on it stands a frieze of 2,000 elephants, following all
the sinuosities of the star-like ground plan; above it
is a frieze of lions, then a band of exquisite scroll-work,
then a frieze of horsemen, another scroll, and a frieze
representing the conquest of Sanka by Rama. Then
two friezes of celestial beasts and birds, and above
a comice of scroll-work bearing a rail, divided into
panels, each containing two figures, over which are
stone windows and groups of gods of the Hindu
pantheon. Above all would have risen, if the
temple had been finished, the pyramidal towers
pertaining to its architecture.
After considerable delay I at last succeeded in
securing a couple of common country carts on two
wheels, minus springs, and covered in by matting; into
one of these I crept whilst the other carried George
and my luggage. The transit waggon I left to its
own fate in the river, congratulating myself being
now safely en route for Moodgheri, in the neighbourhood
of which I had promised to pay—what proved
to be a protracted—visit to a coffee planter, but we
had barely got a mile beyond Belur when an accident
happened to my cart and the oxen refused to advance ;
luckily our attentive kotwala and his men, possibly
expecting some little mishap, had accompanied us
for a short distance and were now brought up to our
assistance ; the cart was quickly repaired and a fresh
pair of cattle fastened to the pole in the usual primitive
f a s h i o n of this country. In order to reach my friend's
estate I had to quit the high road after a distance
of twelve miles, where I found horses and coolies waiting
to convey us the remaining five miles, which passed
through the most beautiful hill-country, forests and
jungle, well watered by little streams, and from time
to time glimpses of distant mountain ranges.
Soon my friend, the “ dhorey, or master in Canarese,
the only appellation by which he was known here,
joined us and on reaching the boundary of his estate,
a welcome cup of tea was presented by one of his
servants who had prepared it in the jungle. George
and myself had consumed the last tin of sardines
under a large tree of the “ ficus ” species, while the
horses were being got ready, and the ride up and
down hill under a broiling sun had by this time
created a vacuum. Another mile through the plantation
landed me at last at the pretty bungalow
of Pore, called so from a village that had once
existed here.
Pore lies 3,300 feet above the sea level, enjoying a
most perfect climate, not only for the human body but
also for the cultivation of coffee. And there is such