might send its last rays over the temple
dedicated to its worship—to Vishnu, as the sun god.
The iconoclastic fury of the emperor who attempted
the destruction of Martand strikes with consternation,
Grand entrance turned to th e w e st
but who can say whether, in the full glory of its complete
beauty, it was as wonderful, as touching, as at
the present day, when the nobility of its proportions
and the grand style of the buildings are infinitely
moving by reason of the humbleness and petty squalor
of its surroundings, for brambles and wild roses
encumber its courts and entangle the broken stonework.
Its columns are entwined with ragged creepers,
the inner shrine receives no offerings save rank nettles,
wild roses throw rugged tendrils about the fallen
arcading, and delicate mauve and white iris, with their
graveyard associations, bring a thought of human decay
and the passing of all flesh into the temple of light and
life. This lonely “ watcher on the mountain-side,”
turned away from the rising towards the setting sun,
has waited and witnessed to the everlasting power of
light and beauty through long ages, while alternate
waves of anarchy and progress swept through the
valley. Powers have risen, fought, suffered annihilation,
attempting to overwhelm this silent preacher of
truths older, stronger than they, and it has withstood
all their efforts, defied all their attempts, though
suffering severely in its long defiance, and to-day it
stands out still, unnoticed, uncared for, by the people
of the land dependent for existence on a race who know
not its founder, regard not its gods, and long after they
and the memory of them have faded away, this lone
monument will keep its vigil and set forth its silent
teaching of endurance and courage, of beauty in
strength, and steadfastness in the setting forth of ideals.
There was much of curious antiquarian interest
about Martand, exquisite details of carving and ornament,
strange fragments so Greek in character that they
appeared to have wandered of themselves from their
natural birthplace. All these things I noticed in
perfunctory fashion, and hoped some day to realise. At
the time it was enough to suck up, sponge fashion, all
that could be realised of grace and beauty, storing the
memory with details of that wonderful view extending
one hundred miles down the river and sixty miles to the
further side, with a background of crystalline heights—
a world of blue and white, fit setting for the glorious
sun temple.