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<pre>

The Project Gutenberg EBook of From Egypt to Japan, by Henry M. Field

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Title: From Egypt to Japan

Author: Henry M. Field

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</pre>


<div class="tnbox">
<p class="center"><b>Transcriber's Note:</b></p>
<p>Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation in the original
document have been preserved.</p>
</div>

<div class="widead">
<p class="center"><i>BY THE SAME AUTHOR.</i></p>
<hr class="l5" />

<p class="center">FROM THE LAKES OF KILLARNEY<br />
TO THE GOLDEN HORN.</p>

<p class="center"><span class="s05">THE FIRST VOLUME OF</span><br /><br />

<span class="smcap">Dr. Field's Travels Around the World</span>.</p>

<p class="center s08">1 vol. 12mo, cloth, uniform with this volume, $2.00.</p>

<p class="center s08">*<sub>*</sub>* <i>Sent postpaid, on receipt of price, by the Publishers</i>,</p>

<p class="left35">SCRIBNER, ARMSTRONG &amp; CO.,</p>

<p class="left55 s05"><span class="smcap">743 and 745 Broadway, New York</span>.<br /></p>

</div>

<h1 class="p6">FROM EGYPT TO JAPAN.</h1>

<h2 class="p4"><span class="smcap">By HENRY M. FIELD, D.D.</span></h2>

<p class="p4 center">NEW YORK:<br />
SCRIBNER, ARMSTRONG &amp; CO.<br />
1877.</p>

<p class="p6 center">
<span class="smcap">Copyright by</span><br />

SCRIBNER, ARMSTRONG &amp; CO.<br />

1877.</p>

<p class="p4 center"><span class="smcap">Trow's<br />
Printing and Bookbinding Co.</span>,<br />
<i>205-213 East 12th St.</i>,<br />
<span class="smcap">NEW YORK</span>.</p>

<p class="p6 center">To My Brothers,<br /><br />

DAVID DUDLEY, STEPHEN J., AND CYRUS W. FIELD,<br /><br />

<span class="smcap s08">ALL THAT ARE LEFT OF A LARGE FAMILY</span>,<br /><br />

This Volume is Dedicated,<br /><br />

<span class="smcap s08">IN TOKEN OF THE LOVE OF A LIFETIME, WHICH
WILL GROW STRONGER TO THE END</span>.</p>

<h2 class="p6">CONTENTS.</h2>
<hr class="l15" />
<table summary="Table of Contents">
<tr>
<td class="tdr">I.</td>
<td><span class="smcap">Crossing the Mediterranean&mdash;Alexandria&mdash;Cairo&mdash;The
Pyramids</span>,</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdr">II.</td>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">On the Nile</span>,</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_15">15</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdr">III.</td>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Temples of Egypt&mdash;Did Moses get his law from
the Egyptians?</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_28">28</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdr">IV.</td>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Egyptian doctrine of a future life</span>,</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_37">37</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdr">V.</td>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Religion of the Prophet</span>,</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_45">45</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdr">VI.</td>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Modern Egypt and the Khedive</span>,</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_62">62</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdr">VII.</td>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Midnight in the Heart of the Great Pyramid</span>,</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_80">80</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdr">VIII.</td>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Leaving Egypt&mdash;The Desert</span>,</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_96">96</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdr">IX.</td>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">On the Red Sea and the Indian Ocean</span>,</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_106">106</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdr">X.</td>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Bombay&mdash;First Impressions of India</span>,</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_115">115</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdr">XI.</td>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Travelling in India&mdash;Allahabad&mdash;The Mela</span>,</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_131">131</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdr">XII.</td>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Agra&mdash;Visit of The Prince of Wales&mdash;Palace of the
Great Mogul&mdash;The Taj</span>,</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_148">148</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdr">XIII.</td>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Delhi&mdash;A Mohammedan Festival&mdash;Scenes in the
Mutiny</span>,</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_162">162</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdr">XIV.</td>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">From Delhi to Lahore</span>,</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_172">172</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdr">XV.</td>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">A Week in the Himalayas</span>,</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_182">182</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdr">XVI.</td>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Tragedy of Cawnpore</span>,</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_210">210</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdr">XVII.</td>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Story of Lucknow</span>,</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_222">222</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdr">XVIII.</td>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The English Rule in India</span>,</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_236">236</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdr">XIX.</td>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Missions in India&mdash;Do Missionaries do any good?</span></td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_249">249</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdr">XX.</td>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Benares, the Holy City of the Hindoos</span>,</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_265">265</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdr">XXI.</td>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Calcutta&mdash;Farewell to India</span>,</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_280">280</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdr">XXII.</td>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Burmah&mdash;The Malayan Peninsula&mdash;Singapore</span>,</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_292">292</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdr">XXIII.</td>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Island of Java</span>,</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_326">326</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdr">XXIV.</td>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Up the China Seas&mdash;Hong Kong and Canton</span>,</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_365">365</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdr">XXV.</td>
<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Three Weeks in Japan</span>,</td>
<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_397">397</a></td>
</tr>
</table>

<p class="p6"><i>This volume is complete in itself, though it is the
Second Part of a Journey Round the World, of which
the First Part was published a year ago, with the title
"From the Lakes of Killarney to the Golden Horn."
The volumes are uniform in style and naturally go together,
though either is complete without the other.</i>
</p>

<h2 class="p6">FROM EGYPT TO JAPAN.</h2>

<hr class="l15" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">1</a></span></p>

<h3>CHAPTER I.</h3>

<p class="ch_summ">CROSSING THE MEDITERRANEAN&mdash;ALEXANDRIA&mdash;CAIRO&mdash;THE
PYRAMIDS.</p>

<p>On the Bosphorus there are birds which the Turks call
"lost souls," as they are never at rest. They are always on
the wing, like stormy petrels, flying swift and low, just
skimming the waters, yet darting like arrows, as if seeking
for something which they could not find on land or sea.
This spirit of unrest sometimes enters into other wanderers
than those of the air. One feels it strongly as he comes to
the end of one continent, and "casts off" for another; as
he leaves the firm, familiar ground, and sails away to the
distant and the unknown.</p>

<p>So felt a couple of travellers who had left America to go
around the world, and after six months in Europe, were now
to push on to the farthest East. It was an autumn afternoon
near the close of the year 1875, that they left Constantinople,
and sailed down the Marmora, and through the Dardanelles,
between the Castles of Europe and Asia, whose very
names suggested the continents that they were leaving behind,
and set their faces towards Africa.</p>

<p>They could not go to Palestine. An alarm of cholera in
Damascus had caused a <i>cordon sanitaire</i> to be drawn along
the Syrian coast; and though they might get in, they could
not so easily get away; or would be detained ten days in a
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">2</a></span>
Lazaretto before they could pass into Egypt; and so they
were obliged at the last moment to turn from the Holy Land,
and sail direct for Alexandria; touching, however, at Mitylene
and Scio; and passing a day at Smyrna and at Syra.
With these detentions the voyage took nearly a week, almost
as long as to cross the Atlantic.</p>

<p>But it was not without its compensations. There was a
motley company in the cabin, made up of all nations and
all religions: English and Americans, French and Germans
and Russians, Greeks and Turks, Christians and Mohammedans.
There was a grand old Turk, who was going out to be
a judge in Mecca, and was travelling with his harem, eight
women, who were carefully screened from the observation of
profane eyes. And there were other Mussulmans of rank,
gentlemen in manners and education, who would be addressed
as Effendis or Beys, or perhaps as Pashas, who did not hesitate
to spread their small Persian carpets in the cabin or on
the deck at any hour, and kneel and prostrate themselves,
and say their prayers.</p>

<p>Besides these, the whole forward part of the ship was
packed with pilgrims (there were four hundred of them)
going to Mecca: Turks in white turbans and baggy trousers;
and Circassians in long overcoats, made of undressed
sheepskins, with tall, shaggy hats, like the bear-skin shakos
of Scotch grenadiers. Some of them had their belts stuck
thick with knives and pistols, as if they expected to have to
fight their way to the tomb of the Prophet. Altogether they
were not an attractive set, and yet one could not view, without
a certain respect, a body of men animated by a strong
religious feeling which impelled them to undertake this long
pilgrimage; it requires three months to go and return. Nor
could one listen quite unmoved as at different hours of the
day, at sunrise, or midday, or sunset, the muezzin climbed to
the upper deck, and in a wailing voice called the hour of
prayer, and the true believers, standing up, rank on rank,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">3</a></span>
turned their faces towards Mecca, and reverently bowed
themselves and worshipped.</p>

<p>On the afternoon of the sixth day we came in sight of a
low-lying coast, with not a hill or elevation of any kind
rising above the dreary waste, the sea of waters breaking on
a sea of sand. The sun sinking in the west showed the
lighthouse at Alexandria, but as the channel is narrow and
intricate, ships are not allowed to enter after sunset; and so
we lay outside all night, but as soon as the morning broke,
steamed up and entered the harbor. Here was the same
scene as at Constantinople&mdash;a crowd of boats around the
ship, and boatmen shouting and yelling, jumping over one
another in their eagerness to be first, climbing on board, and
rushing on every unfortunate traveller as if they would tear
him to pieces. But they are not so terrible as they appear,
and so it always comes to pass, that whether "on boards or
broken pieces of the ship," all come safe to land.</p>

<p>In spite of this wild uproar, it was not without a strange
feeling of interest that we first set foot in Africa. A few
days before we had touched the soil of Asia, on the other
side of the Bosphorus&mdash;the oldest of the continents, the cradle
of the human race. And now we were in Africa&mdash;in
Egypt, the land of the Pharaohs, out of which Moses led the
Israelites; the land of the Pyramids, the greatest monuments
of ancient civilization.</p>

<p>As soon as one comes on shore, he perceives that he is in
a different country. The climate is different, the aspects of
nature are different, the people are different, the very animals
are different. Caravans of camels are moving slowly through
the streets, and outside of the city, coming up to its very walls,
as if threatening to overwhelm it, is the "great and terrible"
desert, a vast and billowy plain, whose ever-drifting sands
would speedily bury all the works of man, if they were not
kept back from destruction by the waters of the Nile, which
is at once the creator and preserver of Egypt.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">4</a></span></p>

<p>Alexandria, although founded by Alexander the Great,
whose name it bears, and therefore more than two thousand
years old&mdash;and although in its monuments, Cleopatra's
Needle and Pompey's Pillar, it carries back the mind to the
last of the Ptolemies, the proud daughter of kings, and to
her Roman lovers and conquerors&mdash;has yet in many parts
quite a modern aspect, and is almost a new city. It has felt,
more than most places in the East, the influence of European
civilization. Commerce is returning to its ancient seats
along the Mediterranean, and the harbor of Alexandria is
filled with a forest of ships, that reminds one of New York
or Liverpool.</p>

<p>But as it becomes more European, it is less Oriental; and
though more prosperous, is less picturesque than other parts
of Egypt; and so, after a couple of days, we left for Cairo,
and now for the first time struck the Nile, which reminds an
American traveller of the Missouri, or the lower Mississippi.
It is the same broad stream of turbid, yellow waters, flowing
between low banks. This is the Great River which takes its
rise in the heart of Africa, beyond the equator, at a point
so remote that, though the Valley of the Nile was four
thousand years ago the seat of the greatest empire of antiquity,
yet to this day the source of the river is the problem
of geographers. Formerly it was a three days' journey from
Alexandria to Cairo, but the railroad shortens it to a ride of
four hours, in which we crossed both branches of the Nile.
Just at noon we came in sight of the Pyramids, and in half
an hour were driving through the streets of the capital of
Egypt.</p>

<p>We like Cairo, after two or three weeks, much better than
Constantinople. It has another climate and atmosphere;
and is altogether a gayer and brighter city. The new
quarter occupied by foreigners is as handsomely built as
any European city. The streets are wide and well paved,
like the new streets and boulevards of Paris. We are at
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">5</a></span>
the "Grand New Hotel," fronting on the Ezbekieh gardens,
a large square, filled with trees, with kiosks for music,
and other entertainments. Our windows open on a broad
balcony, from which we can hear the band playing every
afternoon, while around us is the city, with its domes and
minarets and palm trees.</p>

<p>The great charm of Egypt is the climate. It is truly the
Land of the Sun. We landed on the first day of December,
but we cannot realize that this is winter. The papers tell
us that it is very cold in New York, and that the Hudson
river is frozen over; but here every thing is in bloom, as in
mid-summer, and I wear a straw hat to protect me from the
heat of the sun. But it is not merely the warmth, but the
exquisite purity of the atmosphere, that makes it so delicious.
The great deserts on both sides drink up every drop
of moisture, and every particle of miasm that is exhaled
from the decaying vegetation of the Valley of the Nile, and
send back into these streets the very air of Paradise.</p>

<p>Having thus the skies of Italy, and a much more balmy
air, it is not strange that Egypt attracts travellers from
France, and England, and America. It is becoming more
and more a resort not only for invalids, but for that wealthy
class who float about the world to find the place where they
can pass existence with the most of languid ease. Many
come here to escape the European winters, and to enjoy the
delicious climate, and they are from so many countries, that
Cairo has become a cosmopolitan city. As it is on the road
to India, it is continually visited by English officers and
civilians, going or returning. Of late years it has become a
resort also for Americans. A number of our army officers
have taken service under the Khedive, who rendezvous
chiefly at this New Hotel, so that with the travellers of the
same country, we can talk across the table of American
affairs, as if we were at Newport or Saratoga. Owing to
the influx of so many foreigners, this Hotel and "Shepheard's"
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">6</a></span>
seem like small colonies of Europeans. Hearing
only English, or French, or German, one might believe himself
at one of the great hotels in Switzerland, or on the
Rhine. A stranger who wishes to pass a winter in Cairo,
need not die of ennui for want of the society of his countrymen.</p>

<p>Besides these officers in the army, the only Americans
here in official positions, are the Consul General Beardsley,
and Judge Batcheller, who was appointed by our Government
to represent the United States in the Mixed Court
lately established in Egypt. Both these gentlemen are very
courteous to their countrymen, while giving full attention
to their duties. As we have sometimes had abroad consuls
and ministers of whom we could not be proud, it is
something to be able to say, that those here now in official
position are men of whom we need not be ashamed as representatives
of our country.</p>

<p>Another household which should not be overlooked, since
it gives an American a home feeling in Cairo, is that of the
American Mission. This has been here some years, and so
won the favor of the government, that the former Viceroy
gave it a site for its schools, which proved so valuable that
the present Khedive has recently bought it back, by giving
a new site and £7000 into the bargain. The new location is
one of the best in Cairo, near the Ezbekieh square, and here
with the proceeds of the sale, and other funds contributed
for the object, the Mission is erecting one of the finest buildings
for such purposes in the East, where their chapel and
schools, in which there are now some five hundred children,
will be under one roof.</p>

<p>This Mission School some years ago was the scene of a
romantic incident. An Indian prince, then living in England,
was on his way to India, with the body of his mother,
who had died far from her country, but with the prejudices
of a Hindoo strong in death, wished her body to be taken
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">7</a></span>
back to the land of her birth. While passing through
Cairo, he paid a visit to the American Mission, and was
struck with the face of a young pupil in the girls' school,
and after due inquiry proposed to the missionaries to take
her as his wife. They gave their consent, and on his return
they were married, and he took her with him to England.
This was the Maharajah Dhuleep Sing, a son of old Runjeet
Sing, the Lion of Lahore, who raised up a race of warriors,
that after his death fought England, and whose country, the
Punjaub, the English annexed to their Indian dominions;
and here, as in other cases, removed a pretender out of the
way by settling a large pension on the heir to the throne.
Thus the Maharajah came into the possession of a large
revenue from the British government, amounting, I am told,
to some £30,000 a year. Having been from his childhood
under English pupilage, he has been brought up as a Christian,
and finds it to his taste to reside in England, where he is
able to live in splendor, and is a great favorite at court.
His choice of a wife proved a most happy one, as the modest
young pupil of Cairo introduced into his English home,
with the natural grace of her race, for she is partly of Arab
descent, the culture and refinement learned in a Mission
school. Nor does he forget what he owes to the care of those
who watched over her in her childhood, but sends a thousand
pounds every year to the school in grateful acknowledgment
of the best possible gift it could make to him, that of a noble
Christian wife.</p>

<p>Besides this foreign society, there is also a resident society
which, to those who can be introduced to it, is very attractive.
The government of the Khedive has brought into his
service some men who would be distinguished in any European
court or capital. The most remarkable of these is
Nubar Pasha, long the Minister of Foreign Affairs.</p>

<p>Judge Batcheller kindly took me to the house of the old
statesman, who received us cordially. On hearing that I
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">8</a></span>
was on my way around the world, he exclaimed, "Ah, you
Americans! You are true Bedouins!" I asked him what
was the best guide-book to Egypt? He answered instantly,
"The Bible." It was delightful to see his enthusiasm for
Egypt, although he is not an Egyptian. He is not an Arab,
nor a Turk, nor even a Mussulman; but an Armenian by
birth and by religion. His uncle, Nubar Pasha, came over
with Mehemet Ali, whose prime minister he was for forty
years; and his nephew, who inherits his name, inherits also
the traditions of that great reign. Though born on the other
side of the Mediterranean, he is in heart an Egyptian. He
loves the country of his adoption, and all his thoughts and
his political ambition are for its greatness and prosperity.
He has lived here so long that he sometimes speaks of himself
playfully as "one of the antiquities of Egypt." "Of
the first dynasty?" we ask. "Yes, of the time of Menes."
I do not believe he could exist anywhere else. He loves
not only the climate, but even the scenery of Egypt, which
is more charming to his eyes than the hills and vales of Scotland
or the mountains of Switzerland. "But you must
admit," I said, "that it has a great monotony." "No," he
replied, "in Lombardy there is monotony; but Egypt is immensity,
infinity, eternity. The features of the landscape
may be the same, but the eye never wearies." Surely <i>his</i>
eye never does, for it is touched with a poetic vision; he
sees more than meets the common eye; every passing cloud
changes the lights and shadows; and to him there is more of
beauty in the sunset flashing through the palm groves, as the
leaves are gently stirred by the evening wind, than in all the
luxuriance of tropical forests. Even if we did not quite
share his enthusiasm, we could not but be charmed by the
pictures which were floating before his mind's eye, and by
the eloquence of his description. As he loves the country,
so he loves the people of Egypt. Poor and helpless as they
are, they have won upon his affection; he says "they are
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">9</a></span>
but children;" but if they have the weakness of children,
they have also their simplicity and trustfulness; and I could
see that his great ambition was to break up that system of
forced labor which crushes them to the earth, and to secure
to them at least some degree of liberty and of justice.</p>

<p>With all its newness and freshness this city retains its
Oriental character. Indeed Grand Cairo is said to be the
most Oriental of cities except Damascus. It has four hundred
thousand inhabitants, and in its ancient portions has
all the peculiar features of the East. Not only is the
city different from Constantinople, but the people are
different; they are another race, and speak another language.
Turks and Arabs are as different as Englishmen
and Frenchmen.</p>

<p>We are entertained every time that we go out of doors,
with the animated and picturesque life of the streets. There
are all races and all costumes, and all modes of locomotion.
There are fine horses and carriages. I feel like Joseph riding
in Pharaoh's chariot, when we take a carriage to ride out to
Shoobra, one of the palaces of the Khedive, with syces
dressed in white running before to herald our royal progress,
and shout to the people to get out of our way. But one
who prefers a more Oriental mode of riding, can mount a
camel, or stoop to a donkey, for the latter are the smallest
creatures that ever walked under the legs of a man, and if
the rider be very tall, he will need to hold up his feet to
keep them from dangling on the ground. Yet they are hardy
little creatures, and have a peculiar amble which they keep
up all day. They are very useful for riding, especially in
some parts of the city where the streets are too narrow to
allow a carriage to pass.</p>

<p>The donkey-men are very sharp, like their tribe in all parts
of the world. The Arabs have a great deal of natural wit,
which might almost entitle them to be called the Irish of the
East. They have picked up a few words of English, and it
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">10</a></span>
is amusing to hear them say, with a most peculiar accent,
"All right," "Very good," "Go ahead." They seem to
know everybody, and soon find out who are their best customers.
I cannot go down the steps without a dozen rushing
toward me, calling out "Doctor, want a donkey?" One of
them took me on my weak side the first day by saying that
the name of his animal was "Yankee Doodle," and so I have
patronized that donkey ever since, and a tough little beast
he is, scudding away with me on his back at a great rate.
His owner, a fine looking Arab, dressed in a loose blue gown
and snowy turban, runs barefooted behind him, to prick
him up, if he lags in his speed, or if perchance he goes too
fast, to seize him by the tail, and check his impetuosity.
We present a ludicrous spectacle when thus mounted, setting
out for the bazaars, where our experience of Constantinople
is repeated.</p>

<p>Of course the greatest sight around Cairo is the Pyramids.
It is an event in one's life to see these grandest
monuments of antiquity. The excursion is now very
easy. They are eight miles from Cairo, and it was formerly
a hard day's journey to go there and back, as one could only
ride on a donkey or a camel, and had to cross the river in
boats; and the country was often inundated, so that one had
to go miles around. But the Khedive, who does everything
here, has changed all that. He has built an iron bridge over
the Nile, and a broad road, raised above the height of the
annual inundations, so as never to be overflowed, and lined
with trees, the rapid-growing acacia, so that one may drive
through a shaded avenue the whole way. A shower which
had fallen the night before we went (a very rare thing in
Egypt at this season) had laid the dust and cooled the air,
so that the day was perfect, and we drove in a carriage in
an hour and a half from our hotel to the foot of the Pyramids.
The two largest of these are in sight as soon as one
crosses the Nile, but though six miles distant they seem quite
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">11</a></span>
near. Yet at first, and even when close to them, they hardly
impress the beholder with their real greatness. This is owing
to their pyramidal form, which, rising before the eye like
the slope of a hill, does not strike the senses or the imagination
as much as smaller masses which rise perpendicularly.
One can hardly realize that the Pyramid of Cheops is the
largest structure in the world&mdash;the largest probably ever
reared by human hands. But as it slopes to the top, it does
not present its full proportions to the eye, nor impress one
so much as some of the Greek temples with their perpendicular
columns, or the Gothic churches with their lofty
arches, and still loftier towers, soaring to heaven. Yet the
Great Pyramid is higher than them all, higher even than the
spire of the Cathedral at Strasburg; while in the surface of
ground covered, the most spacious of them, even St. Peter's
at Rome, seems small in comparison. It covers eleven acres,
a space nearly as large as the Washington Parade Ground in
New York; and is said by Herodotus to have taken a hundred
thousand men twenty years to build it. Pliny agrees in the
length of time, but says the number of workmen employed
was over three hundred thousand!</p>

<p>But mere figures do not give the best impression of
height; the only way to judge of the Great Pyramid is to
see it and to ascend it. One can go to the top by steps, but
as these steps are blocks of stone, many of which are four
feet high, it is not quite like walking up stairs. One could
hardly get up at all but with the help of the Arabs, who
swarm on the ground, and make a living by selling their services.
Four of them set upon me, seizing me by the hands,
and dragging me forward, and with pulling and pushing and
"boosting," urged on by my own impatience&mdash;for I would not
let them rest a moment&mdash;in ten minutes we were at the top,
which they thought a great achievement, and rubbed down
my legs, as a groom rubs down a horse after a race, and
clapped me on the back, and shouted "All right," "Very
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">12</a></span>
good." I felt a little pride in being the first of our party on
the top, and the last to leave it.</p>

<p>These Arab guides are at once very troublesome and very
necessary. One cannot get along without them, and yet
they are so importunate in their demands for backsheesh that
they become a nuisance. They are nominally under the
orders of a Sheik, who charges two English shillings for
every traveller who is assisted to the top, but that does not
relieve one from constant appeals going up and down. I
found it the easiest way to get rid of them to give somewhat
freely, and thus paid three or four times the prescribed charge
before I got to the bottom. No doubt I gave far too much,
for they immediately quoted me to the rest of the party, and
held me up as a shining example. I am afraid I demoralized
the whole tribe, for some friends who went the next day were
told of an American who had been there the day before, who
had given "beautiful backsheesh." The cunning fellows,
finding I was an easy subject, followed me from one place to
another, and gave me no peace even when wandering among
the tombs, or when taking our lunch in the Temple of the
Sphinx, but at every step clamored for more; and when I
had given them a dozen times, an impudent rascal came up
even to the carriage, as we were ready to drive away, and
said that two or three shillings more would "make all serene!"&mdash;a
phrase which he had caught from some strolling
American, and which he turns to good account.</p>

<p>But one would gladly give any sum to get rid of petty annoyances,
and to be able to look around him undisturbed.
Here we are at last on the very summit of the Great Pyramid,
and begin to realize its immensity. Below us men look like
mice creeping about, and the tops of trees in the long avenue
show no larger than hot-house plants. The eye ranges
over the valley of the Nile for many miles&mdash;a carpet of the
richest green, amid which groups of palms rise like islands
in a sea. To the east beyond the Nile is Cairo, its domes
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">13</a></span>
and minarets standing out against the background of the
Mokattam hills, while to the west stretches far away the
Libyan desert.</p>

<p>Overlooking this broad landscape, one can trace distinctly
the line of the overflow of the Nile. Wherever the waters
come, there is greenness and fertility; at the point where
they cease, there is barrenness and desolation. It is a perpetual
struggle between the waters and the sands, like that
which is always going on in human history between barbarism
and civilization.</p>

<p>In the Pyramids the two things which impress us most are
their vast size and their age. As we stand on the top, and
look down the long flight of steps which leads to the valley
below, we find that we are on the crest of a mountain of
stone. Some idea of the enormous mass imbedded in the
Great Pyramid may be gathered from the fact, ascertained
by a careful computation (estimating its weight at seven millions
of tons, and considering it a solid mass, its chambers
and passages being as far as discovered but 1/2000th of the
whole), that these blocks of stone, placed end to end, would
make a wall a foot and a half broad, and ten feet high around
England, a distance of 883 miles&mdash;a wall that would shut in
the island up to the Scottish border.</p>

<p>And the Pyramids are not only the greatest, but the
oldest monuments of the human race, the most venerable
structures ever reared by the hand of man. They are far
older than any of the monuments of Roman or Grecian antiquity.
They were a marvel and a mystery then as much as
they are to-day. How <i>much</i> older cannot be said with certainty.
Authorities are not fully agreed, but the general belief
among the later chronologists is that the Great Pyramid
was built about two thousand one hundred and seventy
years before the time of Christ, and the next in size a century
later. Thus both have been standing about four thousand
years. Napoleon was right therefore when he said to
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">14</a></span>
his soldiers before the battle fought with the Mamelukes
under the shadow of the Pyramids, "From those heights
forty centuries behold you." This disposes of the idea which
some have entertained, that they were built by the children
of Israel when they were in Egypt; for according to this
they were erected two hundred years before even the time
of Abraham. Jacob saw them when he came down into
Egypt to buy corn; and Joseph showed them to his brethren.
The subject Hebrews looked up to them in the days of their
bondage. Moses saw them when he was brought up in the
court of Pharaoh, and they disappeared from the view of the
Israelites only when they fled to the Red Sea. They had
been standing a thousand years when Homer sang of the
siege of Troy; and here came Herodotus the father of history,
four hundred years before Christ, and gazed with wonder,
and wrote about them as the most venerable monuments of
antiquity, with the same curious interest as Rawlinson does
to-day. So they have been standing century after century,
while the generations of men have been flowing past, like the
waters of the Nile.</p>

<p>We visited the Great Pyramid again on our return from
Upper Egypt, and explored the interior, but reserve the
description to another chapter.
</p>

<h3 class="p6">CHAPTER II.</h3>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">15</a></span></p>
<p class="ch_summ">ON THE NILE.</p>

<p>At last we are on the Nile, floating as in a dream, in the
finest climate in the world, amid the monuments and memories
of thousands of years. Anything more delightful than
this climate for winter cannot be imagined. The weather is
always the same. The sky is always blue, and we are bathed
in a soft, delicious atmosphere. In short, we seem to have
come, like the Lotus-eaters, to "a land where it is always
afternoon." In such an air and such a mood, we left Cairo
to make the voyage to which we had been looking forward
as an event in our lives.</p>

<p>To travellers who desire to visit Egypt, and to see its
principal monuments, without taking more time than they
have at command, it is a great advantage that there is now a
line of steamers on the Nile. The boats belong to the Khedive,
but are managed by Cook &amp; Son, of London, the well-known
conductors of excursions in Europe and the East.
They leave Cairo every fortnight, and make the trip to the
First Cataract and back in twenty days, thus comprising the
chief objects of interest within a limited time. Formerly
there was no way to go up the Nile except by chartering a
boat, with a captain and crew for the voyage. This mode of
travel had many charms. The kind of boat&mdash;called a <i>dahabeeah</i>&mdash;was
well fitted for the purpose, with a cabin large
enough for a single family, or a very small party, and an upper
deck covered with awnings; and as it spread its three-cornered
lateen sail to the wind, it presented a pretty and
picturesque object, and the traveller floated along at his own
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">16</a></span>
sweet will. This had only the drawback of taking a whole
winter. But to leisurely tourists, who like to do everything
thoroughly, and so take but one country in a year; or
learned Egyptologists, who wish, in the intervals of seeing
monuments, to make a special study of the history of Egypt;
or invalids, who desire only to escape the damps and fogs of
Britain, or the bitter cold of the Northern States of America&mdash;nothing
can be imagined more delightful. There is a class
of overworked men for whom no medicine could be prescribed
more effectual than a winter idled away in this soothing,
blissful rest. Nowhere in the world can one obtain
more of the <i>dolce far niente</i>, than thus floating slowly and
dreamily on the Nile. But for those of us who are wandering
over all the earth, crossing all the lands and seas in the
round world, this slow voyaging will not answer.</p>

<p>Nor is it necessary. One can see Egypt&mdash;not of course
minutely, but sufficiently to get a general impression of the
country&mdash;in a much less time. It must be remembered that
this is not like other countries which lie four-square, presenting
an almost equal length and breadth, but in shape is
a mere line upon the map, being a hundred times as long as
it is broad. To be exact, Egypt from the apex of the Delta&mdash;that
is from Cairo&mdash;to the First Cataract, nearly six hundred
miles, is all enclosed in a valley, which, on an average,
is only six miles wide, the whole of which may be seen from
the deck of a steamer, while excursions are made from day
to day to the temples and ruins. It is a mistake to suppose
that one sees more of these ruins on a boat because he is so
much longer about it, when the extra time consumed is not
spent at Denderah or Thebes, but floating lazily along with
a light wind, or if the wind be adverse, tied up to a bank to
await a change. In a steamer the whole excursion is well
divided, ample time being allowed to visit every point of interest,
as at Thebes, where the boat stops three days. As
soon as one point is done, it moves on to another. In this
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">17</a></span>
way no time is lost, and one can see as much in three weeks
as in a dahabeeah in three months.</p>

<p>Our boat carried twenty-seven passengers, of whom more
than half were Americans, forming a most agreeable company.
All on deck, we watched with interest the receding shores,
as we sailed past the island of Rhoda, where, according to
tradition, the infant Moses was found in the bulrushes; and
where the Nilometer, a pillar planted in the water ages ago,
still marks the annual risings and fallings of the great river
of Egypt. The Pyramids stood out clear against the western
sky. That evening we enjoyed the first of a series of glorious
sunsets on the Nile. Our first sail was very short&mdash;only
to Sakkara, a few miles above Cairo, where we lay to for the
night, the boat being tied up to the bank, in the style of a
steamer on the Mississippi.</p>

<p>Early the next morning our whole company hastened
ashore, where a large array of donkeys was waiting to receive
us. These had been sent up from Cairo the night before.
My faithful attendant was there with "Yankee Doodle,"
and claimed me as his special charge. We were soon
mounted and pricking over what we should call "bottom
lands" in the valleys of our Western rivers, the wide plain
being relieved only by the palm groves, and rode through an
Arab village, where we were pursued by a rabble rout of
ragged children. The dogs barked, the donkeys brayed, and
the children ran. Followed by such a retinue, we approached
the Pyramids of Sakkara, which stand on the same plateau
as those of Ghizeh, and are supposed to be even older in
date. Though none of them are equal to the Great Pyramid,
they belong to the same order of Cyclopean architecture, and
are the mighty monuments of an age when there were giants
in the earth.</p>

<p>There is a greater wonder still in the Tombs of the Sacred
Bulls, which were long buried beneath the sands of the
desert, but have been brought to light by a modern explorer,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">18</a></span>
but which I will not describe here, as I shall speak of them
again in illustration of the religious ideas of the Egyptians.</p>

<p>Near the Pyramids of Sakkara is the site of Memphis, the
capital of ancient Egypt, of whose magnificence we have the
most authentic historic accounts, but of which hardly a trace
remains. We galloped our donkeys a long distance that we
might pass over the spot where it stood, but found only great
mounds of earth, with here and there a few scattered blocks
of granite, turned up from the soil, to tell of the massive
structures that are buried beneath. The chief relic of its
former glory is a statue of Rameses the Great, one of the
most famous of the long line of the Pharaohs&mdash;a statue which
was grand enough to be worthy of a god&mdash;being some fifty
feet high, but which now lies stretched upon the earth, with its
face downward, all its fine proportions completely buried in
a little pond&mdash;or rather puddle&mdash;of dirty water! At certain
seasons of the year, when the Nile subsides, the features are
exposed, and one may look upon a countenance "whose bend
once did awe the world;" but at present, seeing only the
back, and that broken, it has no appearance or shape of anything,
and might be a king, or queen, or crocodile. What a
bitter satire is it on all human pride, that this mighty king
and conqueror, the Napoleon of his day&mdash;who made nations
tremble&mdash;now lies prone on the earth, his imperial front
buried in the slime and ooze of the Nile! That solitary stone
is all that is left of a city of temples and palaces, which are
here entombed, and where now groves of palms wave their
tasselled plumes, like weeping willows over the sepulchre of
departed greatness.</p>

<p>Our next excursion was to the remains of a very remote
antiquity on the other side of the Nile&mdash;the Rock-Tombs of
Beni-Hassan&mdash;immense caverns cut in the side of a mountain,
in which were buried the great ones of Egypt four thousand
years ago. Many of them are inscribed with hieroglyphics,
and decorated with frescoes and bas-reliefs, in which we
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">19</a></span>
recognize not only the appearance of the ancient Egyptians,
but even of the animals which were familiar in that day,
such as the lion, the jackal, and the gazelle, and more frequently
the beasts of burden&mdash;bulls and donkeys; but in none
do we discover the horse, nor, what is perhaps even more
remarkable in a country surrounded by deserts&mdash;the camel.</p>

<p>In the King's tomb, or sepulchral chamber, a room some
forty feet square, hollowed out of the solid rock, the vaulted
roof is supported by Doric pillars, which shows that the
Greeks obtained many of their ideas of architecture in
Egypt, as well as of philosophy and religion.</p>

<p>As we continue our course up the river, we observe more
closely the features of the valley of the Nile. It is very
narrow and is abruptly bounded by barren and ragged mountains.
Between these barriers the river winds like a serpent
from side to side, now to the east, and now to the west,
but inclining more to the range of Eastern or Arabian hills,
leaving the greater breadth of fertility on the western bank.
Here is the larger number of villages; here is the railroad
which the Khedive has built along the valley, beside
which runs the long line of telegraph poles, that sign of
civilization, keeping pace with the iron track, and passing
beyond it, carrying the electric cord to the upper Nile, to Nubia
and Soudan. The Khedive, with that enterprise which marks
his administration, has endeavored to turn the marvellous
fertility of this valley to the most profitable uses. He has
encouraged the culture of cotton, which became very extensive
during our civil war, and is still perhaps the chief industry
of the country. Next to this is the growth of the
sugar-cane: he has expended millions in the erection of
great manufactories of sugar, whose large white walls and
tall chimneys are the most conspicuous objects at many
points along the Nile.</p>

<p>Now, as thousands of years ago, the great business of the
people is <i>irrigation</i>. The river does everything. It fertilizes
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">20</a></span>
the land; it yields the crops. The only thing is to bring
the water to the land at the seasons when the river does not
overflow. This is done by a very simple and rude apparatus,
somewhat like an old-fashioned well-sweep, by which a bucket
is lowered into the river, and as it is swung up the water is
turned into a trench which conducts it over the land. This
is the <i>shadoof</i>, the same which was used in the time of Moses.
There is another method by which a wheel is turned by an
ox, lifting up a series of buckets attached to a chain, but
this is too elaborate and expensive for the greater part of the
poor people who are the tillers of the soil.</p>

<p>We pass a great number of villages, but, larger and smaller,
all present the same general features. At a distance they
have rather a pretty effect, as they are generally embowered in
palm trees, out of which sometimes peers the white minaret
of a mosque. But a nearer approach destroys all the picturesqueness.
The houses are built of unburnt brick, dried
in the sun. They are mere huts of mud&mdash;as wretched habitations
as an Irish hovel or an Indian wigwam. The floor is
the earth, where all sexes and ages sit on the ground, while
in an enclosure scarcely separate from the family, sheep and
goats, and dogs and asses and camels, lie down together.</p>

<p>The only pretty feature of an Arab village is the <i>doves</i>.
Where these Africans got their fondness for birds, I know
not, but their mud houses are surmounted&mdash;and one might
almost say <i>castellated</i>&mdash;with dove-cotes, which of course are
literally "pigeon-holed," and stuck round with branches, to
seem like trees, and these rude aviaries are alive with wings
all day long. It was a pretty and indeed a touching sight to
see these beautiful creatures, cooing and fluttering above,
presenting such a contrast, in their airy flights and bright
plumage, to the dark and sad human creatures below.</p>

<p>But if the houses of the people are so mean and poor, their
clothing is still worse, consisting generally of but one garment,
a kind of sack of coarse stuff. The men working at the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">21</a></span>
<i>shadoof</i> on the river brink have only a strip of cloth around
their loins. The women have a little more <i>dress</i> than the
men, though generally barefoot and bareheaded&mdash;while carrying
heavy jars of water on their heads. The children have
the merest shred of a garment, a clout of rags, in such tatters
that you wonder how it can hold together, while many are
absolutely naked.</p>

<p>This utter destitution would entail immense suffering, and
perhaps cause the whole race to die out, but for the climate,
which is so mild that it takes away in a great degree the
need of shelter and raiment, which in other countries are
necessary to human existence.</p>

<p>This extreme poverty is aggravated by one disease, which
is almost universal. The bright sun, glaring on the white
sands, produces an inflammation of the eyes, which being
neglected, often ends in blindness. I have seen more men in
Egypt with one eye, or with none, than in all Europe.</p>

<p>It might be supposed that a people, thus reduced by poverty
and smitten by disease, would be crushed out of
all semblance of humanity. And yet this Arab race is
one which has a strong tenacity of life. Most travellers
judge them harshly, because they are disgusted by the unceasing
cry for <i>backsheesh</i>, which is the first word that a stranger
hears as he lands in Egypt, and the last as he leaves it.
But even this (although it is certainly a nuisance and a pest)
might be regarded with more merciful judgment, if it were
considered that it is only the outward sign of an internal disease;
that general beggary means general poverty and general
misery.</p>

<p>Leaving this noisy crowd, which gathers about us in every
village that we enter, it is easy to find different specimens of
Arab character, which engage our interest and compel our
respect. One cannot look at these men without admiring
their physique. They remind me much of our American Indians.
Like them, they are indolent, unless goaded to work
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">22</a></span>
by necessity, and find nothing so pleasant as to sit idly in the
sun. But when they stand up they have an attitude as erect
as any Indian chief, and a natural dignity, which is the badge
of their race. Many a man who has but a single garment to
cover him, will wrap it about him as proudly as any Spanish
cavalier would toss his cloak over his shoulders, and stalk
away with a bold, free stride, as if, in spite of centuries of
humiliation, he were still the untamed lord of the desert.
Their old men are most venerable in appearance. With their
long beards, white turbans, and flowing garments, they might
stand for the picture of Old Testament patriarchs. The women
too (who do not cover their faces as much as those in
lower Egypt), though coarsely and meanly dressed, yet as they
walk with their water-jars on their heads, stand more erect
than the fashionable ladies of our cities. I see them every
day coming to fill their "pitchers" precisely as Rebecca and
Rachel came three thousand years ago, and if I should approach
one, saying, Give me to drink, (which I might well do,
for the water of the Nile&mdash;though containing so much sediment,
that it needs to be filtered&mdash;is as soft and sweet as
that of our own Croton), she would let down her jar from
her head just as Rebecca let down her jar for the servant
of Abraham, when he came to ask her in marriage for his
master's son Isaac.</p>

<p>The children too, though often naked, and if clothed at
all, always in rags, yet have fine olive complexions, and
dazzling teeth, and those bright eyes which are the sign of
a degree of native intelligence.</p>

<p>Nor can I refuse to say a word for the poor donkey-boy.
Many years ago a Scotchman in the Cape Colony, South
Africa, who was accustomed to make long journeys in the
bush, wrote a little poem, depicting the joys of that solitary
life, which began,</p>

<div class="poem">
<p class="o1">"Afar in the desert I love to ride,</p>
<p>With the silent bush-boy by my side."</p>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">23</a></span></p>

<p>The donkey-boy is never silent, he is always singing or
calling to his donkey, urging him forward with stick and
voice; yet who could wish a more patient or faithful attendant,
who, though on foot, trots by your side from morning
to night, the slave of your caprice, taking meekly all your
rebukes, perhaps undeserved, and content at last with a
pittance for his service?</p>

<p>So have I had a little girl as a water-carrier, running
close to my saddle all day long, keeping up with the donkey's
pace, and carrying a small jar of water on her head,
to wash my hands and face, or assuage my thirst, thankful
at last for a few piastres as her reward.</p>

<p>We reached Assiout, the capital of Upper Egypt, early
Sunday morning, and laid up for the day. While our boat's
company were preparing to go on shore to see the town, I
mounted a donkey and started off to find the American Mission,
which is at work among the Copts, who claim to be
the descendants of the ancient Egyptians. I arrived at the
chapel in time to hear a sermon and an address to the Sunday-school.
As the services were in Arabic, I could not
understand what was said, but I could perceive at once the
earnestness of the speakers, and the close attention of the
hearers. After the sermon there was a baptism. The congregation
was a very respectable one both in numbers and
appearance. There were perhaps two hundred present, all
decently, although some were very poorly clad, and presented
a striking contrast to the ragged and dirty people around
them. In the quiet and orderly worship, and the songs that
were sung, which were Arabic words to American tunes,
there was much to make one think of home. There was
nothing to distinguish the congregation except the Oriental
turbans and dress, and the fact that the women sat apart
from the men, separated by a screen, which shows that the
seclusion of women is not confined to the Mohammedans.
It is an Oriental custom, and is observed by the Copts as
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">24</a></span>
well as the Moslems. I am told that even among Christian
families here, it is not considered quite "the thing" for
women to go abroad and show impertinent curiosity, and
that ladies of good position, who are as intelligent as most
Orientals, have never seen the Nile, but two miles distant!
Such is the power of fashion even in Africa. In the church
are several men of wealth, who give freely of their means,
as well as use their influence, for its support. The Copts
are nominal Christians, although, like most of the Christian
sects of the East, they are very ignorant and very superstitious.
But they have not the fanatical hatred to Christianity
of the Mussulmans. They acknowledge the authority
of the Bible, and are thus more open to argument and persuasion.
Besides this congregation, the mission has some dozen
schools in the surrounding country. In the town itself,
besides the schools for the poorest children, it has a boarding-school
for those of a better class, an academy which is
the beginning of a college, and half a dozen young men are
preparing for the ministry. The field is a very hopeful one,
and I was assured that the success of the mission was limited
only by the means at its disposal.</p>

<p>After visiting the schools, Rev. Mr. Strang accompanied
me through the town. It has over twenty-five thousand inhabitants,
and is the point of departure for the caravans
which cross the Great Desert to Darfour and the far interior
of Africa, returning laden with ivory and ostrich
feathers, as in the days of King Solomon. We saw in an
open square, or market-place, some hundred camels, that, as
they lay wearily on the earth, looked as if they might have
made the long journey over the trackless sands. Laborers
were at work, with no respect for the day, for Friday is the
Mohammedan Sabbath; and my friend pointed out, where a
number of workmen were building a house, the "taskmaster"
sitting on the top of the wall to overlook them, as
in the days of the Bible. As we returned by an old portal
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">25</a></span>
in the city walls, we found a number of long-bearded and
venerable men, who were "sitting in the gate" as "elders"
to administer justice. The city gate is the place of honor
and of justice now, as it was thousands of years ago.</p>

<p>In the mountain behind the town are a great number of
tombs, like those of Beni-Hassan, vast chambers hewn out
of the rock ages ago for burial places. We walked along
by these silent memorials of the mighty dead, to the summit,
from which is one of the most beautiful views of the
valley of the Nile. Below the plain is spread out for many
miles, well watered like the garden of the Lord, the emerald
green coming up to the very foot of the barren hills. But
there it ceases instantly, giving place to the desert.</p>

<p>These contrasts suggest some comparisons between the
scenery and the climate of Egypt, and our own country.
Whoever breathes this balmy air, and looks up to this cloudless
sky, must feel that the Lord of all the earth has been
bountiful to Egypt. As we read of the winter storms now
raging over half of Europe, we bless the more kindly skies
that are over us now. But after a few weeks of this dreamy,
languid life, one begins to feel the want of something else to
stir his blood. He finds that nature in Egypt, like the
works of man, like the temples and the pyramids, is a sublime
monotony. The landscapes are all the same. There are
four or five grand features, the river, the valley, the hills
that enclose it, and beyond the boundless desert, and over
all the burning sun and sky. These are the elements that
enter into every landscape. There is no change, no variety.
Look where you will, there is no vision in the distance of
lofty peaks dark with pines, or white with snow, no torrents
leaping down the mountain side (the <i>silence</i> of Egypt is one
of the things that most oppress me), no brooks that run
among the hills, no winding paths along their banks that
invite the stranger to lose himself in their shade. I see indeed
hills on either horizon, but they are barren and desolate.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">26</a></span>
On all this double range, for six hundred miles, there
is not a single green thing&mdash;not a tree, not a shrub, not a
blade of grass, not even a rock covered with moss, only a
waste of sand and stone. If you climbed those hills yonder
across the valley you would look off upon a boundless plain
of sand that stretches to the Red Sea; while behind where
we stand is the Libyan Desert, which is only an arm of the
Great Sahara, that crosses almost the whole of the continent.
In all this waste the valley of the Nile is the one narrow
strip of fertility. And even this is parched and burnt up to
the very water's edge. Hence the monotony of vegetation.
There is not a forest in all Egypt, only the palm
groves, which are planted like garden flowers, but no tangled
wild wood, no lofty elms, no broad-spreading oaks that cast
their grateful shadow on the burning plains. All that variety
of nature, with which in other lands she beguiles the
weary heart of man, is wanting here. It is indeed the land
of the sun, and in that is at once its attraction and its terror,
as the fiery orb beats down upon it, withering man and beast,
and turning the earth into a desert.</p>

<p>Seeing this monotony of nature, and feeling this monotony
of life, one begins to pine after awhile, for a return to
the scenes more varied, though more wild and rugged, of his
own more northern clime. We hear much of the beauty of
a "cloudless sky." It is indeed a relief for a few weeks to
those who escape from wintry storms, from bitter winds and
blinding snow. But who would have sunshine <i>forever</i>?
The light and warmth are better when softened and subdued
by clouds that intercept the overpowering rays. But here
the clouds are few, and they do not "return after the rain,"
for there <i>is</i> no rain. In Lower Egypt there is what may be
called a rainy season. In the Delta, as the clouds roll up
from the Mediterranean, there is sometimes a sound of abundance
of rain. But in Upper Egypt it may be said that it
never rains. In Assiout it has rained but three times in
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">27</a></span>
ten years! Of course the heat is sometimes fearful. Now
it is mid-winter, and the air is comparatively cool and bracing,
but in midsummer it reaches 110 and 112 degrees in the
shade! For days and nights together the heat is so intense
that not a leaf stirs in the palm groves. Not only is there
not a drop of rain&mdash;there is not a breath of air. This it is
to have a "cloudless sky"! Gladly then would our friend
exchange for half the year the climate of Egypt for that of
America. How refreshing it would be to him to see, just
for once, great masses of black clouds gathering over the
Arabian Hills, to see the lightnings flash as he has seen
them in his native Ohio, and to hear the thunder-peals rolling
across the valley from mountain to mountain, and at last
dying away on the Libyan desert.</p>

<p>Think of this, ye who shiver in your winter storms at
home, and sigh for Egypt. Take it all in all, would you
make the exchange?
</p>

<h3 class="p6">CHAPTER III.</h3>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">28</a></span></p>
<p class="ch_summ">THE TEMPLES OF EGYPT&mdash;DID MOSES GET HIS LAW FROM THE
EGYPTIANS?</p>

<p>In the distribution of the monuments of Egypt, it is a
curious fact that the Pyramids are found almost wholly in
Lower Egypt, and the great Temples in Upper Egypt. It
was not till we had been a week on the Nile, that we had
our first sight of the latter at Denderah. We have since
spent three days at Thebes, the great centre of historical interest,
and have made a regular campaign of sight-seeing,
starting on excursions every morning, and thus have explored
the ruins on both sides of the river&mdash;for Thebes, like many
other great cities&mdash;like London and Paris&mdash;was built on two
sides of a river, but one much greater than the Thames or
the Seine, yet not so great but that it was spanned by a
bridge (at least this is inferred from some ancient sculptures
and inscriptions), over which poured a population such as
pours over London Bridge to-day. The site seems made for
a great capital, for here the mountains retire from the river,
sweeping round in a circuit of some fifty miles, leaving a
broad plain to be filled with human habitations. Here four
thousand years ago was built a city greater than that on the
banks of the Tigris or the Euphrates, than Nineveh or Babylon.
Here was the centre of power and dominion for two
continents&mdash;not only for Africa, but for Asia&mdash;to which
flocked the multitudinous nations of Assyria and Arabia and
Persia and the farthest East, as well as the tribes of Ethiopia&mdash;as
two thousand years later all the peoples of the earth
flocked to Rome. It is easy, from historical records and
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">29</a></span>
monumental inscriptions, to form some idea of the glory of
this capital of the ancient world. We can imagine the tumult
and the roar of this more ancient Rome, when the chariots
of mighty kings, and the tread of armies returning
victorious from distant wars, thundered through her hundred
gates.</p>

<p>Then did the kings of Egypt rear temples and palaces and
statues and obelisks worthy of all that greatness. Then
were built the most gigantic temples ever raised by the hand
of man&mdash;as much surpassing in vastness and grandeur those
reared centuries afterward by the Greeks, as the latter surpass
anything by the moderns. The temples of Thebes&mdash;including
Luxor and Karnac, which are parts of one city&mdash;are
as much grander than the Parthenon, as the Parthenon is
grander than the Madeleine at Paris, which is a feeble attempt
to copy it.</p>

<p>We have now been a week&mdash;beginning with Denderah&mdash;studying
these ruins, and may give certain general impressions.
We do not attempt any detailed description, which
must necessarily be inadequate, since neither words nor figures
convey an idea of them, any more than they do of the
Alps. What would be thought of an avenue nearly two
miles long, lined with over twelve hundred colossal sphinxes?
Yet such was the avenue from Luxor to Karnac&mdash;an approach
worthy to lead to the temple of the gods. What can
we say of a forest of columns, each twelve feet in diameter,
stretching out in long colonnades; of the massive walls covered
with bas-reliefs; and obelisks in single shafts of granite,
of such height and weight that it is the wonder of modern
engineering how they could be cut from the side of the hills,
and be brought a hundred and forty miles, and erected on
their firm bases.</p>

<p>But this temple&mdash;or rather cluster of temples and palaces&mdash;was
not, like the temple of Solomon, finished in a single
reign. Karnac was not the work of one man, or of one generation.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">30</a></span>
It was twenty-five hundred years in building, successive
kings and dynasties adding to the mighty whole,
which was to represent all the glory of Egypt.</p>

<p>The general impression of these temples&mdash;and the same is
true of the Egyptian statues and sculptures&mdash;is one of grandeur
rather than beauty. They seek to overpower the senses
by mere size. Sometimes they overdo the matter. Thus in
the temples at Karnac the columns seem to me too large
and too much crowded for the best effect. Ordinary trees
may be planted in a dense grove, but great, broad-spreading
oaks or elms require space around them; and if these columns
were a little more <i>spaced</i>&mdash;to use a printer's word&mdash;the
architectural effect would be still grander. So in the
Egyptian sculpture, everything is colossal. In the granite
lions and sphinxes there is always an aspect of power in repose
which is very impressive, and strikes one with awe. But
in any lighter work, such as frescoes and bas-reliefs, there is
a total absence of delicacy and grace. Nothing can be more
stiff. They sometimes have a rude force of drawing, but
beauty they have none. That was born in Greece. All the
sculptures on all the temples of Egypt are not worth&mdash;except
as historical monuments&mdash;the friezes of the Parthenon.</p>

<p>One thing else has struck me much as to the plan of these
temples, viz.: that we see in them the types and models of
much that has been reproduced in various forms of ecclesiastical
architecture. One has but to observe with some care
the construction of these vast basilicas, to see how many features
of Jewish, and even of Christian and Moslem architecture,
have been adopted from still older temples and an
earlier religion. Thus in the temple at Edfoo there is first
the vast enclosure surrounding the whole, and then within
the walls an outer court open to the sky, corresponding to
the Court of the Gentiles in the Temple at Jerusalem, to
the Court of the Fountains leading to the Mosques, and the
cloister surrounding the approaches to old abbeys and cathedrals.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">31</a></span>
One might find a still closer resemblance in forms of
worship, in the vestments of priests, in the altars, and in the
burning of incense, etc., a parallel which scholars have often
traced.</p>

<p>And now of all this magnificence and glory of the ancient
capital of Egypt, what remains? Only these vast ruins of
temples and palaces. The "plain of Thebes" is still here,
but deserted and silent. A few columns and statues rise
above the plain to mark where the city stood, but the city
itself is gone as much as the people who inhabited it four
thousand years ago. A few miserable mud huts are built
against the walls of mighty temples, and the ploughman
drives his team over the dust of the city of a hundred gates.
I saw a fellah ploughing with a cow and a camel yoked together,
and a couple of half-naked Arabs raising water with
their <i>shadoof</i> between the Memnon (the statue which was
said to sing when its stony lips were touched by the rising
of the sun) and its brother statue&mdash;the two great Colossi,
between which ran the Royal street to Luxor. Was there
ever a more complete and utter desolation? In the temple
called the Rameseum once stood the largest statue that ever
was known&mdash;that of Rameses the Great (the same who had
a statue at Memphis, for he erected monuments to himself
everywhere), cut out of a single block of granite brought
from the First Cataract, and weighing nearly nine hundred
tons! On this was inscribed, as Herodotus writes, who saw
it twenty-three hundred years ago: "I am the king of kings:
if any man wish to know how great I am, and where I lie,
let him surpass one of my works!" What a comment on
the emptiness of human ambition, that this colossal statue,
which was to last to the end of the world, was long ago
pulled down by a later conqueror, Cambyses, the Persian,
and now lies on its back, with its nose knocked off, and eyes
put out, and all its glory in the dust!</p>

<p>In studying the figures and the inscriptions on the walls
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">32</a></span>
of temples, there are many things which throw light on the
manners and customs of the ancient Egyptians. Here is a
scene of hunting, or of fishing, or of feasting. Here are the
different trades, which show the skill of the people in the
mechanic arts, and many scenes which give us an insight
into their domestic life. These have been the subjects of
two learned and most interesting works by Wilkinson,
which open the very interior of ancient Egypt to our modern
eyes. They show a very high degree of civilization&mdash;of skill
in all the useful arts, a skill fully equal in many things, and
in some greatly superior, to that of our own day. Wendell
Phillips, in his famous lecture on "The Lost Arts," finds
many of his illustrations in ancient Egypt. I could not but
think that this furnished a very effective answer to those
advocates of evolution, who hold that mankind sprung from
animals, and have gradually developed to their present
state. How much progress have the Egyptians made in four
thousand years? Here the race has gone backward, so that
there is certainly no inherent tendency in our nature to
advance.</p>

<p>But I was less interested in studying the domestic life of
the ancient Egyptians, than their religious ideas. Herodotus
says that the Egyptians were a very religious people, excelling
all others in the honors paid to their gods; and this we
can well believe, seeing the temples that they reared for their
worship. But what were the gods they adored, and what
sort of worship did they render, and how did all this act on
the life and character of the people? Here we obtain a less
exalted estimate of the ancient Egyptians. The remains
which they have left, while they illustrate the greatness of
the empire, which four thousand years ago had its seat in
the valley of the Nile, do not give a high idea of its Religion.
The land was wholly given to idolatry. The Egyptians had
as many gods as the Greeks and Romans, only baser and
lower, indicating baser and lower ideas. They made gods,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">33</a></span>
not only of the sun, moon, and stars, but of beasts and birds
and reptiles&mdash;of the apis and the ibis&mdash;of the serpent and
the crocodile.</p>

<p>At Sakkara we visited one of the most stupendous mausoleums
that we have seen in Egypt&mdash;one which Herodotus
described, but which for centuries was so buried by the
sands of the desert that its very site was not known until
brought to light by the researches of Mariette Bey, who has
done so much to restore the monuments of ancient Egypt.
The approach to it was by an avenue of sphinxes, which led
to a vast subterranean gallery&mdash;twenty feet wide and high&mdash;and
leading two thousand feet, more than a third of a mile,
under the earth. This long, vaulted passage is hewn in the
solid rock&mdash;out of which open on either side a series of
chambers or recesses, like side chapels&mdash;each containing a
sarcophagus, 15 × 8 feet. These tombs, hollowed out of the
solid granite, are so huge and massive that we wonder how
they ever could have been got there. Yet these great sarcophagi&mdash;fit
for the burial places of a long line of kings&mdash;were
not for the Pharaohs or the Ptolemies, but for the Sacred
Bulls! Thirty of these sarcophagi have been found, and on
the walls are tablets which record the birth, and death, and
burial of each one of these sacred beasts. These were the
gods of Egypt, mother of the arts, and civilizer of the earth!
This great repository of dead divinities is a colossal monument,
at once of the architectural skill of the ancient Egyptians,
and of their degrading superstition.</p>

<p>This single fact is enough to answer those who would imply,
if they do not quite dare to assert, that the inspiration
of the Books of Moses was derived from the Egyptians. It
is a favorite theory of certain writers that Moses, being
brought up in Egypt, here obtained both the Law and the
Religion which he gave to the Israelites. No doubt he did
learn much from a country that was at that time the most
civilized in the world. He was brought up in a court, and enjoyed
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">34</a></span>
every advantage of a royal education. He was "learned
in all the wisdom of the Egyptians." And it detracts not at
all from his inspiration, to suppose that he may have been
instructed to embody in his new and better code whatever
was excellent in the older system, and had been approved by
the experience of centuries. The ceremonial laws&mdash;such as
those of purification&mdash;may have been adopted from the
Egyptians. But these are the mere fringes of the garment
of the great Lawgiver. As soon as we open the Hebrew
Scriptures, we find traces of a wisdom such as the Egyptians
never knew. The very first sentence&mdash;"In the beginning
God created the heavens and the earth"&mdash;scatters the fables
of Isis and Osiris, and substitutes for the troop of heathen
deities the worship of One Living and True God. This single
declaration marks a stupendous advance in the religious faith
and worship of mankind.</p>

<p>The same first principle appears as the corner-stone of the
law given on Mount Sinai: "I am the Lord thy God which
brought thee out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of
bondage. Thou shalt have no other gods before me."</p>

<p>The second law of the first table breaks in pieces the images
of the gods of the Egyptians: "Thou shalt not make
unto thee any graven image, nor any likeness of any thing
that is in heaven above, nor in the earth beneath, nor in the
waters under the earth." This was spoken to a people that
had just come out of a country where they worshipped beasts
and birds and reptiles, and where the walls of the temples
were covered with the images of all kinds of foul and creeping
things.</p>

<p>In this age of the world, and among civilized nations, we
cannot understand the passion for idolatry. Yet it is one of
the most universal and ineradicable instincts of a half barbarous
people. They see tokens of an unseen power in the
forces of nature, in clouds and winds, in lightning and tempest,
and they torment themselves with all imaginable terrors,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">35</a></span>
from which they seek relief and protection in bowing
down to gods of wood and stone.</p>

<p>The Israelites coming out of Egypt, were out of the house
of bondage in one sense, but they were in it in another.
They were continually relapsing into idolatry. The golden
calf of Aaron was but an imitation of the sacred bulls of
Egypt. Often they pined for the products of the fertile valley
of the Nile. With nothing but the burning sands beneath
their feet, they might well long for the shade of the palm
tree and for its delicious fruit, and they said, Why hath this
man Moses brought us up to die in this wilderness? It required
forty years of wandering, and that a whole generation
should leave their bones to whiten the sands of the desert,
before their children could be wholly alienated from the worship
of false gods. So not only with the Israelites, but with
all nations of men, ages of fiery discipline have been necessary
to bring back the race to this first article of our faith:
"I believe in God the Father Almighty, the Maker of heaven
and earth."</p>

<p>We might follow the comparison through all the tables of
the law, to show how absurd is the pretence that what Moses
taught to the Israelites he first learned from the Egyptians.
Tell us, ye learned antiquaries, where on all these temples,
and in all the records which they have left us, is there any
trace of the Ten Commandments?</p>

<p>And yet Egypt is connected very intimately, in history at
least, with the birth of our religion. No other country, except
Palestine, figures so largely in the Bible. Abraham
went down into Egypt. Here came the sons of Jacob to buy
corn, and found Joseph ruling in the house of Pharaoh.
And hither centuries later fled the virgin mother with her
child from the wrath of Herod, fulfilling the prediction, "Out
of Egypt have I called my son."</p>

<p>But Religion&mdash;the Divine wisdom which at once instructs
and saves mankind&mdash;came not from the valley of the Nile.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">36</a></span>
Abraham and Jacob and Moses saw the Pyramids standing
just as we see them now, but they did not point them to the
true God. That knowledge came from a higher source.
"History," says Bunsen, "was born on that night when
Moses, with the law of God in his heart, led the people of
Israel out of Egypt." And not History only, but Religion
then came to a new birth, that was to be the herald of new
and better hopes, and of a higher civilization than was known
to the ancient world.
</p>

<h3 class="p6">CHAPTER IV.</h3>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">37</a></span></p>
<p class="ch_summ">THE EGYPTIAN DOCTRINE OF A FUTURE LIFE.</p>

<p>The valley of the Nile is one vast sepulchre. Tombs and
temples! Temples and tombs! This is the sum of the
monuments which ancient Egypt has left us. Probably no
equal portion of the earth's surface was ever so populous, at
once with the living and the dead. It is but a narrow strip
of territory&mdash;a line of green between two deserts; and
yet on this mere <i>ribbon</i> of Africa lived the millions that
made one of the most populous and powerful of ancient
empires. They were fed by the marvellous fertility of
the Nile valley, till they stood upon it almost as thick as
the ranks of corn that waved around them: and here, when
life was ended, they found a resting-place in the bosom of the
earth that nourished them, on which they slept as children on
a mother's breast. This strip of earth, long and narrow like
a grave, has been the sepulchre of nations. Here the
myriads of Egypt's ancient reigns&mdash;from the time of Menes&mdash;through
the long line of the Pharaohs and Ptolemies&mdash;the
generations that built the Pyramids and those that came after&mdash;laid
themselves down to sleep in the great valley. Thus
the very dust of Egypt was made up of the dust of ancient
Egyptians.</p>

<p>But this was only the lot of the common people, to mingle
their dust with common clay&mdash;their tomb the common earth,
their end to be exhaled into the common air, or to reappear
in other natural forms, living in plants, blooming in flowers,
or in broad-leaved palms, casting a shadow on the earth from
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">38</a></span>
which they sprung. But for her great ones, more enduring
monuments were reared to guard their dust and perpetuate
their names. No people, ancient or modern, ever lavished
so much on these sacred and pious memorials. They expended
more on the tombs of the dead than on the houses of
the living, for they reasoned that the latter were but temporary
dwellings, while the former were everlasting habitations.
The kings of Egypt cared more for great tombs than
great palaces, and they reared such mausoleums as the earth
never saw before. The Pyramids were their tombs, and the
mountains were hollowed into royal sepulchres. The rock
tombs of Beni-Hassan are cut in the side of the hills.
The barren mountain that looks off upon the great Libyan
desert, is honeycombed with vast and silent halls of the dead.
At Thebes the traveller, ascending from the Nile, winds his
way among hills of sand into a valley of desolation. The
summits around are not covered with pines like our own
darkly wooded hills, nor do even the rocks gather moss&mdash;but
all is bare and desolate. The desert has overflowed the earth
like a sea, and not a shrub nor a blade of grass has survived
the universal deluge. Yet here where not a living thing can
be found, has been discovered underground the most remarkable
series of tombs which exists. A whole mountain is
pierced with deep excavations. Passages open into its rocky
sides, running many hundred feet into the bowels of the earth,
and branching off into recesses like side chapels. These Halls
of Death are like kings' palaces, with stately chambers broad
and high, whose sides and ceilings are covered with hieroglyphics
and illustrative symbols.</p>

<p>A fact so remarkable as this, that the architecture of a
great empire which has built the most colossal structures in
the world, has this tomblike character, must have a meaning.
The Egyptians were a very religious people. They were not a
gay and thoughtless race, like some of their Asiatic and European
neighbors. There is something grave even in their
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">39</a></span>
faces, as seen in ancient statues and monuments. Their very
architecture had this heavy and solemn character. These
colossal temples, these silent sphinxes, seem oppressed with
some great mystery which they cannot reveal. These tombs
show that the Egyptian mind was full of the idea of death,
and of another life. The Egyptians were not Atheists, nor
Sadducees. They believed devoutly in God, and in a life to
come.</p>

<p>How strongly the idea of another life had taken hold of the
Egyptian mind is evident from the symbols in their religion.
The symbol most frequently employed is that of the <i>scarabæus</i>&mdash;or
beetle&mdash;the image of which appears everywhere, which
by analogy teaches that life, in passing through death, may
be born to a new life. The beetle lays its eggs in the slime
of the Nile; it buries them in mud, which it works into a
ball, and rolls over and over, back to the edge of the desert,
and buries in sand. There its work is ended: nature does
the rest. Out of this grave comes in time a resurrection, and
life is born of death. The ostrich eggs hung up in mosques,
have the same symbolical meaning. The ostrich buries its
eggs in the sand, and nature, that kind mother which watches
over all life, gives them being. Thus is conveyed the same
idea as in the analogy of the chrysalis and the butterfly.</p>

<p>Studying the religious faith of the Egyptians a little more
closely, we see that they believed not only in the immortality
of the soul, but in the resurrection of the body. The doctrine
taught by Paul, was long before taught by the priests of
Egypt. Their tombs were not merely memorials of those
who had ceased to live, but resting-places for the bodies of
those whose spirits were absent but would some day return.
For this, bodies were embalmed with religious care; they
were buried in tombs hewn out of the solid rock, laid away
in Pyramids, or in caverns hollowed out of the heart of the
mountains. There, embedded in the eternal rocks, locked
up with the bars of the everlasting hills, it seemed that their
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">40</a></span>
remains would rest secure till the morning of the resurrection
day.</p>

<p>Further, they believed not only in immortality and in
resurrection, but also in retribution. The soul that was to
pass into another life, was to go into it to be judged. There
it was to be called to account for the deeds done in the body.
Even the funeral rites indicated how strong was the belief of
a judgment to come for all who departed this life. After the
bodies were embalmed, they were borne in solemn procession
to the Nile (most of the tombs being on the western bank),
or to a sacred lake, across which they were to be ferried.
(Did not this suggest to later Roman mythologists the river
Styx, and the boatman Charon who conveyed departed souls
to the gloomy shades of Pluto?) As the funeral procession
arrived at the borders of the lake, it paused till certain
questions were answered, on which it depended whether the
dead might receive burial: or should be condemned to
wander in darkness three thousand years. If it passed
this ordeal, it moved forward, not to its everlasting repose,
but to the Hall of Judgment, where Osiris sits upon his
throne as the judge of all mankind. This scene is constantly
represented in sculptures, in bas-reliefs, and in frescoes on
the walls of tombs. In one of them a condemned wretch is
driven away in the shape of a pig! (Was it here that Pythagoras,
who studied in Egypt, obtained his doctrine of the
transmigration of souls?) Before Osiris is the scribe, the
recording angel, who keeps a faithful record of the deeds done
in the body. A long line of judges&mdash;forty-two in number&mdash;sit
arrayed as the final arbiters of his fate&mdash;each with his
question, on the answer to which may depend the destiny of
the departed soul.</p>

<p>The "Book of the Dead" (copies of which are still found
wrapped up with mummies: several are in the British Museum)
gives the answers to be made to these searching questions,
and also the prayers to be offered, and the hymns that
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">41</a></span>
are to be sung, as the soul enters the gloomy shades of the
under-world.</p>

<p>In this Egyptian doctrine of a future life there are Christian
ideas. Some indeed will say that Egypt gave rather
than received; that she was the mother of all learning and
all wisdom in the ancient world; that the Greeks obtained
their philosophy from her (for Plato as well as Pythagoras
studied in Egypt); that the Eleusinian mysteries came from
Africa; that Moses here found what he taught the Hebrews;
and that even the Christian mysteries and the Christian faith
came from the banks of the Nile.</p>

<p>There is certainly much food for reflection in this reappearance
of certain religious ideas in different countries and under
different forms. But there is a contrast as well as a resemblance.
While the Hebrews learned so much from the
Egyptians, it is very remarkable that they did <i>not</i> imbibe
that strong faith in the reality of the invisible world, which
lies at the foundation of religion. One would suppose that
the Israelites, coming out of Egypt, would be full of these
thoughts, and of the hopes and fears of a life to come. Yet
in all the books of Moses, rarely, if ever, are these motives
addressed to the Hebrews. The German critics argue from
this that the Hebrews did not believe in another life. The
late Dr. Edward Robinson, the distinguished Hebrew scholar,
said that he could not find that doctrine in the Old Testament.
Without admitting such an extreme view, it is certainly
remarkable that that idea is much less prominent in
the Old Testament than in the New. It is not Moses, but
Christ who has brought life and immortality to light.</p>

<p>But the Egyptian doctrine of a future life, while very curious
and interesting as a study of ancient belief, is utterly
unsatisfying. The ideas are detached and fragmentary, and
wholly without evidence or authority; they are merely the
crude fancies of mythology, and not the precise teachings of
Revelation. And so in all the tombs and temples of Egypt
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">42</a></span>
there is nothing which can relieve the doubts of a troubled
mind, or the sorrows of a heavy heart.</p>

<p>I have had some sober thoughts while floating on the bosom
of the Nile. We cannot but see the world through our own
eyes and through our moods of mind. To those who have
left their dead beyond the sea, foreign travel has many sad
and lonely hours. The world seems cold and empty, and
even the most religious mind is apt to be haunted with gloomy
thoughts. This is not a mood of mind peculiar to atheists
and unbelievers. Many devout men, in seasons of mental
depression, are tortured with doubts whether, after all, their
religious faith is not a delusion and a dream.</p>

<p>And so many dark and bitter questionings come to me here
in this land of sepulchres. I have come to Egypt to learn
something of the wisdom of the Egyptians. Tell me then,
ye tombs and temples and pyramids, about God; tell me
about the life to come! But the Pyramids speak not; and
the Sphinx still looks towards the East, to watch for the rising
sun, but is voiceless and mute. This valley of the Nile
speaks of nothing but death. From end to end its rock-ribbed
hills are filled with tombs. Yet what do they all
teach the anxious and troubled heart of man? Nothing!
All these hills are silent. Not a sound, or even an echo,
comes from these dark sepulchres. No voice of hope issues
out of the caverns hollowed in the bosom of the hills. The
hard granite of the tombs itself is not more deaf to the cry
of human anguish, or the voice of supplication.</p>

<p>I turn from the monuments of man to nature. I stand
on the bank of the Great River, and ask if it brings not some
secret out of the heart of Africa? Tell me, ye night winds,
blowing from African deserts; tell me, ye stars shining in the
African heaven (this sky of Egypt is so pure and clear that
the stars seem higher and more distant from this lower world),
what light can ye throw on this great mystery of death?
And the stars twinkle, but speak not, and the palm trees
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">43</a></span>
quiver in the night wind, but give no answer; and the great
Nile flows on silently to the sea, as life flows on to eternity.
Nature is dumb; the great secret is not revealed.</p>

<p>For the revelation of that secret we turn not to Egypt, but
to Jerusalem. While the Egyptians groped darkly after the
truth, how do these dim shadows, these poor emblems and
analogies, set forth by contrast the clearer and better truth
of revelation! All that is written on the tombs of Egypt;
all that is carved in stone, or written in hieroglyphics on ancient
sarcophagi; all that is built in temples and pyramids;
is not worth that one saying of our Lord, "I am the Resurrection
and the Life; he that believeth in me, though he
were dead, yet shall he live."</p>

<p>We spent Christmas day at Thebes, where a number of
English boats had drawn up to the landing to keep the day,
so dear to the hearts of Englishmen throughout the world.
On Christmas eve they were decorated with palm branches,
and at night were lighted up with Chinese lanterns, while
row-boats were floating about, the Arab boatmen singing
their wild, plaintive melodies.</p>

<p>Christmas brought a scene, if not so picturesque, yet far
more sweet and tender. It had been our good fortune to
meet there Rev. Dr. Potter of New York, the rector of Grace
Church. He was going up the Nile with Miss Wolfe, of Madison
square. They were on two dahabeeahs, but kept company,
and anchored every night together. On Christmas day
there was a service on board Miss Wolfe's boat, which was
attended by all the English parties. It was held on the upper
deck, which was spread with carpets and covered with
an awning on the top and sides to protect us from the sun.
Whether it was the strange scene, occurring in a distant part
of the world, or sad memories which were recalled by these
anniversary days, seldom has a service touched me more. It
was very sweet to hear the old, old prayers&mdash;some of them
almost as old as Christianity itself&mdash;to which we had so often
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">44</a></span>
listened in other lands, and to join with the little company
in the Christmas hymn:</p>

<div class="poem">
<p class="o1">"Hark! the herald angels sing,</p>
<p>Glory to the new-born King;</p>
<p>Peace on earth and mercy mild;</p>
<p>God and man are reconciled."</p>
</div>

<p>Dr. Potter read the service in his clear, rich voice, following
it with a sermon which was quite extempore and brief, but
so simple and so appropriate to the day that it went to every
heart. And when at the close was celebrated the communion,
we all felt how pleasant it was in such a place, so far
from home, in a country surrounded by the ruins of the temples
of old idolatries, to join in the worship of Him who on
this day was born to be the Light and the Hope of the world.
Better is this than all that Egypt can teach us about a life to
come.</p>

<p>And so we turn from these great temples and tombs, which
only mock our hopes, to Him who has passed through the
grave, and lighted the way for us to follow Him. Let scholars
dispute the first intent of the words, yet nothing in the
Old Testament or the New, more distinctly expresses what I
rest upon than this: "I know that my Redeemer liveth and
that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth; and
though worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see
God!"
</p>

<h3 class="p6">CHAPTER V.</h3>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">45</a></span></p>
<p class="ch_summ">THE RELIGION OF THE PROPHET.</p>

<p>In a review of the faiths of Egypt, one cannot overlook
that which has ruled in the land for more than a thousand
years, and still rules, not only in Egypt, but over a large
part of Asia and Africa. We arrived in Cairo a few days
too late to witness the departure of the pilgrims for Mecca.
Once in the year there is a gathering of the faithful for a
journey which is the event of their lives. The spectacle is
one of the most picturesque in the East, as a long procession,
mounted on camels, many of which are richly caparisoned,
files through the streets of the city, amid the admiring gaze
of the whole population, and takes the way of the desert.
Slowly it moves Eastward to the Red Sea, and passing
around it, turns South to the heart of the Arabian Peninsula.</p>

<p>A caravan of pilgrims crossing the desert to visit the birthplace
of the prophet, is a proof that religious enthusiasm still
lives even in this unbelieving age. Perhaps the Moslem
spirit is not so bigoted here as at Constantinople. The Turk,
with his heavy stolid nature, is a more obstinate religionist
than the Arab. And yet Mohammed was not a Turk; he
was an Arab, and the faith which he taught still fires the
heart of his race.</p>

<p>In one view Cairo may be considered the capital of Islam,
as it is the seat of the great University, from which its
priests go forth to all parts of the Mohammedan world.
This University is nine hundred years old&mdash;older than Oxford,
and still flourishes with as much vigor as in the palmy
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">46</a></span>
days of the Arabian conquest. A visit to it is the most
interesting sight in Cairo. There I saw collected together&mdash;not
one hundred or two hundred students, such as are found
in our Theological Seminaries in America&mdash;but ten thousand!
As one expressed it, "there were two acres of turbans,"
assembled in a vast inclosure, with no floor but a pavement,
and with a roof over it, supported by four hundred columns,
and at the foot of every column a teacher, surrounded by
pupils, who sat at his feet precisely as Paul sat at the feet
of Gamaliel. As we entered there rose a hum of thousands
of voices, reciting the Koran. These students are not only
from Egypt, but from all parts of Africa, from Morocco to
Zanzibar. They come from far up the Nile, from Nubia
and Soudan; and from Darfour beyond the Great Desert,
and from the western coast of Africa. Asia too is largely
represented in students both from Western Asia, from
Turkey, Arabia, and Persia; and from Central Asia, from
Khiva and Bokhara, and Turkistan and Afghanistan, and
the borders of China. They come without staff or scrip.
There is no endowment to support them; no Students' Fund
or Education Board. They live on the charities of the faithful,
and when their studies are ended, those who are to be
missionaries on this continent mount their camels, and joining
a caravan, cross the Desert, and are lost in the far
interior of Africa.</p>

<p>This strange sight has set me a-thinking, and the more
I think, the more the wonder grows. A religion that supports
great universities from generation to generation; and
that sends forth caravans, that are like armies, on long pilgrimages,
is not dead; it is full of life, and can bring into the
field tremendous forces to uphold its empire in the East.
What is the secret of its power, by which it lives on from
century to century, and seems as if it could not but by annihilating
die? There is no question of more interest to the
historical student; and no one which it is more necessary to
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">47</a></span>
understand in order to form some just idea of the great
Eastern War which is already looming above the horizon.
A full recognition of that which is good in Islam, and of that
which gives it power, would prevent many mistakes in forecasting
the future, although it might abate the sanguine confidence
of our missionary friends in the speedy triumph of
Christianity over its hereditary foe.</p>

<p>First of all, we must recognize the fact of its existence as
one of the great religions of the world. The number of its
adherents is variously estimated at from a hundred and fifty
to a hundred and eighty millions. It holds but a corner of
Europe, but extends its empire over a large part of Asia and
Africa. The whole of Africa which is not Pagan, is Moslem.
In Asia Islam disputes the sway of Hindooism in India,
where the Queen has more Moslem subjects than the Sultan
himself, and of Buddhism in the islands of the Malayan
Archipelago. Over so large a part of the earth's surface is
extended the wide dominion of the Prophet. His followers
number one-tenth, perhaps one-eighth, or even one-sixth part
of the human race.</p>

<p>Nor is this dominion a merely nominal thing. On the
contrary, the true believers are strong believers. It may
well be doubted, whether among the nations nominally
Christian the mass of the people really believe with half the
firmness and the fervor of Mussulmans. The Moslems are as
sincere, and in their way as devout, as the adherents of any
religion on the face of the globe. No one can enter the
mosque of St. Sophia, and see the worshippers turning their
faces towards Mecca, not only kneeling but prostrating themselves,
touching the pavement with their foreheads, and repeating,
in a low, mournful tone, passages from the Koran,
without feeling that these men really believe. Those prostrate
forms, those wailing voices, are not the signs of hypocrisy,
but of a faith that, however mistaken, is at least sincere.
In their own minds they are in the presence of the Highest,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">48</a></span>
and offer worship to the unseen God. Indeed they are more
than believers, they are zealots, carrying their faith to fanaticism.
A body so vast in number, composed of such fierce
religionists, is certainly a great power in the political and
military, as well as religious, forces, that are yet to contend
for the mastery of the Eastern world.</p>

<p>Nor is this power inactive in spreading its faith; it is full
of missionary zeal. Max Müller divides all the religions of
the world into proselytizing and non-proselytizing. Mohammedanism
belongs to the former class as much as Christianity.
The days are past when the followers of the Prophet swept
over large parts of Asia and Africa, converting tribes and
nations by the sword. And yet even at the present day it
keeps up a Propaganda as vigorous as that of the Catholics
at Rome. Its university here is training ten thousand young
apostles. Moslem missionaries preach the Koran, and make
proselytes, in all parts of India. But the chief field of their
labors is in Africa, where they have penetrated far into the
interior, and converted numerous tribes to the faith. It is
difficult to obtain accurate statistics in regard to the spread
of Islam in Africa. Livingstone thought the reports greatly
exaggerated. That is quite possible, and yet, making every
allowance, there can be no doubt that it has obtained a success
much greater than that of Christian missions.</p>

<p>A religion which has such a foundation on the solid earth,
holding nations and empires in its wide dominion; and which
has such a history, stretching over twelve centuries; is a subject
worthy the closest attention of scholars. Its history is
not unlike that of Christianity itself, in the feebleness of its
beginning and the greatness of its results. It started in an
obscure corner of the world&mdash;in the deserts of Arabia&mdash;and
rapidly conquered the East, overrunning all the adjacent
parts of Asia and Africa, and extending along the Mediterranean
to the Straits of Gibraltar, and thence crossed into
Spain, where it maintained itself for eight hundred years
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">49</a></span>
against all the power of Europe to expel it. Such conquests
show a prodigious vitality&mdash;a vitality not yet exhausted, as
it still holds the half of Asia and Africa. A faith which
commands the allegiance of so large a part of mankind must
have some elements of truth to give it such tremendous
power. Perhaps we can find the key in the character of its
Founder, and in the faith which he taught.</p>

<p>A great deal has been written about the life of Mohammed,
but even yet his character is imperfectly understood.
Perhaps we cannot fully understand it, for there are in it
contradictions which perplex the most patient and candid
student. By many he is dismissed at once as a vulgar impostor,
a sort of Joe Smith, who invented monstrous lies, and
by stoutly sticking to them got others to believe in them, and
as soon as he rallied a few followers about him, compelled
neighboring tribes to accept his faith by the unsparing use
of the sword.</p>

<p>This is an easy way to get rid of a difficult historical question,
but unfortunately it does not explain the facts. It is
by that sort of cheap reasoning that Gibbon undertakes to
explain the rapid spread of Christianity. But if Mohammed
had been a cunning impostor, his first claim would have been
to work miracles, which on the contrary he never claimed at
all, but distinctly repudiated. Nor was he a greedy mercenary;
he was a poor man; his followers relate with pride
how he mended his own clothes, and even pegged his own
shoes. But he combined every element of the visionary and
the enthusiast. He had that vivid imagination that conceives
strongly of things invisible to the natural sense, to
which "things that are not become as things that are," and that
ardent temperament that kindles at the sight of these unseen
realities. Perhaps this temperament was connected with his
bodily constitution; from his youth he was subject to epileptic
fits, and his revelations were accompanied with convulsions.
Such things are found in other religions. They are
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">50</a></span>
quite common in the history of devout and passionate Romanists.
Nor are they unknown even among Protestants, who
profess to be more sober and rational. Among the Methodists,
at camp-meetings, a very frequent effect of religious
emotion has been that strong men were so prostrated that
they fell to the ground and became as dead, and when they
recovered, retained impressions never to be effaced, as if they
had seen things which it was not lawful to utter. The revelations
of Mohammed were all accompanied by these "physical
manifestations." Sometimes the angel spoke to him as
one man to another; at other times something within his
bosom sounded like a bell, which he said "rent him in
pieces." At such times he fell to the ground and foamed at
the mouth, or his eyes turned red, and he streamed with perspiration,
and roared like a camel, in his struggle to give
utterance to the revelation of God. This does not look like
imposture, but like insanity. The constitution of such a man
is a psychological study.</p>

<p>This natural ardor was inflamed by long seclusion. From
his youth he loved solitude. Like the old prophets, he withdrew
from the world to be alone with God. Like Elijah, he
hid himself in a cave. Every year, during the month of
Ramadan, he retired to a cave in Mount Hera, three miles
from Mecca, to give himself up to religious contemplation;
and there, it is said, amid spasmodic convulsions, he had his
first vision, in which the angel Gabriel appeared to him.</p>

<p>This explanation of a mind half disordered, subject to
dreams and visions and fanatical illusions, is much more
rational than that of supposing in him an artful design to
impose a new religion on his countrymen. Like other enthusiasts,
he became the victim of his own illusions. His
imagination so wrought upon him that he came to accept his
visions as Divine revelations. In this he was not playing a
part; he was not the conscious hypocrite. No doubt he
believed himself what he wished others to believe. Indeed
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">51</a></span>
he made them believe, by the very sincerity and intensity of
his own convictions.</p>

<p>Mohammedanism may be considered as a system of theology,
and as a system of morality. The former seems to have
been derived largely from Judaism. Mohammed belonged to
the tribe of the Koreishites, who claimed to be descended from
Abraham through Ishmael. His family were the keepers of
the Caaba, or holy place of Mecca, where is the black stone
which was brought from heaven, and the spring Zemzem,
which sprang up in the desert to save the life of Hagar and
her child. Thus he was familiar from his earliest years with
the traditions of the patriarchs.</p>

<p>When a boy of fourteen he made a journey with his uncle
into Syria, where he may have learned more of the ancient
faith. Much is said of his becoming acquainted with a Nestorian
bishop or monk, from whom he is supposed to have
learned something of Christianity. But he could not have
learned <i>much</i>, for his views of it were always extremely vague.
It is doubtful whether he ever saw the New Testament, or had
any knowledge of it other than that derived from some apocryphal
books. There is no trace in the Koran of the sublime
doctrines of the Gospel, or even of its moral precepts. Although
Mohammed professed great reverence for Jesus, whom
with Moses he considers the greatest of prophets next to himself,
yet his ideas of the Religion which He taught were of the
most indefinite kind.</p>

<p>But one thing he did learn, which was common to Judaism
and Christianity&mdash;that there is but one God. The Monotheism
of the Hebrews took the stronger hold of him, from its
contrast to the worship around him, which had degenerated
into gross idolatry. The tribes of Arabia had become as base
idolaters as the Canaanites. Even the holy Caaba was filled
with idols, and the mission of the prophet&mdash;as he regarded
it&mdash;was to restore the worship of the One Living and True
God. His first burst of prophetic fire and prophetic wrath
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">52</a></span>
was a fierce explosion against idolatry, and it was a moment of
triumph when he was able to walk through the Caaba, and see
the idols dashed in pieces.</p>

<p>Here then is the first and last truth of Islam, the existence
of one God. The whole is comprehended in this one saying,
"God is God, and Mohammed is his prophet."</p>

<p>With the homage due to God, is the respect due to His
revealed will. Moslems claim for the Koran what many
Christians do not claim for the Bible&mdash;a literal and verbal
inspiration. Every word is Divine.</p>

<p>And not only is the unity of God the cardinal truth, but
it is vital to salvation. In this respect Islam is a Religion.
It is not a mere philosophy, the acceptance or rejection of
which is a matter of indifference. It is not merely a system
of good morals&mdash;it is a Divine code for the government of
mankind, whose acceptance is a matter of life and death&mdash;of
salvation or damnation.</p>

<p>The doctrine of <i>retribution</i> is held by the Moslems in its
most rigid form&mdash;more rigid indeed than in the Christian
system: for there is no atonement for sin. The judgment is
inexorable; it is absolute and eternal. Before their eyes
ever stands the Day of Judgment&mdash;the Dies Iræ&mdash;when all
men shall appear before God to receive their doom.</p>

<p>But in that last day, when unbelievers shall be destroyed,
the followers of the prophet shall be saved. They can go to
the tribunal of their Maker without trembling. One day riding
outside the walls of Constantinople, we approached a
cemetery just as a funeral procession drew near, bearing the
form of the dead. We stopped to witness the scene. The
mourners gathered around the place where the body was laid,
and then the ulema approached the grave, and began <i>an address
to the dead</i>, telling her (it was a woman) not to be
afraid when the angel came to call her to judgment, but to
appear before the bar of the Almighty, and answer without
fear, for that no follower of the prophet should perish.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">53</a></span></p>

<p>The religious observances of the Moslems are very strict.
As God is the sole object of worship, so the great act of Religion
is communion with Him. Five times a day the voice
of the muezzin calls them to prayer. The frequent ablutions
were perhaps derived from the Jewish law. Fasting is
imposed with a severity almost unknown in the Christian
world. The most rigid Catholics hardly observe the forty
days of Lent as the Moslems do the month of Ramadan.
Almsgiving is not only recommended, but required. Every
true believer is commanded to give one-tenth of his income
to charity.</p>

<p>As to the moral results of Mohammedanism, it produces
some excellent effects. It inculcates the strictest temperance.
The Koran prohibits the use of wine, even though
wine is one of the chief products of the East. In this virtue
of total abstinence the Moslems are an example to Christians.</p>

<p>So in point of integrity; the honesty of the Turk is a proverb
in the East, compared with the lying of Christians.
Perhaps this comes in part not only from his religion, but
from the fact that he belongs to the conquering race. Tyrants
and masters do not need to deceive, while falsehood
and deceit are the protection of slaves. Subject races,
which have no defence before the law, or from cruel masters,
seek it in subterfuge and deception. But this claim of integrity
may be pushed too far. However it may be in Asia
Minor, among simple-minded Turks, who have not been
"spoiled by coming in contact with Christians," those who
have to do with Turks in the bazaars of Constantinople, are
compelled to confess, that if they do not tell lies, they tell
very big truths. However, as between the Turk and the
Greek, in point of honesty, it is quite possible that those
who know them both would give the preëminence to the
former.</p>

<p>Whatever the weakness of Mohammedanism, it does not
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">54</a></span>
show itself in <i>that sort</i> of vices. His very pride makes the
Mussulman scorn these meaner sins. His religion, as it lifts
him up with self-esteem, produces an effect on his outward
bearing. He has an air of independence which is unmistakable.
I think I never saw a Mussulman that was afraid
to look me in the face. He has none of the sneaking servility
that we see in some races. This is a natural consequence
of his creed, according to which God is so great that
no man is great in his sight. Islam is at once a theocracy
and a democracy. God is sole Lawgiver and King, before
whom all men stand on the same level. Hence men of all
nations and races fraternize together. In Constantinople
blacks and whites, the men of Circassia and the men of
Ethiopia, walk arm in arm, and stand on the level of absolute
equality.</p>

<p>This democratic spirit is carried everywhere. There is no
caste in Islam, not even in India, where it is at perpetual
war with the castes of Hindooism. So as it spreads in the
interior of Africa, it raises the native tribes to a degree of
manliness and self-respect which they had not known before.
It "levels up" the African race. Our missionaries in
Liberia, who come in contact with certain Moslem tribes
from the interior, such as the Mandingoes, will testify that
they are greatly superior to those farther South, on the Gold
Coast, the Ashantees and the people of Dahomey, who have
filled the world with horror by their human sacrifices. All
this disappears before the advance of Islam. It breaks in
pieces the idols; it destroys devil worship and fetichism and
witchcraft, and puts an end to human sacrifices. Thus it
renders a service to humanity and civilization.</p>

<p>So far Islam is a pretty good religion&mdash;not so good indeed
as Christianity, but better than any form of Paganism. It
has many elements of truth, derived chiefly from Judaism.
So far as Mohammed followed Moses&mdash;so far as the Koran
followed the Old Testament&mdash;they uttered only the truth,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">55</a></span>
and truth which was fundamental. The unity of God is
the foundation of religion. It is not only a truth, but the
greatest of truths, the first condition of any right religious
worship. In declaring this, Mohammed only proclaimed to
the Arabs what Moses had proclaimed to the Hebrews:
"Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God is one Lord." But he
repeated it with great vehemence and effect, wielding it as
a battle-axe to break in pieces the idols of the heathen.
And so far&mdash;as against idolatry&mdash;Islam has served a great
purpose in history. But there its utility ends. It teaches
indeed that there is but one God. But what a God is that
which it presents to our worship! "This God is not our
God." The Mohammedan idea of God is very different from
the Christian idea of a Father in heaven. It is the idea of
the Awful, the Invisible&mdash;grand indeed, yet cold and distant
and far away, like the stars on the desert, or in the Arctic
night, "wildly, spiritually bright," shining with a glittering
splendor, but lofty and inaccessible, beyond the cries of
human agony or despair. This view of God is so limited
and partial as to produce the effect of positive error. In a
just religious system there must be included the two ideas of
God and man; and these in their proper relation to each
other. Exclusive contemplation of either leads astray.
When man fastens on the idea of one God, he plants himself
on a rock. But he must not bow himself upon the rock,
and clasp it so as to forget his own separate individuality,
lest the mighty stone roll over upon him and crush him.
This the Mussulman does. He dwells so on the idea of God,
that his own existence is not only lost sight of, but annihilated.
The mind, subdued in awe, is at length overpowered
by what it beholds. Man is nothing in that awful presence,
as his life is but a point in the Divine eternity.</p>

<p>It cannot be denied that the idea of God, and God alone,
may produce some grand effects on human character. It inspires
courage. If God be for us, who can be against us?
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">56</a></span>
That God <i>is</i> for him, the Mussulman never doubts; and this
confidence inspires him in danger, and on the field of battle,
so that he fights with desperation. But if the fortune of
war be against him, who so well as the devout Mussulman
knows how to suffer and to die? He murmurs not; but
bows his head, saying "God is great," and submits to his
fate. Thus his creed carried out to its logical consequence
ends in fatalism. He believes so absolutely in God, that
the decrees of the Almighty become a fixed fate, which the
will of man is impotent to resist. All this comes from an
imperfect idea of God. Here Islam is defective, just where
Christianity is complete.</p>

<p>There is nothing in Mohammedanism that brings God
down to earth, within the range of human sympathy or
even of human conception. There is no incarnation, no
Son of God coming to dwell among men, hungry and weary,
bearing our griefs and carrying our sorrows, suffering in the
garden, and dying on the cross.</p>

<p>The Mussulman does not feel his need of such help. In
his prayers there is no acknowledgment of sin, no feeling of
penitence, no confession of unworthiness. He knows not
how poor and weak he is, with a religion in which there
is no Saviour and Redeemer, no Lamb of God that taketh
away the sin of the world, no Holy Spirit to help our infirmities,
to strengthen our weaknesses.</p>

<p>So with Moslem morality; if we scan it closely, we find
it wanting in many virtues. Some writers give the most
elevated ideas of it. Says Chambers' Cyclopædia: "Aside
from the domestic relations, the ethics of the Mohammedan
religion are of the highest order. Pride, calumny, revenge,
avarice, prodigality, and debauchery, are condemned throughout
the Koran; while trust in God, submission to His will,
patience, modesty, forbearance, love of peace, sincerity, frugality,
benevolence, liberality, are everywhere insisted upon."</p>

<p>This is very high praise. But mark the exception:
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">57</a></span>
"Aside from the domestic relations." That exception takes
out of the system a whole class of virtues, and puts a class
of vices in their place. Here is the great crime of Islam
against humanity&mdash;its treatment of woman. We will not
charge against it more than belongs to it. The seclusion of
woman is not a Mohammedan custom so much as an Oriental
one, and one of a very ancient date. When Abraham sent
a servant to find a wife for Isaac, and he returned bringing
Rebekah, as the caravan drew near home, and Isaac went
out to meditate at eventide, as soon as Rebekah saw him in
the distance, she lighted off from her camel and "veiled herself."
Polygamy too existed before Mohammed: it existed
among the patriarchs. It is claimed that Mohammed repressed
it, limiting a man to four wives, although he far
exceeded the number himself. Gibbon, who never misses
an opportunity of making a point against the Bible, says:
"If we remember the seven hundred wives and three hundred
concubines of the wise Solomon, we shall applaud the modesty
of the Arabian who espoused no more than seventeen or
fifteen wives." But this pretence of self-restraint is a
mockery. It is notorious that Mohammed was a man of the
grossest licentiousness; and the horrible and disgusting thing
about it is that he grew more wicked as he grew older; and
while trying to put restraint upon others put none upon
himself. He punished licentiousness with a hundred stripes,
and adultery with death, and yet he was a man of unbounded
profligacy, and to make it worse, pleaded a Divine revelation
to justify it!</p>

<p>This example of the prophet has had its influence on all
the generations of his followers. It has trailed the slime of
the serpent over them all. Any one who has been in a
Mohammedan country must have felt that the position of
woman is a degradation. One cannot see them gliding through
the streets of Cairo or Constantinople, with their faces veiled
as if it were a shame to look on them, and passing swiftly
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">58</a></span>
as if indeed it were a sin for them to be seen abroad, without
a feeling of pity and indignation.</p>

<p>And in what a position are such women at home, if it can
be called a home, where there is no family, no true domestic
life! The wife of a Mohammedan&mdash;the mother of his children&mdash;is
little better than a slave. She is never presented to
his friends&mdash;indeed you could not offer a greater insult to a
Turk than to ask after his wife! Of course there is no such
thing as society where women are not allowed to appear.
Such a society as that of London or Paris, composed of men
eminent in government, in science and literature&mdash;a society
refined and elevated by the presence of women of such education
and manners and knowledge of the world as to be the
fit companions of such men&mdash;could not possibly exist in Constantinople.</p>

<p>But the degradation of woman is not the only crime to be
charged to Islam. In fit companionship with it is cruelty.
Mohammed had many virtues, but he had no mercy. He
was implacable toward his enemies. He massacred his prisoners,
not from hard necessity, but with a fierce delight. Fanaticism
extinguished natural compassion, and he put his enemies
to death with savage joy. In this his followers have
"bettered his instructions." The Turks are cruel, perhaps
partly by nature, but partly also because any tender sympathies
of nature are kept down by a fiery zeal. Their religion
does not make them merciful. When a people have become
possessed with the idea that they are the people of God, and
that others are outcasts, they become insensible to the sufferings
of those outside of the consecrated pale.</p>

<p>In the Greek Revolution the people of Scio joined in the
rebellion. A Turkish army landed on the island, and in two
months put 23,000 of the inhabitants to the sword, without
distinction of age or sex; 47,000 were sold into slavery, and
5,000 escaped to Greece. In four months the Christian population
was reduced from 104,000 to 2,000.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">59</a></span></p>

<p>What the Turks are in Europe and Asia, the Arabs are in
Africa. The spread of Mohammedanism is a partial civilization
of some heathen tribes. But, alas, the poor natives
come in contact with "civilization" and "religion" in another
way&mdash;in the Arab slave-hunters, who, though they are
Mohammedans, and devoutly pray toward Mecca, are the
most merciless of human beings. One cannot read the pages
of Livingstone without a shudder at the barbarities practised
on defenceless natives, which have spread terror and desolation
over a large part of the interior of Africa.</p>

<p>These cruel memories rise up to spoil the poetry and romance
which some modern writers have thrown about the religion
of the prophet. They disturb my musings, when awed
or touched by some features of Moslem faith; when I listen
to the worship in St. Sophia, or witness the departure of
pilgrims for Mecca. Whatever Oriental pomp or splendor
may still survive in its ancient worship, at its heart the system
is cold, and hard, and cruel; it does not acknowledge the
brotherhood of man, but exalts the followers of the prophet
into a caste, who can look down on the rest of mankind
with ineffable scorn. Outside of that pale, man is not a
brother, but an enemy&mdash;an enemy not to be won by love, but
to be conquered and subdued, to be made a convert or a
slave. Not only does the Koran not bid mercy to be shown
to unbelievers, but it offers them, as the only alternatives,
conversion, or slavery, or death.</p>

<p>Needs it any argument to show how impossible is good
government under a creed in which there is no recognition
of justice and equality? I think it is Macaulay who says
that the worst Christian government is better than the best
Mohammedan government. Wherever that religion exists,
there follow inevitably despotism and slavery, by which it
crushes man, as by its polygamy and organized licentiousness,
it degrades and crushes woman. Polygamy, despotism, and
slavery form the trinity of woes which Mohammedanism has
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">60</a></span>
caused to weigh for ages, like a nightmare, on the whole
Eastern world. Such a system is as incompatible with
civilization as with Christianity, and sooner or later must pass
away, unless the human race is to come to a standstill, or to
go backward.</p>

<p>But when and how? I am not sanguine of any speedy
change. Such changes come slowly. We expect too much
and too soon. In an age of progress we think that all forms
of ignorance and superstition must disappear before the advance
of civilization. But the <i>vis inertiæ</i> opposes a steady
resistance. It has been well said, "We are told that knowledge
is power, but who has considered the power of ignorance?"
How long it lives and how hard it dies! We hear
much of the "waning crescent," but it wanes very slowly, and
it sometimes seems as if the earth itself would grow old and
perish before that waning orb would disappear from the
heavens. Christian Missions make no more impression upon
Islam than the winds of the desert upon the cliffs of Mount
Sinai.</p>

<p>I do not look for any great change in the Mohammedan
world, except in the train of political changes. That religion
is so bound up with political power, that until that is destroyed,
or terribly shaken, there is little hope of a general
turning to a better faith. War and Revolution are the fiery
chariots that must go before the Gospel, to herald its coming
and prepare its way. Material forces may open the door to
moral influences; the doctrines of human freedom and of
human brotherhood may be preached on battle plains as well
as in Christian temples. When the hard iron crust of Islam
is broken up, and the elements begin to melt with fervent
heat, the Eastern world may be moulded into new forms.
Then will the Oriental mind be brought into an impressible
state, in which argument and persuasion can act upon it;
and it may yield to the combined influence of civilization and
Christianity. The change will be slow. It will take years;
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">61</a></span>
it may take centuries. But sooner or later the fountains of
the great deep will be broken up. That cold, relentless system
must pass away before the light and warmth of that milder
faith which recognizes at once the brotherhood of man and
the fatherhood of God.</p>

<p>In that coming age there may be other pilgrimages and
processions going up out of Egypt. "The dromedaries shall
come from far." But then, if a caravan of pilgrims issues
from Cairo, to cross the desert, to seek the birthplace of the
founder of its religion, it will not turn South to Mecca, but
North to Bethlehem, asking with the Magi of old, "Where
is he that is born King of the Jews? for we have seen his
star in the East, and are come to worship him."
</p>

<h3 class="p6">CHAPTER VI.</h3>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">62</a></span></p>
<p class="ch_summ">MODERN EGYPT AND THE KHEDIVE.</p>

<p>Egypt is a country with a long past, as we found in going
up the Nile; may we not hope, also, with a not inglorious
future? For ages it was sunk so low that it seemed to be
lost from the view of the world. No contrast in history
could be greater than that between its ancient glory and its
modern degradation. Its revival dates from about the beginning
of the present century, and, strange to say, from the
invasion of Egypt by Napoleon, which incidentally brought
to the surface a man whose rise from obscurity, and whose
subsequent career, were only less remarkable than his own.
When Napoleon landed in Egypt at the head of a French
army of invasion, among the forces gathered to oppose him
was a young Albanian, who had crossed over from Greece at
the head of three hundred men. This was Mehemet Ali,
who soon attracted such attention by his daring and ability,
that a few years after the French had been driven out, as the
country was still in a distracted state, which required a man of
vigor and capacity, he was made Pasha of Egypt&mdash;a position
which he retained from that time (1806) until his death in
1850. Here he had new dangers, which he faced with the
same intrepidity. That which first made his name known
to the world as a synonym of resolute courage and implacable
revenge, was the massacre of the Mamelukes. These
had long been the real masters of Egypt&mdash;a terror to every
successive government, as were the Janissaries to the Sultan
in Constantinople. Mehemet Ali had been but five years in
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">63</a></span>
power, when, finding that he was becoming too strong for
them, they plotted to destroy him. He learned of the conspiracy
just in time, and at once determined to "fight fire
with fire;" and, inviting them to the Citadel of Cairo for
some public occasion, suddenly shut the gates, and manning
the walls with his troops, shot them down in cold blood. Only
one man escaped by leaping his horse from the wall. This
savage butchery raised a cry of horror throughout Europe,
and Mehemet Ali was regarded as a monster of treachery
and of cruelty. It is impossible to justify such a deed by
any rules of civilized warfare. But this, it is said, was not
civilized warfare; it was simply a plot of assassination on
one side, forestalled by assassination on the other. I do not
justify such reasoning. And yet I could not but listen with
interest to Nubar Pasha (the most eloquent talker, as well
as the most enlightened statesman, of Egypt), as he defended
the conduct of his hero. He, indeed, has a hereditary
allegiance to Mehemet Ali, which he derived from his
uncle, the prime minister. Said he: "The rule of the
Mamelukes was anarchy of the worst kind; it was death to
Egypt, and <span class="smcap">IT IS RIGHT TO KILL DEATH</span>." The reasoning is
not very different from that by which Mr. Froude justifies
Cromwell's putting the garrison of Drogheda to the sword.
Certainly in both cases, in Egypt as in Ireland, the end was
peace. From that moment the terror of Mehemet Ali's name
held the whole land in awe; and from one end of the valley
of the Nile to the other, there was perfect security. "Every
tree planted in Egypt," said Nubar Pasha, "is due to him;
for till then the people in the country did not dare to plant
a tree, for the Mamelukes or the wandering Bedouins came
and pitched their tents under its shade, and then robbed the
village." But now every wandering tribe that hovered on
the borders of the desert, was struck with fear and dread,
and did not dare to provoke a power which knew no mercy.
Hence the plantations of palms which have sprung up
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">64</a></span>
around the Arab villages, and the beautiful avenues of trees
which have been planted along the roads.</p>

<p>It is not strange that such a man soon became too powerful,
not only for the Mamelukes, but for Turkey. The Sultan
did not like it that one of his subjects had "grown so
great," and tried more than once to remove him. But the
servant had become stronger than his master, and would not
be removed. He raised a large army, to which he gave the
benefit of European discipline, and in the latter part of his
life invaded Syria, and swept northward to Damascus and
Aleppo, and was only prevented from marching to Constantinople
by the intervention of foreign powers. It seems a
pity now that France and England interfered. The Eastern
question might have been nearer a solution to-day, if the
last blow to the Grand Turk had been given by a Moslem
power. But at least this was secured, that the rule of
Egypt was confirmed in the family of Mehemet Ali, and the
Viceroy of Egypt became as fixed and irremovable as the
Sultan himself.</p>

<p>Mehemet Ali died in 1850, and was succeeded by his son
Ibrahim Pasha, who inherited much of his father's vigor.
Ismail Pasha, the present Khedive, is the son of Ibrahim
Pasha, and grandson of Mehemet Ali. Thus he has the
blood of warriors in his veins, with which he has inherited
much of their proud spirit and indomitable will.</p>

<p>No ruler in the East at the present moment attracts more
of the attention of Europe. I am sorry to go away from
Cairo without seeing him. I have had two opportunities
of being presented, though not by any seeking or suggestion
of my own. But friends who were in official positions had
arranged it, and the time was fixed twice, but in both cases
I had to leave on the day appointed, once to go up the Nile,
and the other to embark at Suez. I cannot give therefore a
personal description of the man, but can speak of him only
from the reports of others, among whom are some who see
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">65</a></span>
him often and know him well. The Khedive has many
American officers in his service, some of them in high commands
(General Stone is at the head of the army), and these
are necessarily brought into intimate relations with him.
These officers I find without exception very enthusiastic in
their admiration. This is quite natural. They are brought
into relations with him of the most pleasant kind. He
wants an army, and they organize it for him. They discipline
his troops; if need be, they fight his battles. As they
minister to his desire for power, and for military display, he
gives them a generous support. And so both parties are
equally pleased with each other.</p>

<p>But making full allowance for all these prepossessions in
his favor, there are certain things in which not only they,
but all who know the present ruler of Egypt, agree, and
which therefore may be accepted without question, which
show that he has a natural force of mind and character
which would be remarkable in any man, and in one of his
position are still more extraordinary. Though living in a
palace, and surrounded by luxury, he does not pass his time
in idleness, but gives himself no rest, hardly taking time for
food and sleep. I am told that he is "the hardest-worked
man in Egypt." He rises very early, and sees his Ministers
before breakfast, and supervises personally every department
of the Government to such extent indeed as to leave little
for others to do, so that his Ministers are merely his secretaries.
He is the government. Louis XIV. could not more
truly say, "I am the State," than can the Khedive of Egypt,
so completely does he absorb all its powers.</p>

<p>Such activity seems almost incredible in an Oriental. It
would be in a Turk. But Ismail Pasha boasts that "he
has not a drop of Turkish blood in his veins." It is easy to
see in his restless and active mind the spirit of that fierce
old soldier, Mehemet Ali, though softened and disciplined by
an European education.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">66</a></span></p>

<p>This may be a proof of great mental energy, but it is not
necessarily of the highest wisdom. The men who accomplish
most in the world, are those who use their brains chiefly to
plan, and who know how to choose fit instruments to carry
out their plans, and do not spend their strength on petty
details which might be done quite as well, or even better,
by others.</p>

<p>The admirers of the Khedive point justly to what he has
done for Egypt. Since he came into power, the Suez Canal
has been completed, and is now the highway for the commerce
of Europe with India; great harbors have been made
or improved at Alexandria, at Port Said, and at Suez; canals
for irrigation have been dug here and there, to carry over
the country the fertilizing waters of the Nile; and railroads
have been cut across the Delta in every direction, and one
is already advanced more than two hundred miles up the
Nile. These are certainly great public works, which justly
entitle the Khedive to be regarded as one of the most enlightened
of modern rulers.</p>

<p>But while recognizing all this, there are other things
which I see here in Egypt which qualify my admiration. I
cannot praise without reserve and many abatements. The
Khedive has attempted too much, and in his restless activity
has undertaken such vast enterprises that he has
brought his country to the verge of bankruptcy. Egypt,
like Turkey, is in a very bad way. She has not indeed yet
gone to the length of repudiation. From this she has been
saved for the moment by the sale of shares of the Suez Canal
to England for four millions sterling. But this is only a temporary
relief, it is not a permanent cure for what is a deep-seated
disease. The financial troubles of Egypt are caused
by the restless ambition of the Khedive to accomplish in a
few years the work of a century; and to carry out in an impoverished
country vast public works, which would task the
resources of the richest country in Europe. The Khedive has
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">67</a></span>
the reputation abroad of being a great ruler, and he certainly
shows an energy that is extraordinary. But it is not always
a well regulated energy. He does too much. He is a man of
magnificent designs, and projects public works with the grandeur
of a Napoleon. This would be very well if his means
were at all equal to his ambition. But his designs are so
vast that they would require the capital of France or Great
Britain, while Egypt is a very poor country. It has always
of course the natural productiveness of the valley of the
Nile, but beyond that it has nothing; it has no accumulated
wealth, no great capitalists, no large private fortunes, no
rich middle class, from which to draw an imperial revenue.
With all that can be wrung from the miserable fellahs, taxed
to the utmost limit of endurance, still the expenses outrun
enormously the income.</p>

<p>It is true that Egypt has much more to show for her
money than Turkey. If she has gone deeply in debt, and
contracted heavy foreign loans, she can at least point to
great public works for the permanent good of Egypt; although
in the construction of some of these she has anticipated,
if not the wants of the country, at least its resources for
many years to come.</p>

<p>For example, at the First Cataract, I found men at work
upon a railroad that is designed to extend to Khartoum,
the capital of Soudan, and the point of junction of the Blue
and the White Nile! In the latter part of its course to this
point, it is to cross the desert; as it must still farther, if
carried eastward, as projected, to Massowah on the Red Sea!
These are gigantic projects, but about as necessary to the
present commerce of Egypt as would be a railway to the very
heart of Africa.</p>

<p>But all the money has not gone in this way. The Khedive
has had the ambition to make of Egypt a great African Empire,
by adding to it vast regions in the interior. For this
he has sent repeated expeditions up the Nile, and is in a continual
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">68</a></span>
conflict with his barbarous neighbors, and has at last
got into a serious war with Abyssinia.</p>

<p>But even this is not all. Not satisfied with managing the
affairs of government, the Khedive, with that restless spirit
which characterizes him, is deeply involved in all sorts of
private enterprises. He is a speculator on a gigantic scale,
going into every sort of mercantile adventure. He is a great
real estate operator. He owns whole squares in the new
parts of Cairo and Alexandria, on which he is constantly
building houses, besides buying houses built by others. He
builds hotels and opera houses, and runs steamboats and railroads,
like a royal Jim Fisk. The steamer on which we
crossed the Mediterranean from Constantinople to Alexandria,
belonged to the Khedive, and the railroad that brought
us to Cairo, and the hotel in which we were lodged, and the
steamer in which we went up the Nile.</p>

<p>Nor is he limited in his enterprises to steamers and railroads.
He is a great cotton and sugar planter. He owns a
large part of the land in Egypt, on which he has any number
of plantations. His immense sugar factories, on which he
has expended millions of pounds, may be seen all along the
valley of the Nile; and he exports cotton by the shipload
from the port of Alexandria.</p>

<p>A man who is thus "up to his eyes" in speculation, who
tries to do everything himself, must do many things badly,
or at least imperfectly. He cannot possibly supervise every
detail of administration, and his agents have not the stimulus
of a personal interest to make the most of their opportunity.
I asked very often, when up the Nile, if these
great sugar factories which I saw <i>paid</i>, and was uniformly
answered "No;" but that they <i>would</i> pay in private hands,
if managed by those who had a personal stake in saving
every needless expense, and increasing every possible source
of income. But the Khedive is cheated on every side, and
in a hundred ways. And even if there were not actual
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">69</a></span>
fraud, the system is one which necessarily involves immense
waste and loss. Here in Cairo I find it the universal opinion
that almost all the Khedive's speculations have been gigantic
failures, and that they are at the bottom of the trouble
which now threatens the country.</p>

<p>Such is the present financial condition of the Khedive and
of Egypt. I couple the two together; although an attempt
is made to distinguish them, and we hear that although
Egypt is nearly bankrupt, yet that the Khedive is personally
"the richest man in the world!" But the accounts are so
mixed that it is very difficult to separate them. There is no
doubt that the Khedive has immense possessions in his hands;
but he is, at the same time, to use a commercial phrase, enormously
"extended;" he is loaded with debt, and has to borrow
money at ruinous rates; and if his estate were suddenly
wound up, and a "receiver" appointed to administer upon
it, it is extremely doubtful what would be the "assets" left.</p>

<p>Such an administrator has appeared. Mr. Cave has just
come out from England, to try and straighten out the Khedive's
affairs. But he has a great task before him. Wise
heads here doubt whether his mission will come to anything,
whether indeed he will be allowed to get at the "bottom facts,"
or to make anything more than a superficial examination, as
the basis of a "whitewashing report" which may bolster up
Egyptian credit in Paris and London.</p>

<p>But if he does come to know "the truth and the whole
truth," then I predict that he will either abandon the case in
despair, or he will have to recommend to the Khedive, as the
only salvation for him, a more sweeping and radical reform
than the latter has yet dreamed of. It requires some degree
of moral courage to talk to a sovereign as to a private individual;
to speak to him as if he were a prodigal son who had
wasted his substance in riotous living; to tell him to moderate
his desires, and restrain his ambition, and to live a quiet
and sober life; and to "live within his means." But this
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">70</a></span>
he must do, or it is easy to see where this brilliant financiering
will end.</p>

<p>If Mr. Cave can persuade the Khedive to restrain his extravagance;
to stop building palaces (he has now more than
he can possibly use); and to give up, once for all, as the follies
of his youth, his grand schemes of annexing the whole
interior of Africa, as he has already annexed Nubia and
Soudan; and to "back out" as gracefully as he can (although
it is a very awkward business), of his war with Abyssinia;
and then to follow up the good course he has begun with his
Suez Canal shares, by selling all his stock in every commercial
company (for one man must not try to absorb all the industry
of a kingdom); if he can persuade him to sell all the
railways in Egypt; and to sell every steamship on the Mediterranean,
except such as may be needed for the use of the
government; and every boat on the Nile except a yacht or
two for his private pleasure; to sell all his hotels and theatres;
his sugar factories and cotton plantations; and abandoning
all his private speculations, to be content with being
simply the ruler of Egypt, and attending to the affairs of
government, which are quite enough to occupy the thoughts
of "a mind capacious of such things;" then he may succeed
in righting up the ship. Otherwise I fear the Khedive will
follow the fate of his master the Sultan.</p>

<p>But impending bankruptcy is not the worst feature in
Egypt. There is something more rotten in the State than
bad financial management. It is the want of justice established
by law, which shall protect the rights of the people.
At present, liberty there is none; the government is an
absolute despotism, as much as it was three thousand years
ago. The system under which the Israelites groaned, and
for which God brought the plagues upon Egypt, is in full
force to-day. The Khedive has obtained great credit abroad
by the expeditions of Sir Samuel Baker and others up the
Nile, which were said to be designed to break up the slave
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">71</a></span>
trade. But what signifies destroying slavery in the interior
of Africa, when a system still more intolerable exists in
Egypt itself? It is not called slavery; it is simply <i>forced
labor</i>, which, being interpreted, means that when the Khedive
wants ten thousand men to dig a canal or build a railroad,
he sends into the requisite number of villages, and "conscripts"
them <i>en masse</i>, just as he conscripts his soldiers
(taking them away from their little farms, perhaps, at the
very moment when their labor is most needed), and sets
them to work for himself, under taskmasters, driving them
to work under the goad of the lash, or, if need be, at the
point of the bayonet. For this labor, thus cruelly exacted,
they receive absolutely nothing&mdash;neither pay <i>nor food</i>. A
man who has constructed some of the greatest works of
Modern Egypt, said to me, as we were riding over the Delta,
"I built this railroad. I had under me twenty thousand
men&mdash;all forced labor. In return for their labor, I gave
them&mdash;<i>water</i>!" "But surely you paid them wages?" "No."
"But at least you gave them food?" "No." "But how
did they live?" "The women worked on the land, and
brought them bread and rice." "But suppose they failed
to bring food, what became of the workmen?" "They
starved." And not only were they forced to work without
pay and without food, but were often required to furnish
their own tools. Surely this is making bricks without straw,
as much as the Israelites did. Such a system of labor, however
grand the public works it may construct, can hardly
excite the admiration of a lover of free institutions.</p>

<p>On all who escape this forced labor, the <i>taxation</i> is fearful.
The hand of the government is as heavy upon them as in the
ancient days. To one who was telling me of this&mdash;and
no man knows Egypt better&mdash;I said, "Why, the government
takes half of all that the country yields." "Half?"
he answered, "<i>It takes all.</i>" To the miserable fellahs who
till the soil it leaves only their mud hovels, the rags that
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">72</a></span>
scarcely hide their nakedness, and the few herbs and fruits
that but just keep soul and body together. Every acre of
ground in Egypt is taxed, and every palm tree in the valley
of the Nile. What would our American farmers say to a
tax of twelve dollars an acre on their land, and of from
twenty-five to fifty cents on every apple tree in their orchards?
Yet this enormous burden falls, not on the rich
farmers of New England, or New York, or Ohio, but on the
miserable fellahs of Egypt, who are far more destitute than
the negroes of the South. Yet in the midst of all this
poverty and wretchedness, in these miserable Arab villages
the tax gatherer appears regularly, and the tax, though it
be the price of blood, is remorselessly exacted. If anybody
refuses, or is unable to pay, no words are wasted on him, he
is immediately bastinadoed till his cries avail&mdash;not with the
officers of the law, who know no mercy, but with his neighbors,
who yielding up their last penny, compel the executioner
to let go his hold.</p>

<p>Such is the Egyptian Government as it presses on the people.
While its hand is so heavy in ruinous taxations, the
administration of justice is pretty much as it was in the time
of the Pharaohs. It has been in the hands of a set of native
officials, who sometimes executed a rude kind of justice on
the old principle of strict retaliation, "an eye for an eye, and
a tooth for a tooth," but commonly paid no regard to the
merits of a case, but decided it entirely by other considerations.
In matters where the Government was concerned, no
private individual had any chance whatever. The Khedive
was the source of all authority and power, a central divinity,
of whom every official in the country was an emanation, before
whom no law or justice could stand. In other matters
judges decided according to their own pleasure&mdash;their like
or dislike of one or the other of the parties&mdash;or more often
according to their interest, for they were notoriously open to
bribes. Thus in the whole land of Egypt justice there was
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">73</a></span>
none. In every Arab village the sheik was a petty tyrant,
who could bastinado the miserable fellahs at his will.</p>

<p>This rough kind of government answered its purpose&mdash;or
at least there was no one who dared to question it&mdash;so long
as they had only their own people to rule over. But when
foreigners came to settle in Egypt, they were not willing to be
subjected to this Oriental justice. Hence arose a system of
Consular Courts, by which every question which concerned
a foreigner was argued and decided before a mixed tribunal,
composed of the Consul of the country and a native judge.
This seemed very fair, but in fact it only made confusion worse
confounded. For naturally the Consul sided with his own
countryman (if he did not, he would be considered almost a
traitor), his foreign prejudices came into play; and so what
was purely a question of law, became a political question.
It was not merely a litigation about property between A
and B, but a matter of diplomatic skill between France (or
any other foreign power) and Egypt; and as France was the
stronger, she was the more likely to succeed. Hence the
foreigner had great advantages over the native in these Consular
Courts, and if in addition the native judge was open
to a bribe, and the foreigner was willing to give it, the native
suitor, however wronged, was completely at his mercy.</p>

<p>Such was the state of things until quite recently. But
here at least there has been a reform in the introduction of
a new judicial system, which is the greatest step forward
that has been taken within half a century.</p>

<p>The man who was the first to see what was the radical
vice of the country, the effectual hindrance to its prosperity,
was Nubar Pasha. He had the sagacity to see that the
first want of Egypt was not more railroads and steamboats,
but simple justice&mdash;the protection of law. How clearly he
saw the evil, was indicated by a remark which I once heard
him make. He said: "The idea of justice does not exist
in the Oriental mind. We have governors and judges, who
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">74</a></span>
sit to hear causes, and who decide them after the Oriental
fashion&mdash;that is, they will decide in favor of a friend against
an enemy, or more commonly in favor of the man who can
pay the largest bribe; but to sit patiently and listen to evidence,
and then decide according to abstract justice, is something
not only foreign to their customs, but of which they
have absolutely no idea&mdash;they cannot conceive of it." He
saw that a feeling of insecurity was at the bottom of the
want of confidence at home and abroad; and that to "establish
justice" was the first thing both to encourage native
industry, and to invite the capital of France and England to
expend itself in the valley of the Nile. To accomplish this
has been his single aim for many years. He has set himself
to do away with the old Oriental system complicated by the
Consular Courts, and to introduce the simple administration
of justice, by which there should be one law for natives and
foreigners, for the rich and the poor, for the powerful and
the weak.</p>

<p>To inaugurate such a policy, which was a virtual revolution,
the initiative must be taken by Egypt. But how could
the Khedive propose a change which was a virtual surrender
of his own absolute power? He could no longer be absolute
<i>within the courts</i>: and to give up this no Oriental despot
would consent, for it was parting with the dearest token of
his power over the lives and fortunes of his subjects. But
the Khedive was made to see, that, if he surrendered something,
he gained much more; that it was an immense advantage
to himself and his country to be brought within the
pale of European civilization; and that this could not be
until it was placed under the protection of European law.</p>

<p>But Egypt was not the only power to be consulted. The
change could only be made by treaty with other countries,
and Egypt was not an independent State, and had no right
to enter into negotiations with foreign powers without the
consent of the Porte. To obtain this involved long and
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">75</a></span>
tedious delays at Constantinople. And last of all, the
foreign States themselves had to be persuaded into it, for of
course the change involved the surrender of their consular
jurisdiction; and all were jealous lest it should be giving up
the rights of their citizens. To persuade them to the contrary
was a slow business. Each government considered
how it would affect its own subjects. France especially,
which had had great advantages under the old Consular
Courts, was the last to give its consent to the new system.
It was only a few days before the New Year, at which it
was to be inaugurated, that the National Assembly, after a
debate lasting nearly a week, finally adopted the measure by
a majority of three to one, and thus the great judicial reform,
on which the wisest statesman of Egypt had so long
fixed his heart, was consummated.</p>

<p>The change, in a word, is this. The old Consular Courts
are abolished, and in their place are constituted three courts&mdash;one
at Cairo, one at Alexandria, and one at Ismailia&mdash;each
composed of seven judges, of whom a majority are
nominated by the foreign powers which have most to do with
Egypt: France, England, Germany, Austria, Russia, and the
United States. In the selection of judges, as there are three
benches to be filled, several are taken from the smaller states
of Europe. There is also a higher Court of Appeal constituted
in the same way.</p>

<p>The judges to fill these important positions have already
been named by the different governments, and so far as the
<i>personnel</i> of the new courts is concerned, leave nothing to
be desired. They are all men of reputation in their own
countries, as having the requisite legal knowledge and ability,
and as men of character, who will administer the law in the
interest of justice, and that alone. The United States is
represented by Judge Barringer at Alexandria, and Judge
Batcheller at Cairo&mdash;both of whom will render excellent
service to Egypt, and do honor to their own country.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">76</a></span></p>

<p>The law which these courts are to administer, is not Moslem
law (until now the supreme law of Egypt was the
Koran, as it still is in Turkey), nor any kind of Oriental
law&mdash;but European law. Guided by the same intelligence
which framed the new judicial system, Egypt has adopted
the Code Napoleon. The French language will be used in
the courts for the European judges, and the Arabic for the
native.</p>

<p>In administering this law, these courts are supreme; they
cannot be touched by the Government, or their decisions
annulled; for <i>they are constituted by treaty</i>, and any attempt
to interfere with them would at once be resented by all the
foreign powers as a violation of a solemn compact, and bring
down upon Egypt the protest and indignation of the whole
civilized world.</p>

<p>The change involved in the introduction of such a system
can hardly be realized by Europeans or Americans. It is
the first attempt to inaugurate a reign of law in Egypt, or
perhaps in any Oriental country. It is a breakwater equally
against the despotism of the central power, and the meddlesomeness
of foreign governments, acting through the Consular
Courts. For the first time the Khedive is himself put
under law, and has some check to his power over the lives
and property of his subjects. Indeed we may say that it is
the first time in the history of Egypt that there has been
one law for ruler and people&mdash;for the Khedive and the
fellah, for the native-born and for the stranger within their
gates.</p>

<p>The completion of such a system, after so much labor, has
naturally been regarded with great satisfaction by those who
have been working for it, and its inauguration on the first
of the year was an occasion of congratulation. On that day
the new judges were inducted into office, and after taking
their official oaths they were all entertained at the house of
Judge Batcheller, where was present also Mr. Washburne,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">77</a></span>
our Minister at Paris, and where speeches were made in
English, French, German, and Arabic, and the warmest
wishes expressed both by the foreign and native judges, that
a system devised with so much care for the good of Egypt,
might be completely successful. Of course it will take time
for the people to get accustomed to the new state of things.
They are so unused to any form of justice that at first they
hardly know what it means, and will be suspicious of it, as
if it were some new device of oppression. They have to be
educated to justice, as to everything else. By and bye they
will get some new ideas into their heads, and we may see a
real administration of justice in the valley of the Nile. That
it may realize the hopes of the great man by whom it has
been devised, and "establish justice" in a country in which
justice has been hitherto unknown, will be the wish of every
American.</p>

<p>This new judicial system is the one bright spot in the state
of Egypt, where there is so much that is dark. It is the one
step of real progress to be set over against all the waste and
extravagance, the oppression and tyranny. Aside from that
I cannot indulge in any rose-colored views. I cannot go into
ecstasies of admiration over a government which has had
absolute control of the country for so many years, and has
brought it to the verge of ruin.</p>

<p>And yet these failures and disasters, great as they are, do
not abate my interest in Egypt, nor in that remarkable man
who has at present its destinies in his hands. I would not ask
too much, nor set up an unreasonable standard. I am not so
foolish as to suppose that Egypt can be a constitutional monarchy
like England; or a republic like America. This would
be carrying republicanism to absurdity. I am not such an
enthusiast for republican institutions, as to believe that they
are the best for all peoples, whatever their degree of intelligence.
They would be unsuited to Egypt. The people are
not fit for them. They are not only very poor, but very
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">78</a></span>
ignorant. There is no middle class in Egypt in which to find
the materials of free institutions. Republican as I am, I
believe that <i>the best possible government for Egypt is an enlightened
despotism</i>; and my complaint against the government
of the Khedive is, not that he concentrates all power
in himself, but that he does not use it wisely&mdash;that his government
unites, with many features of a civilized state, some
of the very worst features of Oriental tyranny.</p>

<p>But with all that is dark in the present state of this country,
and sad in the condition of its people, I believe that
Egypt has a great future before it; that it is to rise to a new
life, and become a prosperous State of the modern world.
The Nile valley has a great part yet to play in the future
civilization of Africa, as an avenue of access to the interior&mdash;to
those central highlands where are the Great
Lakes, which are the long-sought sources of the Nile; and
from which travellers and explorers, merchants and missionaries,
may descend on the one hand to the Niger, and to
the Western Coast; or, on the other, to those vast regions
which own the rule of the Sultan of Zanzibar. I watch
with interest every Expedition up the Nile, if so be it is an
advance, not of conquest, but of peaceful commerce and civilization.</p>

<p>Perhaps the Khedive will rise to the height of the emergency,
and bring his country out of all its difficulties, and set
it on a new career of prosperity. He has great qualities,
great capacity and marvellous energy. Has he also the gift
of political wisdom?</p>

<p>Never had a ruler such an opportunity. He has a part to
act&mdash;if he knows how to act it well&mdash;which will give him
a name in history greater than any of the old kings of
Egypt, since to him it is given to reconstruct a kingdom, and
to lead the way for the regeneration of a continent. If only
he can see that his true interest lies, not in war, but in
peace, not in conquering all the tribes of Africa, and annexing
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">79</a></span>
their territory, but in developing the resources of his own
country, and in peaceful commerce with his less civilized
neighbors, he will place himself at the head of a continent,
and by the powerful influence of his example, and of his own
prosperous State, become not only the Restorer of Egypt, but
the Civilizer of Africa.
</p>

<h3 class="p6">CHAPTER VII.</h3>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">80</a></span></p>
<p class="ch_summ">MIDNIGHT IN THE HEART OF THE GREAT PYRAMID.</p>

<p>Our last night in Cairo we spent in riding out to
Ghizeh by moonlight, and exploring the interior of the
Great Pyramid. We had already been there by day, and
climbed to the top, but did not then go inside. There is
no access but by a single narrow passage, four feet wide
and high, which slopes at a descending angle, so that one
must stoop very low while he slides down an inclined plane,
as if he were descending into a mine by a very small shaft.
There is not much pleasure in crouching and creeping along
such a passage, with a crowd of Arab guides before and behind,
lighting the darkness with their torches, and making
the rocky cavern hideous with their yells. These creatures
fasten on the traveller, pulling and pushing, smoking in his
face, and raising such a dust that he cannot see, and is almost
choked, and keeping up such a noise that he cannot hear, and
can hardly think. One likes a little quiet and silence, a
little chance for meditation, when he penetrates the sepulchre
of kings, where a Pharaoh was laid down to rest four thousand
years ago. So I left these interior researches, on our first
visit to the Pyramid, to the younger members of our party,
and contented myself with clambering up its sides, and looking
off upon the desert and the valley of the Nile, with Cairo
in the distance.</p>

<p>But on our trip up the Nile, I read the work of Piazzi
Smyth, the Astronomer Royal of Scotland, "Our Inheritance
in the Great Pyramid," and had my curiosity excited to see
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">81</a></span>
again a structure which was not only the oldest and greatest
in the world, but in which he thought to have discovered
the proofs of a divine revelation. Dr. Grant of Cairo, who
had made a study of the subject, and had spent many nights
in the heart of the Pyramid, taking accurate measurements,
kindly offered to accompany us; and so we made up a party
of those who had come down the Nile&mdash;an Episcopal clergyman
from New England, a Colonel from the United States
Army, a lady from Cambridge, Mass., and a German lady
and her daughter who had been with us for more than two
months, and my niece and myself. It was to be our last
excursion together, as we were to part on the morrow, and
should probably never all meet again.</p>

<p>At half-past eight o'clock we drove away from the Ezbekieh
square in Cairo. It was one of those lovely nights
found only in Egypt. The moon, approaching the full, cast
a soft light on everything&mdash;on the Nile, as we crossed the
long iron bridge, and on the palms, waving gently in the
night wind. We rode along under the avenue of trees planted
by old Mehemet Ali, keeping up an animated conversation,
and getting a great deal of information about Egypt.
It was two hours before we reached the Pyramid. Of course
the Arabs, who had seen the carriages approaching along the
road, and who like vultures, discern their prey from a great
distance, were soon around us, offering their services. But
Dr. Grant, whose experience had taught him whom to seek,
sent for the head man, whom he knew, who had accompanied
him in his explorations, and bade him seek out a sufficient
number of trusty guides for our party, and keep off the rest.</p>

<p>While the sheik was seeking for his retainers, we strolled
away to the Sphinx, which looked more strange and weird
than ever in the moonlight. How many centuries has he
sat there, crouching on the desert, and looking towards the
rising sun. The body is that of a recumbent lion. The
back only is seen, as the giant limbs, which are stretched out
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">82</a></span>
sixty feet in front, are wholly covered by the sand. But the
mighty head still lifts its unchanged brow above the waste,
looking towards the East, to see the sun rise, as it has every
morning for four thousand years.</p>

<p>On our return to the Pyramid, Dr. Grant pointed out the
"corner sockets" of the original structure, showing how
much larger it was when first built, and as it stood in the
time of the Pharaohs. It is well known that it has been mutilated
by the successive rulers of Egypt, who have stripped
off its outer layers of granite to build palaces and mosques
in Cairo. This process of spoliation, continued for centuries,
has reduced the size of the Pyramid <i>two acres</i>, so that now
it covers but eleven acres of ground, whereas originally it
covered thirteen. Outside of all this was a pavement of
granite, extending forty feet from the base, which surrounded
the whole.</p>

<p>By the time we had returned, the sheik was on hand with
his swarthy guides around him, and we prepared to enter the
Pyramid. It was not <i>intended</i> to be entered. If it had been
so designed&mdash;as it is the largest building in the world&mdash;it
would have had a lofty gateway in keeping with its enormous
proportions, like the temples of Upper Egypt. But it
is not a temple, nor a place for assembly or for worship, nor
even a lofty, vaulted place of burial, like the tombs of the
Medici in Florence, or other royal mausoleums. Except the
King's and Queen's chambers (which are called chambers by
courtesy, not being large enough for ordinary bedrooms in a
royal palace, but more like a hermit's rocky cell), the whole
Pyramid is one mass of stone, as solid as the cliff of El Capitan
in the Yo Semite valley. The only entrance is by the
narrow passage already described; and even this was walled
up so as to be concealed. If it were intended for a tomb,
whoever built it sealed it up, that its secret might remain
forever inviolate; and that the dead might slumber undisturbed
until the Judgment day. It was only by accident
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">83</a></span>
that an entrance was discovered. About a thousand years
ago a Mohammedan ruler, conceiving the idea that the
Pyramid had been built as a storehouse for the treasures of
the kings of Egypt, undertook to break into it, and worked
for months to pierce the granite sides, but was about to give
it up in despair, when the accidental falling of a stone led to
the discovery of the passage by which one now gains access
to the interior.</p>

<p>In getting into the Pyramid one must stoop to conquer.
But this stooping is nothing to the bodily prostrations he has
to undergo to get into some passages of the temples and underground
tombs. Often one has not only to crouch, but to
crawl. Near the Pyramid are some tombs, the mouths of
which are so choked up with sand that one has actually to
forego all use of hands and knees. I threw myself in despair
on the ground, and told the guides to drag me in by the
heels. As one lies prone on the earth, he cannot help feeling
that this horizontal posture is rather ridiculous for one who
is in the pursuit of knowledge. I could not but think to
what a low estate I had fallen. Sometimes one feels indeed,
as he is thus compelled to "lick the dust," as if the curse of
the serpent were pronounced upon him, "On thy belly shalt
thou go, and dust shalt thou eat all the days of thy life."</p>

<p>We had trusted to the man in authority to protect us
from the horde of Arabs; but nothing could keep back the
irrepressible camp-followers, who flocked after us, and when
we got into the King's chamber, we found we had twenty-four!
With such a bodyguard, each carrying a lighted
candle, we took up our forward march, or rather our forward
<i>stoop</i>, for no man can stand upright in this low passage.
Thus bending one after another, like a flock of sheep, we
vanished from the moonlight. Dr. Grant led the way, and,
full of the wonders of the construction of the Pyramid, he
called to me, as he disappeared down its throat, to look back
and see how that long tube&mdash;longer and larger than any telescope
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">84</a></span>
that ever was made&mdash;pointed towards the North Star.
But stars and moon were soon eclipsed, and we were lost in
the darkness of this labyrinth. The descent is easy, indeed
it is too easy, for the sides of the passage are of polished
limestone, smooth as glass, and the floor affords but a slight
hold for the feet, so that as we bent forward, we found it
difficult to keep our balance, and might have fallen from top
to bottom if we had not had the strong arms of our guides to
hold us up. With such a pair of crutches to lean upon, we
slid down the smooth worn pavement till we came to a huge
boulder, a granite portcullis, which blocked our way, around
which a passage had been cut. Creeping around this, pulled
and hauled by the Arabs, who lifted us over the dangerous
places, we were shouldered on to another point of rock, and
now began our ascent along a passage as slippery as that before.
Here again we should have made poor progress alone,
with our boots which slipped at every moment on the smooth
stones, but for the Arabs, whose bare feet gave them a better
hold, and who held us fast.</p>

<p>And now we are on a level and move along a very low
passage, crouching almost on our hands and knees, till we
raise our heads and stand in the Queen's Chamber&mdash;so called
for no reason that we know but that it is smaller than the
King's.</p>

<p>Returning from this, we find ourselves at the foot of the
Grand Gallery, or, as it might be called, Grand Staircase
(as in its lofty proportions it is not unlike one of the great
staircases in the old palaces of Genoa and Venice), which
ascends into the heart of the Pyramid. This is a magnificent
hall, 157 feet long, 28 feet high, and 7 feet wide. But
the ascent as before is over smooth and polished limestone, to
climb which is like climbing a cone of ice. We could not
have got on at all but for the nimble Arabs, whose bare feet
enabled them to cling to the slippery stone like cats, and
who, grasping us in their naked arms, dragged us forward by
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">85</a></span>
main force. The ladies shrank from this kind of assistance,
as they were sometimes almost embraced by these swarthy
creatures. But there was no help for it. This kind of
bodily exercise, passive and active, soon brought on an excessive
heat. We were almost stifled. Our faces grew
red; I tore off my cravat to keep from choking. Still, like
a true American, I was willing to endure anything if only I
got ahead, and felt rewarded when we reached the top of the
Grand Gallery, and instead of looking <i>up</i>, looked <i>down</i>.</p>

<p>From this height we creep along another passage till we
reach the object of our climbing, in the lofty apartment
called the King's Chamber. This is the heart of the Great
Pyramid&mdash;the central point for which apparently it was
built, and where, if anywhere, its secret is to be found. At
one end lies the sarcophagus (if such it was; if the Pyramid
was designed to be a tomb) in which the great Cheops
was buried. It is now tenantless, except by such fancies as
travellers choose to fill it withal. I know not what sudden
freak of fancy took me just then, perhaps I thought, How
would it seem to be a king even in his tomb? and instantly
I threw myself down at full length within the sarcophagus,
and lay extended, head thrown back, and hands folded on
my breast, lying still, as great Cheops may have lain, when
they laid him in his royal house of death. It was a soft bed
of dust, which, as I sank in it, left upon my whole outward
man a <i>marked</i> impression. It seemed very like ordinary
dust, settled from the clouds raised by the Arabs in their
daily entrances to show the chamber to visitors. But it was
much more poetical to suppose that it was the mouldering
dust of Cheops himself, in which case even the mass that
clung to my hair might be considered as an anointing from
the historic past. From this I was able to relieve myself,
after I reached home that night, by a plentiful application
of soap and water; but alas, my gray travelling suit bore
the scars of battle, the "dust of conflict," much longer, and
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">86</a></span>
it was not till we left Suez that a waiter of the ship took
the garment in hand, and by a vigorous beating exorcised
the stains of Egypt, so that Pharaoh and his host&mdash;or his
dust&mdash;were literally cast into the Red Sea.</p>

<p>And now we were all in the King's Chamber, our party
of eight, with three times the number of Arabs. The latter
were at first quite noisy, after their usual fashion, but Dr.
Grant, who speaks Arabic, hushed them with a peremptory
command, and they instantly subsided, and crouched down
by the wall, and sat silent, watching our movements. One
of the party had brought with him some magnesium wire,
which he now lighted, and which threw a strong glare on
the sides and on the ceiling of the room, which, whether or
not intended for the sepulchre of kings, is of massive solidity&mdash;faced
round with red granite, and crossed above with
enormous blocks of the same rich dark stone. With his
subject thus illuminated, Dr. Grant pointed out with great
clearness those features of the King's Chamber which have
given it a scientific interest. The sarcophagus, which is an
oblong chest of red granite, in his opinion, as in that of
Piazzi Smyth, is not a sarcophagus at all; indeed it looks
quite as much like a huge bath-tub as a place of burial for one
of the Pharaohs. He called my attention to the fact that it
could not have been introduced into the Pyramid by any of
the known passages. It must, therefore, have been built in
it. It is also a singular fact that it has no cover, as a sarcophagus
always has. No mummy was ever found in it so
far as we have any historic record. Piazzi Smyth, in his
book, which is full of curious scientific lore, argues that it
was not intended for a tomb, but for a fixed standard of
measures, such as was given to Moses by Divine command.
It is certainly a remarkable coincidence, if nothing more,
that it is of the exact size of the Ark of the Covenant.
But without giving too much importance to real or supposed
analogies and correspondences, we must acknowledge
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">87</a></span>
that there are many points in the King's Chamber which
make it a subject of curious study and of scientific interest;
and which seem to show that it was constructed with reference
to certain mathematical proportions, and had a design
beyond that of being a mere place of burial.</p>

<p>After we had had this scientific discussion, we prepared
for a discussion of a different kind&mdash;that of the lunch which
we had brought with us. A night's ride sharpens the appetite.
As the only place where we could sit was the sarcophagus
itself, we took our places in it, sitting upon its granite
sides. An Arab who knew what we should want, had
brought a pitcher of water, which, as the heat was oppressive,
was most grateful to our lips, and not less acceptable to
remove the dust from our eyes and hands. Thus refreshed,
we relished our oranges and cakes, and the tiny cups of
Turkish coffee.</p>

<p>To add to the weirdness of the scene, the Arabs asked if
we would like to see them perform one of their native dances?
Having our assent, they formed in a circle, and began moving
their bodies back and forth, keeping time with a strange
chant, which was not very musical in sound, as the dance
was not graceful in motion. It was quickly over, when, of
course, the hat was passed instantly for a contribution.</p>

<p>The Colonel proposed the health of Cheops! Poor old
Cheops! What would he have said to see such a party disturbing
the place of his rest at such an hour as this? I
looked at my watch; it was midnight&mdash;an hour when the
dead are thought to stir uneasily in their graves. Might he
not have risen in wrath out of his sarcophagus to see these
frivolous moderns thus making merry in the place of his
sepulture? But this midnight feast was not altogether gay,
for some of us thought how we should be "far away on
the morrow." For weeks and months we had been travelling
together, but this excursion was to be our last. We
were taking our parting feast&mdash;a fact which gave it a touch
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">88</a></span>
of sadness, as the place and the hour gave it a peculiar
interest.</p>

<p>And now we prepared to descend. I lingered in the
chamber to the last, waiting till all had gone&mdash;till even the
last attendant had crawled out and was heard shouting afar
off&mdash;that I might for a moment, at least, be alone in the
silence and the darkness in the heart of the Pyramid; and
then, crouching as before, followed slowly the lights that
were becoming dimmer and dimmer along the low and narrow
passage. Arrived at the top of the Grand Gallery, I waited
with a couple of Arabs till all our party descended, and then
lighting a magnesium wire, threw a sudden and brilliant
light over the lofty walls.</p>

<p>It was one o'clock when we emerged from our tomb to the
air and the moonlight, and found our carriages waiting for
us. The moon was setting in the West as we rode back under
the long avenue of trees, and across the sacred Nile. It
was three o'clock when we reached our hotel, and bade each
other good-night and good-bye. Early in the morning two
of us were to leave for India on our way around the world,
and others were to turn their faces towards the Holy Land
and Italy. But however scattered over Europe and America,
none of us will ever forget our Midnight in the Heart of the
Great Pyramid.</p>

<p>In recalling this memory of Egypt, my object is not
merely to furnish a poetical and romantic description, but to
invite the attention of the most sober readers to what may
well be a study and an instruction. This Pyramid was the
greatest of the Seven Wonders of the World in the time of
the Greeks, and it is the only one now standing on the earth.
May it not be that it contains some wisdom of the ancients that
is worthy the attention of the boastful moderns; some secret
and sacred lore which the science of the present day may
well study to reveal? It may be (as Piazzi Smyth argues
in his learned book) that we who are now upon the earth
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">89</a></span>
have "an inheritance in the Great Pyramid;" that it was
built not merely to swell the pride of the Pharaohs, and to
be the wonder of the Egyptians; but for our instruction, on
whom the ends of the world are come. Without giving our
adhesion in advance to any theory, there are certain facts,
clearly apparent, which give to this structure more than a
monumental interest. For thousands of years it had been
supposed to have been built for a royal tomb&mdash;for that and
that only. So perhaps it was&mdash;and perhaps not. At any
rate a very slight observation will show that it was built also
for other purposes. For example:</p>

<p>Observe its geographical position. It stands at the apex
of the Delta of the Nile, and Piazzi Smyth claims, in the
centre of the habitable globe! He has a map in which
its point is fixed <i>in</i> Africa, yet between Europe and Asia,
and which shows that it stands in the exact centre of the
land surface of the whole world. This, if it be an accident,
is certainly a singular one.</p>

<p>Then it is exactly on the thirtieth parallel of latitude,
and it stands four-square, its four sides facing exactly the
four points of compass&mdash;North, South, East, and West.
Now the chances are a million to one that this could not
occur by accident. There is no need to argue such a matter.
It was certainly done by design, and shows that the old
Egyptians knew how to draw a meridian line, and to take
the points of compass, as accurately as the astronomers of the
present day.</p>

<p>Equally evident is it that they were able to measure the
solar year as exactly as modern astronomers. Taking the
sacred cubit as the unit of measure there are in each side of
the Pyramid just 365¼ cubits, which gives not only the
number of days in the year, but the six hours over!</p>

<p>That it was built for astronomical purposes, seems probable
from its very structure. Professor Proctor argues that
it was erected for purposes of astrology! Never was there
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">90</a></span>
such an observatory in the world. Its pinnacle is the loftiest
ever placed in the air by human hands. It seems as if
the Pyramid were built like the tower of Babel, that its top
might "touch heaven." From that great height one has
almost a perfect horizon, looking off upon the level valley of
the Nile. It is said that it could not have been ascended
because its sides were covered with polished stone. But
may there not have been a secret passage to the top? It is
hard to believe that such an elevation was not made use of
by a people so much given to the study of the stars as were
the ancient Egyptians. In some way we would believe that
the priests and astrologers of Egypt were able to climb to
that point, where they might sit all night long looking at the
constellations through that clear and cloudless sky; watching
Orion and the Pleiades, as they rose over the Mokattam hills
on the other side of the Nile, and set behind the hills of the
Libyan desert.</p>

<p>There is another very curious fact in the Pyramid, that
the passage by which it is entered points directly to the
North Star, and yet not to the North Star that now is, but to
Alpha Draconis, which was the North Star four thousand
years ago. This is one way in which the age of the Pyramid
is determined, for it is found by the most exact calculations
that 2170 years before Christ, a man placed at the bottom of
that passage, as at the bottom of a well, and looking upward
through that shaft, as if he were looking through the great
telescope of Lord Rosse, would fix his eye exactly on the
North Star&mdash;the pole around which was revolving the whole
celestial sphere. As is well known, this central point of the
heavens changes in the lapse of ages, but that star will
come around to the same point in 25,800 years more, when,
if the Pyramid be still standing, the observers of that remote
period can again look upward and see Alpha Draconis on his
throne, and mark how the stars "return again" to their
places in the everlasting revolutions of the heavens.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">91</a></span></p>

<p>As to the measurement of <i>time</i>, all who have visited astronomical
observatories know the extreme and almost infinite
pains taken to obtain an even temperature for clocks.
The slightest increase of temperature may elongate the pendulum,
and so affect the duration of a second, and this,
though it be in a degree so infinitesimal as to be almost
inappreciable, yet becomes important to the accuracy of computations,
when a unit has to be multiplied by hundreds of
millions, as it is in calculating the distances of the heavenly
bodies. To obviate this difficulty, astronomical clocks are
sometimes placed in apartments under ground, closed in with
thick walls (where even the door is rarely opened, but the
observations are made through a glass window), so that it
cannot be affected by the variations of temperature of the
outer world. But here, in the heart of this mountain of
stone, the temperature is preserved at an absolute equilibrium,
so that there is no expansion by heat and no contraction by
cold. What are all the observatories of Greenwich, and Paris
and Pulkowa, to such a rock-built citadel as the Great Pyramid?</p>

<p>But not only was the Pyramid designed to stand right in
its position towards the earth and the heavenly bodies; but
also, and perhaps chiefly (so argues Prof. Smyth) was it designed
for metrological (not met<i>eo</i>rological) purposes&mdash;to
furnish an exact standard of weights and measures. The unit
of lineal measure used in the Pyramid he finds to correspond
not to the English <i>foot</i>, nor to the French <i>metre</i>, but to the
Hebrew <i>sacred cubit</i>. This is certainly a curious coincidence,
but may it not prove simply that the latter was derived from
the former? Moses was learned in all the wisdom of the
Egyptians, and may have brought from the Valley of the
Nile weights and measures, as well as customs and laws.</p>

<p>But this cubit itself, wherever it came from, has some very
remarkable correspondences. French and English mathematicians
and astronomers have had great difficulty to fix upon
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">92</a></span>
an exact standard of lineal measure. Their method has been
to take some length which had an exact relation to one of
the unchangeable spaces or distances of the globe itself.
Thus the English inch is one five hundred millionth part of
the axis of the earth. But Prof. Smyth finds in the Great
Pyramid a still better standard of measure. The cubit contains
twenty-five of what he calls "Pyramid inches," and
fifty of these are just equal to one ten-millionth part of the
earth's axis of rotation! He finds in the Pyramid a greater
wonder still in a measure for determining the distance of the
earth from the sun, which is the unit for calculating the distances
of the heavenly bodies! That which scientific expeditions
have been sent into all parts of the earth within the
last two years to determine by more accurate observations of
the transit of Venus, is more exactly told in the Great Pyramid
erected four thousand years ago!</p>

<p>It is a very fascinating study to follow this learned professor
in his elaborate calculations. He seems to think the
whole of the exact sciences contained in the Great Pyramid.
The vacant chest of red granite in the King's Chamber, over
which Egyptologists have puzzled so much, is to him as the
very ark of the Lord. That which has been supposed to be
a sarcophagus, with no other interest than as having once
held a royal mummy, he holds not to be the tomb of Cheops,
or of any of the kings of Egypt, but a sacred coffer intended
to serve as a standard of weights and measures for all time to
come. He thinks it accomplishes perfectly the arithmetical
feat of squaring the circle!&mdash;the height being to the circumference
of the base, as the radius is to the circumference of a
circle.</p>

<p>But the Great Pyramid has, to Professor Smyth, more
than a scientific&mdash;it has a religious interest. He is a Scotchman,
and not only a man of science, but one who believes,
with all the energy of his Scotch nature, in a Divine revelation;
and as might be supposed, he connects this monument
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">93</a></span>
of scientific learning with One who is the source of all wisdom
and knowledge. However great may have been the
wisdom of the Egyptians, he does not believe that they had
a knowledge of geodesy and astronomy greater than the most
learned scientific men of our day. He has another explanation,
that the Great Pyramid was built by the guidance of
Him who led the Israelites out of Egypt, and who, as he
shone upon their path in the desert, now shines by this lighthouse
and signal tower upon the blindness and ignorance of
the world. He believes that the Pyramid was constructed
by Divine inspiration just as much as the Jewish Tabernacle;
that as Moses was commanded to fashion everything according
to the pattern showed to him in the Mount, so some ancient
King of Egypt, working under Divine inspiration,
builded better than he knew, and wrought into enduring
stone, truths which he did not perhaps himself understand,
but which were to be revealed in the last time, and to testify
to a later generation the manifold wisdom of God. As to its
age he places it somewhere between the time of Noah and
the calling of Abraham. Dr. Grant even thinks it was built
before the death of Noah! But mankind could hardly have
multiplied in the earth in the lifetime of even the oldest of
the patriarchs, so as to be capable of building such monuments.
The theory is that it was not built by an Egyptian
architect. There is a tradition mentioned in Herodotus of a
shepherd who came from a distant country, from the East,
who had much to do with the building of the Pyramid, and
was regarded as a heavenly visitant and director. Prof.
Smyth thinks it probable, that this visitor was Melchisedek!
He even gives the Pyramid a prophetic character, and thinks
that the different passages and chambers are designed to be
symbolical of the different economies through which God
educates the race. The entrance at first <i>descends</i>. That may
represent the gradual decadence of mankind to the time of
the Flood, or to the exodus of the Israelites. Then the passage
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">94</a></span>
begins to <i>ascend</i>, but slowly and painfully, which represents
the Jewish Dispensation, when men were struggling
towards the light. After a hundred and twenty-seven feet
of this stooping and creeping upward, there is a sudden enlargement,
and the low passage rises up into the Grand Gallery,
just as the Mosaic economy, after groping through many
centuries, at last bursts into the full glory of the Christian
Dispensation.</p>

<p>Believing in its inspired character, he finds in every part
of this wonderful structure signs and symbols. Taking it
as an emblem of Christian truth, where is the chief corner-stone?
Not at the base, but at the top&mdash;the apex! At the
bottom, there are four stones which are equal&mdash;no one of
which is above another&mdash;the <i>chief</i> corner-stone therefore
must be the capstone!</p>

<p>It will be perceived that this is a very original and very
sweeping theory; that it overturns all our ideas of the Great
Pyramid; that it not only turns Cheops out of it, but turns
Science and Revelation together into it. We may well
hesitate before accepting it in its full extent, and yet we
must acknowledge our indebtedness to Prof. Smyth. He
has certainly given a new interest to this hoary monument
of the past. Scientific men who reject his theory are still
deeply interested in the facts which he brings to light, which
they recognize as very extraordinary, and which show a
degree of scientific knowledge which not only they did not
believe to exist among the Egyptians, but which hardly
exists in our day.</p>

<p>So much as this we may freely concede, that the Pyramid
has a scientific value, if not a sacred character; that it is
full of the wisdom of the Egyptians, if not of the inspiration
of the Almighty; and that it is a storehouse of ancient
knowledge, even if it be not the very Ark of the Covenant,
in which the holiest mysteries are enshrined!</p>

<p>Leaving out what may be considered fanciful in the speculations
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">95</a></span>
of the Scotch astronomer, there is yet much in the
facts he presents worthy the consideration of the man of
science, as well as the devout attention of the student of
the Bible, and which, if duly weighed, will at once enlarge
our knowledge and strengthen our faith.</p>

<p>Such are the lessons that we derive from even our slight
acquaintance with the Great Pyramid; and so, as we looked
back that night, and saw it standing there in the moonlight,
its cold gray summit, its "chief corner-stone," pointing
upwards to the clear unclouded firmament, it seemed to
point to something above the firmament&mdash;to turn our eyes
and thoughts to Heaven and to God.
</p>

<h3 class="p6">CHAPTER VIII.</h3>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">96</a></span></p>
<p class="ch_summ">LEAVING EGYPT&mdash;THE DESERT.</p>

<p>We left Cairo the next morning. Our departure from
Egypt was not exactly like that of the Israelites, though we
came through the land of Goshen, and by the way of the
Red Sea. We did not flee away at night, nor hear the rush
of horses and chariots behind us. Indeed we were very
reluctant to flee at all; we did not like to go away, for in
those five or six weeks we had grown very fond of the country,
to which the society of agreeable travelling companions
lent an additional charm.</p>

<p>But the world was all before us, and necessity bade us
depart. It was the 6th of January, the beginning of the
feast of Bairam, the Mohammedan Passover. The guns of
the Citadel ushered in the day, observed by all devout Mussulmans,
which commemorates the sacrifice by Abraham&mdash;not
of Isaac, but of <i>Ishmael</i>, for the Arabs, who are descendants
of Ishmael, have no idea of his being set aside by the other
son of the Father of the Faithful. On this day every family
sacrifices the paschal lamb (which explains the flocks of
sheep which we had seen for several days in the streets of
the city), and sprinkles its blood upon the lintels and doorposts
of their houses, that the angel of death may pass them
by. The day is one of general rejoicing and festivity. The
Khedive gives a grand reception to all the foreign representatives
at his palace of Gezireh, at which I had been invited
to be present. But from this promised pleasure I had to
tear myself away, to reach the steamer at Suez on which we
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">97</a></span>
were to embark the next day for India. But if we missed
the Khedive, we had at least a compensation, for as we were
at the station, who should appear but Nubar Pasha! He
had just resigned the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, which
took a load off his shoulders, and felt like a boy out of
school, and was now going off to a farm which he has a few
miles from Cairo, to have a holiday. He immediately came
to us and took a seat in the same carriage, and we sat together
for an hour, listening to his delightful conversation,
as he talked of Egypt with a patriot's love and a poet's
enthusiasm. There is no man who more earnestly wishes
its prosperity, and it would be well for the Khedive if he
were always guided by such advisers. At the station his
servants met him with one of those beautiful white donkeys,
so much prized in the East, and as he rode away waving his
hand to us, we felt that we were parting from one of the
wisest and wittiest men whom it had been our good fortune
to meet in all our travels.</p>

<p>At Zagazig, the railroad from Cairo unites with that from
Alexandria. Here we stopped to dine, and while waiting, a
special train arrived with Mr. Cave, who has come out from
London to try and put some order into the financial affairs
of Egypt. If he succeeds, he will deserve to be ranked very
high as a financier. He was going on to Ismailia to meet
M. de Lesseps, that they might go through the Suez Canal
together.</p>

<p>And now we leave behind us the rich land of Goshen,
where Joseph placed his father Jacob and his brethren, with
their flocks and herds; we leave the fertile meadows and the
palm groves. We are on the track of the Israelites; we
have passed Rameses, the first station in their march, and
entered the desert, that "great and terrible wilderness" in
which they wandered forty years. We enter it, not on
camels or horses, but drawn by a steed of fire. A railway
in the desert! This is progress indeed. There is something
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">98</a></span>
very imposing to the imagination in the idea of an iron
track laid in the pathless sands, over which long trains move
swifter than "the swift dromedaries," and carrying burdens
greater than the longest caravans. These are the highways
of civilization, which may yet carry it into the heart of
Africa. Here, too, are the great ships, passing through the
Suez Canal, whose tall masts are outlined against the horizon,
as they move slowly from sea to sea.</p>

<p>And now we are approaching the border line between
Asia and Africa. It is an invisible line; no snow-capped
mountains divide the mighty continents which were the seats
of the most ancient civilization; no sea flows between them:
the Red Sea terminates over seventy miles from the Mediterranean;
even the Suez Canal does not divide Asia and Africa,
for it is wholly in Egypt. Nothing marks where Africa
ends and Asia begins, but a line in the desert, covered by
drifting sands. And yet there is something which strangely
touches the imagination, as we move forward in the twilight,
with the sun behind us, setting over Africa, and before us
the black night coming on over the whole continent of Asia.</p>

<p>So would I take leave of Africa&mdash;in the Night and in the
Desert. Byron closes his Childe Harold with an apostrophe
to the Ocean, his Pilgrim ending his wanderings on the shore.
The Desert is like the Sea: it fills the horizon, and shuts out
the sight of "busy cities far away," leaving one on the
boundless plain, as on the Ocean&mdash;alone with the Night.
Perhaps I may be indulged in some quiet musings here,
before we embark on the Red Sea, and seek a new world in
India.</p>

<p>But what can one say of the desert? The subject seems
as barren as its own sands. <i>Life</i> in the desert? There is
<i>no</i> life; it is the very realm of death, where not a blade of
grass grows, nor even an insect's wing flutters over the
mighty desolation; the only objects in motion, the clouds
that flit across the sky, and cast their shadows on the barren
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">99</a></span>
waste below; and the only sign that man has ever passed
over it, the bleaching bones that mark the track of caravans.</p>

<p>But as we look, behold "a wind cometh out of the North,"
and stirring the loose sand, whirls it into a column, which
moves swiftly towards us like a ghost, as if it said: "I am
the spirit of the desert; man, wherefore comest thou here?
Pass on. If thou invadest long my realm of solitude and
silence, I will make thy grave." We shall not linger, but
only "tarry for a night," to question a little the mystery
that lies hidden beneath these drifting sands.</p>

<p>We look again, and we see shadowy forms coming out of
the whirlwind&mdash;great actors in history, as well as figures of
the imagination. The horizon is filled with moving caravans
and marching armies. Ancient conquerors pass this way for
centuries from Asia into Africa, and back again, the wave
of conquest flowing and reflowing from the valley of the
Tigris to the valley of the Nile. As we leave the Land of
Goshen, we hear behind us the tramp of the Israelites beginning
their march; and as the night closes in, we see in
another quarter of the horizon the wise men of the East
coming from Arabia, following their guiding star, which
leads them to Bethlehem, where Christ was born.</p>

<p>And so the desert which was "dead" becomes "alive;"
a whole living world starts up from the sands, and glides
into view, appearing suddenly like Arab horsemen, and then
vanishing as if it had not been, and leaving no trace in the
sands any more than is left by a wreck that sinks in the
ocean. But like the sea, it has its passing life, which has a
deep human interest. And not only is there a life of the
desert, but a literature which is the expression of that life&mdash;a
history and a poetry, which take their color from these
peculiar forms of nature&mdash;and even a music of the desert,
sung by the camel-drivers, to the slow movement of the caravan,
its plaintive cadence keeping time to the tinkling of
the bells.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">100</a></span></p>

<p>It has been one of the problems of physical geographers:
What was the <i>use</i> of deserts in the economy of nature? A
large part of Africa is covered by deserts. The Libyan
Desert reaches to the Sahara, which stretches across the continent.
All this seems an utterly waste portion of the earth's
surface. The same question has been raised in regard to the
sea: Why is it that three-fourths of the globe are covered by
water? Perhaps the same answer may be given in both
cases. These vast spaces may be the generators and purifiers
of the air we breathe&mdash;the renovators of our globe's atmosphere.</p>

<p>And the desert has its beauty as well as its utility. It is
not all a dead level, a boundless monotony, but is billowy
like the sea, with great waves of sand cast up by the wandering
winds. The color, of course, is always the same, for
there is no green thing to relieve the yellow sand. But nature
sometimes produces great effects with few materials.
This monotony of color is touched with beauty by the glow
of sunset, as the light of day fades over the wide expanse.
Sunrise and sunset on the desert have all the simple but
grand effects of sunrise and sunset on the ocean. What
painter that has visited Egypt has not tried to put on canvas
that after-glow on the Nile, which is alike his wonder and
his despair? Egypt is one of the favorite countries sought
by European artists, who seek to catch that marvellous color
which is the effect of its atmosphere. They find many a
subject in the desert. With the accessories of life, few as
they are, it presents many a scene to attract a painter's eye,
and furnishes full scope to his genius. A great artist finds
ample material in its bare and naked outlines, relieved by a
few solitary figures&mdash;the Arab and his tent, or the camel and
his rider. Perhaps the scene is simply a few palm trees beside
a spring, under whose shade a traveller has laid him down
to rest from the noon-tide heat, and beside him are camels
feeding! But here is already a picture. With what effect
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">101</a></span>
does Gérome give the Prayer in the Desert, with the camel
kneeling on the sands, and his rider kneeling beside him,
with his face turned towards Mecca; or Death in the Desert,
where the poor beast, weary and broken, is abandoned to die,
yet murmurs not, but has a look of patience and resignation
that is most pathetic, as the vultures are seen hovering in
the air, ready to descend on their prey!</p>

<p>A <i>habitat</i> so peculiar as the desert must produce a life as
peculiar. It is of necessity a lonely life. The dweller in
tents is a solitary man, without any fixed ties, or local habitation.
Whoever lives on the desert must live alone, or with
few companions, for there is nothing to support existence.
It must be also a nomadic life. If the Arab camps, with his
flocks and herds, in some green spot beside a spring, yet it
is only for a few days, for in that time his sheep and cattle
have consumed the scanty herbage, and he must move on to
some new resting-place. Thus the life of the desert is a life
always in motion. The desert has no settled population, no
towns or villages, where men are born, and grow up, and live
and die. Its only "inhabitants" are "strangers and pilgrims,"
that come alone or in caravans, and pitch their tents,
and tarry for a night, and are gone.</p>

<p>Such a life induces peculiar habits, and breeds a peculiar
class of virtues and vices. Nomadic tribes are almost always
robbers, for they have to fight for existence, and it is a desperate
struggle. But, on the other hand, their solitary life
as well as the command of the prophet, has taught them the
virtue of hospitality. Living alone, they feel at times the
sore need of the presence of their kind, and welcome the
companionship even of strangers. An Arab sheik may live
by preying on travellers, but if a wanderer on the desert approaches
his tent and asks shelter and protection, he gives it
freely. Even though the old chief be a robber, the stranger
sleeps in peace and safety, and his entertainer is rewarded by
the comfort of seeing a human face and hearing a human voice.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">102</a></span></p>

<p>To traverse spaces so vast and so desolate would not be
possible were it not for that faithful beast of burden which
nature has provided. Horses may be used by the Bedouins
on their marauding expeditions, but they keep near the borders
of the desert, where they can make a dash and fly; but
on the long journey across the Great Sahara, by which the
outer world communicates with the interior of Africa, no
beast could live but the camel, which is truly the ship of the
desert. Paley might find an argument for design in the peculiar
structure of the camel for its purpose; in its stomach,
that can carry water for days, and its foot, which is not
small like that of the horse, but broad, to keep the huge animal
from sinking in the sands. It serves as a snow-shoe,
and bears up both the beast and his rider. Then it is not
hard like a horse's hoof, that rings so sharp on the pavement,
but soft almost like a lion's paw. And tall as the creature
is, he moves with a swinging gait, that is not unpleasant to
one accustomed to it, and as he comes down on his soft foot,
the Arab mother sits at ease, and her child is lulled to rest
almost as if rocked in a cradle.</p>

<p>Thus moving on in these slow and endless marches, what so
natural as that the camel-riders should beguile their solitude
with song? The lonely heart relieves itself by pouring its
loves and its sorrows into the air; and hence come those
Arabian melodies, so wild and plaintive and tender, which
constitute the music of the desert. Some years since a symphony
was produced in Paris, called "The Desert," which
created a great sensation, deriving its peculiar charm from its
unlikeness to European music. It awakened, as it were, a
new sense in those who had been listening all their lives to
French and German operas. It seemed to tell&mdash;as music only
tells&mdash;the story of the life of the desert. In listening one could
almost see the boundless plain, broken only by the caravan,
moving slowly across the waste. He could almost "feel the
silence" of that vast solitude, and then faintly in the distance
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">103</a></span>
was heard the tinkling of the camel-bells, and the song
of the desert rose upon the evening air, as softly as if cloistered
nuns were singing their vesper hymns. The novel conception
took the fancy of the pleasure seekers of Paris, always
eager for a new sensation. The symphony made the fame of
the composer, Felicien David, who was thought to have shown
a very original genius in the composition of melodies, such as
Europe had not heard before. The secret was not discovered
until some French travellers in the East, crossing the desert,
heard the camel-drivers singing and at once recognized the
airs that had so taken the enthusiasm of Paris. They were
the songs of the Arabs. The music was born on the desert,
and produced such an effect precisely because it was the outburst
of a passionate nature brooding in solitude.</p>

<p>Music and poetry go together: the life that produces the one
produces the other also. And as there is a music of the desert,
so there is a poetry of the desert. Indeed the desert may
be almost said to have been the birthplace of poetry. The
Book of Job, the oldest poem in the world, older than Homer,
and grander than any uninspired composition, was probably
written in Arabia, and is full of the imagery of the desert.</p>

<p>But while the mind carols lightly in poetry and music, its
deeper musings take the form of Religion. It is easy to see
how the life of the desert must act upon a thoughtful and
"naturally religious" mind. The absence of outward objects
throws it back upon itself; and it broods over the great
mystery of existence. Coleridge's Ancient Mariner, when he
was</p>

<div class="poem">
<p>
"Alone on the wide, wide sea,"</p>
</div>

<p>found that</p>

<div class="poem">
<p>"So lonely 'twas that God himself</p>
<p>Scarce seemèd there to be."</p>
</div>

<p>But in the desert one may say there is nothing but God. If
there is little of earth, there is much of heaven. The glory of
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">104</a></span>
the desert is at night, when the full moon rises out of the level
plain, as out of the sea, and walks the unclouded firmament.
And when she retires, then all the heavenly host come forth.
The atmosphere is of such exquisite purity, that the stars
shine with all their splendor. No vapor rises from the earth,
no exhalation obscures the firmament, which seems all aglow
with the celestial fires. It was such a sight that kindled the
mind of Job, as he looked up from the Arabian deserts three
thousand years ago, and saw Orion and the Pleiades keeping
their endless march; and as led him to sing of the time "when
the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God
shouted for joy."</p>

<p>Is it strange that God should choose such a vast and silent
temple as this for the education of those whom He would set
apart for his own service? Here the Israelites were led apart
to receive the law from the immediate presence of God. The
desert was their school, the place of their national education.
It separated them from their own history. It drew a long
track between them and the bitter past. It was a fit introduction
to their new life and their new religion, as to their
new country.</p>

<p>In such solitudes God has had the most direct communion
with the individual soul. It was in the desert that Moses
hid himself in a cleft of the rock while the Lord passed by;
that the Lord answered Job out of the whirlwind; and from
it that John the Baptist came forth, as the voice of one crying
in the wilderness.</p>

<p>So in later ages holy men who wished to shun the temptations
of cities, that they might lead lives of meditation and
prayer, fled to the desert, that they might forget the world
and live for God alone. This was one of the favorite retreats
of Monasticism in the early Christian centuries. The tombs
of the Thebaïd were filled with monks. Convents were built
on the cliffs of Mount Sinai that remain to this day.</p>

<p>We do not feel the need of such seclusion and separation
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">105</a></span>
from the world, but this passing over the desert sets the mind
at work and supplies a theme for religious meditation. Is not
life a desert, where, as on the sea, all paths are lost, and the
traveller can only keep his course by observations on the
stars? And are we not all pilgrims? Do we not all belong
to that slow moving caravan, that marches steadily across the
waste and disappears in the horizon? Can we not help some
poor wanderer who may be lonely and friendless, or who may
have faltered by the way; or guide another, if it be only to
go before him, and leave our footprints in the sands, that</p>

<div class="poem">
<p class="o1">"A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,</p>
<p>Seeing may take heart again?"</p>
</div>

<h3 class="p6">CHAPTER IX.</h3>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">106</a></span></p>

<p class="ch_summ">ON THE RED SEA AND THE INDIAN OCEAN.</p>

<p>Suez lies between the desert and the sea, and is the point
of departure both for ships and caravans. But the great
canal to which it gives its name, has not returned the favor
by giving it prosperity. Indeed the country through which
it passes derives little benefit from its construction. Before
it was opened, Egypt was on the overland route to India,
from which it derived a large revenue. All passengers had
to disembark at Alexandria and cross by railroad to Suez;
while freight had to be unshipped at the one city and reshipped
at the other, and thus pay tribute to both. Now
ships pass directly from the Mediterranean into the canal,
and from the canal into the Red Sea, so that the Englishman
who embarks at Southampton, need not set his foot on the
soil of Egypt. Thus it is not Egypt but England that profits
by the opening of the Suez Canal; while Egypt really suffers
by the completion of a work which is of immense benefit to
the commerce of the world.</p>

<p>Though the Suez Canal is an achievement of modern times,
yet the idea is not modern, nor indeed the first execution. It
was projected from almost the earliest period of history, and
was begun under the Pharaohs, and was at one time completed,
though not, as now, solely for the passage of ships,
but also as a defence, a gigantic moat, which might serve as
a barrier against invasions from Asia.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">107</a></span></p>

<p>There is nothing in Suez to detain a traveller, and with
the morning we were sailing out in one of the native boats,
before a light wind, to the great ship lying in the harbor,
which was to take us to India. We had, indeed, a foretaste,
or rather fore<i>sight</i>, of what we were soon to look upon in the
farthest East, as we saw some huge elephants moving along
the quay; but these were not familiar inhabitants, but had
just been disembarked from a ship arrived only the day before
from Bombay&mdash;a present from the Viceroy of India to the
Viceroy of Egypt.</p>

<p>Once on board ship I was as in mine own country, for now,
for the first time in many months, did I hear constantly the
English language. We had been so long in Europe, and
heard French, German, Italian, Greek and Turkish; and
Arabic in Egypt; that at first I started to hear my own
mother tongue. I could not at once get accustomed to it, but
called to the waiter "garçon," and was much surprised that
he answered in English. But it was very pleasant to come
back to the speech of my childhood. Henceforth English
will carry me around the globe. It is the language of the sea,
and of "the ends of the earth;" and it seems almost as if the
good time were coming when the whole earth should be of one
language and of one speech.</p>

<p>And now we are on the Red Sea, one of the historical seas
of the world. Not far below the town of Suez is supposed
to be the spot where the Israelites were hemmed in between
the mountains and the sea; where Moses bade the waves
divide, and the fleeing host rushed in between the uplifted
walls, feeling that, if they perished, the waters were more
merciful than their oppressors; while behind them came the
chariots of their pursuers.</p>

<p>It was long before we lost sight of Egypt. On our right
was the Egyptian coast, still in view, though growing
dimmer on the horizon; and as we sat on deck at evening
the gorgeous sunsets flamed over those shores, as they did
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">108</a></span>
on the Nile, as if reluctant to leave the scene of so much
glory.</p>

<p>On the other side of the sea stretched the Peninsula of
Sinai, with its range of rugged mountains, among which
the eye sought the awful summit from which God gave the
law.</p>

<p>This eastern side of the Red Sea has been the birthplace
of religions. Half way down the coast is Jhidda, the port
of Mecca. Thus Islam was born not far from the birthplace
of Judaism, of which in many features it is a close
imitation.</p>

<p>I have asked many times, What gave the name to the Red
Sea? Certainly it is not the color of the water, which is blue
as the sea anywhere. It is said that there is a phosphorescent
glow, given by a marine insect, which at night causes the
waters to sparkle with a faint red light. Others say it is
from the shores, which being the borders of the desert, have
its general sandy red, or yellow, appearance. I remember
years ago, when sailing along the southern coast of Wales,
a gentleman, pointing to some red-banked hills, said they
reminded him of the shores of the Red Sea.</p>

<p>But whether they have given it its name or not, these surrounding
deserts have undoubtedly given it its extreme heat,
from which it has become famous as "the hottest place in the
world." The wind blowing off from these burning sands,
scorches like a sirocco; nor is the heat much tempered by
the coolness of the sea&mdash;for indeed the water itself becomes
heated to such a degree as to be a serious impediment to the
rapid condensation of steam.</p>

<p>We began to feel the heat immediately after leaving Suez.
The very next day officers of the ship appeared in white
linen pantaloons, which seemed to me a little out of season;
but I soon found that they were wiser than I, especially as
the heat increased from day to day as we got more into the
tropics. Then, to confess the truth, they sometimes appeared
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">109</a></span>
on deck in the early morning in the most negligé attire. At
first I was a little shocked to see, not only officers of the
ship, but officers of the army, of high rank, coming on deck
after their baths barefoot; but I soon came to understand
how they should be eager, when they were almost burning
with fever, to be relieved of even the slightest addition to
weight or warmth. In the cabin, <i>punkas</i>, long screens,
were hung over the tables, and kept swinging all day long.
The deck was hung with double awnings to keep off the
sun; and here the "old Indians" who had made this
voyage before, and knew how to take their comfort in the
hot climate, were generally stretched out in their reclining
bamboo-chairs, with a cigar in one hand and a novel in the
other.</p>

<p>The common work of the ship was done by Lascars, from
India, as they can stand the heat much better than English
sailors. They are docile and obedient, and under the training
of English officers make excellent seamen.</p>

<p>But we must not complain, for they tell us our voyage has
been a very cool one. The thermometer has never been
above 88 degrees, which however, considering that this is
<i>midwinter</i>, is doing pretty well!</p>

<p>If such be the heat in January, what must it be in July?
Then it is fairly blistering; the thermometer rises to 110
and 112 degrees in the shade; men stripped of clothing to
barely a garment to cover them, are panting with the heat;
driven from the deck, they retreat to the lower part of the
ship, to find a place to breathe; sometimes in despair, the
captain tells me, they turn the ship about, and steam a few
miles in the opposite direction, to get a breath of air; and
yet, with all precautions, he adds that it is not an infrequent
thing, that passengers overpowered sink under a sunstroke
or apoplexy.</p>

<p>Such heat would make the voyage to India one of real
suffering, and of serious exposure, were it not for the admirable
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">110</a></span>
ships in which it can be made. But these of the Peninsular
and Oriental company are about as perfect as anything
that swims the seas. We were fortunate in hitting
upon the largest and best of the fleet, the Peshawur. Accustomed
as we have been of late to the smaller steamers on the
Mediterranean, she seems of enormous bulk, and is of great
strength as well as size; and being intended for hot climates,
is constructed especially for coolness and ventilation. The
state-rooms are much larger than in most sea-going steamers,
and though intended for three persons, as the ship was not
crowded (there were berths for 170 passengers, while we had
but 34, just one-fifth the full complement) we had each a
whole state-room to ourselves. There were bath-rooms in
ample supply, and we took our baths every morning as
regularly as on land.</p>

<p>On the Peshawur, as on all English ships, the order and
discipline were admirable. Every man knew his place,
and attended to his duty. Everything was done silently,
and yet so regularly that one felt that there was a sharp eye
in every corner of the ship; that there was a vigilant watch
night and day, and this gave us such a sense of safety,
that we lay down and rose up with a feeling of perfect
security.</p>

<p>Besides, the officers, from the captain down, not only took
good care for the safety of our lives, but did everything for
our comfort. They tried to make us feel at home, and were
never so well pleased as when they saw us all pleasantly
occupied; some enjoying games, and others listening to
music, when some amateur was playing on the piano, at
times accompanied by a dozen manly and womanly voices.
Music at sea helps greatly to beguile the tedium of a voyage.
Often the piano was brought on deck, at which an extemporized
choir practised the hymns for public service; among
which there was one that always recurred, and that none can
forget:
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">111</a></span></p>

<div class="poem">
<p class="o1">
"Eternal Father, strong to save,</p>
<p>Whose arm hath bound the restless wave,</p>
<p>Who bid'st the mighty ocean deep</p>
<p>Its own appointed limits keep:</p>
<p class="i2">Oh, hear us when we cry to Thee</p>
<p class="i2">For those in peril on the sea."</p>
</div>

<p>And when the Sunday morning came and the same prayers
were read which they had been accustomed to hear in England,
many who listened felt that, whatever oceans they
might cross, here was a tie that bound them to their island
home, and to the religion of their fathers.</p>

<p>On the morning of the sixth day we passed the island of
Perim, which guards the Gates of the Red Sea, and during
the day passed many islands, and were in full sight of the
Arabian coast, and at the evening touched at Aden. Here
the heat reaches the superlative. In going down the Red
Sea, one may use all degrees of comparison&mdash;hot, hotter,
hottest&mdash;and the last is Aden. It is a barren point of rock
and sand, within twelve degrees of the Equator, and the town
is actually in the crater of an extinct volcano, into which the
sun beats down with the heat of Nebuchadnezzar's furnace.
But the British Government holds it, as it commands the
entrance to the Red Sea, and has fortified it, and keeps a
garrison here. However it mercifully sends few English
soldiers to such a spot, but supplies the place chiefly with
native regiments from India. All the officers hold the place
in horror, counting it a very purgatory, from which it is
Paradise to be transferred to India.</p>

<p>But from this point the great oppression of the heat ceased.
Rounding this rock of Aden, we no longer bore southward
(which would have taken us along the Eastern coast of
Africa, to the island of Zanzibar, the point of departure for
Livingstone to explore the interior, and of Stanley to find
him), but turned to the East, and soon met the Northeast
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">112</a></span>
monsoon, which, blowing in our faces, kept us comparatively
cool all the way across the Indian Ocean.</p>

<p>And now our thoughts began to be busy with the strange
land which we were soon to see, a land to which most of those
on board belonged, and of which they were always ready to
converse. Strangers to each other, we soon became acquainted,
and exchanged our experiences of travel. Beside me at
the table sat a barrister from Bombay, and next to him three
merchants of that city, who, leaving their families in England,
were returning to pursue their fortunes in India. One
had been a member of the Governor's Council, and all were
familiar with the politics and the business of that great
Empire. There was also a missionary of the Free Church of
Scotland, who, after ten years' service, had been allowed a
year and a half to recruit in the mother country, and was
now returning to his field of labor in Bombay, with whom I
had many long talks about the religions of India and the
prospects of missions. There was a fine old gentleman who
had made his fortune in Australia, to which he was returning
with his family after a visit to England.</p>

<p>The military element, of course, was very prominent. A
large proportion of the passengers were connected in some
way with the army, officers returning to their regiments, or
officers' wives returning to their husbands. Of course those
who live long in India, have many experiences to relate;
and it was somewhat exciting to hear one describe the particulars
of a tiger hunt&mdash;how the game of all kind was driven
in from a circuit of miles around by beaters, and by elephants
trained for the work; how the deer and lesser animals fled
frightened by, while the hunter, bent on royal game, disdained
such feeble prey, and every man reserved his fire, sitting
in his howdah on the back of an elephant till at last a
magnificent Bengal tiger sprang into view, and as the balls
rained on his sides, with a tremendous bound he fell at the
feet of the hunters; or to hear a Major who had been in
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">113</a></span>
India during the Mutiny, describe the blowing away of
the Sepoys from the mouths of cannon; with what fierce
pride, like Indian warriors at the stake, they shrank not
from the trial, but even when not bound, stood unmoved
before the guns, till they were blown to pieces, their
legs and arms and mangled breasts scattered wide over the
field.</p>

<p>There was a surgeon in the Bengal Staff Corps, Dr. Bellew,
who had travelled extensively in the interior of Asia,
attached to several missions of the Government, and had published
a volume, entitled "From the Indus to the Tigris."
He gave me some of his experiences in Afghanistan, among
the men of Cabul, and in Persia. Three years since he was
attached to the mission of Sir Douglas Forsyth to Kashgar
and Yarkund. This was a secret embassy of the government
to Yakoob Beg, the Tartar chief, who by his courage as
a soldier had established his power in those distant regions
of Central Asia. In carrying out this mission, the party
crossed the Himalayas at a height far greater than the top
of Mont Blanc. Our fellow traveller gave us some fearful
pictures of the desolation of those snowy wastes, as well as
some entertaining ones of the strange manners of some parts
of High Asia. He passed through Little Thibet, where
prevails the singular custom of polyandry&mdash;instead of one
man having many wives, one woman may have many husbands,
although they cannot be of different families. She can marry
half a dozen brothers at once, but must not extend her household
into another family. He was now bound for Nepaul,
under the shadow of the Himalayas, being ordered to report
at once to the Maharajah, who is preparing to receive the
Prince of Wales, and to entertain him with the grandest
tiger hunt ever known in India.</p>

<p>With such variety of company, and such talk to enliven
the hours, as we sat on deck at twilight, or by moonlight&mdash;for
we had the full moon on the Indian Ocean&mdash;the days did
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">114</a></span>
not seem long, and we were almost taken by surprise as we
approached the end of our voyage.</p>

<p>On the afternoon of the twelfth day from Suez we
were nearing our destined port, and eyes and glasses were
turned in that direction; but it was not till the sun was
setting that his light shone full on the Ghauts, the range
of mountains that line the western coast of India&mdash;steps, as
their name implies, to the high table-land of the interior.
Presently as the darkness deepened, the revolving light of
the lighthouse shot across the deep; signal guns from the
city announced the arrival of the mail from England; rows
of lamps shining for miles round the bay lighted up the
waters and the encircling shore; and, there was India!
</p>

<h3 class="p6">CHAPTER X.</h3>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">115</a></span></p>
<p class="ch_summ">BOMBAY&mdash;FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF INDIA.</p>

<p>Never did travellers open their eyes with more of wonder
and curiosity than we, as we awoke the next morning and
went on deck and turned to the unaccustomed shore. The sun
had risen over the Ghauts, and now cast his light on the
islands, covered with cocoanut palms, and on the forest of
shipping that lay on the tranquil waters. Here were ships
from all parts of the world, not only from the Mediterranean
and from England, but from every part of Asia and Africa,
and from Australia. A few weeks before had been witnessed
here a brilliant sight at the landing of the Prince of Wales.
A long arched way of trellis work, still hung with faded wreaths,
marked the spot where the future Emperor of India first set
foot upon its soil. Our ship, which had anchored off the
mouth of the harbor, now steamed up to her moorings, a tug
took us off to the Mazagon Bunder, the landing place of the
Peninsular and Oriental Company, where we mounted a long
flight of granite steps to the quay&mdash;and were in India.</p>

<p>Passing through the Custom House gates, we were greeted
not by the donkey-boys of Egypt, but by a crowd of barefooted
and barelegged Hindoos, clad in snowy white, and
with mountainous turbans on their heads, who were ambitious
of the honor of driving us into the city. The native
carriage (or <i>gharri</i>, as it is called) is not a handsome equipage.
It is a mere box, oblong in shape, set on wheels, having
latticed windows like a palanquin, to admit the air and shut
out the sun. Mounting into such a "State carriage," our
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">116</a></span>
solemn Hindoo gave rein to his steed, and we trotted off into
Bombay. As our destination was Watson's Hotel, in the
English quarter at the extreme end of the city, we traversed
almost its whole extent. The streets seemed endless. On
and on we rode for miles, till we were able to realize that we
were in the second city in the British empire&mdash;larger than
any in Great Britain except London&mdash;larger than Liverpool
or Glasgow, or Manchester or Birmingham.</p>

<p>Of course the population is chiefly native, and this it is
which excites my constant wonder. As I ride about I ask
myself, Am I on the earth, or in the moon? Surely this
must be some other planet than the one that I have known
before. I see men as trees walking, but they are not of any
familiar form or speech. Perhaps it is because we are on the
other side of the world, and everything is turned topsy-turvy,
and men are walking on their heads. We may have to
adopt the Darwinian theory of the origin of man; for
these seem to be of another species, to belong to another
department of the animal kingdom. That old Hindoo that I
see yonder, sitting against the wall, with his legs curled up
under him, seems more like a chimpanzee than a man.
He has a way of sitting on his <i>heels</i> (a posture which would
be impossible for a European, but which he will keep for
hours), which is more like an animal than a human creature.</p>

<p>Truly we have never been in such a state of bewilderment
since we began our travels, as since we landed in Bombay.
Constantinople seemed strange, and Egypt stranger still; but
India is strangest of all. The streets are swarming with life,
as a hive swarms with bees. The bazaars are like so many
ant-hills, but the creatures that go in and out are not like
any race that we have seen before. They are not white like
Europeans, nor black like Africans, nor red like our American
Indians; but are pure Asiatics, of a dark-brown color,
the effect of which is the greater, as they are generally clad
in the garments which nature gives them. The laboring class
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">117</a></span>
go half naked, or more than half. It is only the house-servants
that wear anything that can be called a costume.
The coolies, or common laborers, have only a strip of cloth
around their loins, which they wear for decency, for in this
climate they scarcely need any garment for warmth. One thing
which is never omitted is the turban, or in its place a thick
blanket, to shield the head from the direct rays of the sun.
But there is nothing to hide the swarthy breast or limbs.
Those of a better condition, who do put on clothing, show
the Oriental fondness for gorgeous apparel by having the
richest silk turbans and flowing robes. The women find a
way to show their feminine vanity, being tricked out in
many colors, dark red, crimson and scarlet, with yellow and
orange and green and blue&mdash;the mingling of which produces
a strange effect as one rides through the bazaars and crowded
streets, which gleam with all the colors of the rainbow. The
effect of this tawdry finery is heightened by the gewgaws
which depend from different parts of their persons. Earrings
are not sufficiently conspicuous for a Hindoo damsel, who has
a ring of gold and pearl hung in her nose; which is considered
a great addition to female beauty. Heavy bracelets of silver
also adorn her wrists and ankles. Almost every woman who
shows herself in the street, though of the lowest condition,
and barefoot, still gratifies her pride by huge silver anklets
clasping her naked feet.</p>

<p>But these Asiatic faces, strange as they are, would not be
unattractive but for artificial disfigurements&mdash;if men did not
chew the betel nut, which turns the lips to a brilliant red,
and did not have their foreheads striped with coarse pigments,
which are the badges of their different castes!</p>

<p>Imagine a whole city crowded with dark skinned men and
women thus dressed&mdash;or not dressed&mdash;half naked on the one
hand, or bedizened like harlequins on the other, walking
about, or perchance riding in little carriages <i>drawn by oxen</i>&mdash;a
small breed that trot off almost as fast as the donkeys we
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">118</a></span>
had in Cairo&mdash;and one may have some idea of the picturesque
appearance of the streets of Bombay.</p>

<p>We are becoming accustomed to the manners and customs
of this eastern world. We never sit down to dinner
but with the punka swinging over us, and the "punka-walla,"
the coolie who swings it, is a recognized institution.
In the hot months it is kept swinging all night, and Europeans
sleep under it. These things strike us strangely at
first, but we soon get used to these tropical devices, and in
fact rather like them. In a few days we have become quite
Oriental. To confess the truth, there are some things here
in the East that are not at all disagreeable to the natural
man, especially the devices for coolness and comfort, and the
extreme deference to Europeans, which we begin to accept as
naturally belonging to us.</p>

<p>At first I was surprised and amused at the manners of the
people. It was a new sensation to be in this Asiatic atmosphere,
to be surrounded and waited upon by soft-footed Hindoos,
who glided about noiselessly like cats, watching every
look, eager to anticipate every wish before they heard the
word of command. I was never the object of such reverence
before. Every one addressed me as "Sahib." I did not
know at first what this meant, but took it for granted that
it was a title of respect&mdash;an impression confirmed by the
deferential manner of the attendants. I could not walk
through the corridor of the hotel without a dozen servants
rising to their feet, who remained standing till I had passed.
I was a little taken aback when a turbaned Oriental, in flowing
robe, approached me with an air of profound reverence,
bending low, as if he would prostrate himself at my feet. If
he desired to present a petition to my august majesty (which
was, probably, that I would buy a cashmere shawl), he bowed
himself almost to the ground, and reached down his hand
very low, and then raising it, touched his forehead, as if he
would take up the dust of the earth and cast it on his head,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">119</a></span>
in token that he was unworthy to enter into such an awful
presence. I never knew before how great a being I was.
There is nothing like going far away from home, to the other
side of the world, among Hindoos or Hottentots, to be fully
appreciated.</p>

<p>After a little experience, one learns to accept these Hindoo
salaams and obeisances. Now, when I walk down the
passages of the hotel, and snowy turbans rise on either side
in token of homage, I bow in acknowledgment, though very
slightly, so as not to concede a particle of my dignity, or
encourage any familiarity. When I open my door in the
morning, I find half a dozen coolies in the passage, who have
curled up on mats and slept there all night, as Napoleon's
Mameluke slept before his master's door. It gives one a
sense of dignity and importance to be thus served and
guarded and defended! I suspect all of us have a little (or
a good deal) of the Asiatic in our composition, and could
easily play the pasha and drop into these soft Eastern ways,
and find it not unpleasant to recline on a divan, and be
waited on by dusky slaves!</p>

<p>We find that we are in a tropical climate by the heat that
oppresses us. Although it is midwinter, we find it prudent
as well as pleasant to remain indoors in the middle of the
day (time which is very precious for writing), and make our
excursions in the morning or evening.</p>

<p>Morning in the tropics is delightful. There is a dewy
freshness in the air. Rising at daylight we take a small open
carriage&mdash;a kind of "one horse shay"&mdash;for our ride. It has
but one seat, but the Hindoo driver, nimble as a cat,
crouches at our feet, with his legs dangling over the side in
front of the wheels, and thus mounted we gallop off gayly.</p>

<p>One of our morning excursions was to the Flower Market,
where the fruits and flowers of the country are displayed
with truly tropical profusion. The building, designed with
English taste, is of great extent, surrounding a spacious
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">120</a></span>
court, which is laid out like a garden, with fountains and
ferns, and flowering shrubs and creepers growing luxuriantly.
Here are offered for sale all kinds of poultry and birds, parrots,
and even monkeys. The Flower Market is especially
brilliant, as flowers are the customary offerings at temples.
They are very cheap. Five cents bought a large bunch of
roses. White jessamines and yellow marigolds are wrought
into wreaths and garlands for their festivities. The fruits
we liked less than the flowers. They were very tempting to
the eye, but too rich for our appetite. The famous mango
cloyed us with its sweetness. Indeed, I made the observation
here, which I had to repeat afterwards in Java, that the
tropical fruits, though large and luscious, had not the delicate
flavor of our Northern fruits. A good New Jersey
peach would have been far sweeter to my taste than the
ripest orange or mango, or the longest string of bananas.</p>

<p>In the evening we ride out to Malabar Hill, or go to the
public gardens which English taste has laid out in different
parts of the city. Although Bombay is a city of Hindoos,
yet the stamp of English rule is everywhere impressed upon
it. Like the cities of Great Britain, it is thoroughly governed.
The hand of a master is seen in its perfect police,
its well ordered and well lighted streets. There are signs of
its being gained by conquest and held by military power.
The English quarter is still called the Fort, being on the site
of an old fortress, the ramparts of which are all swept away,
and in their place are wide streets (indeed too wide for shade),
and a number of public buildings&mdash;Government offices, the
Postoffice, and the Telegraph Building, and the University&mdash;which
would be an ornament to any city in England. Here
English taste comes in to add to its natural beauty in the laying
out of open squares. Our windows at the Hotel look out
upon the Esplanade, a large parade ground, the very spot
where the Sepoys were shot away from the guns after the
mutiny, and upon the sea, from which comes at evening
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">121</a></span>
a soft, delicious air from the Indian ocean. It is a
pretty sight to go here at sunset, when the band is playing
and there is a great turnout of carriages, bringing
the fashion and wealth of Bombay to listen to the music
and inhale the fresh breezes from the sea, that no doubt
are sweeter to many in that they seem to come from
their beloved England. In the crowd of well dressed people
wealthy Parsees (distinguished by their high hats), and Hindoos
by their turbans, mingle with English officers, and the
children of all run about together on the lawn. My companion
noticed particularly the Parsee children, whose dresses
were gay with many colors&mdash;little fellows shining in pink
trousers, blue shirts, green vests, and scarlet caps! Others
had satin trousers and vests of some bright color, and over
all white muslin or lace trimmings. The effect of such a
variety of colors was as if parterres of flowers were laid out
on the smooth shaven lawn. In another part of the city the
Victoria Gardens are set out like a Botanical Garden, with
all manner of plants and trees, especially with an endless
variety of palms, under which crowds saunter along the
avenues, admiring the wonders of tropical vegetation, and
listening to the music that fills the evening air.</p>

<p>The environs of Bombay are very beautiful. Few cities
have a more delightful suburb than Malabar Hill, where the
English merchant, after the business of the day is over, retreats
from the city to enjoy a home which, though Indian
without, is English within. Hundreds of bungalows are
clustered on these eminences, shaded with palms and embowered
in tropical foliage, with steep roofs, always thatched as a
better protection from the sun. Here the occupants sit at
evening on the broad verandahs, stretched in their long bamboo
chairs, enjoying the cool air that comes in from the sea,
and talk of England or of America.</p>

<p>There are not many Americans in Bombay, although in one
way the city is, or was, closely connected with our country.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">122</a></span>
Nowhere was the effect of our civil war more felt than in
India, as it gave a great impetus to its cotton production.
Under the sudden and powerful stimulus, Bombay started up
into an artificial prosperity. Fortunes were made rapidly.
The close of the war brought a panic from which it has not
yet recovered. But the impulse given has remained, and I
am told that there is at this moment more cotton grown in
India than ever before, although the fall in prices has cut off
the great profits. But the cost of transportation is much less,
as the railroads constructed within a few years afford the
means of bringing it to market, where before it had to be
drawn slowly over the mountains in ox-carts. This flow of
cotton to the seaports has been turned to account by the
erection of cotton mills (several of which have been started
here in Bombay), which, under the direction of Englishmen,
and having the double advantage of native cotton and native
labor, may yet supplant English fabrics in the markets of
India.</p>

<p>Though there are few Americans (except the missionaries)
here, yet there is one who has all the enterprise of his countrymen,
Mr. Kittredge, who came out to India many years ago,
and is now the head of the old house of Stearns, Hobart &amp; Co.
He has introduced that peculiarly American institution, the
street railway&mdash;or tramway, as it is called here&mdash;which is a
great comfort in moving about the city, where transportation
before was chiefly by little ox-carts. The cars run smoothly,
and as they are open at the sides are delightfully cool. The
Hindoos, though slow in adopting new ideas or new ways,
take to these as an immense convenience. Not the least good
effect is the pressure which they bring to bear on caste, by
forcing those of different castes to sit side by side!</p>

<p>A very singular people, found in Bombay, and nowhere
else in India, are the Parsees, who differ from the Hindoos
both in race and religion. They are followers of Zoroaster,
the philosopher of Persia, from which they were driven out centuries
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">123</a></span>
ago by the merciless followers of the Prophet, and
took refuge in Western India, and being, as a class, of superior
intelligence and education, they have risen to a high position.
They are largely the merchants of Bombay, and among
them are some of its wealthiest citizens, whose beautiful
houses, surrounded with gardens, line the road to Parell, the
residence of the Governor. They are fire-worshippers, adoring
it as the principle of life. Morning and evening they
may be seen uncovering their heads, and turning reverently
to the rising or the setting sun, and offering their adoration
to the great luminary, which they regard as the source of
all life on earth. As I have seen them on the seashore,
turning their faces to the setting sun, and lifting their hands
as if in prayer, I have thought, that if this be idolatry, it is
at least not so degrading as that of the Hindoos around them,
for if they bow to a material object, it is at least the most
glorious which they see in nature. The more intelligent of
them, however, explain that it is not the sun itself they worship,
but only regard it as the brightest symbol and manifestation
of the Invisible Deity. But they seem to have an idolatrous
reverence for fire, and keep a lamp always burning in
their houses. It is never suffered to go out day nor night,
from year to year. The same respect which they show to
fire, they show also to the other elements&mdash;earth, air, and
water.</p>

<p>A revolting application of their principles is seen in their
mode of disposing of the dead. They cannot burn them, as
do the Hindoos, lest the touch of death should pollute the
flames; nor can they bury them in the earth, nor in the sea,
for earth and water and air are all alike sacred. They therefore
expose the bodies of their dead to be devoured by birds
of the air. Outside of Bombay, on Malabar Hill, are three
or four circular towers&mdash;called The Towers of Silence,
which are enclosed by a high wall to keep observers at a distance.
When a Parsee dies, his body is conveyed to the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">124</a></span>
gates, and there received by the priests, by whom it is exposed
on gratings constructed for the purpose.</p>

<p>Near at hand, perched in groves of palms, are the vultures.
We saw them there in great numbers. As soon as a funeral
procession approaches, they scent their prey, and begin to
circle in the air; and no sooner is a body uncovered, and
left by the attendants, than a cloud of black wings settles
down upon it, and a hundred horned beaks are tearing at
the flesh. Such are their numbers and voracity, that in a few
minutes&mdash;so we are told&mdash;every particle is stripped from the
bones, which are then slid down an inclined plane into a deep
pit, where they mingle with common clay.</p>

<p>Compared with this, the Hindoo mode of disposing of
the dead, by burning, seems almost like Christian burial.
Yet it is done in a mode which is very offensive. In returning
from Malabar Hill one evening, along the beautiful
drive around the bay, we noticed a number of furnace-like
openings, where fires were burning, from which proceeded a
sickening smell, and were told that this was the burning of
the bodies of the Hindoos!</p>

<p>This mode of disposing of the dead may be defended on
grounds of health, especially in great cities. But, at any
rate, I wish there was nothing worse to be said of the Hindoos
than their mode of treating the forms from which life
has departed. But their religion is far more cruel to the
living than to the dead.</p>

<p>To one who has never been in a Pagan country, that which
is most new and strange is its idolatry. Bombay is full of
temples, which at certain hours are crowded with worshippers.
Here they flock every morning to perform their devotions.
There is nothing like the orderly congregation
gathered in a Christian house of worship, sitting quietly in
their places, and listening to a sermon. The people come
and go at will, attending to their devotions, as they would to
any matter of business. A large part of their "worship"
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">125</a></span>
consists in washing themselves. With the Hindoos as with
the Mohammedans, bathing is a part of their religion. The
temple grounds generally enclose a large tank, into which
they plunge every morning, and come up, as they believe,
clean from the washing. At the temple of Momba Davi (the
god who gives name to Bombay), we watched these purifications
and other acts of worship. Within the enclosure, beside
the temple filled with hideous idols, there was the sacred
cow (which the people would consider it a far greater crime
to kill than to kill a Christian) which chewed her cud undisturbed,
though not with half so much content as if she had
been in a field of sweet-scented clover; and there stood the
peepul tree, the sacred tree of India (a species of banyan),
round which men and women were walking repeating their
prayers, and leaving flowers as offerings at its foot. This
latter custom is not peculiar to Pagan countries. In Christian
as well as in heathen lands flowers are laid on the
altar, as if their beauty were grateful to the Unseen Eye,
and their perfume a kind of incense to the object of devotion.
Inside the enclosure men were being washed and
shaved (on their heads as well as on their faces), and painted
on their foreheads (as Catholics might be with the sign of
the cross) to mark the god they worship. And not only in
the temples, but along the streets, in the houses, which were
open to the view of passers-by, people were taking plentiful
ablutions, almost a full bath, and making their toilet, quite
unembarrassed by the presence of strangers.</p>

<p>These observances (if divested of any religious value) are
not to be altogether condemned. The habit of frequent
bathing is very useful in a sanitary point of view, especially
in this hot climate. But that which most excites our
admiration is the scrupulous regularity of the Hindoos
in their worship. They have to "do their pooja" (that
is, make their offerings and perform their devotions) before
they go to their work, or even partake of food! Here is
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">126</a></span>
an example of religious fidelity worthy of Christian imitation.</p>

<p>The religious ideas of the Hindoos show themselves in
other ways, which at least challenge our respect for their
consistency. In their eyes all life is sacred, the life of beast
and bird, nay, of reptile and insect, as well as of man. To
carry out this idea they have established a Hospital for Animals,
which is one of the institutions of Bombay. It is on a
very extensive scale, and presents a spectacle such as I do
not believe can be seen anywhere else in the world. Here,
in an enclosure covering many acres, in sheds, or stables, or
in the open grounds, as may best promote their recovery, are
gathered the lame, the halt, and the blind, not of the human
species, but of the animal world&mdash;cattle and horses, sheep
and goats, dogs and cats, rabbits and monkeys, and beasts
and birds of every description. Even poor little monkeys
forgot to be merry, and looked very solemn as they sat on
their perch. The cows, sacred as they were, were yet not
beyond the power of disease, and had a most woe-begone
look. Long rows of stables were filled with broken-down
horses, spavined and ring-boned, with ribs sticking out of
their sides, or huge sores on their flanks, dripping with blood.
In one pen were a number of kittens, that mewed and cried
for their mothers, though they had a plentiful supply of milk
for their poor little emaciated bodies. The Hindoos send
out carts at night and pick them up wherever they have been
cast into the street. Rabbits, whom no man would own,
have here a snug warren made for them, and creep in and
out with a feeling of safety and comfort. In a large enclosure
were some hundred dogs, more wretched-looking than
the dogs of Constantinople&mdash;"whelps and curs of low degree."
These poor creatures had been so long the companions
of man that, ill-treated as they were, starved and kicked,
they still apparently longed for human society, and as soon
as they saw us they seemed to recognize us as their deliverers,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">127</a></span>
and set up a howling and yelping, and leaped against
the bars of their prison house, as if imploring us to give them
liberty.</p>

<p>And here is a collection of birds to fill an extensive aviary,
though in their present condition they do not look exactly
like birds of Paradise. There are not only "four black
crows," but more than any farmer would like to see in his
wheat field (for India is the land of crows). Tall cranes,
that had been wont to step with long legs by the marshy
brink of rivers, here were bandaged and splintered till they
could walk once more. Broken-winged seagulls, that could
no more sweep over the boundless sea, free as its own waves,
were nursed till they could fly again.</p>

<p>The spectacle thus presented was half touching and half
ludicrous. One cannot but respect the Hindoo's regard for
life, as a thing not to be lightly and wantonly destroyed.
And yet they carry it to an extent that is absurd. They will
not take the life of animals for food, nor even of creatures
that are annoying or dangerous to themselves. Many will
not crush the insects that buzz around them and sting them,
nor kill a cobra that crawls into their houses, even when it
threatens to bite them or their children. It has been said
that they even nurse serpents, and when recovered, turn them
loose into the jungle; but of this we saw no evidence. But
certainly many wretched creatures, whose existence is not
worth keeping, which it were a mercy to let die, are here rescued
and brought back to life.</p>

<p>While walking through these grounds in company with a
couple of missionaries, I thought how much better these animals
were cared for than some men. I was thinking of some
of our broken-down ministers at home, who, after serving
their people faithfully for a whole generation, are at last sent
adrift without ceremony, like an old horse turned out by the
roadside to die! What lives of drudgery and toil do such
ministers lead! They are "beasts of burden," more than any
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">128</a></span>
beast of the field. And when their working days are over,
can they not be cared for as well as the Hindoos care for old
horses and camels? If only these shattered wrecks (and
magnificent wrecks some of them are) were towed into port
and allowed to rest in tranquil waters; or (to change the
figure) if these old veterans were housed and warmed and fed
and nursed as carefully as the Hindoos nurse their broken-down
animals, we should have fewer of those instances of
cruel neglect which we sometimes hear of to our sorrow and
shame!</p>

<p>Of the antiquities of India, one of the most notable is found
here in the Caves of Elephanta, which are on an island lying
off the harbor. We set apart a day to this visit, which we
made with a couple of Americans and a couple of Englishmen,
the latter of whom we met first in Bombay, but who were to
keep us company a large part of our journey around the
world. We were to embark at the Apollo Bunder, and while
waiting here for our boat (a steam launch which is used for
this purpose), a snake-charmer desired to entertain us with
the dexterous manner in which he handled cobras, taking
them up like kittens, coiling them round his neck, and tossing
them about in a very playful and affectionate manner.
No doubt their fangs had been completely extracted before
he indulged in these endearments. A very cruel form of
sport was to throw one on the ground, and let it be set upon
by a mangoose, a small animal like a weasel, that is not
poisoned by the bite of serpents, and attacks them without
hesitation. One of these the man carried in a bag for the
purpose. As soon as let loose, the little creature flew at the
snake spitefully, as a terrier dog would at a rat, and seized
it by the head, and bit it again and again with its sharp teeth,
and left it covered with blood. As we expressed our disgust
at this cruelty, the juggler assured us that the deceitful reptile
was not dead (in fact as soon as laid on the ground it began
to wriggle), and that he would take it by the tail and
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">129</a></span>
hold it up, and pour water on its head, and it would come all
right again. He did not say, but no doubt thought, "and
will be all ready for torture when the next American or Englishman
comes along."</p>

<p>By this time the steam launch had come round to the Bunder,
and we got on board. It was a little mite of a vessel,
just big enough for the half dozen of us, with a steam boiler not
much larger than a teapot, that wheezed as if it had the asthma.
But it did its work well, and away we shot swiftly across the
beautiful bay. The island of Elephanta is seven miles
from the city, and takes its name from a gigantic statue of
an elephant that once stood upon its shore. Landing here,
we found ourselves at the foot of a rocky hill, which we
mounted by several hundred steps, and stood at the entrance
of a gigantic cave or cavern cut into the hill-side, with a
lofty ceiling, pillared like a temple. The main hall, as it
might be called, runs back a hundred and thirty feet into the
solid rock.</p>

<p>The first thing that struck me on entering was the resemblance
to the temples of Egypt. Though in size and extent
it does not approach the ruins of Karnak, yet one recognizes
the same massive architecture in this temple, which is literally
"cut out of a mountain," its roof the overhanging cliff,
supported by rows of heavy columns.</p>

<p>The resemblance to Egypt appears also in the symbol of
divinity and the objects of worship; the sacred bull in one
country answering to the sacred cow in the other; and the
serpent, the same hooded cobra, rearing its head on the front
of the Temples of Thebes, and in the Caves of Elephanta.</p>

<p>At the end of the great hall are the objects of worship in
three colossal images of Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva. This is
the Hindoo Trinity, and the constant recurrence of these figures
in their mythology shows how the idea of a Trinity pervaded
other ancient religions besides our own. It is a question
for scholars, whence came the original conception of this
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">130</a></span>
threefold personality in the Divine Being, whether from revelation,
or from a tradition as old as the human race.</p>

<p>The faces are Egyptian&mdash;immobile like the Sphinx, with
no expression of eagerness or desire, but only of calm and
eternal repose. Such was the blessedness of the gods, and
such the beatitude sought by their worshippers.</p>

<p>The age of the Caves of Elephanta is not known, but they
must be of a great antiquity. For many centuries this rock-temple
has been the resort of millions of worshippers.
Generation after generation have the poor people of India
crossed these waters to this sacred island, and climbed wearily
up this hill as if they were climbing towards heaven.</p>

<p>That such a religion should have lived for thousands of
years, and be living still (for the worship of Brahma and
Vishnu and Shiva is still the religion of India), is a reflection
that gives one but little hope for the future of the human
race.
</p>

<h3 class="p6">CHAPTER XI.</h3>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">131</a></span></p>
<p class="ch_summ">LEAVING BOMBAY&mdash;TRAVELLING IN INDIA&mdash;ALLAHABAD&mdash;THE
MELA.</p>

<p>We had been in Bombay a week, and began to feel quite
at home, when we had to leave. A man who undertakes to
go around the world, must not stop too long in the soft
places. He must be always on the march, or ready to start
at the tap of the drum. We had a long journey before us, to
the North of India, and could not linger by the way. So we
set out just at evening. Much of the travelling in India is
at night, to avoid the heat of the day. The sun was setting
over the waters as we moved slowly out of the station at
Bombay, and sweeping around the shores, caught our last
glimpse of the Western sea, and then rushed off for the
mountains.</p>

<p>"You'll need to take beds with you," said our friends,
foreseeing that we might have to lie down in rough places.
So we procured for each of us what is called a resai, a well-stuffed
coverlet, which answered the purpose of a light mattress.
There are no sleeping-cars in India; but the first-class
carriages have generally a sofa on either side, which
may be turned into a sort of couch. On these sofas, having
first secured a whole compartment, we spread our resais, with
pillows on which to rest our weary heads, and stretch ourselves
"to sleep&mdash;perchance to dream." But the imagination
is so busy that sleep comes but slowly. I often lie
awake for hours, and find a great peace in this constant
wakefulness.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">132</a></span></p>

<p>It was quite dark when we found ourselves climbing the
Ghauts (what in California would be called the Coast Range),
a chain of mountains not very high, but which separates the
coast from the table-land of the interior. As the train
moved more slowly, we perceived that we were drawing up
a heavy incline. This slow motion soothes one to slumber,
and at length we closed our eyes, and when the morning
broke, found that we had passed the summit, and were rushing
on over an open country, not unlike our Western prairies.
These were the Plains of India&mdash;a vast plateau, broken
here and there, but preserving its general character across the
whole peninsula from Bombay to Calcutta, and North to the
Himalayas.</p>

<p>In this month of January, these plains are without verdure
to give them beauty. The trees keep their foliage, and here
and there is a broad-spreading banyan, or a mango grove,
with its deep shade. But we miss the fresh green grass and
the flowers that come only with the Spring. Landscapes
which are not diversified in surface by hills and valleys are
only relieved from monotony by varieties of color. These
are wanting now, and hence the vast plain is but "a gray
and melancholy waste" like the sea. We visit India in
winter because the summer would be too oppressive. But in
choosing this season, we have to sacrifice that full glory
when nature comes forth in all the richness of tropical vegetation.
It is in the rainy season that the earth bursts suddenly
into bloom. Then the dead plain, so bleak and bare,
in a few days is covered with a carpet of green, and decked
with innumerable flowers. But there are drawbacks to that
gorgeous time and that prodigality of nature. With the
bursting into light of the vegetable world, the insect world
also comes forth. All the insects that buzz and sting, fill the
summer air; and then the reptile world creeps abroad. Out
of millions of holes, where they have slept all winter long,
crawl cobras and other deadly serpents, and all slimy things.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">133</a></span>
On the whole, therefore, I am content to see India in its sombre
dress, and be spared some other attendants of this tropical
world.</p>

<p>Nor is there much animal life to give animation to the
scene. A few cattle are grazing here and there. Now a
deer startled looks up, as we go by, or a monkey goes leaping
across the fields, but not a wild beast of any kind is seen&mdash;not
even a wild-cat or a jackal. As for birds, storks are at
home in India as much as in Holland. Red flamingoes
haunt</p>

<div class="poem">
<p>
"The plashy brink, or marge of river wide,"</p>
</div>

<p>while on the broad open plain the birds most seen are crows!
They are very tame, and quite familiar with the rest of the
animal creation, a favorite perch being the backs of cows or
buffaloes, where they light without resistance, and make
themselves at home. They are said to be very useful as scavengers.
That is quite possible; but however useful, they are
certainly not beautiful.</p>

<p>In these long stretches of course we pass hundreds of villages,
but these do not attract the eye nor form a feature in
the landscape, for the low mud hovels of which they are
composed hardly rise above the level of the plain. There is
no church spire to be seen, as from a New England village,
nor even the dome or minaret of a mosque, for we are not yet
in the Mohammedan part of India.</p>

<p>One feature there is which relieves the monotony&mdash;the railway
stations are the prettiest I have seen out of England.
Simply but tastefully built, they are covered with vines and
flowers, which with irrigation easily grow in this climate in
the open air at all seasons of the year. The railway administration
has offered prizes for the embellishment of stations,
so that the natives, who are fond of flowers, and who are
thus tempted by the hope of reward, plant roses and trail
vines everywhere, so that the eye is relieved from the glare
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">134</a></span>
of the barren plain by resting on a mass of flowers and
verdure.</p>

<p>In their internal arrangements, too, these stations are models
of comfort, which might furnish an example to us in
America. Wherever we are to breakfast or lunch ("take
tiffin") or dine, we find a table neatly spread, with soft-footed
Hindoos gliding about to serve us, and with plenty of time
to eat in peace, without that rushing which makes travel in
America such a hurry and fatigue. I am often asked about
the difficulty of travelling in India, to which I answer that
there is no difficulty, except from the climate, and that is to
be guarded against by going in the cold season. There are railroads
all over the country, and if Mr. Pullman would only
introduce his sleeping-cars, made more open to give more
ventilation in this hot climate, one might travel in India
with as perfect comfort as in any part of Europe or America.</p>

<p>But with all these comforts, and all that there is to divert
the eye, the way seems long. It is not till one reaches India
that he comprehends how vast a country it is&mdash;not only in
density of population, but in extent of territory. In "magnificent
distances" it is almost equal to America itself: all
small ideas are dispelled as soon as one leaves the coast, and
penetrates into the interior. Our first stage from Bombay
to Allahabad was 845 miles, which took us not only the first
night and the day after, but the second night also, so that it
was not till the morning of the third day that we found ourselves
crossing the long bridge over the Jumna into the city
which is the great railroad centre in India&mdash;a sort of half-way
station, both on the "trunk line" from Bombay to Calcutta,
and on the line to the North of India.</p>

<p>By this time we were glad of rest, and willingly exchanged
our railway carriage for a hotel, where we found the luxury
of baths, which refreshed us so that in an hour or two we
were able to come forth "clad in fine linen, white and
clean," and ride about to see the sights of the town.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">135</a></span></p>

<p>Allahabad is not a city of so much historical interest as
many others, but it has grown very much within a few years.
The railroads have given such an impulse to its business, and
increase to its population, that it has now 130,000 inhabitants.
It is the capital of the Northwest Provinces, and thus has a
political as well as a commercial importance. Owing to its
position, it has been chosen as a convenient centre for missionary
operations, and is the seat of one of the best organized
missions of our Presbyterian Board. Here we met
some excellent countrymen, who at once took us to their
hearts and homes: and though reluctant to accept hospitality,
or to trespass on their kindness, yet it was impossible
to refuse an invitation so cordially given, which took us
from a great barrack of a hotel to a refined American home.
Our Board is fortunate in owning for its mission premises a
large "compound," an enclosure of many acres, on the banks
of the Jumna&mdash;obtained years ago at a nominal price, and
which costs now only the small tax of fifty rupees (twenty-five
dollars) a year. Here under one broad roof were Rev.
Mr. Kellogg and his family&mdash;a wife and four children&mdash;and
Mr. Wynkoop, and Mr. Heyl: Dr. Brodhead had just left
for America. In the compound stands a neat chapel, in
which met three years ago the great conference of missionaries
of different denominations from all parts of India, the
most memorable gathering of the kind ever held in this
country. Here there is a service in Hindostanee every Sabbath.
In another building is a school of 300 pupils, under
charge of Mr. Heyl. He has also, to give sufficient variety
to his occupation, to look after an asylum for the blind, and
another for lepers. Rev. Messrs. Holcomb and Johnson live
in other parts of the city, where there is a Printing-press and
a large Depository for the sale of Bibles and Tracts in the
different languages of India. All of these missionaries, besides
preaching in churches, preach in the streets and bazaars,
and spend some months of the year in itinerating through
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">136</a></span>
the villages in a large circuit of country, living in tents, and
speaking to the people by the roadside, or in groves, or in
their houses, wherever they can find them&mdash;a work which
they enjoy greatly. Thus with preaching in city and country,
and keeping up their schools, and looking after printing
presses, writing and publishing books and tracts, they have
their hands full.</p>

<p>Nor can I overlook our countrywomen in Allahabad.
There is here a "Zenana Mission," supported by the society
of the good Mrs. Doremus, and also two ladies connected
with the Presbyterian Board, one of whom, Miss Wilson,
devotes herself to visiting in the Zenanas, while the
other, Miss Seward, is a physician, practising with great success
in many of the best native families, thus rendering a
physical as well as a spiritual service. She is a niece of the
late Secretary of State, William H. Seward, who when in
India paid her a visit, and was so impressed with what she
was doing so quietly and yet so effectively; with the access
which her medical skill and her feminine tact gave her to
the interior life of the people; that on his return to America
he summed up the result of all his observations of missions
in this brief counsel: "Make all your missionaries women,
and give them all a medical education."</p>

<p>Allahabad has a proud name&mdash;the City of God; but one
sees not much to render it worthy of that exalted title. It
is however, in the estimation of the Hindoos a sacred city,
as it stands at the junction of the Jumna and the Ganges,
the two sacred rivers of India, which issuing out of the glaciers
of the Himalayas, hundreds of miles to the north, here unite,
and flow on in a broader stream, and with an increased
volume of sanctity. The point of junction is of course a
very holy place&mdash;one of the most sacred in India&mdash;and
draws to it more pilgrims than Mecca. Every year hundreds
of thousands of pilgrims, come from all parts of India to
bathe in these holy waters. This is the Méla&mdash;or great
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">137</a></span>
religious festival&mdash;which was now in progress. The missionaries
congratulated us that we had arrived at such an opportune
moment, as we had thus an opportunity of witnessing
a spectacle which would show more of Hindooism than any
other that we could see in India, unless it might be in the
holy city of Benares.</p>

<p>On a Saturday evening we rode down to the place of the
encampment, which we found covering a wide sandy plain at
the junction of two rivers. It was a camp-meeting of magnificent
dimensions. The tents or booths were laid out in
streets, and sometimes grouped in a hollow square, which for
the time being was a compact and populous city. As the
evening was not the hour for bathing, we did not go down
to the river bank, but strolled among the camps to see the
people. At every tent fires were burning, and they were
cooking their food.</p>

<p>Our friends led the way to the camp of the Sikhs, the
famous warrior race of the Punjaub, who form a sect by
themselves, and, strange to say, are not idolators. They
follow the teachings of a prophet of their own, and like the
Mohammedans, make it a special virtue, that they do not worship
idols. But the old instinct is too strong for them, and
while they do not bow to images, they pay a reverence to
their sacred book&mdash;the writings of their teacher&mdash;which is
little short of idolatry. At several places in their camp was
something like an altar, a raised platform which was too
holy for us to ascend, where sat a priest reading from this
volume, before which all knelt as at the shrine of a saint,
while they scattered flowers around it as a kind of incense or
adoration.</p>

<p>In other parts of the camp men were blowing horns and
making all sorts of hideous noise, as an intense way of offering
devotions. This mockery of religion moved the indignation
of our friends, who opened their mouths boldly in exposure
of such folly and superstition, but they found that those
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">138</a></span>
whom they addressed did not shrink from the encounter.
Some of them were very keen in argument. They have a
subtle philosophy at the bottom of their worship, which they
explained with a good deal of ingenuity, and tried to illumine
by apt analogies and illustrations. Like all Hindoos, they
were most liberal in their tolerance of other religions&mdash;much
more so than the Mohammedans&mdash;generously conceding that
our religion was best <i>for us</i>, while claiming that theirs was best
<i>for them</i>. They did not try to convert us, and saw no reason
why we should try to convert them. This was the Broad
Church indeed, large enough for "all sorts and conditions of
men." They even went further, and paid us not only the
respect due to men, but to gods. One of the fakirs said to
us in so many words: "You are God and I am God!" This
tells the whole story in a sentence. Their creed is the
baldest Pantheism: that God is in everything, and therefore
everything is God. As all life comes from Him, He is in
everything that lives&mdash;not only in man, but in beasts, and
birds, and reptiles. All alike are incarnations of a Divine
life, and hence all alike are fit objects of adoration. Man
can adore himself. He need not carry any burden of sorrow
or guilt; he need not know repentance or shame; for
how can he mourn for impulses which are but the inspirations
of the God in him, or for acts which are but the manifestations
of the Universal Soul?</p>

<p>This was our first close contest with Hindooism, but still
we had not seen the Méla till we had seen the bathing of the
pilgrims in the Ganges, which was still in reserve. The Festival
lasts a month&mdash;like the Ramadan of the Mohammedans&mdash;and
is regulated by the changes of the moon. The day of
the new moon, which was last Wednesday, was the great day
of the feast. On that day there was a grand procession to the
river, in which there were twenty-five elephants, mounted
by their <i>mahants</i> (a sort of chief priests), with hundreds of
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">139</a></span>
fakirs on foot, and a vast crowd in all the frenzy of devotion.
On Monday, as the moon was approaching her first quarter,
there was likely to be a large concourse, though not equal to
the first, and we made arrangements to be on hand to witness
a spectacle such as we had never seen before, and should probably
never see again. Rev. Mr. Holcomb came very early
in the morning with his carriage, to take us to the riverside.
As we drove along the roads, we passed thousands who were
flocking to the place of bathing. Some rode in ox-carts,
which carried whole families; now and then a mounted horseman
dashed by; while a long row of camels told of a caravan
that had toiled wearily over a great distance, perhaps from
the foot of the Himalayas or the Vale of Cashmere, to reach
the sacred spot. But the greater part of those who came
were on foot, and looked like pilgrims indeed. Most of them
carried on their shoulders a couple of baskets, in one of
which was their food, and in the other the ashes of their dead,
which they had brought from their homes, sometimes
hundreds of miles, to cast into the sacred waters of the
Ganges.</p>

<p>The carriage brought us only to the Bund, near the Fort&mdash;a
huge embankment of earth raised to keep out the waters at
the time of the annual risings, and which during the past
year had saved the city from inundation. Here our friends
had provided an elephant to take us through the crowd. The
huge creature was waiting for us. The mahout who stood
at his head now mounted in an extraordinary manner. He
merely stepped in front of the elephant, and took hold of the
flaps of his ears, and put up a foot on his trunk, which the
beast raised as lightly as if the man had been a feather, and
thus tossed his rider upon his head. A word of command
then brought him to his knees, when a ladder was placed
against his side, and we climbed to the top, and as he rose
up, were lifted into the air. An elephant's back is a capital
lookout for observation. It raises one on high, from which
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">140</a></span>
he can look down upon what is passing below; and the
mighty creature has not much difficulty in making his way
through even the densest crowd. He moved down the embankment
a little slowly at first, but once on level ground,
he strode along with rapid strides; while we, sitting aloft,
regarded with amazement the scene before us.</p>

<p>Indeed it was a marvellous spectacle. Here was a vast
camp, extending from river to river. Far as the eye could
reach, the plain was covered with tents and booths. We had
no means of estimating the number of people present. Mr.
Kellogg made a rough calculation, as he stood in his preaching
tent, and saw the crowd pouring by. Fixing his eye on
the tent-pole, with watch in hand, he counted the number
that passed in a minute, and found it to be a hundred and
fifty, which would make nine thousand in an hour. If this
steady flow were kept up for four hours (as it began at daylight,
and was continued, though with varying volume,
through the forenoon), it would make thirty-six thousand;
and reckoning those encamped on the ground at twenty thousand,
the whole number would be over fifty thousand.</p>

<p>This is a very small number, compared with that present
at some times. Last Wednesday it was twice as great, and
some years the multitude&mdash;which overflows the country for
miles, like an inundation of the Ganges&mdash;has been estimated
at hundreds of thousands, and even millions. Every twelve
years there is a greater Méla than at other times, and the
concourse assumes extraordinary proportions. This came
six years ago, in 1870. That year it was said that there were
present 75,000 fakirs alone, and on the great day of the feast
it was estimated that a million of people bathed in the Ganges.
So fearful was the crush that they had to be marshalled
by the police, and marched down to the river by ten or twenty
thousand at a time, and then across a bridge of boats to the
other side, returning by another way, so as to prevent a collision
of the entering and returning mass, that might have
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">141</a></span>
occasioned a fearful loss of life. That year it was estimated
that not less than two millions of pilgrims visited the Méla.
Allowing for the common exaggeration in estimating multitudes,
there is no doubt whatever that the host of pilgrims
here has often been "an exceeding great army."</p>

<p>I could not but look with pity at the ignorant creatures
flocking by, but the feeling of pity changed to disgust at the
sight of the priests by whom they were misled. Everywhere
were fakirs sitting on the ground, receiving the reverence of
the people. More disgusting objects I never looked upon,
not even in an asylum for the insane. They were almost
naked; their hair, which they suffer to grow long, had become
tangled and knotted, and was matted like swamp grass, and
often bound round with thick ropes; and their faces smeared
with filth. The meagerness of their clothing is one of the
tokens of their sanctity. They are so holy that they do not
need to observe the ordinary rules of decency. Yet these
filthy creatures are regarded not only with reverence, but
almost worshipped. Men&mdash;and women also&mdash;stoop down
and kiss their feet. On Wednesday some three hundred of
these fakirs marched in procession <i>absolutely naked</i>, while
crowds of women prostrated themselves before them, and
kissed the very ground over which they had passed. One is
amazed that such a disgusting exhibition was not prevented
by the police. Yet it took place under the guns of an English
fort, and&mdash;greatest shame of all&mdash;instead of being suppressed,
was accompanied and protected by the police, which,
though composed of natives, wore the uniform, and obeyed
the orders, of Christian England! There are not many
sights which make one ashamed of the English government
in India, but surely this is one of them.<a name="FNanchor_1" id="FNanchor_1" href="#Footnote_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a></p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">142</a></span></p>

<p>How such "brute beasts" can have any respect or influence,
is one of the mysteries of Hindooism. But the common
people, ignorant and superstitious, think these men have
a power that is more than human, and fear to incur their displeasure.
They dread their curses: for these holy men have
a fearful power of imprecation. Wherever they stroll
through the country, no man dares to refuse them food or
shelter, lest one of their awful curses should light upon his
head, and immediately his child should die, or disaster should
overtake his house.</p>

<p>But let us pass on to the banks of the river, where the
crowd is already becoming very great. To go among them,
we get down from our elephant and walk about. Was there
ever such a scene&mdash;men, women, and children, by tens of
thousands, in all stages of nakedness, pressing towards the
sacred river? The men are closely shaved, as for every hair
of their heads they gain a million of years in Paradise! Some
had come in boats, and were out in the middle of the stream,
from which they could bathe. But the greater part were
along the shore. The water was shallow, so that they could
wade in without danger; but to afford greater security, lines
of boats were drawn around the places of bathing, to keep
them from drowning and from suicide.</p>

<p>It would not have been easy to make our way through such
a crowd, had not the native police, with that respect for
Englishmen which is seen everywhere in India, cleared the
way for us. Thus we came down to the water's edge, passing
through hundreds that were coming up dripping from the
water, and other hundreds that were pressing in. They were
of all ages and sexes. It was hard to repress our disgust at
the voluntary debasement of men who might know better, but
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">143</a></span>
with these there were some wretched objects, who could only
excite our pity&mdash;poor, haggard old women, who had dragged
themselves to this spot, and children borne on their mothers'
shoulders! In former times many infants were thrown into
the Ganges. This was the most common form of infanticide.
But this practice has been stopped by the strong hand of the
government. And now they are brought here only to "wash
and be cleansed." Even the sick were carried in palanquins,
to be dipped in the healing waters; and here and there one
who seemed ready to die was brought, that he might breathe
his last in sight of the sacred river.</p>

<p>I observed a great number of flags flying from tall poles in
different parts of the ground, which made the place look like
a military encampment. These marked the headquarters of
the men who get up these Mélas, and in so doing contrive to
unite business with religion. During the year they perambulate
the country, drumming up pilgrims. A reputation for
sanctity is a stock in trade, and they are not too modest to
set forth their own peculiar gifts, and invite those who come
to the holy water to repair to their shop, where they can be
"put through" in the shortest time, and for the least money.
This money-making feature is apparent in all the arrangements
of these pious pilgrimages.</p>

<p>In keeping with these coarser features of the scene, was
the presence of dancing girls, who gathered a group around
them close to the bathing places, and displayed their indecent
gestures on the banks of the holy river, to those who
had just engaged in what they considered an act of moral
purification.</p>

<p>In other parts of the camp, retired from the river, was
carried on the business of "religious instruction." Here
and there pundits, or learned Brahmins, surrounded by large
companies, chiefly of women, were reading from the Shasters,
which, considering that they got over the ground with great
velocity, could hardly be very edifying to their hearers. This
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">144</a></span>
mattered little, however, as these sacred books are in Sanscrit,
which to the people is an unknown tongue.</p>

<p>I was glad to see that these blind leaders of the blind did
not have it all their own way. Near by were the preaching-tents
of several missionaries, who also drew crowds, to whom
they spoke of a better religion. Among them was Rev. Mr.
Macombie, who is a famous preacher. He is a native of
India, and is not only master of their language, but familiar
with their ideas. He knows all their arguments and their
objections, and if a hearer interrupts him, whether a Hindoo,
or a Mohammedan, he is very apt to get a shot which makes
him sink back in the crowd, glad to escape without further
notice. Whether this preaching converts many to Christianity,
there can be no doubt that it diffuses a widespread sense
of the folly of these Mélas, and to this as one cause may be
ascribed the falling-off in the concourse of pilgrims, who were
formerly counted by millions and are now only by hundreds
of thousands.</p>

<p>While "religion" thus went on vigorously, business was
not forgotten. In the remoter parts of the camp it was turned
into a market-place. A festival which brings together hundreds
of thousands of people, is an occasion not to be lost for
traffic and barter. So the camp becomes a huge bazaar (a
vast fair, such as one may see in America at a cattle show or
a militia muster), with streets of shops, so that, after one has
performed his religious duties, as he comes up from the holy
waters and returns to "the world," he can gratify his pride
and vanity by purchasing any quantity of cheap jewelry.</p>

<p>There are shops for the sale of idols. We could have
bought a lovely little beast for a few pence. They are as
"cheap as dirt;" in fact, they are often made of dirt. As we
stood in front of one of the shops, we saw a group rolling up
a little ball of mud, as children make mud pies; who requested
a lady of our party to step one side, as her shadow,
falling on this holy object, polluted it!
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">145</a></span></p>

<p>It is hard to believe that even the most ignorant and degraded
of men can connect such objects with any idea of
sacredness or religion. And yet the wretched-looking creatures
seemed infatuated with their idolatries. To bathe in
the Ganges washes away their sins. It opens to them the
gates of paradise. Such value do they attach to it that even
death in its sacred waters is a privilege. Formerly suicides
were very frequent here, till they were stopped by the Government.
Fanaticism seems to destroy the common sympathies
of life. Last Wednesday, while the great procession
was in progress, a fire broke out in one of the booths. As
they are made of the lightest material it caught like tinder,
and spread so rapidly that in a few minutes a whole camp
was in a blaze. But for the presence of mind and energy of
a few English soldiers from the Fort who were on the
ground, and who seized an engine, and played upon the
burning wood and thatch, the entire encampment might
have been destroyed, involving an appalling loss of life. As
it was, some thirty perished, almost all women. Mr. Kellogg
came up in time to see their charred and blackened remains.
Yet this terrible disaster awakened no feeling of
compassion for its victims. They were accounted rather
favored beings to have perished in such a holy spot. Thus
does the blindness of superstition extinguish the ordinary
feelings of humanity.</p>

<p>Weary and heart-sick at such exhibitions of human folly,
we mounted our elephant to leave the ground. The noble
beast, who had waited patiently for us (and was duly rewarded),
now seemed as if he could stand it no longer, and
taking us on his back, strode off as if disgusted with the
whole performance, and disdaining the society of such debased
human creatures.</p>

<p>This Méla, with other things which I have seen, has quite
destroyed any illusions which I may have had in regard
to Hindooism. In coming to India, one chief object was to
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">146</a></span>
study its religion. I had read much of "the mild Hindoo"
and "the learned Brahmin," and I asked myself, May not
their religion have some elements of good? Is it not better at
least than no religion? But the more I study it the worse
it seems. I cannot understand the secret of its power. I can
see a fascination in Romanism, and even in Mohammedanism.
The mythology of the Greeks had in it many beautiful creations
of the imagination. But the gods of the Hindoos are
but deified beasts, and their worship, instead of elevating men
intellectually or morally, is an unspeakable degradation.</p>

<p>Hindooism is a mountain of lies. It is a vast and monstrous
system of falsehood, kept in existence mainly for the
sake of keeping up the power of the Brahmins. Their capacity
for deceit is boundless, as is that of the lower castes
for being deceived. Of this I have just had a specimen. In
the fort here at Allahabad is a subterranean passage which is
held in the highest veneration, as it is believed that here a
river flows darkly underground to join the sacred waters of
the Jumna and the Ganges, and here&mdash;prodigy of nature&mdash;is a
sacred tree, which has been here (they tell us) for hundreds
of years, and though buried in the heart of the earth, still it
lives. It is true it does show some signs of sap and greenness.
But the mystery is explained when the fact comes out
that the tree is changed every year. The sergeant-major,
who has been here four years, told me that he had himself
given the order three times, which admitted the party into the
Fort at midnight to take away the old stump and put in a
fresh tree! He said it was done in the month of February,
so that with the first opening of spring it was ready to bloom
afresh! How English officers can reconcile it with their
honor to connive at such a deception&mdash;even though it be to
please the Brahmins&mdash;I leave them to explain. But the fact,
thus attested, is sufficient to show the unfathomable lying of
this ruling caste of India, and the immeasurable credulity of
their disciples.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">147</a></span></p>

<p>A religion that is founded on imposture, and supported by
falsehood, cannot bear the fruits of righteousness. In the
essence of things truth is allied to moral purity. Its very
nature is "sweetness and light." But craft and deceit in
sacred things breed a vicious habit of defending by false reasoning
what an uncorrupted conscience would reject; and the
holy name of religion, instead of being a sacrament of good,
becomes a sacrament of evil, which is used to cover and consecrate
loathsome immoralities. Thus falsehood works like
poison in the blood, and runs through every vein till the
whole moral being is spotted with leprosy.</p>

<h3 class="p6">CHAPTER XII.</h3>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">148</a></span></p>
<p class="ch_summ">AGRA&mdash;VISIT OF THE PRINCE OF WALES&mdash;PALACE OF THE
GREAT MOGUL&mdash;THE TAJ.</p>

<p>We left Allahabad at midnight, and by noon of the next
day were at Agra, in the heart of the old Mogul Empire. As
we approached from the other side of the Jumna, we saw before
us what seemed a royal castle, of imposing dimensions,
strongly fortified, with walls and moat, like one of the strongholds
of the Middle Ages, a castle on the Rhine, built for a
double purpose, half palace and half fortress. As we crossed
the long bridge flags were flying in honor of the Prince of
Wales, who had arrived the week before. His entry into this
old Mogul capital was attended with a display of magnificence
worthy of the days of Aurungzebe. At the station he was
met by a great number of Rajahs, mounted on elephants richly
caparisoned, of which there were nearly two hundred in
the procession, with long suites of retainers, who escorted
him to his camp outside of the city. Rev. Mr. Wynkoop
(who came on a few days before to witness the fêtes, and was
staying with a friend who had a tent quite near to that of
the Prince), met us at the station and took us out to the
Royal camp. It was indeed a beautiful sight. The tents,
many of which were very large, were laid off in an oblong
square, with the marquee of the Prince at the end, in front
of which floated the royal standard of England. The rest of
the camp was laid off in streets. On the outskirts of the
Maidan (or parade ground) were the military selected from
different corps of the Indian army. Some of the native troops
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">149</a></span>
in drill and discipline were equal to the English. The Punjaubees
especially were magnificent fellows. Tall and athletic
in figure, they are splendid horsemen, so that a regiment of
Punjaubee (or Sikh) cavalry is one of the sights of India.
English artillery manned the guns with which they saluted
the native princes according to their rank, as they came to
pay their respects. Here, on the Saturday before, the Prince
had held a grand Durbar, to which the Rajahs came riding on
elephants, and each with a body-guard of cavalry, mounted
sometimes on horses and sometimes on camels, making altogether
such a scene of barbaric splendor as could not be witnessed
in any country in the world but India.</p>

<p>The Prince was absent from the camp, having gone off a
day or two before to pay a visit to the Maharajah of Gwalior,
but an hour later, while we were making a first visit to the
Taj, we heard the guns which announced his return. A day
or two after we saw him starting for Jeypore, when, although
he drove off in a carriage very quietly, the camels and elephants
that went rolling along the different roads, as we drove
out once more to the camp, told of the brilliant pageant
that was ended.</p>

<p>This visit of the Prince of Wales is a great event. It
has excited a prodigious interest in official and military circles.
His progress through the country has been in a blaze
of processions and illuminations. To himself it must have
been very gratifying. As he said, "It had been the dream
of his life to visit India." It was a matter of political wisdom
that he should know it, not only through others but by
personal observation. Mr. Disraeli, in proposing it in Parliament,
said justly that "travel was the best education for
princes." It was well that the future King of England,
should make himself acquainted with the great Empire that
he was one day to rule. But whether this royal visit will
result in any real benefit to India to correspond with the
enormous expense it has involved, is a question which I
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">150</a></span>
hear a good deal discussed among Englishmen. In some
ways it cannot fail to do good. It has presented to
the people of India an impersonation of sovereignty, a
visible representative of that mighty power, the British
Empire. It has conciliated the native princes, who have
been greatly pleased by the frank and manly courtesy of
their future sovereign. In the art of courtesy he is a master.
History will give him this rank among princes, that he
was not great, but gracious. This is a kingly virtue which it
was well to have exhibited in the person of one of such exalted
rank, the more as English officials in India are charged
with showing, often in the most offensive way, the insolence
of power. Perhaps it was on this very account that he took
such pains to show a generous and even chivalrous courtesy
to natives of rank, even while he did not hesitate, so I was
told by Englishmen, to "snub" his own countrymen. Such a
bearing has certainly commanded respect, and given him a
personal popularity. But it has not converted the people to
loyalty any more than to Christianity. They run to see the
parades, the Rajahs, and the elephants. But as to its exciting
any deeper feeling in them, no Englishman who has lived
long in the country will trust to that for a moment. Even
though English rule be for their own safety and protection,
yet their prejudices of race and religion are stronger than
even considerations of interest. It is a curious illustration
of the power of caste that the very Rajahs who entertain the
Prince of Wales with such lavish hospitality, who build
palaces to receive him, and spread before him sumptuous
banquets, still do not themselves sit down at the table; they
will not even eat with their Royal guest; and count his touch
of food, and even his shadow falling upon it, a pollution!
Such a people are not to be trusted very far beyond the range
of English guns. The security of English rule in India is
not to be found in any fancied sentiment of loyalty, which
does not exist, but in the overwhelming proof of English
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">151</a></span>
power. British possession is secured by the well-armed fortresses
which overlook every great city, and which could lay
it in ruins in twenty-four hours. The rule that was obtained
by the sword, must be held by the sword.</p>

<p>But the interest of Agra is not in the present, but in the
past. There are few chapters in history more interesting
than that of the Mohammedan invasion of India&mdash;a history
dating back to the Middle Ages, but culminating about the
time that Columbus discovered the New World. Those
fierce warriors, who had ravaged Central Asia, had long
made occasional incursions into India, but it was not till the
beginning of the sixteenth century that they became complete
masters of the country, and the throne was occupied by a
descendant of the house of Tamerlane.</p>

<p>The dominion thus introduced into India was an exotic,
but like other products of the North, transplanted into a
tropical clime, it blossomed and flowered anew. The Moguls
(a corruption of Mongols) had all the wealth of Ormus and of
Ind at their feet, and they lavished it with Oriental prodigality,
displaying a royal state which surpassed the grandeur
of European courts.</p>

<p>The Great Mogul! What power there is in a name! Ever
since I was a child, I had read about the Great Mogul, until
there was a magic in the very word. To be sure, I had not
much idea who or what he was; but perhaps this vagueness
itself added to the charm in my imagination. He was an
Oriental potentate, living somewhere in the heart of Asia, in
a pomp and glory quite unknown among barbarians of the
West. He was a sort of Haroun al Raschid, whose magnificence
recalled the scenes of the Arabian Nights. Even
more, he was like the Grand Lama, almost an object of worship.
To keep up the illusion, he withdrew from observation
into his Palace, where he sat like a god, rarely seen by mortal
eyes, except by his court, and dwelling in unapproachable
splendor.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">152</a></span></p>

<p>And now here I was in the very Palace of the Great Mogul,
walking through the glittering halls where he held his gorgeous
revelries, entering the private apartments of his harem,
and looking out of the very windows from which they looked
down upon the valley of the Jumna.</p>

<p>The Palace is in the Citadel of Agra, for those old Emperors
took good care to draw fortified walls around their palaces.
The river front presents a wall sixty feet high, perhaps half
a mile long, of red sandstone, which heightens by contrast
the effect of the white marble pavilions, so graceful and airy-like,
that rise above it. The Fort is of great extent, but it
is the mere casket of the jewels within, the Palace and the
Mosque, in which one may see the infinite beauty of that
Saracenic architecture, which is found nowhere in Europe in
such perfection, except in the Alhambra. The Mohammedan
conquerors of India, like the same conquerors of Spain, had
gorgeous tastes in architecture. Both aimed at the grandeur
of effect produced by great size and massive construction,
combined with a certain lightness and airiness of detail,
which give it a peculiar delicacy and grace. Here the imagination
flowers in stone. The solid marble is made to
bend in vines and wreaths that run along the walls. The
spirit of Oriental luxury finds expression in cool marble
halls, and open courts, with plashing fountains, where the
monarch could dally with the beauties of his court. In all
these things the life of the Great Mogul did not differ from
that of the Moorish Kings of Spain.</p>

<p>The glory of Agra dates from the reign of Akbar the Great
who made it the capital of the Mogul Empire. He built the
Fort, with its long line of castellated walls, rising above the
river, and commanding the country around. Within this
enclosure were buildings like a city, and open spaces with
canals, among which were laid out gardens, blooming with
flowers. On the river side of the Fort was a lofty terrace,
on which stood the Palace, built of the purest marble. It
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">153</a></span>
was divided into a number of pavilions whose white walls
and gilded domes glittered in the sun. Passing from one
pavilion to another over tessellated pavements, we enter
apartments rich in mosaics and all manner of precious stones.
Along the walls are little kiosks or balconies, the windows
of which are half closed by screens of marble, which yet are
so exquisitely carved and pierced as to seem like veils of
lace, drawn before the flashing eyes that looked out from behind
them. Straying through these rich halls, one cannot
but reproduce the scenes of three centuries ago, when Akbar
ruled here in the midst of his court; when the beauties of his
seraglio, gathered from all the East, sported in these gardens,
and looked out from these latticed windows.</p>

<p>Of equal beauty with the palace is the mosque. It is called
the Pearl Mosque, and a pearl indeed it is, such is the
simplicity of outline, and such the exquisite and almost tender
grace in every arch and column. Said Bishop Heber: "This
spotless sanctuary, showing such a pure spirit of adoration,
made me, a Christian, feel humbled when I considered that
no architect of our religion had ever been able to produce anything
equal to this temple of Allah."</p>

<p>But these costly buildings have but little use now. The
Mosque is still here, but few are the Moslems who come to
pray; and the palace is tenantless. The great Moguls are
departed. Their last descendant was the late King of Delhi,
who was compromised in the Great Mutiny, and passed the
rest of his life as a state prisoner. Not a trace remains here
nor at Delhi of the old Imperial grandeur. Yet once in a long
while these old palaces serve a purpose to entertain some
royal guest. Last week they were fitted up for a fête given
to the Prince of Wales, when the stately apartments were
turned into reception rooms and banqueting halls. It was a
very brilliant spectacle, as the British officers in their uniforms
mingled with the native princes glittering with diamonds.
But it would seem as if the old Moguls must turn
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">154</a></span>
in their coffins to hear this sound of revelry in their vacant
palaces, and to see the places where the Mohammedan ruled
so long now filled by unbelievers.</p>

<p>Perhaps one gets a yet stronger impression of the magnificence
of the Great Mogul in a visit to the Summer Palace of
Akbar at Futtehpore-Sikri, so called from two villages embraced
in the royal retreat. This was the Versailles of the
old Moguls. It is over twenty miles from Agra, but starting
early we were able to drive there and return the same
day. The site is a rocky hill, which might have been chosen
for a fortress. The outer wall enclosing it, with the two villages
at its foot, is nine miles in extent. The buildings were
on a scale to suit the wants of an Imperial Court&mdash;the plateau
of the hill being laid off in a vast quadrangle, surrounded by
palaces, and zenanas for the women of the Imperial household,
and mosques and tombs. Perhaps the most exquisite
building of all is a tomb in white marble&mdash;the resting place
of Selim, a Moslem saint, a very holy shrine to the true believers;
although the Mosque is far more imposing, since
before it stands the loftiest gateway in the world. Around
the hill are distributed barracks for troops, and stables for
horses and camels and elephants. The open court in the
centre of all these buildings is an esplanade large enough to
draw up an army. Here they show the spot where Akbar
used to mount his elephant, and here his troops filed before
him, or subject princes came with long processions to pay him
homage.</p>

<p>As this palace was built for a summer retreat, everything
is designed for coolness; pavilions, covered overhead, screen
from the sun, while open at the sides, they catch whatever
summer air may be stirring. In studying the architecture
of the Moors or the Moguls, one cannot but perceive, that in
its first inception it has been modelled after forms familiar
to their nomadic ancestors. The tribes of Central Asia first
dwelt in tents, and when they came to have more fixed habitations
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">155</a></span>
built of wood or stone, they reproduced the same form,
so that the canvas tent became the marble pavilion&mdash;just as
the builders of the Gothic cathedrals caught the lines of their
mighty arches from the interlacing branches of trees which
made the lofty aisles of the forest. So the tribes of the desert,
accustomed to live in tents, when endowed with empire, falling
heir to the riches of the Indies, still preserved the style
of their former life, and when they could no longer dwell in
tents, dwelt in tabernacles. These palaces are almost all constructed
on this type. There is one building of singular
structure, five stories high, which is a series of terraces, all
open at the side.</p>

<p>If we believe the tales of travellers and historians, nothing
since the days of Babylon has equalled the magnificence of
the Great Mogul. But magnificence in a sovereign generally
means misery in his subjects. The wealth that is lavished on
the court is wrung from the people. So it is said to have been
with some of the successors of Akbar. The latest historian
of Mussulman India<a name="FNanchor_2" id="FNanchor_2" href="#Footnote_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> says: "They were the most shameless
tyrants that ever disgraced a throne. Mogul administration
... was a monstrous system of oppression and extortion,
which none but Asiatics could have practised or endured.
Justice was a mockery. Magistrates could always be bribed;
false witnesses could always be bought.... The Hindoos
were always in the hands of grinding task-masters, foreigners
who knew not how to pity or to spare."</p>

<p>But Akbar was not merely a magnificent Oriental potentate&mdash;he
was truly a great king. A Mohammedan himself,
he was free from Moslem fanaticism and bigotry. Those conquerors
of India had a difficult task (which has vexed their
English successors after two centuries), to rule a people of a
different race and a different religion. It was harder for the
Moslem than for the Christian, because his creed was more
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">156</a></span>
intolerant; it made it his duty to destroy those whom he
could not convert. The first law of the Koran was the extermination
of idolatry, but the Hindoos were the grossest of
idolaters. How then could a Mohammedan ruler establish
his throne without exterminating the inhabitants? But the
Moslems&mdash;like many other conquerors&mdash;learned to bear the
ills which they could not remove. Necessity taught them
the wisdom of toleration. In this humane policy they were
led by the example of Akbar, who, though a Mussulman,
was not a bigot, and thought it a pity that subtle questions
of belief should divide inhabitants of the same country. He
admitted Hindoos to a share in his government, and endeavored
by complete tolerance to extinguish religious hatreds.
He had even the ambition to be a religious reformer, and
tried to blend the old faith with the new, and to make an
eclectic religion by putting together the systems of Zoroaster,
of the Brahmins, and of Christianity, while retaining some of
the Mohammedan forms. But he could not convert even his
own Hindoo wives, of whom he had one or two, and built a
house for each, in Hindoo architecture, with altars for idol
worship. What impression then could he make outside of
the circle of his court?</p>

<p>But greatness commands our homage, even though it
sometimes undertakes tasks beyond human power. Akbar,
though he could not inspire others with his own spirit of
justice and toleration, deserves a place in history as the
greatest sovereign that ever sat in the seat of the Great Mogul.
And therefore, when in the Fort at Agra I stood beside
the large slab of black marble, on which he was wont to
sit to administer justice to his people, it was with the same
feeling that one would seek out the oak of Vincennes, under
which St. Louis sat for the same purpose; and at Secundra,
a few miles from Agra, we visited his tomb, as on another
continent we had visited the tomb of Frederick the Great,
and of Napoleon.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">157</a></span></p>

<p>But the jewel of India&mdash;the Koh-i-noor of its beauty&mdash;is
the <span class="smcap">Taj</span>, the tomb built by the Emperor Shah Jehan, the
grandson of Akbar, for his wife, whom he loved with an
idolatrous affection, and on her deathbed promised to rear
to her memory such a mausoleum as had never been erected
before. To carry out his purpose he gathered architects
from all countries, who rivalled each other in the extravagance
and costliness of their designs. The result was a
structure which cost fabulous sums of money (the whole
empire being placed under contribution for it, as were the
Jews for the Temple of Solomon), and employed twenty
thousand workmen for seventeen years. The building thus
erected is one of the most famous in the world&mdash;like the
Alhambra or St. Peter's&mdash;and of which enthusiastic travellers
are apt to say that it is worth going around the world
to see. This would almost discourage the attempt to describe
it, but I will try and give some faint idea of its marvellous
beauty.</p>

<p>But how can I convey to others what is but a picture
in my memory? Descriptions of architecture are apt to
be vague unless aided by pictorial illustrations. Mere
figures and measurements are dry and cold. The most I
shall aim at will be to give a general (but I hope not indistinct)
<i>impression</i> of it. For this let us approach it
gradually.</p>

<p>It stands on the banks of the Jumna, a mile below the
Fort at Agra. As you approach it, it is not exposed abruptly
to view, but is surrounded by a garden. You enter under
a lofty gateway, and before you is an avenue of cypresses a
third of a mile long, whose dark foliage is a setting for a form
of dazzling whiteness at the end. That is the <span class="smcap">Taj</span>. It
stands, not on the level of your eye, but on a double terrace;
the first, of red sandstone, twenty feet high, and a thousand
feet broad; at the extremities of which stand two mosques,
of the same dark stone, facing each other. Midway between
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">158</a></span>
rises the second terrace, of marble, fifteen feet high, and
three hundred feet square, on the corners of which stand four
marble minarets. In the centre of all, thus "reared in air,"
stands the Taj. It is built of marble&mdash;no other material
than this of pure and stainless white were fit for a purpose
so sacred. It is a hundred and fifty feet square (or rather
it is eight-sided, since the corners are truncated), and surmounted
by a dome, which rises nearly two hundred feet
above the pavement below.</p>

<p>These figures rather belittle the Taj, or at least disappoint
those who looked for great size. There are many larger
buildings in the world. But that which distinguishes it
from all others, and gives it a rare and ideal beauty, is the
union of majesty and grace. This is the peculiar effect of
Saracenic architecture. The slender columns, the springing
arches, the swelling domes, the tall minarets, all combine to
give an impression of airy lightness, which is not destroyed
even when the foundations are laid with massive solidity.
But it is in the finish of their structures that they excelled
all the world. Bishop Heber said truly: "They built like
Titans and finished like jewellers." This union of two
opposite features makes the beauty of the Taj. While its
walls are thick and strong, they are pierced by high arched
windows which relieve their heaviness. Vines and arabesques
running over the stone work give it the lightness of
foliage, of trees blossoming with flowers. In the interior
there is an extreme and almost feminine grace, as if here
the strength of man would pay homage to the delicacy of
woman. Enclosing the sacred spot is a screen of marble,
carved into a kind of fretwork, and so pure and white that
light shines through it as through alabaster, falling softly
on that which is within. The Emperor, bereaved of his
wife, lavished riches on her very dust, casting precious
stones upon her tomb, as if he were placing a string of
pearls around her neck. It is overrun with vines and
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">159</a></span>
flowers, cut in stone, and set with onyx and jasper and
lapis lazuli, carnelians and turquoises, and chalcedonies and
sapphires.</p>

<p>But the body rests in the crypt below. We descend a few
steps and stand by the very sarcophagus in which all that
loveliness is enshrined. Another sarcophagus contains the
body of her husband. Their tombs were covered with fresh
flowers, a perpetual tribute to that love which was so strong
even on the throne; to those who were thus united in life,
and in death are not divided.</p>

<p>Here sentiment comes in to affect our sense of the beauty
of the place. If it were not for the touching history connected
with it, I could not agree with those who pronounce
the Taj the most beautiful building in the world. Merely as
a building, it does not "overcome" me so much as another
marble structure&mdash;the Cathedral of Milan. I could not say
with Bishop Heber that the mosques of Islam are more
beautiful, or more in harmony with the spirit of devotion,
than Christian churches or cathedrals. But the Taj is
not a mosque, it is a tomb&mdash;a monument to the dead. And
that gives it a tender interest, which spiritualizes the cold
marble, and makes it more than a building&mdash;a poem and a
dream.</p>

<p>This impression grew upon us the more we saw it. On
our last night in Agra we drove there to take our last view
by moonlight. All slept peacefully on the banks of the
Jumna. Slowly we walked through the long avenue of dark
cypresses, that stood like ranks of mourners waiting for the
dead to pass, their tops waving gently in the night wind, as
if breathing a soft requiem over the departed. Mounting
the terrace we stood again before the Taj, rising into the
calm blue heavens. A few nights before the Prince of Wales
had been here, and the interior had been illuminated. As
we had not seen it then, we had engaged attendants with
blue lights, who gave us an illumination of our own. It
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">160</a></span>
was a weird scene as these swarthy natives, with naked
arms, held aloft their torches, whose blue flames, flaring and
flickering, cast a spectral light upward into the dim vault
above.</p>

<p>To add to the ghostly effect, we heard whispers above us,
as if there were unseen witnesses. It was the echo of our
own voices, but one starts to hear himself in such a place.
The dome is a whispering gallery; and as we stood beside
the tomb, and spoke in a low voice (not to disturb the sleep
of the dead), our words seemed to be repeated. Any sound
at the tomb&mdash;a sigh of pity, or a plaintive melody&mdash;rising
upward, comes back again,&mdash;faintly indeed, yet distinctly and
sweetly&mdash;as if the very air trembled in sympathy, repeating
the accents of love and of despair, or as if unseen spirits
were floating above, and singing the departing soul to its
rest.</p>

<p>Then we went down once more into the crypt below,
where sleeps the form of the beautiful empress, and of Shah
Jehan, who built this monument for her, at her side. The
place was dark, and the lights in the hands of the attendants
cast but a feeble glimmer, but this deep shadow and silence
suited the tenor of our thoughts, and we lingered, reluctant
to depart from the resting-place of one so much beloved.</p>

<p>As we came out the moon was riding high overhead, flooding
the marble pile with beauty. Round and round we
walked, looking up at arch and dome and minaret. At such
an hour the Taj was so pale and ghostlike, that it did not
seem like a building reared by human hands, but to have
grown where it stood&mdash;like a night-blooming Cereus, rising
slowly in the moonlight&mdash;lifting its domes and pinnacles
(like branches growing heavenward) towards that world
which is the home of the love which it was to preserve in
perpetual memory.</p>

<p>With such thoughts we kept our eyes fixed on that glittering
vision, as if we feared that even as we gazed it might
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">161</a></span>
vanish out of our sight. Below us the Jumna, flowing silently,
seemed like an image of human life as it glided by. And
so at last we turned to depart, and bade farewell to the Taj,
feeling that we should never look on it again; but hoping
that it might stand for ages to tell its history of faithful love
to future generations. Flow on, sweet Jumna, by the marble
walls, reflecting the moonbeams in thy placid breast; and
in thy gentle murmurs whispering evermore of Love and
Death, and Love that cannot die!
</p>

<h3 class="p6">CHAPTER XIII.</h3>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">162</a></span></p>
<p class="ch_summ">DELHI&mdash;A MOHAMMEDAN FESTIVAL&mdash;SCENES IN THE MUTINY.</p>

<p>Delhi is the Rome of the old Mogul Empire. Agra was
the capital in the time of Akbar, but Delhi is an older city.
It had a history before the Moguls. It is said to have been
destroyed and rebuilt seven times, and thus is overspread
with the ashes of many civilizations. Its very ruins attest
its ancient greatness. The plain around Delhi is like the
Campagna around Rome&mdash;covered with the remains of palaces
and mosques, towers and tombs, which give credit to the
historical statement that the city was once thirty miles in circuit,
and had two millions of inhabitants. This greatness
tempted the spoiler. In 1398 it was plundered by Tamerlane;
in 1525 it was taken by his descendant, Baber, the
founder of the Mogul dynasty. Akbar made Agra, 112
miles to the south, his capital; but Shah Jehan, the monarch
of magnificent tastes, who built the Taj, attracted by the
mighty memories of this Rome of Asia, returned to Delhi,
and here laid the foundations of a city that was to exceed all
the capitals that had gone before it, if not in size, at least in
splendor.</p>

<p>That distinction it still retains among the cities of India.
Though not a tenth of old Delhi in size, it has to-day over
160,000 inhabitants. It is surrounded by walls seven miles
in extent. We enter under lofty arched gateways, and find
ourselves in the midst of a picturesque population, representing
all the races of Southern and Central Asia. The city is
much gayer than Agra. Its streets are full of people of all
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">163</a></span>
colors and costumes. Its shops are rich in Indian jewelry,
which is manufactured here, and in Cashmere shawls and
other Oriental fabrics; and in walking through the Chandney
Chook, the Broadway of Delhi, one might imagine himself
in the bazaars of Cairo or Constantinople.</p>

<p>The Fort is very like that of Agra, being built of the same
red sandstone, but much larger, and encloses a Palace which
Bishop Heber thought superior to the Kremlin. In the Hall
of Audience, which still remains, stood the famous Peacock
Throne, which is estimated to have been worth thirty millions
of dollars. Here the Great Mogul lived in a magnificence
till then unknown even in Oriental courts. At the time that
Louis XIV. was on the throne of France, a French traveller,
Tavernier, made his way to the East, and though he had seen
all the glory of Versailles, he was dazzled by this greater
Eastern splendor. But what a comment on the vanity of all
earthly power, that the monarch who built this Palace was
not permitted to live in it! He was dethroned by his son,
the wily Aurungzebe, who imprisoned his father and murdered
his brother, to get possession of the throne. Shah
Jehan was taken back to Agra, and confined in the Fort,
where he passed the last years of his life. But as it is only
a mile from the Taj, the dethroned King, as he sat in his high
tower, could see from his windows the costly mausoleum he
had reared. Death came at last to his relief, as it comes
alike to kings and captives, and he was laid in his marble
tomb, beside the wife he had so much loved.</p>

<p>This story of crime is relieved by one of the most touching
instances of fidelity recorded in history. When all
others deserted the fallen monarch, there was one true heart
that was faithful still. He had a daughter, the favorite
sister of that murdered brother, who shared her father's
captivity. She was famous throughout the East for her wit
and beauty, but sorrow brought out the nobler traits of her
character. She clung to her father, and thus comforted the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">164</a></span>
living while she mourned for the dead. She became very
religious, and spent her life in deeds of charity. She is not
buried in the Taj Mahal, but at Delhi in a humble grave.
Lowly in spirit and broken in heart, she shrank from display
even in her tomb. She desired to be buried in the common
earth, with only the green turf above her. There she sleeps
beneath a lowly mound (though surrounded by costly marble
shrines), and near the head is a plain tablet, with an inscription
in Persian, which reads: "Let no rich canopy cover my
grave. This grass is the best covering for the tomb of one
who was poor in spirit&mdash;the humble, the transitory Jehanara,
the disciple of the holy men of Cheest, the daughter of the
Emperor Shah Jehan." Was there ever a more touching
inscription? As I stood by this grave, on which the green
grass was growing, and read these simple words, I was more
moved than even when standing by the marble sarcophagus
under the dome of the Taj. That covered an Emperor's
wife, and was the monument of a royal husband's affection;
this recalled a daughter's fidelity&mdash;broken in heart, yet
loving and faithful, and devoted to the last.</p>

<p>But humiliations were to come to the house of Aurungzebe.
As Louis XIV. on his deathbed had to mourn his
haughty policy, which had ended in disaster and defeat, so
Aurungzebe was hardly in his grave when troubles gathered
round his house.<a name="FNanchor_3" id="FNanchor_3" href="#Footnote_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a> About thirty years after, a conqueror
from Persia, Nadir Shah, came down from the passes of the
Himalayas, ravaged the North of India to the gates of Delhi,
plundered the city and the palace, and carried off the Peacock
Throne&mdash;putting out the eyes of the Great Mogul, telling
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">165</a></span>
him in bitter mockery that he had no more need of his
throne, since he had no longer eyes to see it!</p>

<p>Other sorrows followed hard after. The kingdom was
overrun by the terrible Mahrattas, whose horses' hoofs had
so often trampled the plains of India. Then came the English,
who took Delhi at the beginning of this century. But
still the phantom of the old Empire lived, and there was an
Indian Rajah, who bore the sounding name of the Great
Mogul. The phantom continued till the Mutiny twenty
years ago, when this "King of Delhi" was set up by the
Sepoys as their rallying cry. The overthrow of the Rebellion
was the end of his house. His sons were put to death,
and he was sent into exile, and the Great Mogul ceased to
reign.</p>

<p>But though he no longer reigns in Delhi, yet it is one of
the chief centres of Islam in the world. Queen Victoria has
more Mohammedan subjects than the Sultan. There are
forty millions of Moslems in India. Delhi is their Mecca.
It has some forty mosques, whose tall minarets and gilded
domes produce a very brilliant effect. One especially, the
Jumma Musjid, is the most magnificent in India. It stands
on a high terrace, mounted by long flights of steps, which give
it an imposing effect. Huge bronze doors open into a large
court, with a fountain in the centre, and surrounded by arched
passages, like cloisters. Here are preserved with religious
care some very ancient copies of the Koran, and the footprint
of Mohammed in black marble (!), and (holiest relic of all)
a coarse red hair, which is said to have been plucked from
the beard of the prophet!</p>

<p>Nor is Mohammedanism in India a dead faith, whose fire
has died out, its forms only being still preserved. The recurrence
of one of their festivals arouses their religious zeal
to the highest pitch of fanaticism. We were in Delhi at the
time of the Mohurrim, the Moslem "Feast of Martyrs," designed
to commemorate the bloody deaths of the grandsons
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">166</a></span>
of Mohammed. Macaulay, in his review of the Life of Lord
Clive, gives an instance in which this day was chosen for a
military assault because of the frenzy with which it kindled
all true Mussulmans. He says:</p>

<div class="blockquot">
<p>
"It was the great Mohammedan festival, which is sacred to the
memory of Hosein, the son of Ali. The history of Islam contains
nothing more touching than the event which gave rise to that solemnity.
The mournful legend relates how the chief of the Fatimites,
when all his brave followers had perished round him, drank his
latest draught of water and uttered his latest prayer; how the assassins
carried his head in triumph; how the tyrant smote the lifeless
lips with his staff; and how a few old men recollected with tears that
they had seen those lips pressed to the lips of the Prophet of God.
After the lapse of twelve centuries, the recurrence of this solemn season
excites the fiercest and saddest emotions in the bosoms of the
devout Moslems of India. They work themselves up to such agonies
of rage and lamentation, that some, it is said, have given up the
ghost from the mere effect of mental excitement."
</p>
</div>

<p>Such was the celebration that we witnessed in Delhi. The
martyrdom of these Moslem saints is commemorated by little
shrines in their houses, made of paper and tinsel, and on the
great day of the feast they go in procession out of the city to
a cemetery five miles distant, and there bury them in hundreds
of newly-opened graves. As we drove out of Delhi,
we found the procession on its march; men, women, and
children by tens of thousands on foot, and others in bullock-carts,
or mounted on horses, camels, and elephants. Immense
crowds gathered by the roadside, mounting the steps of old
palaces, or climbing to the tops of houses, to see this mighty
procession pass, as it went rolling forward in a wild frenzy
to its Golgotha&mdash;its place of a skull. There they lay down
these images of their saints as they would bury their dead. We
went into the cemetery, and saw the open graves, and the little
shrines garlanded with flowers, that were laid in the earth,
not (so far as we saw) with weeping and wailing, but rather
with a feeling of triumph and victory.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">167</a></span></p>

<p>Leaving this scene of wild fanaticism, we rode on a few
miles farther to the Kootub Minar, the loftiest isolated
tower in the world, that has stood there six hundred years,
looking down on all the strange scenes that have passed within
its horizon, since watchers from its summit saw the armies
of Tamerlane march by. We rode back through a succession
of ruins, stopping at several royal tombs, but most interested
in one where the sons of the aged king of Delhi took refuge
after the fall of the city, and from which they were taken out
by Captain Hodson, and shot in the presence of their deluded
followers, and their bodies exposed in the Chandney Chook, to
the terror of the wretched people, who had seen the cruelty
of these young princes, and were awed to see the retribution
that overtook those who had stained their hands with blood.</p>

<p>This tragedy took place less than twenty years ago, and
recalls that recent history from which fresh interest gathers
round the walls of Delhi. This city played a great part in
the Mutiny of 1857. Indeed it broke out at Meerut, thirty
miles from here, where the Sepoys rose upon their officers,
and massacred the Europeans of both sexes, and then rushed
along the road to Delhi, to rouse the natives here to mutiny.
Had those in command anticipated such a blow, they might
have rallied their little force, and shut themselves up in the
Fort (as was done at Agra), with provisions and ammunition
for a siege, and there kept the tigers at bay. But they could
not believe that the native troops, that had been obedient
till now, could "turn and rend them." They were undeceived
when they saw these Sepoys drunk with blood, rushing
into the town, calling on their fellow-soldiers to rise and
kill. Many perished on the spot. But they fell not ingloriously.
A brave officer shut himself up in the Arsenal, and
when the mutineers had gathered around, ready to burst in,
applied the torch, and blew himself and a thousand natives
into the air. The little handful of troops fled from the town,
and were scarcely able to rally enough to be safe even at a
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">168</a></span>
distance. But then rose the unconquerable English spirit.
With this small nucleus of an army, and such reinforcements
as could be brought from the Punjaub, they held out through
the long, dreadful Summer, till in September they had mustered
all together seven thousand men (half of whom were
natives), with which they proposed to assault a walled city
held by sixty thousand native troops! Planting their guns
on the Ridge, a mile or two distant, they threw shells into the
town, and as their fire took effect, they advanced their lines
nearer and nearer. But they did not advance unopposed.
Many of the Sepoys were practised artillerists (since the
Mutiny all the artillery regiments in India are English), and
answered back with fatal aim. Still, though the English ranks
were thinned, they kept pushing on; they came nearer and
nearer, and the roar of their guns was louder and louder. Approaching
the walls at one point, they wished to blow up the
Cashmere Gate. It was a desperate undertaking. But when
was English courage known to fail? A dozen men were detailed
for the attempt. Four natives carried bags of powder
on their shoulders, but as they drew within rifle range, English
soldiers stepped up to take their places, for they would not
expose their native allies to a danger which they were ready
to encounter themselves. The very daring of the movement
for an instant bewildered the enemy. The Sepoys within
saw these men coming up to the gate, but thinking perhaps
that they were deserters, did not fire upon them, and it
was not till they darted back again that they saw the design.
Then came the moment of danger, when the mine was to be
fired. A sergeant advanced quickly, but fell mortally wounded;
a second sprang to the post, but was shot dead; the
third succeeded, but fell wounded; the fourth rushed forward,
and seeing the train lighted sprang into the moat, the
bullets whizzed over him, and the next instant a tremendous
explosion threw the heavy wall into the air.</p>

<p>Such are the tales of courage still told by the camp-fires of
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">169</a></span>
the regiments here. More than once did we walk out to the
Cashmere Gate, and from that point followed the track of
the English troops as they stormed the city, pausing at the
spot where the brave General Nicholson fell. With mingled
pride and sadness, we visited his grave, and those of others
who fell in the siege. The English church is surrounded
with them, and many a tablet on its walls tells of the heroic
dead. Such memories are a legacy to the living. We attended
service there, and as we saw the soldiers filing into
the church, and heard the swords of their officers ringing on
the pavement, we felt that the future of India was safe when
committed to such brave defenders!</p>

<p>This church was standing during the siege, and above it
rose a gilded ball, supporting a cross, which was an object of
hatred to both Mohammedan and Hindoo, who wished to
see this symbol of our religion brought to the ground. Again
and again they aimed their guns at it, and the globe was riddled
with balls, but still <i>the cross stood</i>, until the city was
completely subdued, when it was reverently taken down by
English hands, and carried to the Historical Museum, to be
kept as a sacred relic. May we not take this as a sign of the
way in which the Christian faith will stand against all the
false religions of India?</p>

<p>But I turn from battles and sieges to a lighter picture.
One may find great amusement in the street scenes of Delhi,
which will relieve these "dun clouds of war." In the Mohammedan
procession we had seen hundreds of the drollest
little carts, drawn by oxen, on which the natives were stuck
like pins, the sight of which, with the loads of happy life
they bore, excited our envy. Before leaving Delhi, we
thought it would be very "nice" to take a turn around the
town in one of these extraordinary vehicles. We had tried
almost every kind of locomotion; we had ridden on horses
and donkeys, on camels and elephants, and had been borne
in palanquins; but one more glory awaited us&mdash;to ride in a
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">170</a></span>
"bali,"&mdash;and so we commanded one to attend us for our
royal pleasure. But when it drew up in the yard of the
hotel, we looked at it in amazement. There stood the oxen,
as ready to draw us as a load of hay; but what a "chariot"
was this behind! It was a kind of baby-house on cart-wheels&mdash;a
cushion and a canopy&mdash;one seat, with a sort of umbrella
over it, under which a native "lady" sits in state, with her
feet curled up between her. How we were to get into it was
the question. There were three of us, for the surgeon of the
Peshawur had joined us. C. of course had the place of
honor, while the Doctor and I sat on the edge of the seat,
with our lower limbs extended at right angles. The "bali"
is rigged somewhat like an Irish jaunting-car, in which one
sits sidewise, hanging over the wheels; only in a jaunting-car
there is a board for the feet to rest upon, whereas here
the feet are literally "nowhere." In the East there is no
provision for the lower part of a man. Legs are very much in
the way. A Turk or Hindoo curls them up under him, and
has done with them. But if an impracticable European will
dangle them about where they ought not to be, he must take
the consequences. I find that the only way is to look out
for the main chance&mdash;to see that the body is safe, and let the
legs take care of themselves. Then if an accident happens,
I am not responsible; I have done my duty. So we now
"faced the situation," and while the central personage reposed
like a Sultana on a soft divan, her attendants faced in
either direction, with their extremities flying all abroad.
We felt as if sitting on the edge of a rickety chair, that
might break any moment and pitch us into the street. But
we held fast to the slender bamboo reeds that supported the
canopy, and, thrusting our feet into the air, bade the chariot
proceed.</p>

<p>The driver sits astride the tongue of the cart, and sets the
thing going by giving the animals a kick in the rear, or seizing
the tails and giving them a twist, which sets the beasts
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">171</a></span>
into an awkward, lumbering gallop. He was proud of his
team, and wished to show us their mettle, and now gave the
tails a Herculean twist, which sent them tearing like mad
bulls along the street. Everybody turned to look at us,
while we laughed at the absurdity of our appearance, and
wished that we could have our photograph taken to send
home. Thus we rode to the great Mosque of the city, and
through the Chandney Chook, the street of the bazaars, and
back to our hotel, having had glory enough for one day.
</p>

<h3 class="p6">CHAPTER XIV.</h3>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">172</a></span></p>
<p class="ch_summ">FROM DELHI TO LAHORE.</p>

<p>Times have changed since twenty years ago, when Delhi
was the head and front of the Rebellion. It is now as tranquil
and loyal as any city in India. As we rode out to the
Ridge, where the English planted their guns during the
siege, we found it surmounted by a lofty Memorial Tower,
reared to mark the spot where the courage of a few thousand
men saved India. So completely is the English power re-established,
that Delhi was lately chosen over all Indian
cities as the one where should be gathered the most imposing
display of troops to do honor to their future sovereign, the
Prince of Wales. Some forty regiments, native and English,
were mustered here to form a grand Camp of Exercise.
Never before had India witnessed such a military display.
Here were native regiments in the picturesque costumes of
the East&mdash;the superb Sikh cavalry; a corps of guides
mounted on camels; and heavy artillery drawn by elephants,
which, as they came before the Prince, threw up their trunks
and trumpeted a salute to the Majesty of England. Two
weeks passed in military man&oelig;uvres, and the nights in a
constant round of festivities. The Fort was brilliantly illuminated,
and the Palace was thronged with "fair women and
brave men," but they were those of another race, and speaking
another language, from any known to the Great Mogul.
Manly English forms took the place of the dusky Hindoos,
and bright English eyes shone where once the beauties of the
Seraglio "looked out from the lattice." As we walked
through these marble halls that had just witnessed these
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">173</a></span>
splendid festivities, I could but think, What would the old
fanatical Mohammedan Aurungzebe have said, if he could
have seen, less than two hundred years after his day, a Christian
prince from that distant island of which he had perhaps
scarcely heard, received in his palace, the heir of a
power ten thousand miles away, that from its seat on the
banks of the Thames stretches out its hand across the seas
to grasp and hold the vast empire of the house of Tamerlane?</p>

<p>The change has been from darkness to light. If England
has not done as much for Delhi as the Great Mogul to give
it architectural beauty, it has done far more for the people.
It has given them good government for their protection, just
laws rigidly enforced against the rich as well as the poor, a
police which preserves perfect order; and it even cares for the
material comfort of its subjects, giving them good roads, clean
and well-lighted streets, and public gardens; thus providing
for ornament and pleasure as well as for utility.</p>

<p>The Camp of Exercise was breaking up as we left Delhi,
and the troops were marching home. We saw them filing
out of the gates of the city, and drew up by the roadside to
see the gallant warriors pass. Among them was the corps of
Sikh guides, or couriers, mounted on "swift dromedaries."
As they were scattered along the road, our guide asked some
of them to show us how they could go. In an instant they
dashed their feet against the sides of their "coursers," and
set them off at full speed. I cannot say that they were very
beautiful objects. The camel with his long strides, and with
the legs of his rider outspread like the wings of a bird, looked
like an enormous ostrich flying at once with legs and wings
in swift chase over the desert. But certainly it was a picturesque
sight. The infantry marched in column. The spectacle
was very gay, as the morning sun shone on the waving
banners and gleaming bayonets, and the sound of their bugles
died away in the distance. Regiments had been leaving for
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">174</a></span>
days, and were scattered at intervals far to the North. As
we travelled at night, we saw their camp-fires for a hundred
miles. Indeed the whole country seemed to be a camp.
Once or twice we came upon a regiment at sunset, just as
they had pitched their tents. They had parked their guns,
and picketed their horses, and the men were cooking their
evening meal. It was a busy scene for an hour or two, till
suddenly all became quiet, and the silence of night was broken
only by the sentinel's tramp and the jackal's cry.</p>

<p>At Gazeeabad we met Sir Bartle Frere, the chief of the
suite of the Prince of Wales, and Canon Duckworth, his
chaplain, who were going North on the same train, and found
them extremely courteous. The former, I think, must be of
French descent from his name (although his family has been
settled in England for generations), and from his manners,
which seemed to me more French than English, or rather to
have the good qualities of both. When French courtesy is
united with English sincerity, it makes the finest gentleman
in the world. He is an "old Indian," having been many
years in the Indian service, and at one time Governor of
Bombay. I could but share the wish (which I heard often
expressed) that in the change which was just taking place, he
were to be the new Governor-General of India.</p>

<p>Canon Duckworth seemed to me also a very "manly
man." Though coming to India in the train of royalty, he
is much less interested in the fêtes which are setting the
country ablaze, than in studying missions, visiting native
churches and schools and orphanages. Our American missionaries
like his bearing, and wish that he might be appointed
the new Bishop of Bombay. One fact should be mentioned
to his credit&mdash;that he is one of the strongest temperance men
in England, carrying his principles and his practice to the
point of rigid total abstinence, which, for one travelling in
such company, and sitting at such entertainments, shows a
firmness in resisting temptation, greatly to his honor. It is
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">175</a></span>
a good sign when such men are chosen to accompany the
future King of England on his visit to this great dependency,
over which he is one day to rule.</p>

<p>That night we had our first sight of the Himalayas. Just
at evening we saw on the horizon a fire spreading on the
side of a mountain. It was kindled by the natives, as fires
are sometimes lighted in our forests or on our prairies.
There were the Himalayas!</p>

<p>We now entered the most Northwestern Province of India,
the Punjaub, which signifies in Persian "the land of the
five streams," which coming together like the fingers of a
hand, make the Indus. About midnight we crossed the
Sutlej, which was the limit of the conquests of Alexander
the Great.</p>

<p>Morning brought us to Umritzur, the holy city of the
Sikhs&mdash;a sect of reformed Hindoos, who began their "reforms"
by rejecting idolatry, but have found the fascination
of the old worship too strong for them, and have gradually
fallen back into their old superstitions. Their most holy
place is a temple standing in the centre of a large tank of
water, which they call the Lake of Immortality, and with its
pure white marble, and its roof made of plates of copper,
richly gilded, merits the title of the Golden Temple. This
is a very holy place, and they would not let us even cross
the causeway to it without taking off our shoes; and when
we put on slippers, and shuffled about, still they followed,
watching us with sharp eyes, lest by any unguarded step we
should profane their sanctuary. They are as fanatical as
Mussulmans, and glared at us with such fierce looks that the
ladies of our party were almost frightened. In the centre of
the temple sat two priests, on raised mats, to whom the rest
were making offerings, while half a dozen musicians kept up
a hideous noise, to which the people responded in a way that
reminded us of the Howling Dervishes of Constantinople.</p>

<p>A pleasant change from this disgusting scene was a visit
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">176</a></span>
to the bazaars, and to the places where Cashmere shawls are
manufactured. Of the latter I must say that (as a visit to a
dirty kitchen does not quicken one's appetite for the steaming
dinner that comes from it), if our fine ladies could see
the dens in which these shawls are woven, they might not
wear them with quite so much pride. They are close, narrow
rooms, in which twenty or thirty men are crowded together,
working almost without light or air. The only poetical thing
about it is that the patterns are written out <i>in rhyme</i>, which
they read or sing as they weave, and thus keep the patterns
so regular. But the rooms themselves seem like breeding
places for the cholera and the plague. But out of this filth
comes beauty, as a flower shoots up from the damp, black
soil. Some of the shawls were indeed exquisite in pattern
and fabric. One was offered to us for eight hundred rupees
(four hundred dollars), which the dealer said had taken two
years and a half in its manufacture!</p>

<p>We left Umritzur at five o'clock, and in a couple of hours
rolled into the station at Lahore. As the train stopped a
friendly voice called our name, and we were greeted most
heartily by Dr. Newton, the father of the Mission. Coolies
were waiting to carry our baggage, and in a few minutes we
were in an American home, sitting before a blazing fire, and
receiving a welcome most grateful to strangers on the other
side of the world. Dr. Newton is the head of a missionary
family, his four sons being engaged in the same work, while
his only daughter is the wife of Mr. Forman, another missionary.
Very beautiful it was to see how they all gathered
round their father, so revered and beloved, happy to devote
their lives to that form of Christian activity to which he
had led them both by instruction and example. Here we
spent four happy days in one of the most pleasant homes
in India.</p>

<p>Lahore, like Delhi, has a historical interest. It was a
great city a thousand years ago. In 1241 it was taken and
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">177</a></span>
plundered by Genghis Khan; a century and a half later came
Tamerlane, who did not spoil it only because it was too poor
to reward his rapacity. But as it recovered a little of its
prosperity, Baber, in 1524, plundered it and partially burnt
it. But again it rose from its ashes, and became a great
city. The period of its glory was during the time of the
Moguls, when it covered a space eighteen miles in circumference,
and this vast extent is still strewn with the ruins of
its former greatness. Huge mounds, like those which Layard
laid open at Nineveh, cover the mighty wreck of former
cities.</p>

<p>But though the modern city bears no comparison to the
ancient, still it has a political and commercial importance.
It is the capital of the Punjaub, and a place of commerce
with Central Asia. The people are the finest race we have
seen in India. They are not at all like the effeminate Bengalees.
They are the Highlanders of India. Tall and athletic,
they seem born to be warriors. Their last great ruler,
old Runjeet Sing, was himself a soldier, and knew how to
lead them to victory. Uniting policy with valor, he kept peace
with the English, against whom his successors dashed themselves
and were destroyed. All readers of Indian history will
remember the Sikh war, and how desperate was the struggle
before the Punjaub was subdued. But English prowess conquered
at last, and the very province that had fought so
bravely became the most loyal part of the Indian empire. It
was fortunate that at the breaking out of the mutiny the
Governor of the Punjaub was Sir John Lawrence, who had
a great ascendancy over the natives, and by his courage and
prompt measures he succeeded not only in keeping them
quiet, but in mustering here a considerable force to restore
English authority in the rest of India. The Punjaubees took
part in the siege of Delhi. From that day they have been
the most trusted of natives for their courage and their fidelity.
They are chosen for police duty in the cities of India, and
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">178</a></span>
three months later we were much pleased to recognize our
old friends keeping guard and preserving order in the streets
of Hong Kong.</p>

<p>Old Runjeet Sing is dead&mdash;and well dead, as I can testify,
having seen his tomb, where his four wives and seven
concubines, that were burnt on his funeral pile, are buried
with him. His son too sleeps in a tomb near by, but only
seven widowed women were sacrificed for him, and for a
grandson only four! Thus there was a falling off in the
glory of the old suttee, and then the light of these fires
went out altogether. These were the last widows burnt
on the funeral pile, and to-day the old Lion of the Punjaub
is represented by his son Maharajah Dhuleep Sing,
of whose marriage we heard such a romantic story in Cairo,
and who now lives with his Christian wife in Christian England.</p>

<p>We had now reached almost the frontier of India. Two
hundred and fifty miles farther we should have come to Peshawur,
the last military post, on the border of Afghanistan,
which no man crosses but at the peril of his life. We find
how far North we have come by the race and the language
of the people. Persian begins to be mingled with Hindostanee.
In the streets of Lahore we meet not only the
stalwart Punjaubees, but the hill tribes, that have come out
of the fastnesses of the Himalayas; the men of Cabul&mdash;Afghans
and Beloochees&mdash;who have a striking resemblance to
the Circassians, who crossed the Mediterranean with us on
their pilgrimage to Mecca, the long dresses of coarse, dirty
flannel, looking not unlike the sheepskin robes of the wild
mountaineers of the Caucasus.</p>

<p>One cannot be so near the border line of British India
without having suggested the possibility of a Russian invasion,
the fear of which has been for the last twenty years
(since the Mutiny and since the Crimean War) the bugbear
of certain writers who are justly jealous of the integrity of
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">179</a></span>
the English Empire in the East. Russia has been steadily
pushing Eastward, and establishing her outposts in Central
Asia. These gradual advances, it is supposed, are all to the
end of finally passing through Afghanistan, and attacking
the English power in India. The appearance of Russian
soldiers in the passes of the Hindoo Koosh, it is taken for
granted, will be the signal for a general insurrection in
India; the country will be in a state of revolution; and at
the end of a struggle in which Russians and Hindoos will
fight together against the English, the British power will
have departed never to return. Or even should the Russians
be held back from actual invasion, their approach in a threatening
attitude would be such a menace to the Indian
Empire, as would compel England to remain passive, while
Russia carried out her designs in Europe by taking possession
of Constantinople.</p>

<p>This is a terrible prospect, and no one can say that it is
impossible that all this should yet come to pass. India has
been invaded again and again from the time of Alexander
the Great. Even the mighty wall of the Himalayas has not
proved an effectual barrier against invasion. Genghis Khan
and Tamerlane, with their Tartar hordes, crossed the mountains
and swept over the plains of Northern India. A King
of Persia captured Delhi, and put out the eyes of the Great
Mogul, and carried off the Peacock Throne of Aurungzebe.
What has been, may be; what Persia has done, Russia may
do.</p>

<p>But while no one can say that it is impossible, all can see
that the difficulties are enormous. The distance to be traversed,
the deserts and the mountains to be crossed, are so
many obstacles set up by nature itself. An army from the
Caspian Sea must march thousands of miles over great deserts,
where even a small caravan can hardly subsist, and then
only by carrying both food to eat and water to drink. Many
a caravan is buried by the sands of the desert. What then
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">180</a></span>
must be the difficulty of passing a whole army over such a
distance and such a desert, with food for men and horses,
and carrying guns and all the munitions of war! Five years
ago, Russia attempted a campaign against Khiva, and sent out
three separate expeditions, one of which was forced to turn
back, not by hostile armies, but by the natural obstacles in
its path, while the main column, under Gen. Kaufman, came
very near succumbing to heat and thirst before reaching its
destination. But if the deserts are crossed, then the army
is at the foot of the loftiest mountains on the globe, in the
passes of which it may have to fight against savage enemies.
It is assumed that Russia will have the support of Afghanistan,
which will give them free access to the country, and
aid them in their march on India; though how a government
and people, which are fanatically Mussulman, should
aid Russia, which in Europe is the bitterest enemy of Turkey,
the great Mohammedan power, is a point which these
alarmists seem not to consider.</p>

<p>But suppose all difficulties vanquished&mdash;the deserts crossed
and the mountains scaled, and the Russians descending the
passes of the Himalayas&mdash;what an army must they meet at
its foot! Not a feeble race, like that which fled before Nadir
Shah or Tamerlane. With the railways traversing all India,
almost the whole Anglo-Indian army could be transported to
the Punjaub in a few days, and ready to receive the invaders.</p>

<p>With these defences in the country itself, add another
supreme fact, that England is absolute master of the sea, and
that Russia has no means of approach except over the deserts
and the mountains, and it will be seen that the difficulties in the
way of a Russian invasion render it practically impossible, at
least for a long time to come. What may come to pass in
another century, no man can foresee; but of this I feel well
assured, that there will be no Russian invasion within the
lifetime of this generation.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">181</a></span></p>

<p>We had now reached the limit of our journey to the
North, though we would have gladly gone farther. Dr. Newton
had spent the last summer in Cashmere, and told us
much of its beauty. We longed to cross the mountains, but
it was too early in the year. The passes were still blocked
up with snow. It would be months before we could make
our way over into the Vale of Cashmere. And so, though
we "lifted up our eyes unto the hills," we had to turn back
from seeing the glory beyond. Might we not comfort ourselves
by saying with Mohammed, as he looked down upon
Damascus, "There is but one Paradise for man, and I will
turn away my eyes from this, lest I lose that which is to
come."</p>

<p>And so we turned away our eyes from beholding Paradise.
But we had seen enough. So we thought as on Saturday
evening we rode out to the Shalamir gardens, where an emperor
had made a retreat, and laid out gardens with fountains,
and every possible accompaniment of luxury and pride.
All remains as he left it, but silent and deserted. Emperor
and court are gone, and as we walked through the gardens,
our own footfall on the marble pavement was the only sound
that broke the stillness of the place. But the beauty is as
great as ever under the clear, full moon, which, as we rode
back, recalled the lines of Scott on Melrose:</p>

<div class="poem">
<p class="o1">
"And home returning, sooth declare,</p>
<p>Was ever scene so sad and fair?"</p>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">182</a></span></p>

<h3 class="p6">CHAPTER XV.</h3>

<p class="ch_summ">A WEEK IN THE HIMALAYAS.</p>

<p>Ever since we landed in India my chief desire has been to
see the Himalayas. I had seen Mont Blanc, the highest
mountain in Europe, and now wished to look upon the highest
mountains in Asia, or the world. To reach them we had
travelled nearly fifteen hundred miles. We had already had
a distant view of them at night, lighted up by fires blazing
along their sides; but to come into their presence one must
leave the railway and cross the country some forty miles.</p>

<p>We left Lahore Monday morning, and at noon were at
Lodiana, a place with sacred missionary associations; which
we left at midnight, and in the morning reached Saharanpur,
where also is one of our Presbyterian missions. Rev. Mr.
Calderwood met us at the station, and made us welcome to
his home, and sped us on our way to the Hills.</p>

<p>Saharanpur is forty-two miles distant from Dehra Doon,
the beautiful valley which lies at the foot of the Himalayas.
A mail wagon runs daily, but as it suited our convenience
better, we chartered a vehicle not unlike an omnibus, and
which the natives, improving on the English, call an <i>omnibukus</i>.
It is a long covered <i>gharri</i>, that looks more like a
prison van than anything else to which I can compare it,
and reminded me of the Black Maria that halts before the
Tombs in New York to convey prisoners to Blackwell's
Island. There are only two seats running lengthwise, as
they are made to lie down upon in case of necessity. Much
of the travelling is at night, and "old Indians," who are used
to the ways of the country, will spread their "resais" and
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">183</a></span>
sleep soundly over all the joltings of the road. But we could
sleep about as well inside of a bass drum. So we gave up
the idea of repose, and preferred to travel by day to see the
country, for which this sort of conveyance is very well contrived.
The canvas top keeps off the sun, while the latticed
slides (which are regular green blinds), drawn back, give a
fine view of the country as we go rolling over the road. Our
charioteer, excited by the promise of a liberal backsheesh if
he should get us into Dehra Doon before nightfall, drove at
full speed. Every five or six miles the blast of his horn told
those at the next stage that somebody was coming, and that
a relay of fresh horses must be ready. As we approached
the hills he put on an extra horse, and then two, so that we
were driving four-in-hand. Then as the hills grew steeper,
he took two mules, with a horse in front as a leader, mounted
by a postilion, who, with his white dress and turbaned head,
made a very picturesque appearance. How gallantly he rode!
He struck his heels into the spirited little pony and set him
into a gallop, which the mules could but follow, and so we
went tearing up hill and down dale at a furious rate; while
the coachman blew his horn louder still to warn common folks
to get out of the way, and the natives drew to the roadside,
wondering what great man it was who thus dashed by.</p>

<p>But horses and mules were not enough to sustain such a
load of dignity, and at the last stage the driver took a pair
of the beautiful white hump-backed oxen of the country,
which drew us to the top of the pass. The hills which we
thus cross are known as the Sewalic range. The top once
attained, two horses were quite enough to take us down, and
we descended rapidly. And now rose before us a vision of
beauty such as we had not seen in all India. The vale of
Dehra Doon is enclosed between two walls of mountains&mdash;the
Sewalic range on one side, and the first range of the Himalayas
on the other. It is fifteen miles wide, and about sixty
miles long, extending from the Jumna to the Ganges. Thus
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">184</a></span>
it lies between two mountains and two rivers, and has a temperature
and a moisture which keep it in perpetual green.
Nothing can be more graceful than the tall feathery bamboos,
which here grow to a great height. Here are fine specimens
of the peepul tree&mdash;the sacred tree of India, massive as an
English oak&mdash;and groves of mangoes. Everything seems to
grow here&mdash;tea, coffee, tobacco, cinnamon, cloves. The appearance
of this rich valley, thus covered with groves and
gardens, to us coming from the burnt plains of India, was like
that of a garden of Paradise. Riding on through this mass
of foliage, we rattled into the town, but were not obliged to
"find our warmest welcome at an inn." Rev. Mr. Herron
had kindly invited us to accept his hospitality, and so we
inquired for "Herron-sahib," and were driven along a smooth
road, embowered in bamboos, to the Missionary Compound,
where a large building has been erected for a Female Seminary,
chiefly by the labors of Messrs. Woodside and Herron,
the latter of whom is in charge of the institution, one of the
most complete in India. Here we were most cordially
received, and found how welcome, in the farthest part of the
world, is the atmosphere of an American home.</p>

<p>But once in presence of the great mountains, we were impatient
to climb the first range, to get a view of the snows.
Mr. Herron offered to keep us company. We rose at four
the next morning, while the stars were still shining, and set
out, but could ride only five miles in a carriage, when we
came to the foot of the hills, and were obliged to take to the
saddle. Our "syces" had led three horses alongside, which
we mounted just as the starlight faded, and the gray light
of day began to show over the mountain-tops, while our
attendants, light of foot, kept by our side in case their services
were needed.</p>

<p>And now we begin the ascent, turning hither and thither,
as the road winds along the sides of the mountain. The
slope of the Himalayas is not a smooth and even one, rising
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">185</a></span>
gently through an unbroken forest. The mountain side has
been torn by the storms of thousands of years. In the
spring, when the snows melt and the rains come, every torrent
whose rocky bed is now bare, becomes a foaming flood,
rushing down the hills, and tearing its way through the lowlands,
till lost in the Jumna or the Ganges. Thus the
mountain is broken into innumerable spurs and ridges that
shoot out into the valley. Where the scanty herbage can
gather like moss on the rocks, there is grazing for sheep and
goats and cattle; and these upland pastures, like those of
the Alps or the Tyrol, are musical with the tinkling of bells.
High up on the mountains they are dark with pines; while
on the inner ranges of the Himalayas the mighty cedars
"shake like Lebanon."</p>

<p>One can imagine how lovely must be the Vale of Dehra
Doon, with its mass of verdure, set in the midst of such
rugged mountains. Although we were climbing upward, we
could but stop, as we came to turning points in the road, to
look back into the valley. Sometimes a projecting ledge of
rock offered a fine point of view, on which we reined up our
horses; or an old oak, bending its gnarled limbs over us,
made a frame to the picture, through which we looked down
into the fairest of Indian vales, unless it be the Vale of
Cashmere. From such a point the landscape seemed to combine
every element of beauty&mdash;plains, and woods, and streams
and mountains. Across the valley rises the long serrated ridge
of the Sewalic range. Within this space is enclosed a great
variety of surface&mdash;undulating in hill and valley, with green
meadows, and villages, and gardens, while here and there,
along the banks of the streams, whose beds are now dry, are
belts of virgin forest.</p>

<p>The industry of the people, which turns every foot of soil
to account, is shown by the way in which the spurs of the
mountains are terraced to admit of cultivation. Wherever
there is an acre of level ground, there is a patch of green,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">186</a></span>
for the wheat fields are just springing up; and even spaces
of but a few rods are planted with potatoes. Thus the sides
of the Himalayas are belted with lines of green, like the
sides of the Alps as one descends into Italy. The view is
especially beautiful at this morning hour as the sun rises,
causing the dews to lift from the valley, while here and there
a curl of smoke, rising through the mist, marks the place of
human habitation.</p>

<p>But we must prick up our horses, for the sun is up, and
we are not yet at the top. It is a good ride of two hours
(we took three) to the ridge on which are built the two
"hill stations" of Mussoorie and Landour&mdash;which are great
resorts of the English during the summer months. These
"stations" do not deserve the name of towns; they are
merely straggling Alpine villages. Indeed nowhere in the
Alps is there such a cluster of houses at such a height, or
in such a spot. There is no "site" for a regular village, no
place for a "main street." One might as well think of
"laying out" a village along the spine of a sharp-backed
whale, as on this narrow mountain ridge. There is hardly an
acre of level ground, only the jagged ends of hills, or points
of rocks, from which the torrents have swept away the earth
on either side, leaving only the bare surface. Yet on these
points and edges&mdash;wherever there is a shelf of rock to furnish
a foundation, the English have built their pretty bungalows,
which thus perched in air, 7,500 feet high, look like
mountain eyries, and might be the home of the eagles that
we see sailing over the valley below. From such a height
do they look over the very top of the Sewalic range to the
great plains of India.</p>

<p>But we did not stop at this mountain to look back.
Dashing through the little straggling bazaar of Landour, we
spurred on to the highest point, "Lal Tiba"; from which
we hoped for the great view of "the snows." We reached
the spot at nine o'clock, but as yet we saw "only in part."
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">187</a></span>
Our final vision was to come three days later. Away to the
North and East the horizon was filled with mountains, whose
summits the foot of man had never trod, but the intervening
distance was covered with clouds, out of which rose the
snowy domes, like islands in a sea.</p>

<p>My first impression of the Himalayas was one of disappointment,
partly because we "could not come nigh unto"
them. We saw their summits, but at such a distance that
they did not look so high as Mont Blanc, where we could
come "even to his feet" in the Vale of Chamouni. But the
Himalayas were seventy miles off,<a name="FNanchor_4" id="FNanchor_4" href="#Footnote_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a> filling the whole horizon.
Nor did they rise up in one mighty chain, like the Cordilleras
of Mexico, standing like a wall of rock and snow against the
sky; but seemed rather a sea of mountains, boundless and
billowy, rising range on range, one overtopping the other,
and rolling away to the heart of Asia; or, to change the
figure, the mountains appeared as an ice continent, like that
of the Polar regions, tossed up here and there into higher
and still higher summits, but around which, stretching away
to infinity, was the wild and interminable sea.</p>

<p>Thus the view, though different from what I expected,
was very grand, and though we had not yet the full, clear
vision, yet the sight was sublime and awful, perhaps even
more so from the partial obscurity, as great clouds came
rolling along the snowy heights, as if the heavenly host uprose
at the coming of the day, and were moving rank on
rank along the shining battlements.</p>

<p>We had hoped by waiting a few hours to get an unobstructed
view, but the clouds seemed to gather rather than
disperse, warning us to hasten our descent.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">188</a></span></p>

<p>In going up the mountain, C&mdash;&mdash; had kept along with us
on horseback, but the long ride to one not used to the saddle
had fatigued her so that on the return she was glad to accept
Mr. Herron's offer of a <i>dandi</i>, a chair borne by two men,
which two others accompanied as relays, while we, mounted
as before, followed as outriders. Thus mustering our little
force, we began to descend the mountain.</p>

<p>A mile or so from the top we turned aside at the house of
a gentleman who was a famous hunter, and who had a large
collection of living birds, pheasants and manauls, while the
veranda was covered with tiger and leopard skins. He was
absent, but his wife (who has the spirit and courage of a
huntress, and had often brought down a deer with her own
hand) was there, and bade us welcome. She showed us her
birds, both living and stuffed, the number of which made
her house look like an ornithological museum. To our inquiry
she said, "The woods were full of game. Two deer had been
shot the evening before."</p>

<p>We asked about higher game. She said that tigers were
not common up on the mountain as in the valley. She had
two enormous skins, but "the brutes" her husband had shot
over in Nepaul. But leopards seemed to be her special pets.
When I asked, "Have you many leopards about here?" she
laughed as she answered, "I should think so." She often
saw them just across a ravine a few rods in front of her
house, chasing goats or sheep. "It was great fun." Of
late they had become rather troublesome in killing dogs.
And so they had been obliged to set traps for them. They
framed a kind of cage, with two compartments, in one of
which they tied a dog, whose yelpings at night attracted the
leopard, who, creeping round and round, to get at his prey,
at length dashed in to seize the poor creature, but found bars
between them, while the trap closed upon him, and Mr. Leopard
was a prisoner. In this way they had caught four the
last summer. Then this Highland lady came out from her
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">189</a></span>
cottage, and with a rifle put an end to the leopard's career in
devouring dogs. The number of skins on the veranda told
of their skill and success.</p>

<p>Pursuing my inquiry into the character of her neighbors,
I asked, "Have you any snakes about here?" "Oh no,"
she replied carelessly; "that is to say not many. The
cobras do not come up so high on the mountain. But there
is a serpent in the woods, a kind of python, but he is a
large, lazy creature, that doesn't do any mischief. One day
that my husband was out with his gun, he shot one that was
eighteen feet long. It was as big around as a log of wood,
so that when I came up I sat down and took my tiffin upon
it."</p>

<p>While listening to these tales, the clouds had been gathering,
and now they were piled in dark masses all around the
horizon. The lightning flashed, and we could hear the
heavy though distant peals of thunder. Presently the big
drops began to fall. There was no time to be lost. We
could see that the rain was pouring in the valley, while
heavy peals came nearer and nearer, reverberating in the
hollows of the mountains. It was a grand spectacle of
Nature, that of a storm in the Himalayas. Thunder in front
of us, thunder to the right of us, thunder to the left of us! I
never had a more exciting ride, except one like it in the
Rocky Mountains four years before. At our urgent request,
Mr. Herron spurred ahead, and galloped at full speed down
the mountain. I came more slowly with C&mdash;&mdash; in the <i>dandi</i>.
But we did not lose time, and after an hour's chase, in which
we seemed to be running the gauntlet of the storm, "dodging
the rain," we were not a little relieved, just as the
scattered drops began to fall thicker and faster, to come into
the yard of the hotel at Rajpore.</p>

<p>The brave fellows who had brought the dandi deserved a
reward, although Mr. Herron said they were his servants. I
wanted to give them a rupee each, but he would not hear of
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">190</a></span>
it, and when I insisted on giving at least a couple of rupees
for the four, which would be twenty-five cents a piece, the
poor fellows were so overcome with my generosity that they
bowed almost to the ground in acknowledgment, and went
off hugging each other with delight at the small fortune
which had fallen to them.</p>

<p>At Rajpore the carriage was waiting for us, and under its
cover from the rain, we rode back, talking of the incidents
of the day; and when we got home and stretched ourselves
before the blazing fire, the subject was renewed. I have a
boy's fondness for stories of wild beasts, and listened with
eager interest to all my host had to tell. It was hard to
realize that there were such creatures in such a lovely spot.
"Do you really mean to say," I asked, "that there are
tigers here in this valley?" "Yes," he answered, "within
five miles of where you are sitting now." He had seen one
himself, and showed us the very spot that morning as we
rode out to the hills, when he pointed to a ravine by the
roadside, and said: "As I was riding along this road one
day with a lady, a magnificent Bengal tiger came up out of
that ravine, a few rods in front of us, and walked slowly
across the road. He turned to look at us, and we were
greatly relieved when, after taking a cool survey, he moved
off into the jungle."</p>

<p>But leopards are still more common and familiar. They
have been in this very dooryard, and on this veranda. One
summer evening two years ago, said Miss P., I was sitting on
the gravelled walk to enjoy the cool air, when an enormous
creature brushed past but a step in front between us and the
house. At first we thought in the gloaming it might be a
dog of very unusual size, but as it glided past, and came into
the light of some cottages beyond, we perceived that it was a
very different beast. At another time a leopard crossed the
veranda at night, and brushed over the face of a native woman
sleeping with her child in her arms. It was well the beast
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">191</a></span>
was not hungry, or he would have snatched the child, as they
often do when playing in front of native houses, and carried
it off into the jungle.</p>

<p>But we will rest to-night in sweet security in this missionary
home, without fear of wild beasts or thunder storms. The
clouds broke away at sunset, leaving a rich "after-glow" upon
the mountains. It was the clear shining after the rain.
Just then I heard the voices of the native children in the
chapel, singing their hymns, and with these sweet suggestions
of home and heaven, "I will lay me down in peace and sleep,
for thou Lord only makest me dwell in safety."</p>

<p class="p2">We had had a glimpse of the Himalayas, but the glimpse
only made us eager to get the full "beatific vision"; so, after
resting a day, we determined to try again, going up in the
afternoon, and spending the night, so as to have a double
chance of seeing the snows&mdash;both at sunset and at sunrise.
This time we had also the company of Mr. Woodside, beside
whom I rode on horseback; while Mr. Herron gave his escort
to C&mdash;&mdash;, who was "promoted" from a <i>dandi</i> to a <i>jahnpan</i>,
which differs from the former only in that it is more spacious,
and is carried by four bearers instead of two. Thus mounted
she was borne aloft on men's shoulders. She said the
motion was not unpleasant, except that the men had a habit,
when they came to some dangerous point, turning a rock, or
on the edge of a precipice, of changing bearers, or swinging
round the bamboo pole from one shoulder to another, which
made her a little giddy, as she was tossed about at such a
height, from which she could look down a gorge hundreds of
feet deep. However, she takes all dangers very lightly, and
was enraptured with the wildness and strangeness of the
scene&mdash;to find herself, an American girl, thus being transported
over the mountains of Asia.</p>

<p>So we took up our line of march for the hills, and soon
found our pulses beating faster. Why is it that we feel such
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">192</a></span>
exhilaration in climbing mountains? Is it something in the
air, that quickens the blood, and reacts upon the brain? Or
is it the sensation of rising into a higher atmosphere, of "going
up into heaven?" So it seemed that afternoon, as we
"left the earth" behind us, and went up steadily into the
clouds.</p>

<p>I found that the Himalayas grew upon acquaintance. They
looked more grand the second time than the first. The landscape
was changed by the westering sun, which cast new
lights and shadows across the valley, and into the wooded
bosom of the hills. To these natural beauties my companion
added the charm of historical associations. Few places in
India have more interest to the scholar. The Sewalic range
was almost the cradle of the Brahminical religion. Sewalic,
or Sivalic, as it might be written, means literally the hills
of Shiva, or the hills of the gods, where their worshippers
built their shrines and worshipped long before Christ was
born in Bethlehem. The same ridge is a mine to the naturalist.
It is full of fossils, the bones of animals that belonged
to some earlier geological epoch. The valley has had a part
in the recent history of India. Here the Goorkas&mdash;one of
the hill tribes, which stood out longest against the English&mdash;fought
their last battle. It was on yonder wooded height
which juts out like a promontory into the plain, where the
ruin of an old fort marks the destruction of their power. Today
the Goorkas, like the Punjaubees, are among the most
loyal defenders of English rule.</p>

<p>At present the attraction of this valley for "old Indians"
is not so much in its historical or scientific associations, as
the field which it gives to the hunter. This belt of country,
running about a hundred miles along the foot of the Himalayas,
is composed of forest and jungle, and is a favorite
habitat of wild beasts&mdash;tigers and leopards and wild elephants.
It was in this belt, called the Terai, though further
to the East, in Nepaul, that the Prince of Wales a few
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">193</a></span>
weeks later made his great tiger-hunting expedition. He
might perhaps have found as good sport in the valley right
under our eyes. "Do you see that strip of woods yonder?"
said Mr. Woodside, pointing to one four or five miles distant.
"That is full of wild elephants." An Indian Rajah
came here a year or two since for a grand hunt, and in two
days captured twenty-four. This is done by the help of tame
elephants who are trained for the purpose. A large tract of
forest is enclosed, and then by beating the woods, the herd
is driven towards a corner, and when once penned, the tame
elephants go in among them, and by tender caressing engage
their attention, till the coolies slip under the huge beasts
and tie their feet with ropes to the trees. This done, they
can be left till subdued by hunger, when they are easily tamed
for the service of man.</p>

<p>These creatures still have the range of the forests. In
riding through the woods one may often hear the breaking
of trees, as wild elephants crash through the dense thicket.
I had supposed that all kinds of wild beasts were very much
reduced in India under English rule. The hunters say they
are so much so as to destroy the sport. But my companion
thinks not, for two reasons: the government has made
stringent laws against the destruction of forests; and since
the mutiny the natives are not allowed to carry fire-arms.</p>

<p>We might have startled a leopard anywhere on the mountain
side. A young Scotchman whom we met with his rifle
on his shoulder, said he had shot two a fortnight ago,
but that there was a very big one about, which he had seen
several times, but could never get a shot at, but he hoped to
bring him down before long.</p>

<p>With such chat as this we trotted up the mountain road,
till we came to where it divides, where, leaving Mr. Herron
and C&mdash;&mdash; to go on straight to Landour, we turned to the
left to make a flying visit to the other hill station of Mussoorie.
As we rode along, Mr. Woodside pointed out to me
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">194</a></span>
the spot where, a few weeks before, his horse had backed off
a precipice, and been dashed to pieces. Fortunately he was
not on his back (he had alighted to make a call), or the
horse and his rider might have gone over together. As we
wound up the road he recalled another incident, which
occurred several years ago: "I had been to attend an
evening reception at the Young Ladies' school (which we
had just left), and about eleven o'clock mounted to ride
home. I had a white horse, and it was a bright moonlight
night, and as I rode up the hill, just as I turned a corner in
the road <i>there</i> (pointing to the spot) I saw a huge leopard
crouching in the attitude of preparing to spring. I rose up
in the saddle (my friend is a man of giant stature) and
shouted at the top of my voice, and the beast, not knowing
what strange monster he had encountered, leaped over the
bank and disappeared."</p>

<p>"The next day," he added, "I was telling the story to a gentleman,
who replied, 'You were very fortunate to escape so,'
and then related an incident of his own, in which a leopard
sprang upon his horse, which the fright caused to give such
a bound that the brute fell off, and the horse starting at
full speed, they escaped. But he felt that the escape was so
providential that he had thanks returned in the church the
next Sabbath for his deliverance from a sudden death."</p>

<p>Thus listening to my companion's adventures, we rode
along the ridge of Mussoorie to its highest point, which commands
a grand view of the Snowy Range. Here stands a
convent, which educates hundreds of the daughters of Protestant
Englishmen, as well as those of its own faith. Thus
the Catholic Church plants its outposts on the very crests of
the mountains.</p>

<p>At Landour is another Catholic institution (for boys)
called St. George's College, perhaps as a delicate flattery to
Englishmen in taking the name of their guardian saint. It
has a chime of bells, which at that height and that hour
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">195</a></span>
strikes the ear with singular and touching effect. It may
well stir up our Protestant friends, both to admire and to
imitate, as it furnishes a new proof of the omnipresence of
Rome, when the traveller finds its convents, and hears the
chime of its vesper bells, on the heights and amid the valleys
of the Himalayas.</p>

<p>But the sun was sinking, and it was four miles from Mussoorie
to Landour, where we were to make our second
attempt to see the snows. Turning our horses, we rode at
full speed along the ridge of the mountain, and reached the
top of Lal Tiba before sunset, but only to be again disappointed.
Northward and eastward the clouds hung upon
the great mountains. But if one part of the horizon was
hidden, on the other we looked over the top of the Sewalic
range, to where the red and fiery sun was sinking in a bank
of cloud&mdash;not "clouds full of rain," but merely clouds of
dust, rolling upward "like the smoke of a furnace" from the
hot plains of India. In the foreground was the soft, green
valley of Dehra Doon, more beautiful from the contrast with
the burning plains beyond. It was a peaceful landscape, as
the shadows of evening were gathering over it. From this
we turned to watch the light as it crept up the sides of the
mountains. The panorama was constantly changing, and
every instant took on some new feature of grandeur. As
daylight faded, another light flashed out behind us, for the
mountains were on fire. It is a custom of the people, who
are herdsmen, to burn off the low brush (as the Indians
burned over the prairies), that the grass may spring up fresh
and green for their flocks and cattle; and it was a fearful
spectacle, that of these great belts of fire running along the
mountain side, and lighting up the black gorges below.</p>

<p>Giving our horses to the guides to be led down the declivity,
we walked down a narrow path in the rocks that led to
Woodstock, a female seminary, built on a kind of terrace
half a mile below&mdash;a most picturesque spot (none the less
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">196</a></span>
romantic because a tiger had once carried off a man from the
foot of the ravine a few rods below the house), and there,
around a cheerful table, and before a roaring fire, forgot the
fatigues of the day, and hoped for sunshine on the morrow.</p>

<p>It was not yet daylight when we awoke. The stars were
shining when we came out on the terrace, and the waning
moon still hung its crescent overhead. A faint light began
to glimmer in the east. We were quickly muffled up (for it
was cold) and climbing up the steep path to Lal Tiba, hoping
yet trembling. I was soon out of breath, and had more than
once to sit down on the rocks to recover myself. But in a
moment I would rise and rush on again, so eager was I with
hope, and yet so fearful of disappointment. One more pull
and we were on the top, and behold the glory of God spread
abroad upon the mountains! Our perseverance was rewarded
at last. There were the Himalayas&mdash;the great mountains of
India, of Asia, of the globe. The snowy range was in full
view for more than a hundred miles. The sun had not yet
risen, but his golden limb now touched the east, and as the
great round orb rose above the horizon, it seemed as if God
himself were coming to illumine the universe which he had
created. One after another the distant peaks caught the light
upon their fields of snow, and sent it back as if they were
the shining gates of the heavenly city. One could almost
look up to them as Divine intelligences, and address them in
the lines of the old hymn:</p>

<div class="poem">
<p>These glorious <i>minds</i>, how bright they shine,</p>
<p class="i1">Whence all their white array?</p>
<p>How came they to the happy seats</p>
<p class="i1">Of everlasting day?</p>
</div>

<p>But restraining our enthusiasm for the moment, let us look
at the configuration of this Snowy Range, simply as a study in
geography. We are in presence of the highest mountains on
the globe. We are on the border of that table-land of Asia
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">197</a></span>
("High Asia") which the Arabs in their poetical language
call "The Roof of the World." Yonder pass leads over into
Thibet. The trend of the mountains is from southeast to
northwest, almost belting the continent. Indeed, physical
geographers trace it much farther, following it down on one
hand through the Malayan Peninsula and on the other running
it through the Hindoo Koosh (or Caucasus) northwest
to Mt. Ararat in Armenia; and across into Europe, through
Turkey and Greece, to the Alps and the Pyrenees, forming
what the Arabs call "The Stony Girdle of the Earth." But
the centre of that girdle, the clasp of that mighty zone, is here.</p>

<p>It is difficult to form an idea of the altitude of mountains,
when we have no basis of comparison in those which are familiar.
But nature here is on another scale than we have
seen it before. In Europe Mont Blanc is "the monarch of
mountains," but yonder peak, Nunda Davee, which shows
above the horizon at the distance of a hundred and ten miles,
is 25,600 feet high&mdash;that is, nearly two miles higher than
Mont Blanc! There are others still higher&mdash;Kinchinganga
and Dwalaghiri&mdash;but they are not in sight, as they are
farther east in Nepaul. But from Darjeeling, a hill station
much frequented in the summer months by residents of Calcutta,
one may get an unobstructed view of Mount Everest,
29,000 feet high, the loftiest summit on the globe. And here
before us are a number of peaks, twenty-two, twenty-three,
and twenty-four thousand feet high&mdash;higher than Chimborazo,
or any peak of the Andes.</p>

<p>Perhaps the Himalayas are less impressive than the Alps
<i>in proportion</i>, because the snow line is so much higher. In
Switzerland we reach the line of perpetual snow at 8,900
feet, so that the Jungfrau, which is less than 14,000 feet,
has a full mile of snow covering her virgin breast. But here
the traveller must ascend 18,000 feet, nearly two miles higher,
before he comes to the line of perpetual snow. It is considered
a great achievement of the most daring Alpine climbers
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">198</a></span>
to reach the top of the Jungfrau or the Matterhorn, but here
many of the <i>passes</i> are higher than the summit of either.
Dr. Bellew, who accompanied the expedition of Sir Douglas
Forsyth three years since to Yarkund and Kashgar, told me
they crossed passes 19,000 feet high, nearly 4,000 feet higher
than Mont Blanc. He said they did not need a guide, for
that the path was marked by bones of men and beasts that
had perished by the way; the bodies lying where they fell,
for no beast or bird lives at that far height, neither vulture
nor jackal, while the intense cold preserved the bodies from
decay.</p>

<p>But the Himalayas are not all heights, but heights and
depths. The mountains are divided by valleys. From
where we stand the eye sweeps over the tops of nine or ten
separate ranges, with valleys between, in which are scattered
hundreds of villages. The enterprising traveller may descend
into these deep places of the earth, and make his toilsome
way over one range after another, till he reaches the snows.
But he will find it a <i>fourteen days' march</i>. My companion
had once spent six weeks in a missionary tour among these
villages.</p>

<p>Wilson, the author of "The Abode of Snow,"<a name="FNanchor_5" id="FNanchor_5" href="#Footnote_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</a> who spent
months in travelling through the Inner Himalayas, from
Thibet to Cashmere, makes a comparison of these mountains
with the Alps. There are some advantages to be claimed for
the latter. Not only are they more accessible, but combine
in a smaller space more variety. Their sides are more generally
clothed with forests, which are mirrored in those beautiful
sheets of water that give such a charm both to Swiss and
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">199</a></span>
Scottish scenery. But in the Himalayas there is hardly a
lake to be seen until one enters the Vale of Cashmere. Then
the Alps have more of the human element, in the picturesque
Swiss villages. The traveller looks down from snow-covered
mountains into valleys with meadows and houses and the
spires of churches. But in the Himalayas there is not a sign
of civilization, and hardly of habitation. Occasionally a village
or a Buddhist monastery may stand out picturesquely
on the top of a hill, but generally the mountains are given
up to utter desolation.</p>

<div class="blockquot">
<p>
"But," says Wilson, "when all these admissions in favor of Switzerland
are made, the Himalayas still remain unsurpassed, and even
unapproached, as regards all the wilder and grander features of
mountain scenery. There is nothing in the Alps which can afford
even a faint idea of the savage desolation and appalling sublimity of
many of the Himalayan scenes. Nowhere have the faces of the
rocks been so scarred and riven by the nightly action of frost and
the midday floods from melting snow. In almost every valley we
see places where whole peaks or sides of great mountains have very
recently come shattering down."
</p>
</div>

<p>This constant action of the elements sometimes carves the
sides of the mountains into castellated forms, like the cañons
of the Yellowstone and the Colorado:</p>

<div class="blockquot">
<p>
"Gigantic mural precipices, bastions, towers, castles, citadels,
and spires rise up thousands of feet in height, mocking in their immensity
and grandeur the puny efforts of human art; while yet
higher the domes of pure white snow and glittering spires of ice far
surpass in perfection, as well as in immensity, all the Moslem musjids
and minars."
</p>
</div>

<p>But more impressive than the most fantastic or imposing
forms are the vast spaces of untrodden snow, and the awful
solitudes and silences of the upper air. No wonder that the
Hindoos made this inaccessible region the dwelling-place of
their gods. It is their Kylas, or Heaven. The peak of Badrinath,
24,000 feet high, is the abode of Vishnu; and that
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">200</a></span>
of Kedarnath, 23,000, is the abode of Shiva&mdash;two of the Hindoo
Trinity. Nunda Davee (the goddess Nunda) is the wife
of Shiva. Around these summits gathers the whole Hindoo
mythology. Yonder, where we see a slight hollow in the
mountains, is Gungootree, where the Ganges takes its rise,
issuing from a great glacier by a fissure, or icy cavern, worn
underneath, called the Cow's Mouth. Farther to the west is
Jumnootree, the source of the Jumna. Both these places
are very sacred in the eyes of the Hindoos, and as near to
them as any structure can be placed, are shrines, which are
visited by hundreds of thousands of pilgrims from all parts
of India.</p>

<p>Thus these snowy heights are to the Hindoo Mount Sinai
and Calvary in one. Here is not only the summit where
God gave the law, but where God dwells evermore, and out
of which issue the sacred rivers, which are like the rivers of
the water of life flowing out of the throne of God; or like
the blood of atonement, to wash away the sins of the world.</p>

<p>But the associations of this spot are not all of Hindooism
and idolatry. True, we are in a wintry region, but there is
an Alpine flower that grows at the foot of the snows. Close
to Lal Tiba I observed a large tree of rhododendrons, in full
bloom, although it was February, their scarlet blossoms contrasting
with the snow which had fallen on them the night
before. But the fairest blossom on that Alpine height is a
Christian church. Lal Tiba itself belongs to the Presbyterian
mission, and adjoining it is the house of the missionaries.
On the ridge is a mission church, built chiefly by the
indefatigable efforts of Mr. Woodside. It is a modest, yet
tasteful building, standing on a point of rock, which is in full
view of the Snowy Range, and overlooks the whole mountain
landscape. It was like a banner in the sky&mdash;that white
church&mdash;standing on such a height, as if it were in the clouds,
looking across at the mighty range beyond, and smiling at
the eternal snows!
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">201</a></span></p>

<p>The hardest thing in going round the world, is to break
away from friends. Not the friends we have left in America,
for those we may hope to see again, but the friends made
along the way. One meets so many kind people, and enters
so many hospitable homes, that to part from them is an ever-renewing
sorrow and regret. We have found many such
homes in India, but none in which we would linger more than
in this lovely Vale of Dehra Doon.</p>

<p>One attraction is the Girls' School, which we might almost
call the missionary flower of India. The building, which
would be a "Seminary" at home, stands in the midst of
ample grounds, where, in the intervals of study, the inmates
can find healthful exercise. The pupils are mostly the
daughters of native Christians&mdash;converted Hindoos or Mohammedans.
Some are orphans, or have been forsaken by
their parents, and have thus fallen to the care of an institution
which is more to them than their natural fathers and mothers.
Many of these young girls had very sweet faces, and all were
as modest and well behaved as the girls I have seen in any
similar institution in our own country. Some are adopted by
friends in America, who engage to provide for their education.
Wishing to have a part in this good work, we looked about
the school till we picked out the veriest morsel of a creature,
as small as Dickens's Tiny Tim&mdash;but whose eyes were very
bright, and her mind as active as her body was frail, and C&mdash;&mdash;
thereupon adopted her and paid down a hundred rupees for a
year's board and teaching. She is by birth a Mohammedan,
but will be trained up as a Christian. She is very winning in
her ways; and, dear me, when the little creature crept up
into my lap, and looked up into my face with her great black
eyes, it was such an appeal for love and protection as I could
not resist; and when she put her thin arms around my neck,
I felt richer than if I had been encircled with one of those
necklaces of pearl, which the Rajahs were just then throwing
around the neck of the Prince of Wales.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">202</a></span></p>

<p>Our last day was spent in a visit to the tea plantations.
The culture of tea has been introduced into India within a
few years, and portions of the country are found so favorable
that the tea is thought by many equal to that imported from
China. Mr. Woodside took us out in a carriage a few miles,
when we left the road and crossed the fields on the back of an
elephant, which is a better "coigne of vantage" than the
back of a horse, as the rider is lifted up higher into the air,
and in passing under trees can stretch out his hand (as we
did) and pick blossoms and birds' nests from the branches;
but there is a rolling motion a little too much like "life on
an ocean wave," and if it were not for the glory of the thing
I confess I should rather have under me some steady old trotter,
such as I have had at home, or even one of the little donkeys
with which we used to amble about the streets of Cairo.
But there are times when one would prefer the elephant, as
if he should chance to meet a tiger! The beast we were
riding this morning was an old tiger hunter, that had often
been out in the jungle, and as he marched off, seemed as if he
would like nothing better than to smell his old enemy. In a
deadly combat the tiger has the advantage in quickness of
motion, and can spring upon the elephant's neck, but if the
latter can get his trunk around him he is done for, for he is
instantly dashed to the ground, and trampled to death under
the monster's feet. We had no occasion to test his courage,
though, if what we heard was true, he might have found game
not far off, for a native village through which we passed was
just then in terror because of a tiger who had lately come
about and carried off several bullocks only a few days before,
and they had sent to Mr. Bell, a tea planter whom we met
later in the day, to come and shoot him. He told me he
would come willingly, but that the natives were of a low
caste, who had not the Hindoos' horror of touching such food,
and devoured the half eaten bullock. If, he said, they would
only let the carcass alone, the tiger always comes back, and
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">203</a></span>
he would plant himself in some post of observation, and with
a rifle which never failed would soon relieve them of their
terrible enemy.</p>

<p>After an hour of this cross-country riding, our elephant
drew up before the door of a large house; a ladder was
brought, and we clambered down his sides. Just then we
heard the sharp cracks of a gun, and the planter came in,
saying that he had been picking off monkeys which were a
little troublesome in his garden. This was Mr. Nelson, one
of the largest planters in the valley, with whom we had engaged
to take tiffin. He took us over his plantation, which
is laid out on a grand scale, many acres being set in rows
with the tea plant, which is a small shrub, about as large as
a gooseberry bush, from which the leaves are carefully picked.
The green tea is not a different plant from the black tea, but
only differently prepared. From the plantation we were
taken to the roasting-house, where the tea lay upon the floor
in great heaps, like heaps of grain; and where it is subjected
to a variety of processes, to prepare it for use or for exportation.
It is first "wilted" in large copper pans or ovens;
then "rolled" on a table of stretched matting; then slightly
dried, and put back in the ovens; then rolled again; and
finally subjected to a good "roasting," by which time every
drop of moisture is got out of it, and it acquires the peculiar
twist, or shrivelled look, so well known to dainty lovers of
the cup which cheers but not inebriates. How perfect was
the growing and the preparation appeared when we sat down
at the generous table, where we found the flavor as delicate as
that of any we had ever sipped that came from the Flowery
Land.</p>

<p>Leaving this kind and hospitable family, we rode on to the
plantation of Mr. Bell, who had the "engagement" to shoot
the tiger. He is a brave Scot, very fond of sport, and had
a room full of stuffed birds, which he was going to send off to
Australia. Occasionally he had a shot at other game. Once
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">204</a></span>
he had brought down a leopard, and, as he said, thought the
beast was "deed," and went up to him, when the brute gave
a spring, and tore open his leg, which laid him up for two
months. But such beasts are really less dangerous than the
cobras, which crawl among the rows of plants, and as the field-hands
go among them barefoot, some fall victims every year.
But an Englishman is protected by his boots, and Mr. Bell
strolls about with his dog and his gun, without the slightest
sense of danger.</p>

<p>We had now accomplished our visit to the Himalayas, and
were to bid adieu to the mountains and the valleys. But
how were we to get back to Saharanpur? There was the
mail-wagon and the <i>omnibuckus</i>. But these seemed very
prosaic after our mountain raptures. Mr. Herron suggested
that we should try <i>dooleys</i>&mdash;long palanquins in which
we could lie down and sleep (perhaps), and thus be carried
over the mountains at night. As we were eager for new
experiences, of course we were ready for any novelty. But
great bodies move slowly, and how great we were we began to
realize when we found what a force it took to move us. Mr.
Herron sent for the <i>chaudri</i>&mdash;a kind of public carrier whose
office it is to provide for such services&mdash;and an engagement
was formally entered into between the high contracting parties
that for a certain sum he was to provide two dooleys and
a sufficient number of bearers, to carry us over the mountains
to Saharanpur, a distance of forty-two miles. This was
duly signed and sealed, and the money paid on the spot, with
promise of liberal backsheesh at the end if the agreement
was satisfactorily performed.</p>

<p>Thus authorized and empowered to enter into negotiations
with inferior parties, the <i>chaudri</i> sent forward a courier, or
<i>sarbarah</i>, to go ahead over the whole route a day in advance,
and to secure the relays, and thus prepare for our royal
progress.</p>

<p>This seemed very magnificent, but when our retinue filed
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">205</a></span>
into the yard on the evening of our departure, and drew up
before the veranda, we were almost ashamed to see what a
prodigious ado it took to get us two poor mortals out of the
valley. Our escort was as follows: Each dooley had six
bearers, or <i>kahars</i>&mdash;four to carry it, and two to be ready as a
reserve. Besides these twelve, there were two <i>bahangi-wallas</i>
to carry our one trunk on a bamboo pole, making fourteen
persons in all. As there were five stages (for one set
of men could only go about eight miles), it took seventy
men (besides the two high officials) to carry our sacred persons
these forty-two miles! Of the reserve of four who
walked beside us, two performed the function of torch-bearers&mdash;no
unimportant matter when traversing a forest so full
of wild beasts that the natives cannot be induced to cross it
at night without lights kept burning.</p>

<p>The torch was made simply by winding a piece of cloth
around the end of a stick, and pouring oil upon it from a
bottle carried for the purpose (just the mode of the wise
virgins in the parable). Our kind friends had put a mattress
in each dooley, with pillows and coverlet, so that if we
could not quite go to bed, we could make ourselves comfortable
for a night's journey. I took off my boots, and wrapping
my feet in the soft fur of the skin of the Himalayan goat,
which I had purchased in the mountains, stretched myself</p>

<div class="poem">
<p>Like a warrior taking his rest,</p>
<p>With his martial cloak around him,</p>
</div>

<p>and bade the cavalcade take up its march. They lighted
their torches, and like the wise virgins, "took oil in their
vessels with their lamps," and set out on our night journey.
At first we wound our way through the streets of the town,
through bazaars and past temples, till at last we emerged
from all signs of human habitation, and were alone with the
forests and the stars.</p>

<p>When we were fairly in the woods, all the stories I had
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">206</a></span>
heard of wild beasts came back to me. For a week past I
had been listening to thrilling incidents, many of which
occurred in this very mountain pass. The Sewalic range is
entirely uninhabited except along the roads, and is thus
given up to wild beasts, and nowhere is one more likely to
meet an adventure. That very morning, at breakfast, Mrs.
Woodside had given me her experience. She was once
crossing this pass at night, and as it came near the break of
day she saw men running, and heard the cry of "tiger," but
thought little of it, as the natives were apt to give false
alarms; but presently the horses began to rear and plunge,
so that the driver loosed them and let them go, and just then
she heard a tremendous roar, which seemed close to the wagon,
where a couple of the brutes had come down to drink
of a brook by the roadside. She was so terrified that she
did not dare to look out, but shut at once the windows of
the gharri. Presently some soldiers came up the pass with
elephants, who went in pursuit, but the monsters had
retreated into the forest.</p>

<p>That was some years ago, but such incidents may still happen.
Only a few weeks since Mr. Woodside was riding
through the pass at night in the mail-wagon, and had
dropped asleep, when his companion, a British officer, awoke
him, telling him he had just seen a couple of tigers distinctly
in the moonlight.</p>

<p>One would suppose we were safe enough with more than a
dozen attendants, but the natives are very timid, and a
tiger's roar will set them flying. A lady at Dehra, the
daughter of a missionary, told us how she was once carried
with her mother and one or two other children in dooleys,
when just at break of day a huge tiger walked out of a
wood, and came right towards them, when the brave coolies
at once dropped them and ran, leaving the mother and her
children to their fate. Fortunately she had presence of
mind to light a piece of matting, and throw it out to the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">207</a></span>
brute, who either from that, or perhaps because he was too
noble a beast to attack a woman, after eyeing them for some
moments, deliberately walked away.</p>

<p>Such associations with the road we were travelling, gave
an excitement to our night journey which was not the most
composing to sleep. It is very well to sit by the fireside
and talk about tigers, but I do not know of anybody who
would care to meet one in the woods, unless well armed and
on an elephant's back.</p>

<p>But what if a wild elephant should come out upon us?
In general, I believe these are quiet and peaceable beasts, but
they are subject to a kind of madness which makes them untamable.
A "rogue elephant"&mdash;one who has been tamed,
and afterwards goes back to his savage state&mdash;is one of the
most dangerous of wild beasts. When the Prince of Wales
was hunting in the Terai with Sir Jung Bahadoor, an alarm
was given that a rogue elephant was coming, and they pushed
the Prince up into a tree as quickly as possible, for the monster
has no respect to majesty. Mrs. Woodside told me that they
once had a servant who asked to go home to visit his friends.
On his way he lay down at the foot of a tree, and fell asleep,
when a rogue elephant came along, and took him up like a
kitten, and crushed him in an instant, and threw him on the
roadside.</p>

<p>The possibility of such an adventure was quite enough to
keep our imagination in lively exercise. Our friends had
told us that there was no danger with flaming torches, although
we might perhaps hear a distant roar on the mountains,
or an elephant breaking through the trees. We listened
intently. When the men were moving on in silence, we
strained our ears to catch any sound that might break the
stillness of the forest. If a branch fell from a tree, it might
be an elephant coming through the wood. If we could not
see, we imagined forms gliding in the darkness. Even the
shadows cast by the starlight took the shapes that we dreaded.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">208</a></span>
Hush! there is a stealthy step over the fallen leaves. No,
it is the wind whispering in the trees. Thus was it all night
long. If any wild beasts glared on us out of the covert, our
flaming torches kept them at a respectful distance. We did
not hear the tramp of an elephant, the growl of a tiger, or
even the cry of a jackal.</p>

<p>But though we had not the excitement of an adventure,
the scene itself was wild and weird enough. We were entirely
alone, with more than a dozen men, with not one of
whom we could exchange a single word, traversing a mountain
pass, with miles of forest and jungle separating us from
any habitation. Our attendants were men of powerful physique,
whose swarthy limbs and strange faces looked more
strange than ever by the torchlight. Once in seven or eight
miles they set down their burden. We halted at a camp fire
by the roadside, where a fresh relay was waiting. There our
fourteen men were swelled to twenty-eight. Then the curtain
of my couch was gently drawn aside, a black head was
thrust in, and a voice whispered in the softest of tones
"Sahib, backsheesh!" Then the new bearers took up their
load, and jogged on their way.</p>

<p>I must say they did very well. The motion was not unpleasant.
The dooley rested not on two poles, but on one
long bamboo, three or four inches in diameter, at each end of
which two men braced themselves against each other, and
moved forward with a swinging gait, a kind of dog trot,
which they accompanied with a low grunt, which seemed to
relieve them, and be a way of keeping time. Their burdens
did not fatigue them much&mdash;at least they did not groan under
the load, but talked and laughed by the way. Nor were
luxuries forgotten. One of the men carried a hooka, which
served for the whole party, being passed from mouth to
mouth, with which the men, when off duty, refreshed themselves
with many a puff of the fragrant weed.</p>

<p>Thus refreshed they kept up a steady gait of about three
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">209</a></span>
miles an hour through the night. At length the day began
to break. As we approached the end of our journey the
men picked up speed, and I thought they would come in on
a run. Glad were we to come in sight of Saharanpur. At
ten o'clock we entered the Mission Compound, and drew up
before the door of "Calderwood Padre," who, as he saw me
stretched out at full length, "like a warrior taking his rest,"
if not "with his martial cloak around him," yet with his
Scotch plaid shawl covering "his manly breast," declared
that I was "an old Indian!"
</p>

<h3 class="p6">CHAPTER XVI.</h3>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">210</a></span></p>
<p class="ch_summ">THE TRAGEDY OF CAWNPORE.</p>

<p>The interest of India is not wholly in the far historic past.
Within our own times it has been the theatre of stirring
events. In coming down from Upper India, we passed over
the "dark and bloody ground" of the Mutiny&mdash;one of the
most terrible struggles of modern times&mdash;a struggle unrelieved
by any of the amenities of civilized warfare. On the banks
of the Ganges stands a dull old city, of which Bayard Taylor
once wrote: "Cawnpore is a pleasant spot, though it contains
nothing whatever to interest the traveller." That was
true when he saw it, twenty-four years ago. It was then a
"sleepy" place. Everything had a quiet and peaceful look.
The river flowed peacefully along, and the pretty bungalows
of the English residents on its banks seemed like so many
castles of indolence, as they stood enclosed in spacious
grounds, under the shade of trees, whose leaves scarcely
stirred in the sultry air. But four years after that American
traveller had passed, that peaceful river ran with Christian
blood, and that old Indian town witnessed scenes of cruelty
worse than that of the Black Hole of Calcutta, committed by
a monster more inhuman than Surajah Dowlah. The memory
of those scenes now gives a melancholy interest to the
place, such as belongs to no other in India.</p>

<p>It was midnight when we reached Cawnpore (we had left
Saharanpur in the morning), and we were utter strangers;
but as we stepped from the railway carriage, a stalwart American
(Rev. Mr. Mansell of the Methodist Mission) came up,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">211</a></span>
and calling us by name, took us to his home, and "kindly
entreated us," and the next morning rode about the city with
us to show the sadly memorable places.</p>

<p>The outbreak of the Mutiny in India in 1857, took its
English rulers by surprise. They had held the country for
a hundred years, and thought they could hold it forever. So
secure did they feel that they had reduced their army to a
minimum. In the Russian war, regiment after regiment was
called home to serve in the Crimea, till there were left not
more than twenty thousand British troops in all India&mdash;an
insignificant force to hold such a vast dependency; and weakened
still more by being scattered in small bodies over the
country, with no means of rapid concentration. There was
hardly a railroad in India. All movements of troops had to
be made by long marches. Thus detached and helpless, the
military power was really in the hands of the Sepoys, who
garrisoned the towns, and whom the English had trained to be
good soldiers, with no suspicion that their skill and discipline
would ever be turned against themselves.</p>

<p>This was the opportunity for smothered discontent to
break out into open rebellion. There had long been among
the people an uneasy and restless feeling, such as is the precursor
of revolution&mdash;a ground swell, which sometimes comes
before as well as after a storm. It was just a hundred years
since the battle of Plassey (fought June, 1757), which decided
the fate of India, and it was whispered that when the century
was complete, the English yoke should be broken, and
India should be free. The Crimean war had aroused a spirit
of fanaticism among the Mohammedans, which extended
across the whole of Asia, and fierce Moslems believed that if
the English were but driven out, there might be a reconstruction
of the splendid old Mogul Empire. This was, therefore,
a critical moment, in which the defenceless state of India
offered a temptation to rebellion. Some there were (like the
Lawrences&mdash;Sir John in the Punjaub, and Sir Henry in
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">212</a></span>
Lucknow) whose eyes were opened to the danger, and who
warned the government. But it could not believe a rebellion
was possible; so that when the storm burst, it was like a
peal of thunder from a clear sky.</p>

<p>Thus taken by surprise, and off their guard, the English
were at a great disadvantage. But they quickly recovered
themselves, and prepared for a desperate defence. In towns
where the garrisons were chiefly of native troops, with only
a small nucleus of English officers and soldiers, the latter had
no hope of safety, but to rally all on whom they could rely,
and retreat into the forts, and hold out to the last. Such a
quick movement saved Agra, where Sir William Muir told
me, he and hundreds of refugees with him, passed the whole
time of the mutiny, shut up in the fort. The same promptness
saved Allahabad. But in Delhi, where the rising took
place a few days before, the alarm was not taken quickly
enough; the Sepoys rushed in, shooting down their officers,
and made themselves masters of the fort and the city, which
was not retaken till months after, at the close of a long and
terrible siege.</p>

<p>At Cawnpore there was no fort. Sir Hugh Wheeler, who
was in command, had three or four thousand troops, but not
one man in ten was an English soldier. The rest were
Sepoys, who caught the fever of disaffection, and marched off
with horses and guns. Mustering the little remnant of his
force, he threw up intrenchments on the parade-ground, into
which he gathered some two hundred and fifty men of different
regiments. Adding to these "civilians" and native
servants, and the sick in the hospital, there were about
300 more, with 330 women and children. The latter, of
course, added nothing to the strength of the garrison, but
were a constant subject of care and anxiety. But with this
little force he defended himself bravely for several weeks,
beating off every attack of the enemy. But he was in no
condition to sustain a siege; his force was becoming rapidly
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">213</a></span>
reduced, while foes were swarming around him. In this extremity,
uncertain when an English army could come to his
relief, he received a proposal to surrender, with the promise
that all&mdash;men, women, and children&mdash;should be allowed to
depart in safety, and be provided with boats to take them
down the Ganges to Allahabad. He did not listen to these
smooth promises without inward misgivings. He was suspicious
of treachery; but the case was desperate, and Nana
Sahib, who up to the time of the Mutiny had protested great
friendship for the English, took a solemn oath that they should
be protected. Thus tempted, they yielded to the fatal surrender.</p>

<p>The next morning, June 27th, those who were left of the
little garrison marched out of their intrenchments, and were
escorted by the Sepoy army on their way to the boats. The
women and children and wounded were mounted on elephants,
and thus conveyed down to the river. With eagerness
they embarked on the boats that were to carry them to
a place of safety, and pushed off into the stream. At that
moment a native officer who stood on the bank raised his
sword, and a masked battery opened on the boats with grape-shot.
Instantly ensued a scene of despair. Some of the
boats sunk, others took fire, and men, women, and children,
were struggling in the water. The Mahratta horsemen
pushed into the stream, and cut down the men who tried to
save themselves (only four strong swimmers escaped), while
the women and children were spared to a worse fate. All
the men who were brought back to the shore were massacred
on the spot, in the presence of this human tiger, who feasted
his eyes with their blood; and about two hundred women
and children were taken back into the town as prisoners, in
deeper wretchedness than before. They were kept in close
confinement nearly three weeks in dreadful uncertainty of
their fate, till the middle of July, when Havelock was approaching
by forced marches; and fearful that his prey
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">214</a></span>
should escape, Nana Sahib gave orders that they should be
put to death. No element of horror was wanting in that
fearful tragedy. Says one who saw the bodies the next day,
and whose wife and children were among those who perished:</p>

<div class="blockquot">
<p>
"The poor ladies were ordered to come out, but neither threats
nor persuasions could induce them to do so. They laid hold of each
other by dozens, and clung so close that it was impossible to separate
them, or drag them out of the building. The troopers therefore
brought muskets, and after firing a great many shots from the
doors and windows, rushed in with swords and bayonets. [One account
says that, as Hindoos shrink from the touch of blood, five
Mohammedan <i>butchers</i> were sent in to complete the work.] Some
of the helpless creatures, in their agony, fell down at the feet of
their murderers, clasped their legs, and begged in the most pitiful
manner to spare their lives, but to no purpose. The fearful deed
was done most deliberately, and in the midst of the most dreadful
shrieks and cries of the victims. From a little before sunset till
candlelight was occupied in completing the dreadful deed. The
doors of the building were then locked up for the night, and the
murderers went to their homes. Next morning it was found, on
opening the doors, that some ten or fifteen women, with a few of
the children, had managed to escape from death by falling and hiding
under the murdered bodies of their fellow-prisoners. A fresh
order was therefore sent to murder them also; but the survivors,
not being able to bear the idea of being cut down, rushed out into
the compound, and seeing a well, threw themselves into it without
hesitation, thus putting a period to lives which it was impossible for
them to save. The dead bodies of those murdered on the preceding
evening were then ordered to be thrown into the same well, and
'jullars' were employed to drag them along like dogs."<a name="FNanchor_6" id="FNanchor_6" href="#Footnote_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</a>
</p>
</div>

<p>The next day after the massacre, Havelock entered the
city, and officers and men rushed to the prison house, hoping
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">215</a></span>
to be in time to save that unhappy company of English
women and children. But what horrors met their sight!
Not one living remained. The place showed traces of the
late butchery. The floors were covered with blood. "Upon
the walls and pillars were the marks of bullets, and of cuts
made by sword-strokes, not high up as if men had fought
with men, but low down, and about the corners, where the
poor crouching victims had been cut to pieces." "Locks of
long silky hair, torn shreds of dress, little children's shoes
and playthings, were strewn around."</p>

<p>The sight of these things drove the soldiers to madness.
"When they entered the charnel house, and read the writing
on the walls [sentences of wretchedness and despair],
and saw the still clotted blood, their grief, their rage, their
desire for vengeance, knew no bounds. Stalwart, bearded
men, the stern soldiers of the ranks, came out of that house
perfectly unmanned, utterly unable to repress their emotions."
Following the track of blood from the prison to the
well, they found the mangled remains of all that martyred company.
There the tender English mother had been cast with
every indignity, and the child still living thrown down to die
upon its mother's breast. Thus were they heaped together,
the dying and the dead, in one writhing, palpitating mass.</p>

<p>Turning away from this ghastly sight, the soldiers asked
only to meet face to face the perpetrators of these horrible
atrocities. But the Sepoys, cowardly as they were cruel,
fled at the approach of the English. Those who were taken
had to suffer for the whole. "All the rebel Sepoys and
troopers who were captured, were collectively tried by a
drumhead court-martial, and hanged." But for such a crime
as the cold-blooded murder of helpless women and children,
death was not enough&mdash;it should be death accompanied by
shame and degradation. The craven wretches were made to
clean away the clotted blood&mdash;a task peculiarly odious to a
Hindoo. Says General Neill:
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">216</a></span></p>

<div class="blockquot">
<p>
"Whenever a rebel is caught, he is immediately tried, and unless
he can prove a defence, he is sentenced to be hanged at once; but
the chief rebels, or ringleaders, I make first clear up a certain portion
of the pool of blood, still two inches deep in the shed where the
fearful murder and mutilation of women and children took place.
To touch blood is most abhorrent to the high-caste natives; they
think by doing so, they doom their souls to perdition. Let them
think so. My object is to inflict a fearful punishment for a revolting,
cowardly, and barbarous deed, and to strike terror into these rebels.</p>

<p>"The first I caught was a subahdar, or native officer&mdash;a high-caste
Brahmin, who tried to resist my order to clean up the very blood he
had helped to shed; but I made the provost-marshal do his duty,
and a few lashes made the miscreant accomplish his task. When
done, he was taken out and immediately hanged, and after death,
buried in a ditch at the roadside. No one who has witnessed the
scenes of murder, mutilation, and massacre, can ever listen to the
word mercy, as applied to these fiends.</p>

<p>"Among other wretches drawn from their skulking places, was
the man who gave Nana Sahib's orders for the massacre. After this
man's identity had been clearly established, and his complicity in directing
the massacre proved beyond all doubt, he was compelled,
upon his knees, to cleanse up a portion of the blood yet scattered over
the fatal yard, and while yet foul from his sickening task, hung like
a dog before the gratified soldiers, one of whom writes: 'The collector
who gave the order for the murder of the poor ladies, was
taken prisoner day before yesterday, and now hangs from a branch
of a tree about two hundred yards off the roadside.'"
</p>
</div>

<p>What became of Nana Sahib after the Mutiny, is
a mystery that probably will never be solved. If he
lived he sought safety in flight. Many of the Mutineers
took refuge in the jungle. The Government kept up a hunt
for him for years. Several times it was thought that he was
discovered. Only a year or two ago a man was arrested,
who was said to be Nana Sahib, but it proved to be a case of
mistaken identity. In going up from Delhi we rode in the
same railway carriage with an old army surgeon, whose testimony
saved the life of the suspected man. He had lived
in Cawnpore before the Mutiny, and knew Nana Sahib well,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">217</a></span>
indeed had been his physician, and gave me much information
about the bloody Mahratta chief. He said he was not
so bad a man by nature, as he became when he was put forward
as a leader in a desperate enterprise, and surrounded
by men who urged him on to every crime. So long as he was
under the wholesome restraint of English power, he was a
fair specimen of the "mild Hindoo," "as mild a mannered
man as ever scuttled ship or cut a throat." His movement
was as soft as that of a cat or a tiger. But like the tiger,
when once he tasted blood, it roused the wild beast in him,
and he took a delight in killing. And so he who might have
lived quietly, and died in his bed, with a reputation not worse
than that of other Indian rulers, has left a name in history
as the most execrable monster of modern times. It seems a
defeat of justice that he cannot be discovered and brought to
the scaffold. But perhaps the judgment of God is more severe
than that of man. If he still lives, he has suffered a
thousand deaths in these twenty years.</p>

<p>My informant told me of the punishment that had come
on many of these men of blood. Retribution followed hard
after their crimes. When the rebellion was subdued, it was
stamped out without mercy. The leaders were shot away
from guns. Others who were only less guilty had a short
trial and a swift punishment. In this work of meting out
retribution, this mild physician was himself obliged to be an
instrument. Though his profession was that of saving lives,
and not of destroying them, after the Mutiny he was appointed
a Commissioner in the district of Cawnpore, where
he had lived, to try insurgents, with the power of life and
death, and with no appeal from his sentence! It was a
terrible responsibility, but he could not shrink from it, and
he had to execute many. Those especially who had been
guilty of acts of cruelty, could not ask for mercy which they
had never shown. Among those whom he captured was the
native officer who had given the signal, by raising his sword,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">218</a></span>
to the masked battery to fire on the boats. He said, "I
took him to that very spot, and hung him there!" All this
sad history was in mind as we went down to the banks of the
Ganges, where that fearful tragedy took place not twenty
years before. The place still bears the name of the Slaughter
Ghat, in memory of that fearful deed. We imagined the
scene that summer's morning, when the stream was covered
with the bodies of women and children, and the air was filled
with the shrieks of despair. With such bitter memories, we
recalled the swift retribution, and rejoiced that such a crime
had met with such a punishment.</p>

<p>From the river we drove to "the well," but here nothing
is painful but its memories. It is holy ground, which pious
hands have decked with flowers, and consecrated as a shrine
of martyrdom. Around it many acres have been laid out as
a garden, with all manner of tropical plants, and well-kept
paths winding between, along which the stranger walks
slowly and sadly, thinking of those who suffered so much in
life, and that now sleep peacefully beyond the reach of pain.
In the centre of the garden the place of the well is enclosed,
and over the sacred spot where the bodies of the dead were
thrown, stands a figure in marble, which might be that of the
angel of Resignation or of Peace, with folded wings and face
slightly bended, and arms across her breast, and in her hands
palm-branches, the emblems of victory.</p>

<p>The visit to these spots, consecrated by so much suffering,
had an added tenderness of interest, because some of our own
countrymen and countrywomen perished there. In those
fearful scenes the blood of Americans&mdash;men, women, and children&mdash;mingled
with that of their English kindred. One of
the most terrible incidents of those weeks of crime, was the
massacre of a party from Futteghur that tried to escape
down the Ganges, hoping to reach Allahabad. As they approached
Cawnpore, they concealed themselves in the tall
grass on an island, but were discovered by the Sepoys, and
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">219</a></span>
made prisoners. Some of the party were wealthy English
residents, who offered a large ransom for their lives. But
their captors answered roughly: "What they wanted was
not money, but blood!" Brought before Nana Sahib, he
ordered them instantly to be put to death. Among them
were four American missionaries, with their wives, who
showed in that hour of trial that they knew how to suffer and
to die. Of one of these I had heard a very touching story
but a few days before from my friend, Mr. Woodside. When
we were standing on the lower range of the Himalayas, looking
off to "the snows," he told me how he had once made an
expedition with a brother missionary among these mountains,
which are full of villages, like the hamlets in the High Alps.
He pointed out in the distance the very route they took, and
even places on the sides of the successive ranges where they
pitched their tents. They started near the close of September,
and were out all October, and came in about the middle
of November, being gone six weeks. After long and weary
marches for many days, they came to a little village called
Karsali near Jumnootree, the source of the sacred river Jumna,
near which rose a giant peak, 19,000 feet high (though we
could but just see it on the horizon), that till then had never
been trodden by human foot, but which they, like the daring
Americans they were, determined to ascend. Their guides
shrank from the attempt, and refused to accompany them;
but they determined to make the ascent if they went alone,
and at last, rather than be left behind, their men followed,
although one sank down in the snow, and could not reach the
summit. But the young missionaries pressed on with fresh
ardor, as they climbed higher and higher. As they reached
the upper altitudes, the summit, which to us at a distance of
ninety miles seemed but a peak or cone, broadened out into
a plateau of miles in extent; the snow was firm and hard;
they feared no crevasses, and strode on with fearless steps.
But there was something awful in the silence and the solitude.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">220</a></span>
Not a living thing could be seen on the face of earth
or sky. Not a bird soared to such heights; not an eagle or
a vulture was abroad in search of prey; not a bone on the
waste of snow told where any adventurous explorer had perished
before them. Alone they marched over the fields of
untrodden snow, and started almost to hear their own voices
in that upper air. And yet such was their sense of freedom,
that they could not contain their joy. My companion,
said Mr. Woodside, was very fond of a little hymn in Hindostanee,
a translation of the familiar lines:</p>

<div class="poem">
<p>I'm a pilgrim, I'm a stranger,</p>
<p>And I tarry but a night,</p>
</div>

<p>and as we went upward, he burst into singing, and sang joyously
as he strode over the fields of snow. Little he thought
that the end of his pilgrimage was so near! But six months
later the Mutiny broke out, and he was one of its first victims.
He was of the party from Futteghur, with a fate
made more dreadful, because he had with him not only his
wife, but two children, and the monster spared neither age
nor sex. After the Mutiny, Mr. Woodside visited Cawnpore,
and made diligent inquiry for the particulars of his
friend's death. It was difficult to get the details, as the
natives were very reticent, lest they should be accused; but
as near as he could learn, "Brother Campbell," as he spoke
of him, was led out with his wife&mdash;he holding one child
in his arms, and she leading another by the hand&mdash;and thus
all together they met their fate! Does this seem very hard?
Yet was it not sweet that they could thus die together, and
could come up (like the family of Christian in Pilgrim's
Progress) in one group to the wicket gate? No need had
he to sing any more:</p>
<div class="poem">
<p>
I'm a pilgrim, I'm a stranger,</p>
<p>And I tarry but a night,</p>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">221</a></span>
for on that summer morning he passed up a shining pathway,
whiter than the fields of snow on the crest of the Himalayas,
that led him straight to the gates of gold. Let no man complain
of the sacrifice, who would claim the reward; for so it
is written, "It is through much tribulation that we must
enter into the Kingdom of God."
</p>

<h3 class="p6">CHAPTER XVII.</h3>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">222</a></span></p>
<p class="ch_summ">THE STORY OF LUCKNOW.</p>

<p>"You are going to Lucknow?" she said. It was a lady
in black, who sat in the corner of the railway carriage, as
we came down from Upper India. A cloud passed over her
face. "I cannot go there; I was in the Residency during
the siege, and my husband and daughter were killed there.
I cannot revisit a place of such sad memories." It was
nothing to her that the long struggle had ended in victory,
and that the story of the siege was one of the most glorious
in English history. Nothing could efface the impression of
those months of suffering. She told us how day and night
the storm of fire raged around them; how the women took
refuge in the cellars; how her daughter was killed before
her eyes by the bursting of a shell; and how, when they
grew familiar with this danger, there came another terrible
fear&mdash;that of death by famine; how strong men grew weak
for want of food; how women wasted away from very hunger,
and children died because they could find no nourishment
on their mother's breasts.</p>

<p>But amid those horrors there was one figure which she
loved to recall&mdash;that of Sir Henry Lawrence, the lion-hearted
soldier, who kept up all hearts by his courage and
his iron will&mdash;till he too fell, and left them almost in despair.</p>

<p>Such memories might keep away one who had been a sufferer
in these fearful scenes, but they stimulated our desire
to see a spot associated with such courage and devotion, and
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">223</a></span>
led us from the scene of the tragedy of Cawnpore to that of
the siege of Lucknow.</p>

<p>But how soon nature washes away the stain of blood!
As we crossed the Ganges, the gentle stream, rippling against
the Slaughter Ghat, left no red spots upon its stony steps.
Near the station was a large enclosure full of elephants, some
of which perhaps had carried their burden of prisoners down
to the river's brink on that fatal day, but were now "taking
their ease," as beasts and men like to do. Familiar as we
are with the sight, it always gives us a fresh impression of
our Asiatic surroundings, to come suddenly upon a herd of
these creatures of such enormous bulk, with ears as large as
umbrellas, which are kept moving like punkas to keep off
the flies; to see them drawing up water into their trunks,
as "Behemoth drinketh up Jordan," and spurting it over
their backs; or what is more ludicrous still, to see them at
play, which seems entirely out of character. We think of
the elephant as a grave and solemn creature, made to figure
on grand occasions, to march in triumphal processions, carrying
the howdahs of great Rajahs, covered with cloth of gold.
But there is as much of "youth" in the elephant as in any
other beast. A baby elephant is like any other baby. As
little tigers play like kittens, so a little elephant is like a colt,
or like "Mary's little lamb."</p>

<p>Lucknow is only forty miles from Cawnpore, with which
it is connected by railway. A vast plain stretches to the
gates of the capital of Oude. It was evening when we
reached our destination, where another American friend,
Rev. Mr. Mudge of the Methodist Mission, was waiting to
receive us. A ride of perhaps a couple of miles through the
streets and bazaars gave us some idea of the extent of a city
which ranks among the first in India. Daylight showed us
still more of its extent and its magnificence. It spreads out
many miles over the plain, and has a population of three
hundred thousand, while in splendor it is the first of the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">224</a></span>
native cities of India&mdash;by native I mean one not taking its
character, like Calcutta and Bombay, from the English element.
Lucknow is more purely an Indian city, and has
more of the Oriental style in its architecture&mdash;its domes and
minarets reminding us of Cairo and Constantinople. Bayard
Taylor says: "The coup d'&oelig;il from one of the bridges over
the Goomtee, resembles that of Constantinople from the bridge
over the Golden Horn, and is more imposing, more picturesque,
and more truly Oriental than any other city in India."
It is a Mohammedan city, as much as Delhi, the mosques
quite overshadowing the Hindoo temples; and the Mohurrim,
the great Moslem festival, is observed here with the
same fanaticism. But it is much larger than Delhi, and
though no single palaces equal those of the old Moguls, yet it
has more the appearance of a modern capital, in its busy
and crowded streets. It is a great commercial city, with rich
merchants, with artificers in silver and gold and all the
fabrics of the East.</p>

<p>But the interest of Lucknow, derived from the fact of its
being one of the most populous cities of India, and one of
the most splendid, is quite eclipsed by the thrilling events
of its recent history. All its palaces and mosques have not
the attraction of one sacred spot. This is the Residency,
the scene of the siege, which will make the name of Lucknow
immortal. How the struggle came, we may see by
recalling one or two facts in the history of India.</p>

<p>A quarter of a century ago, this was not a part of the
British possessions. It was the Kingdom of Oude, with a
sovereign who still lives in a palace near Calcutta, with large
revenues wherewith to indulge his royal pleasure, but
without his kingdom, which the English Government has
taken from him. This occurred just before the Mutiny,
and has often been alleged as one of the causes, if not <i>the</i>
cause, of the outbreak; and England has been loudly accused
of perfidy and treachery towards an Indian prince,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">225</a></span>
and of having brought upon herself the terrible events which
followed.</p>

<p>No doubt the English Government has often carried things
with a high hand in India, and done acts which cannot be
defended, just as we must confess that our own Government,
in dealing with our Indian tribes, has sometimes seemed to
ignore both justice and mercy. But as to this king of Oude,
his "right" to his dominion (which is, being interpreted, a
right to torture his unhappy subjects) is about the same as
the right of a Bengal tiger to his jungle&mdash;a right which
holds good till some daring hunter can put an end to his
career.</p>

<p>When this king ruled in Oude he was such a father to his
people, and such was the affection felt for his paternal government,
that he had to collect his taxes by the military, and it
is said that the poor people in the country built their villages
on the borders of the jungle, and kept a watch out for the
approach of the soldiers. As soon as they were signalled as
being in sight, the wretched peasants gathered up whatever
they could carry, and fled into the jungle, preferring to face
the wild beasts and the serpents rather than these mercenaries
of a tyrant. The troops came, seized what was left and
set fire to the village. After they were gone, the miserable
people returned and rebuilt their mud hovels, and tried by
tilling the soil, to gain a bare subsistence. Such was the
patriarchal government of one of the native princes of
India.</p>

<p>This king of Oude now finds his chief amusement in collecting
a great menagerie. He has a very large number of
wild beasts. He has also a "snakery," in which he has
collected all the serpents of India. It must be confessed
that such a man seems more at home among his tigers
and cobras than in oppressing his wretched people. If
Americans who visit his palace near Calcutta are moved to
sympathy with this deposed king, let them remember what
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">226</a></span>
his government was, and they may feel a little pity for his
miserable subjects.</p>

<p>To put such a monster off the throne, and thus put an end
to his tyrannies, was about as much of a "crime" as it
would be to restrain the king of Dahomey or of Ashantee
from perpetuating his "Grand Custom." I am out of
patience with this mawkish sympathy. There is too much
real misery in the world that calls for pity and relief, to have
us waste our sensibilities on those who are the scourges of
mankind.</p>

<p>But once done, the deed could not be undone. Having
seized the bull by the horns, it was necessary to hold him,
and this was not an easy matter. It needed a strong hand,
which was given it in Sir Henry Lawrence, who had been
thirty years in India. Hardly had he been made governor
before he felt that there was danger in the air. Neither he
nor his brother John, the Governor of the Punjaub, were
taken by surprise when the Mutiny broke out. Both expected
it, and it did not find them unprepared. Oude was
indeed a centre of rebellion. The partisans of the ex-king
were of course very active, so that when the Sepoys mutinied
at Meerut, near Delhi, the whole kingdom of Oude was
in open revolt. Every place was taken except Lucknow,
and that was saved only by the wisdom and promptness of
its new governor.</p>

<p>His first work was to fortify the Residency (so called from
having been occupied by the former English residents), which
had about as much of a military character as an old English
manor-house. The grounds covered some acres, on which
were scattered a few buildings, official residences and guardhouses,
with open spaces between, laid out in lawns and
gardens. But the quick eye of the governor saw its capability
of defence. It was a small plateau, raised a few feet
above the plain around, and by connecting the different
buildings by walls, which could be mounted with batteries
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">227</a></span>
and loopholed for musketry, the whole could be constructed
into a kind of fortress. Into this he gathered the European
residents with their women and children. And behind such
rude defences a few hundred English soldiers, with as many
natives who had proved faithful, kept a large army at bay
for six months.</p>

<p>There was a fort in Lucknow well supplied with guns and
ammunition, but it was defended by only three hundred
men, and was a source of weakness rather than strength,
since the English force was too small to hold it, and if it
should fall into the hands of the Sepoys with all its stores, it
would be the arsenal of the rebellion. At Delhi a similar
danger had been averted only by a brave officer blowing up
the arsenal with his own hand. It was a matter of the
utmost moment to destroy the fort and yet to save the
soldiers in it. The only hope of keeping up any defence was
to unite the two feeble garrisons. But they were more than
half a mile apart, and each beleaguered by watchful enemies.
Sir Henry Lawrence signalled to the officer in command:
"Blow up the fort, and come to the Residency at twelve
o'clock to-night. Bring your treasure and guns, and destroy
the remainder." This movement could be executed only by
the greatest secrecy. But the order was promptly obeyed.
At midnight the little band filed silently out of the gates,
and stole with muffled steps along a retired path, almost
within reach of the guns of the enemies, who discovered the
movement only when they were safe in the Residency, and
the fuse which had been lighted at the fort reached the
magazine, and exploding two hundred and fifty barrels of
gunpowder, blew the massive walls into the air.</p>

<p>But the siege was only just begun. Inside the Residency
were collected about two thousand two hundred souls, of
whom over five hundred were women and children. Only
about six hundred were English soldiers, and seven or eight
hundred natives who had remained faithful, held to their allegiance
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">228</a></span>
by the personal ascendancy of Sir Henry Lawrence.<a name="FNanchor_7" id="FNanchor_7" href="#Footnote_7" class="fnanchor">[7]</a>
There were also some three hundred civilians, who, though
unused to arms, willingly took part in the defence. Thus
all together the garrison did not exceed seventeen hundred
men, of whom many were disabled by sickness and wounds.
The force of the besiegers was twenty to one. There is in
the Indian nature a strange mixture of languor and ferocity,
and the latter was aroused by the prospect of vengeance on the
English, who were penned up where they could not escape,
and where their capture was certain; and every Sepoy wished
to be in at the death. Under the attraction of such a prospect
it is said that the besieging force rose to fifty thousand
men. Many of the natives, who had been in the English
service, were practised artillerists, and trained their guns on
the slender defences with fatal effect. Advancing over the
level ground, they drew their lines nearer and nearer, till
their riflemen picked off the soldiers serving in the batteries.
Three times they made a breach by exploding mines under
the walls, and endeavored to carry the place by storm. But
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">229</a></span>
then rose high the unconquerable English spirit. They expected
to die, but they were determined to sell their lives
dearly. When the alarm of these attacks reached the hospital,
the sick and wounded crawled out of their beds and
threw away their crutches to take their place at the guns;
or if they could not stand, lay down flat on their faces and
fired through the holes made for musketry.</p>

<p>But brave as were the defenders, the long endurance told
upon them. They were worn out with watching, and their
ranks grew thinner day by day. Those who were killed
were carried off in the arms of their companions, who gathered
at midnight for their burial in some lonely and retired spot,
and while the chaplain in a low voice read the service, the
survivors stood around the grave, thinking how soon their
turn would come, the gloom of the night in fit harmony with
the dark thoughts that filled their breasts.</p>

<p>But darker than any night was the day when Sir Henry
Lawrence fell. He was the beloved, the adored commander.
"While he lived," said our informant, "we all felt safe."
But exposing himself too much, he was struck by a shell.
Those around him lifted him up tenderly and carried him
away to the house of the surgeon of the garrison, where two
days after he died. When all was over "they did not dare
to let the soldiers know that he was dead," lest they should
give up the struggle. But he lived long enough to inspire
them with his unconquerable spirit.</p>

<p>He died on the 4th of July, and for nearly three months
the siege went on without change, the situation becoming
every day more desperate. It was the hottest season of the
year, and the sun blazed down fiercely into their little camp,
aggravating the sickness and suffering, till they longed for
death, and were glad when they could find the grave.
"When my daughter was struck down by a fragment of a
shell that fell on the floor, she did not ask to live. She
might have been saved if she had been where she could have
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">230</a></span>
had careful nursing. But there was no proper food to nourish
the strength of the sick, and so she sunk away, feeling
that it was better to die than to live."</p>

<p>But still they would not yield to despair. Havelock had
taken Cawnpore, though he came too late to save the English
from massacre, and was straining every nerve to collect a
force sufficient to relieve Lucknow. As soon as he could
muster a thousand men he crossed the Ganges, and began his
march. The movement was known to the little garrison,
and kept up their hopes. A faithful native, who acted as a
spy throughout the siege, went to and fro, disguising himself,
and crept through the lines in the night, and got inside the
Residency, and told them relief was coming. "He had seen
the general, and said he was a little man with white hair,"
who could be no other than Havelock. Word was sent back
that, on approaching the city, rockets should be sent up to
notify the garrison. Night after night officers and men
gazed toward the west for the expected signal, till their
hearts grew sick as the night passed and there was no sign.
Deliverance was to come, but not yet.</p>

<p>Havelock found that he had attempted the impossible.
His force was but a handful, compared with the hosts of his
enemies. Even nature appeared to be against him. It was
the hot and rainy season, when it seemed impossible to march
over the plains of India. Cannon had to be drawn by bullocks
over roads and across fields, where they sank deep in
mud. Men had to march and fight now in the broiling sun,
and now in floods of rain. "In the full midday heat of the
worst season of the year, did our troops start. The sun
struck down with frightful force. At every step a man
reeled out of the ranks, and threw himself fainting by the
side of the road; the calls for water were incessant all along
the line." "During the interval between the torrents of rain,
the sun's rays were so overpowering that numbers of the
men were smitten down and died." But the survivors
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">231</a></span>
closed up their ranks and kept their face to the foe. Their
spirit was magnificent. Death had lost its terrors for them,
and they made light of hardships and dangers. When fainting
with heat, if they found a little dirty water by the roadside
"it was like nectar." After marching all day in the
rain, they would lie down in the soaking mud, and grasp their
guns, and wrap their coats around them, and sleep soundly.
Says an officer:</p>

<div class="blockquot">
<p>
"August 5th we marched toward Lucknow nine miles and then
encamped on a large plain for the night. You must bear in mind
that we had no tents with us, they are not allowed, so every day we
were exposed to the burning sun and to the rain and dew by night.
No baggage or beds were allowed; but the soldier wrapped his cloak
around him, grasped his musket and went to sleep, and soundly we
slept too. My Arab horse served me as a pillow, I used to lie down
alongside of him, with my head on his neck, and he never moved
with me except now and then to lick my hand." But he adds, "We
found that it was impossible to proceed to Lucknow, for our force
was too small&mdash;for though we were a brave little band, and could
fight to Lucknow, yet we could not compel them to raise the siege
when we got there."
</p>
</div>

<p>Another enemy also had appeared. Cholera had broken
out in the camp; eleven men died in one day. The Rebels
too were rising behind them. As soon as Havelock crossed
the Ganges they began to gather in his rear. Nana Sahib
was mustering a force and threatened Cawnpore. Thus beset
behind and before, Havelock turned and marched against the
Mahratta chief, and sent him flying towards Delhi. In reading
the account of these marches and battles, it is delightful
to see the spirit between the commander and his men. After
this victory, as he rode along the lines, they cheered him
vehemently. He returned their salute, but said, "Don't
cheer me, my lads, you did it all yourselves." Such men,
fighting together, were invincible.</p>

<p>In September Havelock had collected 2,700 men, and
again set out for Lucknow. Three days they marched "under
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">232</a></span>
a deluge of rain." But their eyes were "steadfastly set"
towards the spot where their countrymen were in peril, and
they cared not for hardships and dangers. The garrison was
apprised of their coming, and waited with feverish anxiety.
In the relieving force was a regiment of Highlanders, and if
no crazy woman could put her ears to the ground (according
to the romantic story so often told) and hear the pibroch,
and shout "The Campbells are coming," they knew that those
brave Scots never turned back. As they drew near the city
over the Cawnpore road, they found that it was mined to
blow them up. Instantly they wheeled off, and marched
round the city, and came up on the other side. Capturing
the Alumbagh, one of the royal residences, which, surrounded
by a wall, was easily converted into a temporary
fortress, Havelock left here his heavy baggage and stores of
ammunition, with an immense array of elephants and camels
and horses; and all his sick and wounded, and the whole train
of camp-followers; and three hundred men, with four guns
to defend it. Thus "stripped for the fight," he began his
attack on the city. It was two miles to the Residency, and
every step the English had to fight their way through the
streets. The battle began in the morning, and lasted all
day. It was a desperate attempt to force their way through
a great city, where every man was an enemy, and they were
fired at from almost every house. "Our advance was
through streets of flat-roofed and loop-holed houses, each
forming a separate fortress." Our informant told us of
the frenzy in the Residency when they heard the sound of
the guns. "The Campbells were coming" indeed! Sometimes
the firing lulled, and it seemed as if they were driven
back. Then it rose again, and came nearer and nearer.
How the tide of battle ebbed and flowed, is well told in
the narratives of those who were actors in the scenes:</p>

<div class="blockquot">
<p>
"Throughout the night of the 24th great agitation and alarm had
prevailed in the city; and, as morning advanced, increased and rapid
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">233</a></span>
movements of men and horses, gave evidence of the excited state of
the rebel force. At noon, increasing noise proclaimed that street
fighting was growing more fierce in the distance; but from the Residency
nought but the smoke from the fire of the combatants could
be discerned. As the afternoon advanced, the sounds came nearer
and nearer, and then we heard the sharp crack of rifles mingled with
the flash of musketry; the well-known uniforms of British soldiers
were next discerned."
</p>
</div>

<p>A lady who was in the Residency, and has written a Diary
of the Siege, thus describes the coming in of the English
troops:</p>

<div class="blockquot">
<p>
"Never shall I forget the moment to the latest day I live. We
had no idea they were so near, and were breathing the air in the
portico as usual at that hour, speculating when they might be in;
when suddenly just at dusk, we heard a very sharp fire of musketry
close by, and then a tremendous cheering. An instant after, the
sound of bagpipes&mdash;then soldiers running up the road&mdash;our compound
and veranda filled with our deliverers, and all of us shaking hands
frantically, and exchanging fervent 'God bless you's' with the gallant
men and officers of the 78th Highlanders. Sir James Outram and
staff were the next to come in, and the state of joyful confusion and
excitement was beyond all description. The big, rough-bearded
soldiers were seizing the little children out of our arms, kissing
them, with tears rolling down their cheeks, and thanking God
they had come in time to save them from the fate of those at Cawnpore.
We were all rushing about to give the poor fellows drinks of
water, for they were perfectly exhausted; and tea was made down
in the Tye-khana, of which a large party of tired, thirsty officers partook,
without milk or sugar. We had nothing to give them to eat.
Every one's tongue seemed going at once with so much to ask and to
tell; and the faces of utter strangers beamed upon each other like
those of dearest friends and brothers."
</p>
</div>

<p>It was indeed a great deliverance, but the danger was not
over. Of all that were in the Residency when the siege
began, three months before, more than half were gone. Out of
twenty-two hundred but nine hundred were left, and of these
less than one-half were fighting men. Even with the reinforcement
of Havelock the garrison was still far too small to hold
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">234</a></span>
such a position in the midst of a city of such a population.
The siege went on for two months longer. The final relief did
not come till Sir Colin Campbell, arriving with a larger force,
again fought his way through the city. The atrocities of the
Sepoys had produced such a feeling that he could hardly restrain
his soldiers. Remembering the murders and massacres
of their countrymen and countrywomen, they fought with a
savage fury. In one walled enclosure, which they carried by
storm, were two thousand Sepoys, and they killed every man!</p>

<p>Even then the work was not completed. Scarcely had Sir
Colin Campbell entered the Residency before he decided upon
its evacuation. Again the movement was executed at midnight,
in silence and in darkness. While the watch-fires
were kept burning to deceive the enemy, the men filed out of
the gates, with the women and children in the centre of the
column, and moving softly and quickly through a narrow
lane, in the morning they were several miles from the city,
in a strong position, which made them safe from attack.</p>

<p>The joy of this hour of deliverance was saddened by the death
of Havelock. He had passed through all the dangers of battle
and siege, only to die at last of disease, brought on by the
hardships and exposures of the last few months. But his work
was done. He had nothing to do but to die. To his friend,
Sir James Outram, who came to see him, he stretched out his
hand and said: "For more than forty years I have so ruled
my life, that when death came, I might face it without fear."</p>

<p>The garrison was saved, but the city was still in the hands
of the Rebels, who were as defiant as ever. It was some
months before Sir Colin Campbell gathered forces sufficient
for the final and crushing blow. Indeed it was not till winter
that he had collected a really formidable army. Then he
moved on the city in force and carried it by storm. Two
days of terrible fighting gave him the mastery of Lucknow,
and the British flag was once more raised over the capital of
Oude, where it has floated in triumph unto this day.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">235</a></span></p>

<p>But the chief interest gathers about the earlier defence.
The siege of Lucknow is one of the most thrilling events in
modern history, and may well be remembered with pride by
all who took part in it. A few weeks before we were here
the Prince of Wales had made his visit to Lucknow, and requested
that the survivors of the siege might be presented to
him. Mr. Mudge was present at the interview, and told me
he had never witnessed a more affecting scene than when
these brave old soldiers, the wrecks of the war, some of them
bearing the marks of their wounds, came up to the Prince,
and received his warmest thanks for their courage and fidelity.</p>

<p>These heroic memories were fresh in mind as we took
our morning walk in Lucknow, along the very street by
which Havelock had fought his way through the city.
The Residency is now a ruin, its walls shattered by shot and
shell. But the ruins are overrun with vines and creeping
plants, and are beautiful even in their decay. With sad interest
we visited the spot where Sir Henry Lawrence was
struck by the fatal shell, and the cemetery in which he is
buried. He was a Christian soldier and before his death received
the communion. He asked that no eulogy might be
written on his tomb, but only these words: "Here lies
Henry Lawrence, who tried to do his duty. May God have
mercy on his soul." This dying utterance is inscribed on the
plain slab of marble that covers his dust. It is enough. No
epitaph could say more. As I stood there and read these
simple words and thought of the noble dead, my eyes were
full of tears. With such a consciousness of duty done, who
could fear to die? How well do these words express that
which should be the highest end of human ambition. Happy
will it be for any man of whom, when he has passed from
the world, it can with truth be written above his grave,
"Here lies one who tried to do his duty!"
</p>

<h3 class="p6">CHAPTER XVIII.</h3>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">236</a></span></p>
<p class="ch_summ">THE ENGLISH RULE IN INDIA.</p>

<p>In reviewing the terrible scenes of the Mutiny, one cannot
help asking whether such scenes are likely to occur again;
whether there will ever be another Rebellion; and if so,
what may be the chance of its success? Will the people of
India wish to rise? How are they affected towards the
English government? Are they loyal? We can only
answer these questions by asking another: Who are meant
by the people of India? The population is divided into
different classes, as into different castes. The great mass of
the people are passive. Accustomed to being handed over
from one native ruler to another, they care not who holds
the power. He is the best ruler who oppresses them the
least. But among the high caste Brahmins, and especially
those who have been educated (among whom alone there is
anything like political life in India), there is a deep-seated
disaffection towards the English rule. This is a natural result
of an education which enlarges their ideas and raises
their ambition. Some of the Bengalees, for example, are
highly educated men, and it is but natural that, as they increase
in knowledge, they should think that they are quite
competent to govern themselves. Hence their dislike to the
foreign power that is imposed upon them. Not that they
have any personal wrongs to avenge. It may be that they
are attached to English <i>men</i>, while they do not like the English
rule. Every man whose mind is elevated by knowledge
and reflection, wishes to be his own master; and if ruled at
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">237</a></span>
all, he likes to be ruled by those of his own blood and race
and language. This class of men, whether Hindoos or Mohammedans,
however courteous they may be to the English
in their personal or business relations, are not thereby converted
to loyalty, any more than they are converted to
Christianity.</p>

<p>But however strong their dislike, it is not very probable
that it should take shape in organized rebellion, and still less
likely that any such movement should succeed. The English
are now guarded against it as never before. In the
Mutiny they were taken at every possible disadvantage. The
country was almost stripped of English troops. Only 20,000
men were left, and these scattered far apart, and surrounded
by three times their number of Sepoys in open rebellion.
Thus even the military organization was in the hands of the
enemy. If with all these things against them, English skill
and courage and discipline triumphed at last, can it ever be
put to such a test again?</p>

<p>When the Mutiny was over, and the English had time to
reflect on the danger they had escaped, they set themselves
to repair their defences, so that they should never more be
in such peril. The first thing was to reorganize the army,
to weed out the elements of disaffection and rebellion, and to
see that the power was henceforth in safe hands. The English
troops were tripled in force, till now, instead of twenty,
they number sixty thousand men. The native regiments
were carefully chosen from those only who had proved faithful,
such as the Goorkas, who fought so bravely at Delhi,
and other hill tribes of the Himalayas; and the Punjaubees,
who are splendid horsemen, and make the finest cavalry.
But not even these, brave and loyal as they had been, were
mustered into any regiment except cavalry and infantry.
Not a single native soldier was left in the artillery. In the
Mutiny, if the Sepoys had not been practised gunners, they
would not have been so formidable at the siege of Lucknow
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">238</a></span>
and elsewhere. Now they are stripped of this powerful arm,
and in any future rising they could do nothing against fortified
places, nor against an army in the field, equipped with
modern artillery. In reserving this arm of the service to
themselves, the English have kept the decisive weapon in
their own hands.</p>

<p>Then it is hardly too much to say that by the present complete
system of railroads, the English force is <i>quadrupled</i>, as
this gives them the means of concentrating rapidly at any
exposed point.</p>

<p>To these elements of military strength must be added the
greater organizing power of Englishmen. The natives make
good soldiers. They are brave, and freely expose themselves
in battle. In the Sikh war the Punjaubees fought desperately.
So did the Sepoys in the Mutiny. But the moment
the plan of attack was disarranged, they were "all at sea."
Their leaders had no "head" for quick combinations in presence
of an enemy. As it has been, so it will be. In any
future contests it will be not only the English sword, English
guns, and English discipline, but more than all, the English
brains, that will get them the victory.</p>

<p>Such is the position of England in India. She holds a
citadel girt round with defences on every side, with strong
walls without, and brave hearts within. I have been round
about her towers, and marked well her bulwarks, and I see
not why, so guarded and defended, she may not hold her
Indian Empire for generations to come.</p>

<p>But there is a question back of all this. Might does not
make right. A government may be established in power
that is not established in justice. It may be that the English
are to remain masters of India, yet without any right to
that splendid dominion. As we read the thrilling stories of
the Mutiny, it is almost with a guilty feeling (as if it betrayed
a want of sympathy with all that heroism), that we admit
any inquiry as to the cause of that fearful tragedy. But how
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">239</a></span>
came all this blood to be shed? Has not England something
to answer for? If she has suffered terribly, did she not pay
the penalty of her own grasping ambition? Nations, like
individuals, often bring curses on themselves, the retribution
of their oppressions and their crimes. The fact that men
fight bravely, is no proof that they fight in a just cause.
Nay, the very admiration that we feel for their courage in
danger and in death, but increases our horror at the "political
necessity" which requires them to be sacrificed. If England
by her own wicked policy provoked the Mutiny, is she
not guilty of the blood of her children? Thomas Jefferson,
though a slaveholder himself, used to say that in a war of
races every attribute of Almighty God would take part with
the slave against his master; and Englishmen may well ask
whether in the conflict which has come once, and may come
again, they can be quite sure that Infinite Justice will always
be on their side.</p>

<p>In these sentences I have put the questions which occur to
an American travelling in India. Wherever he goes, he sees
the English flag flying on every fortress&mdash;the sign that India
is a conquered country. The people who inhabit the country
are not those who govern it. With his Republican ideas of
the right of every nation to govern itself, he cannot help asking:
What business have the English in India? What right
have a handful of Englishmen, so far from their native island,
in another hemisphere, to claim dominion over two hundred
millions of men?</p>

<p>As an American, I have not the bias of national feeling
to lead me to defend and justify the English rule in India;
though I confess that when, far off here in Asia, among these
dusky natives, I see a white face, and hear my own mother
tongue, I feel that "blood is thicker than water," and am
ready to take part with my kindred against all comers. Even
Americans cannot but feel a pride in seeing men of their own
race masters of such a kingdom in the East. But this pride
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">240</a></span>
of empire will not extinguish in any fair mind the sense of
justice and humanity.</p>

<p>"Have the English any right in India?" If it be "a question
of titles," we may find it difficult to prove our own right
in America, from which we have crowded out the original
inhabitants. None of us can claim a title from the father of
the human race. All new settlers in a country are "invaders."
But public interest and the common law of the world
demand that power, once established, should be recognized.</p>

<p>According to the American principle, that "all just government
derives its authority from the consent of the governed,"
there never was a just government in India, for the
consent of the governed was never obtained. The people of
India were never asked to give their "consent" to the government
established over them. They were ruled by native
princes, who were as absolute, and in general as cruel tyrants,
as ever crushed a wretched population.</p>

<p>No doubt in planting themselves in India, the English have
often used the rights of conquerors. No one has denounced
their usurpations and oppressions more than their own historians,
such as Mill and Macaulay. The latter, in his eloquent
reviews of the lives of Clive and Warren Hastings, has
spoken with just severity of the crimes of those extraordinary
but unscrupulous men. For such acts no justification can be
pleaded whatever. But as between Clive and Surajah Dowlah,
the rule of the former was infinitely better. It would be
carrying the doctrine of self-government to an absurd extent,
to imagine that the monster who shut up English prisoners in
the Black Hole had any right which was to be held sacred.
The question of right, therefore, is not between the English
and the people of India, but between the English and the
native princes. Indeed England comes in to protect the people
against the princes, when it gives them one strong master
in place of a hundred petty tyrants. The King of Oude collecting
his taxes by soldiers, is but an instance of that oppression
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">241</a></span>
and cruelty which extended all over India, but which is
now brought to an end.</p>

<p>And how has England used her power? At first, we must
confess, with but little of the feeling of responsibility which
should accompany the possession of power. Nearly a hundred
years ago, Burke (who was master of all facts relating to the
history of India, and to its political condition, more than any
other man of his time) bitterly arraigned the English government
for its cruel neglect of that great dependency. He denounced
his countrymen, the agents of the East India Company,
as a horde of plunderers, worse than the soldiers of
Tamerlane, and held up their greedy and rapacious administration
to the scorn of mankind, showing that they had left
no beneficent monuments of their power to compare with
those of the splendid reigns of the old Moguls. In a speech
in Parliament in 1783, he said:</p>

<div class="blockquot">
<p>
"England has erected no churches, no palaces, no hospitals, no
schools; England has built no bridges, made no high roads, cut no
navigations, dug out no reservoirs. Every other conqueror of every
other description has left some monument either of State or beneficence
behind him. Were we to be driven out of India this day,
nothing would remain to tell that it had been possessed, during the
inglorious period of our dominion, by anything better than the
orang-outang or the tiger."
</p>
</div>

<p>This is a fearful accusation. What answer can be made
to it? Has there been any change for the better since the
great impeacher of Warren Hastings went to his grave?
How has England governed India since that day? She
has not undertaken to govern it like a Model Republic.
If she had, her rule would soon have come to an end.
She has not given the Hindoos universal suffrage, or representation
in Parliament. But she has given them something
better&mdash;Peace and Order and Law, a trinity of blessings that
they never had before. When the native princes ruled in
India, they were constantly at war among themselves, and
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">242</a></span>
thus overrunning and harassing the country. Now the English
government rules everywhere, and Peace reigns from
Cape Comorin to the Himalayas.</p>

<p>Strange to say, this quietness does not suit some of the
natives, who have a restless longing for the wild lawlessness
of former times. A missionary was one day explaining to a
crowd the doctrine of original sin, when he was roughly interrupted
by one who said, "I know what is original sin: it
is the English rule in India." "You ought not to say that,"
was the reply, "for if it were not for the English the people
of the next village would make a raid on your village, and
carry off five thousand sheep." But the other was not to be
put down so, and answered promptly, "<i>I should like that</i>, for
then we would make a raid on them and carry off ten thousand!"
This was a blunt way of putting it, but it expresses
the feeling of many who would prefer that kind of wild justice
which prevails among the Tartar hordes of Central Asia
to a state of profound tranquility. They would rather have
Asiatic barbarism than European civilization.</p>

<p>With peace between States, England has established order
in every community. It has given protection to life and
property&mdash;a sense of security which is the first condition of
the existence of human society. It has abolished heathen
customs which were inhuman and cruel. It has extirpated
thuggism, and put an end to infanticide and the burning of
widows. This was a work of immense difficulty, because
these customs, horrid as they were, were supported by religious
fanaticism. Mothers cast their children into the Ganges
as an offering to the gods; and widows counted it a happy
escape from the sufferings of life to mount the funeral pile.
Even to this day there are some who think it hard that they
cannot thus sacrifice themselves.</p>

<p>So wedded are the people to their customs, that they are
very jealous of the interference of the government, when it
prohibits any of their practices on the ground of humanity.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">243</a></span>
Dr. Newton, of Lahore, the venerable missionary, told me
that he knew a few years ago a fakir, a priest of a temple,
who had grown to be very friendly with him. One day the
poor man came, with his heart full of trouble, to tell his
griefs. He had a complaint against the government. He
said that Sir John Lawrence, then Governor of the Punjaub,
was very arbitrary. And why? Because he wanted to bury
himself alive, and the Governor wouldn't let him! He had
got to be a very old man (almost a hundred), and of course
must soon leave this world. He had had a tomb prepared in
the grounds of the temple (he took Dr. Newton to see
what a nice place it was), and there he wished to lie down
and breathe his last. With the Hindoos it is an act of
religious merit to bury one's self alive, and on this the old man
had set his heart. If he could do this, he would go straight
to Paradise, but the hard English Governor, insensible to
such considerations, would not permit it. Was it not too
bad that he could not be allowed to go to heaven in his own
way?</p>

<p>Breaking up these old barbarities&mdash;suicide, infanticide,
and the burning of widows&mdash;the government has steadily
aimed to introduce a better system for the administration of
justice, in which, with due regard to Hindoo customs and
prejudices, shall be incorporated, as far as possible, the principles
of English law. For twenty years the ablest men that
could be found in India or in England, have been engaged in
perfecting an elaborate Indian Code, in which there is one
law for prince and pariah. What must be the effect on the
Hindoo mind of such a system, founded in justice, and enforced
by a power which they cannot resist? Such laws
administered by English magistrates, will educate the Hindoos
to the idea of justice, which, outside of English colonies,
can hardly be said to exist in Asia.</p>

<p>The English are the Romans of the modern world. Wherever
the Roman legions marched, they ruled with a strong
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">244</a></span>
hand, but they established law and order, the first conditions
of human society. So with the English in all their Asiatic
dependencies. Wherever they come, they put an end to
anarchy, and give to all men that sense of protection and security,
that feeling of personal safety&mdash;safety both to life and
property&mdash;without which there is no motive to human effort,
and no possibility of human progress.</p>

<p>The English are like the Romans in another feature of their
administration, in the building of roads. The Romans were
the great road-builders of antiquity. Highways which began
at Rome, and thus radiated from a common centre, led
to the most distant provinces. Not only in Italy, but in
Spain and Gaul and Germany, did the ancient masters of the
world leave these enduring monuments of their power. Following
this example, England, before the days of railroads,
built a broad macadamized road from Calcutta to Peshawur,
over 1,500 miles. This may have been for a military purpose;
but no matter, it serves the ends of peace more than of
war. It becomes a great avenue of commerce; it opens communication
between distant parts of India, and brings together
men of different races, speaking different languages;
and thus, by promoting peaceful and friendly intercourse, it
becomes a highway of civilization.</p>

<p>Nor is this the only great road in this country. Everywhere
I have found the public highways in excellent condition.
Indeed I have not found a bad road in India&mdash;not one
which gave me such a "shaking up" as I have sometimes
had when riding over the "corduroys" through the Western
forests of America. Around the large towns the roads are
especially fine&mdash;broad and well paved, and often planted with
trees. The cities are embellished with parks, like cities in
England, with botanical and zoölogical gardens. The streets
are kept clean, and strict sanitary regulations are enforced&mdash;a
matter of the utmost moment in this hot climate, and in a
dense population, where a sudden outbreak of cholera would
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">245</a></span>
sweep off thousands in a few days or hours. The streets are
well lighted and well policed, so that one may go about at
any hour of day or night with as much safety as in London
or New York. If these are the effects of foreign rule, even
the most determined grumbler must confess that it has proved
a material and substantial benefit to the people of India.</p>

<p>Less than twenty years ago the internal improvements of
India received a sudden and enormous development, when to
the building of roads succeeded that of railroads. Lord Dalhousie,
when Governor-General, had projected a great railroad
system, but it was not till after the Mutiny, and perhaps in
consequence of the lessons learned by that terrible experience,
that the work was undertaken on a large scale. The government
guaranteed five per cent. interest for a term of years,
and the capital was supplied from England. Labor was
abundant and cheap, and the works were pushed on with unrelaxing
energy, till India was belted from Bombay to Calcutta,
and trunk lines were running up and down the country,
with branches to every large city. Thus, to English
foresight and sagacity, to English wealth and engineering
skill, India owes that vast system of railroads which now
spreads over the whole peninsula.</p>

<p>In no part of the world are railroads more used than in
India. Of course the first-class carriages are occupied chiefly
by English travellers, or natives of high rank; and the second-class
by those less wealthy. But there are trains for the
people, run at very low fares. There are huge cars, built
with two stories, and carrying a hundred passengers each, and
these two-deckers are often very closely packed. The Hindoos
have even learned to make pilgrimages by steam, and
find it much cheaper, as well as easier, than to go afoot.
When one considers the long journeys they have been accustomed
to undertake under the burning sun of India, the
amount of suffering relieved by a mode of locomotion so cool
and swift is beyond computation.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">246</a></span></p>

<p>Will anybody tell me that the people of India, if left alone,
would have built their own railways? Perhaps in the course
of ages, but not in our day. The Asiatic nature is torpid
and slow to move, and cannot rouse itself to great exertion.
In the whole Empire of China there is not a railroad, except
at Shanghai, where a few months ago was opened a little
"one-horse concern," a dozen miles long, built by the foreigners
for the convenience of that English settlement. This
may show how rapid would have been the progress of railroads
in India, if left wholly to native "enterprise." It
would have taken hundreds of years to accomplish what the
English have wrought in one generation.</p>

<p>Nor does English engineering skill expend itself on railroads
alone. It has dug canals that are like rivers in their
length. The Ganges Canal in Upper India is a work equal
to our Erie Canal. Other canals have been opened, both for
commerce and for irrigation. The latter is a matter vital to
India. The food of the Hindoos is rice, and rice cannot be
cultivated except in fields well watered. A drought in the
rice fields means a famine in the province. Such a calamity
is now averted in many places by this artificial irrigation.
The overflow from these streams, which are truly "fountains
in the desert," has kept whole districts from being burnt up,
by which in former years millions perished by famine.</p>

<p>While thus caring for the material comfort and safety of the
people of India, England has also shown regard to their enlightenment
in providing a magnificent system of National
Education. Every town in India has its government school,
while many a large city has its college or its university. Indeed,
so far has this matter of education been carried, that I
heard a fear expressed that it was being overdone&mdash;at least the
higher education&mdash;because the young men so educated were
unfitted for anything else than the employ of the government.
All minor places in India are filled by natives, and well
filled too. But there are not enough for all. And hence
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">247</a></span>
many, finding no profession to enter, and educated above the
ordinary occupations of natives, are left stranded on the
shore.</p>

<p>These great changes in India, these schools and colleges,
the better administration of the laws, and these vast internal
improvements, have been almost wholly the work of the
generation now living. In the first century of its dominion
the English rule perhaps deserved the bitter censure of
Burke, but</p>

<div class="poem">
<p class="o1">
"If 'twere so, it were a grievous fault,</p>
<p>And grievously hath Cæsar answered it."</p>
</div>

<p>England has paid for the misgovernment of India in the blood
of her children, and within the last few years she has striven
nobly to repair the errors of former times. Thus one generation
makes atonement for the wrongs of another. She has
learned that justice is the highest wisdom, and the truest
political economy. The change is due in part to the constant
pressure of the Christian sentiment of England upon its government,
which has compelled justice to India, and wrought
those vast changes which we see with wonder and admiration.</p>

<p>Thus stretching out her mighty arm over India, England
rules the land from sea to sea. I say not that she rules it in
absolute righteousness&mdash;that her government is one of ideal
perfection, but it is immeasurably better than that of the old
native tyrants which it displaced. It at least respects the
forms of law, and while it establishes peace, it endeavors also
to maintain justice. The railroads that pierce the vast interior
quicken the internal commerce of the country, while the
waters that are caused to flow over the rice-fields of Bengal
abate the horrors of pestilence and famine. Thus England
gives to her Asiatic empire the substantial benefits of modern
civilization; while in her schools and colleges she brings the
subtle Hindoo mind into contact with the science and learning
of the West. At so many points does this foreign rule
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">248</a></span>
touch the very life of India, and infuse the best blood of
Europe into her languid veins.</p>

<p>With such results of English rule, who would not wish that
it might continue? It is not that we love the Hindoo less,
but the cause of humanity more. The question of English
rule in India is a question of civilization against barbarism.
These are the two forces now in conflict for the mastery of
Asia. India is the place where the two seas meet. Shall
she be left to herself, shut up between her seas and her mountains?
That would be an unspeakable calamity, not only to
her present inhabitants, but to unborn millions. I believe in
modern civilization, as I believe in Christianity. These are
the great forces which are to conquer the world. In conquering
Asia, they will redeem it and raise it to a new life.
The only hope of Asia is from Europe:</p>

<div class="poem">
<p>
"Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay;"</p>
</div>

<p>and the only hope of India is from England. So whatever
contests may yet arise for the control of this vast peninsula,
with its two hundred millions of people, our sympathies must
always be against Asiatic barbarism, and on the side of European
civilization.
</p>

<h3 class="p6">CHAPTER XIX.</h3>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">249</a></span></p>
<p class="ch_summ">MISSIONS IN INDIA&mdash;DO MISSIONARIES DO ANY GOOD?</p>

<p>"Is it not all a farce?" said a Major in the Bengal Staff
Corps, as we came down from Upper India. We were talking
of Missions. He did not speak of them with hatred, but
only with contempt. The missionaries "meant well," but
they were engaged in an enterprise which was so utterly
hopeless, that no man in his senses could regard it as other
than supreme and almost incredible folly. In this he spoke
the opinion of half the military men of India. They have
no personal dislike to missionaries&mdash;indeed many an officer
in an out-of-the-way district, who has a missionary family
for almost his only neighbors, will acknowledge that they
are "a great addition to the English society." But as for
their doing any good, as an officer once said to me: "They
might as well go and stand on the shore of the sea and
preach to the fishes, as to think to convert the Hindoos!"
Their success, of which so much is said in England and
America, is "infinitesimally small." Some even go so far
as to say that the missionaries do great mischief; that they
stir up bad blood in the native population, and perpetuate
an animosity of races. Far better would it be to leave
the "mild Hindoo" to his gods; to let him worship his
sacred cows, and monkeys and serpents, and his hideous
idols, so long as he is a quiet and inoffensive subject of the
government.</p>

<p>If one were preaching a sermon to a Christian congregation,
he might disdain a reply to objections which seem to
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">250</a></span>
come out of the mouths of unbelievers; it would be enough
to repeat the words of Him who said, "Go into all the world
and preach the Gospel to every creature." But I am not
preaching, but conversing with an intelligent gentleman,
who has lived long in India, and might well assume that he
knows far more about the actual situation than I do. Such
men are not to be put down. They represent a large part of
the Anglo-Indian population. We may therefore as well
recognize the fact that Modern Missions, like any other
enterprise which is proposed in the interest of civilization,
are now on trial before the world. We may look upon them
as too sacred for criticism; but in this irreverent age nothing
is too sacred; everything that is holy has to be judged by
reason, and by practical results, and by these to be justified
or to be condemned. I would not therefore claim anything
on the ground of authority, but speak of missions as I would
of national education, or even of the railroad system of India.</p>

<p>The question here raised I think deserves a larger and
more candid treatment than it commonly receives either
from the advocates or the opponents of missions. It is
not to be settled merely by pious feeling, by unreasoning
sentiment on the one hand, nor by sneers on the other. To
convert a whole country from one religion to another, is
an undertaking so vast that it is not to be lightly entered
upon. The very attempt assumes a superior wisdom on the
part of those who make it, which is itself almost an offence.
If it be not "a grand impertinence," an intrusion into
matters with which no stranger has a right to intermeddle,
it is at least taking a great liberty to thrust upon a man our
opinion in censure of his own. We may think him very
ignorant, and in need of being enlightened. But he may
have a poor opinion of our ability to enlighten him. We
think him a fool, and he returns the compliment. At any
rate, right or wrong, he is entitled to the freedom of his
opinion as much as we are to ours. If a stranger were to
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">251</a></span>
come to us day by day, to argue with us, and to force his
opinions upon us, either in politics or religion, we might
listen civilly and patiently at first, but we should end by
turning him out of doors. What right have we to pronounce
on his opinions and conduct any more than he upon ours?</p>

<p>In the domain of religion, especially, a man's opinions are
sacred. They are between himself and God. There is no
greater offence against courtesy, against that mutual concession
of perfect freedom, which is the first law of all human
intercourse, than to interfere wantonly with the opinions&mdash;nay,
if you please, with the false opinions, with the errors
and prejudices&mdash;of mankind. Nothing but the most imperative
call of humanity&mdash;a plea of "necessity or mercy"&mdash;can
justify a crusade against the ancestral faith of a whole
people.</p>

<p>I state the case as strongly as I can, that we may look
upon it as an English officer, or even an intelligent Hindoo,
looks upon it, and I admit frankly that we have no more
right to force our religion upon the people of India, than to
force upon them a republican form of government, unless we
can give a reason for it, which shall be recognized at the bar
of the intelligent judgment of mankind.</p>

<p>Is there then any good reason&mdash;any <i>raison d'être</i>&mdash;for the
establishment of missions in India? If there be not some
very solid and substantial ground for their existence, they
are not to be justified merely because their motive is good.
Is there then any reason whatever which can justify any
man, or body of men, in invading this country with a new
religion, and attacking the ancient faith of the people?</p>

<p>All students of history will acknowledge that there are
certain great revolutions in the opinions of mankind, which
are epochs in history, and turning points in the life of
nations. India has had many such revolutions, dating far
back before the Christian era. Centuries before Christ was
born, Buddha preached his new faith on the banks of the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">252</a></span>
Ganges. For a time it conquered the country, driving out
the old Brahminism, which however came back and conquered
in its turn, till Buddhism, retiring slowly from the
plains of India, planted its pagodas on the shores of Burmah
and among the mountains of Ceylon.</p>

<p>Thus India is a land of missions, and has been from the
very beginnings of history. It was traversed by missionaries
of its ancient faith ages before Tamerlane descended
the passes of the Himalayas with the sword in one hand and
the Koran in the other; or Francis Xavier, the Apostle of
the Indies, laid his bones in the Cathedral of Goa. If then
Buddhists and Brahmins, and Moslems and Romanists, have
so long disputed the land, there is certainly no reason why
we should condemn at the very outset the entrance of Protestant
Christianity.</p>

<p>Beside this great fact in the history of India place another:
that there is no country in the world where religion is such
a power, such an element in the life of the people. The Hindoos
are not only religious, they are intensely so. They have
not indeed the fierce fanaticism of the Moslems, for their
creed tolerates all religions, but what they believe they believe
strongly. They have a subtle philosophy which pervades
all their thinking, which digs the very channels in
which their thoughts run, and cannot overflow; and this philosophy,
which is imbedded in their religious creed, fixes
their castes and customs, as rigidly as it does their forms of
worship. Religion is therefore the chief element in the national
life. It has more to do in moulding the ideas and
habits, the manners and customs, of the people, than laws or
government, or any other human institution. Thus India
furnishes the most imposing illustration on earth of the
power of Religion to shape the destiny of a country or a
race.</p>

<p>Whether there be anything to justify a friendly invasion
of India, and the attempt to convert its people to a better religion,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">253</a></span>
may appear if we ask, What is Hindooism? Is it a
good or bad faith? Does it make men better or worse&mdash;happy
or unhappy? Does it promote the welfare of human
beings, or is it a system which is false in belief and deadly
in its effects, and against which we have a right to wage a
holy war?</p>

<p>Hindooism has a thousand shapes, spreading out its arms
like a mighty banyan tree, but its root is one&mdash;Pantheism.
When an old fakir at the Méla at Allahabad said to me,
"You are God and I am God!" he did not utter a wild
rhapsody, but expressed the essence of Hindoo philosophy,
according to which all beings that exist are but One Being;
all thoughts are but the pulse-beats of One Infinite Mind;
all acts are but the manifestation of One Universal Life.</p>

<p>Some may think this theory a mere abstraction, which has
no practical bearing. But carried out to its logical consequences,
it overthrows all morality. If all acts of men
are God's acts, then they are all equally good or bad; or
rather, they are neither good nor bad. Thus moral distinctions
are destroyed, and vice and virtue are together banished
from the world. Hence Hindooism as a religion has nothing
whatever to do with morality or virtue, but is only a
means of propitiating angry deities. It is a religion of terror
and fear. It is also unspeakably vile. It is the worship
of obscene gods by obscene rites. Its very gods and goddesses
commit adultery and incest. Thus vice is deified.
Such a mythology pollutes the imaginations of the people,
whereby their very mind and conscience are defiled. Not only
the heart, but even the intellect is depraved by the loathsome
objects set up in their temples. The most common object
of worship in India is an obscene image. Indeed, so well
understood is this, that when a law was passed by the Government
against the exhibition of obscene images, an express
exception was made in favor of those exposed in temples,
and which were objects of religious worship. Thus Hindooism
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">254</a></span>
has the privilege of indecency, and is allowed to break
over all restraints. It is the licensed harlot, that is permitted,
in deference to its religious pretensions, to disregard
the common decencies of mankind. The effect of this on
public morals can be imagined. The stream cannot rise
higher than its source. How can a people be pure, when
their very religion is a fountain of pollution? But this is a
subject on which we cannot enlarge. It is an abyss into
which no one would wish to look. It is sufficient to indicate
what we cannot for very loathing undertake to describe.</p>

<p>There is another element in the Hindoo religion, which
cannot be ignored, and which gives it a tremendous power
for good or evil. It is Caste. Every Hindoo child is born
in a certain caste, out of which he cannot escape. When I
landed at Bombay I observed that every native had upon his
forehead a mark freshly made, as if with a stroke of the finger,
which indicated the god he worshipped or the caste to
which he belonged. Of these there are four principal ones&mdash;the
Priest, or Brahmin caste, which issued out of the
mouth of Brahm; the Warrior caste, which sprung from his
arms and breast; the Merchant caste, from his thighs; and
the Shoodras, or Servile caste, which crawled out from between
his feet; beside the Pariahs, who are below all caste.
These divisions are absolute and unchangeable. To say that
they are maintained by the force of ancient custom is not
enough: they are fixed as by a law of nature. The strata of
society are as immovable as the strata of the rock-ribbed
hills. No man can stir out of his place. If he is up he stays
up by no virtue of his own; and if he is down, he stays
down, beyond any power of man to deliver him. No gift of
genius, or height of virtue, can ever raise up one of a low
caste into a higher, for caste is a matter of birth. Upon
these sub-strata this fixity of caste rests with crushing weight.
It holds them down as with the force of gravitation, as if the
Himalayas were rolled upon them to press them to the earth.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">255</a></span></p>

<p>Against this oppression there is no power of resistance, no
lifting up from beneath to throw it off. One would suppose
that the people themselves would revolt at this servitude,
that every manly instinct would rise up in rebellion against
such a degradation. But so ingrained is it in the very life
of the people, that they cannot cast it out any more than they
can cast out a poison in their blood. Indeed they seem to
glory in it. The lower castes crouch and bow down that
others may pass over them. A Brahmin, who had become a
Christian, told me that the people had often asked him to wash
his feet in the water of the street, that they might drink it!</p>

<p>Caste is a cold and cruel thing, which hardens the heart
against natural compassion. I know it is said that high caste
is only an aristocracy of birth, and that, as such, it fosters
a certain nobility of feeling, and also a mutual friendliness
between those who belong to the same order. A caste is
only a larger family, and in it there is the same feeling, a mixture
of pride and affection, which binds the family together.
Perhaps it may nurture to some extent a kind of clannishness,
but it does this at the sacrifice of the broader and
nobler sentiment of humanity. It hardens the heart into
coldness and cruelty against all without one sacred pale.
The Brahmin feels nothing for the sufferings of the Pariah,
who is of another order of being as truly as if he were one
of the lower animals. Thus the feeling of caste extinguishes
the sentiment of human brotherhood.</p>

<p>Taking all these elements together, Hindooism must rank
as the most despotic, the most cruel, and the vilest of all
that is called religion among men. There is no other that
so completely upturns moral distinctions, and makes evil
good and good evil. Other religions, even though false,
have some sentiment that ennobles them, but Hindooism, the
product of a land fertile in strange births, is the lowest and
basest, the most truly earth-born, of all the religions that
curse mankind.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">256</a></span></p>

<p>And what burdens does it lay upon a poor, patient, and
suffering people, in prayers, penances, and pilgrimages!
The faith of Hindooism is not a mild and harmless form of
human credulity. It exacts a terrible service, that must be
paid with sweat and blood. Millions of Hindoos go every
year on pilgrimages. The traveller sees them thronging the
roads, dragging their weary feet over the hot plains, many
literally <i>crawling</i> over the burning earth, to appease the
wrath of angry gods! A religion which exacts such service
is not a mere creature of the imagination&mdash;it is a tremendous
reality, which makes its presence felt at every moment. It
is therefore not a matter of practical indifference. It is not
a mere exhibition of human folly, which, however absurd,
does no harm to anybody. It is a despotism which grinds
the people to powder.</p>

<p>Seeing this, how they suffer under a power from which
they cannot escape, can there be a greater object of philanthropy
in all the world than to emancipate them from the
bondage of such ignorance and superstition? Scientific
men, the apostles of "modern thought," consider it not only
a legitimate object, but the high "mission" of science, by
unfolding the laws of nature, to disabuse our minds of idle
and superstitious fears; to break up that vague terror of unseen
forces, which is the chief element of superstition. If
they may fight this battle in England, may we not fight the
battle of truth with error and ignorance in Hindostan?
Englishmen think it a noble thing for brave and adventurous
spirits to form expeditions to penetrate the interior of Africa
to break up the slave trade. But here is a slavery the most
terrible which ever crushed the life out of human beings.
Brahminism, which is fastened upon the people of India, embraces
them like an anaconda, clasping and crushing them in
its mighty folds. It is a devouring monster, which takes
out of the very body of every Hindoo, poor and naked
and wretched as he may be, its pound of quivering flesh.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">257</a></span>
Can these things be, and we look on unmoved? Can we see
a whole people bound, like Laocoön and his sons, in the grasp
of the serpent, writhing and struggling in vain, and not come
to their rescue?</p>

<p>Such is Hindooism, and such is the condition to which it
has reduced the people of India. Do we need any other argument
for Christian missions? Does not this simple statement
furnish a perfect defence, and even an imperative demand
for their establishment? Christianity is the only hope
of India. In saying this I do not intend any disrespect to the
people of this country, to whom I feel a strong attraction.
We are not apt to hear from our missionary friends much
about the virtues of the heathen; but virtues they have, which
it were wrong to ignore. The Hindoos, like other Asiatics, are
a very domestic people, and have strong domestic attachments.
They love their homes, humble though they be, and their children.
And while they have not the active energy of Western
races, yet in the passive virtues&mdash;meekness, patience under
injury, submission to wrong&mdash;they furnish an example to
Christian nations. That submissiveness, which travellers
notice, and which moves some to scorn, moves me rather to
pity, and I find in this patient, long-suffering race much to
honor and to love. Nor are they unintelligent. They have
very subtle minds. Thus they have many of the qualities of
a great people. But their religion is their destruction. It
makes them no better, it makes them worse. It does not lift
them up, it drags them down. It is the one terrible and
overwhelming curse, that must be removed before there is
any hope for the people of India.</p>

<p>Is there not here a legitimate ground for an attempt on the
part of the civilized and Christian world to introduce a better
faith into that mighty country which holds two hundred millions
of the human race? This is not intrusion, it is simple
humanity. In seeking to introduce Christianity into India,
we invade no right of any native of that country, Mohammedan
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">258</a></span>
or Hindoo; we would not wantonly wound their feelings,
nor even shock their prejudices, in attacking their hereditary
faith. But we claim that here is a case where we cannot
keep silent. If we are told that we "interfere with the people,"
we answer, that we interfere as the Good Samaritan
interfered with the man who fell among thieves, and was left
by the roadside to die; as the physician in the hospital interferes
with those dying of the cholera; as one who sees a
brother at his side struck by a deadly serpent applies his
mouth to the wound, to suck the poison from his blood! If
that be interference, it is interference where it would be
cruelty to stand aloof, for he would be less than man who
could be unmoved in presence of misery so vast, which it was
in any degree in his power to relieve.</p>

<p>Thus India itself is the sufficient argument for missions
in India. Let any one visit this country, and study its
religion, and see how it enters into the very life of the
people; how all social intercourse is regulated by caste; how
one feels at every instant the pressure of an ancient and unchangeable
religion, and ask how its iron rule is ever to be
broken? Who shall deliver them from the body of this
death? There is in Hindooism no power of self-cure. For
ages it has remained the same, and will remain for ages still.
Help, if it come at all, must come from without, and where
else can it come from, but from lands beyond the sea?</p>

<p>Therefore it is that the Christian people of England and
America come to the people of India, not in a tone of self-righteousness,
assuming that we are better than they, but in
the name of humanity, of the brotherhood of the human race.
We believe that "God hath made of one blood all nations of
men to dwell on the face of the earth," and these Hindoos,
though living on the other side of the globe, are our brothers.
They are born into the same world; they belong to the same
human family, and have the same immortal destiny. To such
a people, capable of great things, but crushed and oppressed,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">259</a></span>
we come to do them good. We would break the terrible
bondage of caste, and bring forth woman out of the prison-house
where she passes her lonely existence. This involves
a social as well as a religious revolution. But what a sigh of
relief would it bring to millions who, under their present
conditions, are all their lifetime subject to bondage.</p>

<p>There is a saying in the East that in India the flowers
yield no perfume, the birds never sing, and the women never
smile. Of course this is an exaggeration, and yet it has a
basis of truth. It is true that the flowers of the tropics,
though often of brilliant hues, do not yield the rich perfume
of the roses of our Northern clime; and many of the birds
whose golden plumage flashes sunlight in the deep gloom of
tropical forests, have only a piercing shriek, instead of the
soft, delicious notes of the robin and the dove; and the women
have a downcast look. Well may it be so. They lead a
secluded and solitary life. Shut up in their zenanas, away
from society, they have no part in many of the joys of human
existence, though they have more than their share of life's
burdens and its woes. No wonder that their faces should be
sad and sorrowful. Thus the whole creation seems to groan
and travail in pain.</p>

<p>Now we desire to dispel the darkness and the gloom of
ages, and to bring smiles and music and flowers once more
into this stricken world. Teaching a religion of love and
good will to men, we would cure the hatred of races, and
bring all together in a common brotherhood. We would so lift
up the poor of this world, that sorrow and sighing shall flee
away, and that every lowly Indian hut shall be filled with the
light of a new existence. In that day will not nature share
in the joy of man's deliverance? Then will the birds begin
to sing, as if they were let loose from the gates of heaven to
go flying through the earth, and to fill our common air with
the voice of melody. Then shall smiles be seen once more
on human faces; not the loud cackling of empty laughter;
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">260</a></span>
but smiles breaking through tears (the reflection of a peace
that passeth understanding), shall spread like sunshine over
the sad faces of the daughters of Asia.</p>

<p>But some "old Indian" who has listened politely, yet
smiling and incredulous, to this defence of missions, may
answer, "All this is very fine; no doubt it would be a good
thing if the people of India would change their religion;
would cast off Hindooism, and adopt Christianity. But is
it not practically impossible? Do all the efforts of missionaries
really amount to anything." This is a fair question,
and I will try to give it a fair answer.</p>

<p>"Do missionaries do any good?" Perhaps we can best
answer the question by drawing the picture of an Indian
village, such as one may see at thousands of points scattered
over the country. It is a cluster of huts, constructed sometimes
with a light frame-work of bamboo, filled in with
matting, but more commonly of mud, with a roof of thatch to
prevent its being washed away in the rainy season. These
huts are separated from each other by narrow lanes that can
hardly be dignified with the name of streets. Yet in such a
hamlet of hovels, hardly fit for human habitation, may be a
large population. Every doorway is swarming with children.
On the outskirts of the village is <i>the missionary bungalow</i>,
a large one-story house, also built of mud, but neatly whitewashed
and protected from the rains by a heavy thatched
roof, which projects over the walls, and shades the broad
veranda. In the "compound" are two other buildings of
the same rude material and simple architecture, a church and
a schoolhouse. In the latter are gathered every day ten,
twenty, fifty&mdash;perhaps a hundred&mdash;children, with bare feet
and poor garments, though clean, but with bright eyes, and
who seem eager to learn. All day long comes from that low
building a buzz and hum as from a hive of bees. Every
Sunday is gathered in the little chapel a congregation chiefly
of poor people, plainly but neatly dressed, and who, as they
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">261</a></span>
sit there, reclaimed from heathenism, seem to be "clothed
and in their right minds." To the poor the Gospel is
preached, and never does it show its sweetness and power,
as when it comes down into such abodes of poverty, and
gives to these humble natives a new hope and a new life&mdash;a
life of joy and peace. Perhaps in the same compound
is an orphanage, in which are gathered the little castaways
who have been deserted by their parents, left by the roadside
to die&mdash;or whose parents may have died by cholera&mdash;and
who are thus rescued from death, and given the chance which
belongs to every human creature of life and of happiness.</p>

<p>Perhaps the missionary is a little of a physician, and has a
small chest of medicines, and the poor people come to him
for cures of their bodily ailments, as well as for their spiritual
troubles. After awhile he gains their confidence, and
becomes, not by any appointment, but simply by the right
of goodness and the force of character, a sort of unofficial
magistrate, or head man of the village, a general peacemaker
and benefactor. Can any one estimate the influence of such
a man, with his gentle wife at his side, who is also active
both in teaching and in every form of charity? Who does
not see that such a missionary bungalow, with its school,
its orphanage, and its church, and its daily influences of
teaching and of example, is a centre of civilization, when
planted in the heart of an Indian village?</p>

<p>How extensive is this influence will of course depend on
the many or the few devoted to this work, and the wisdom
and energy with which they pursue it. The number of missionaries
in India is very small compared with the vast population.
And yet the picture here drawn of one village is
reproduced in hundreds of villages. Take the representatives
of all the churches and societies of Protestant Christendom,
they would make a very respectable force. But even this
does not represent the full amount of influence they exert.
Moral influences cannot be weighed and measured like
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">262</a></span>
material forces. Nor are missionaries to be counted, like
the soldiers of an army. They are not drawn up on parade,
and do not march through the streets, with gleaming bayonets.
Their forces are scattered, and their work is silent and unseen.</p>

<p>But in all quiet ways, by churches, schools, and orphanages,
their influence is felt; while by the printing-press they
scatter religious truth all over India, the effect of which, in
tens of thousands of those whom it does not "convert," is to
destroy the power of their old idolatry.</p>

<p>That more Hindoos do not openly embrace Christianity is
not surprising, when one considers the social influences which
restrain them. When a Hindoo becomes a Christian, he is
literally an outcast. His most intimate friends will not know
him. His own family turn him from their door, feeling that
he has brought upon them a disgrace far greater than if he
had committed a crime for which he was to perish on the
scaffold. To them he is <i>dead</i>, and they perform his funeral
rites as if he were no more in this world. The pastor of the
native church in Bombay has thus been <i>buried</i> or <i>burned</i> by
his own family. Another told me that his own father turned
from him in the street, and refused to recognize him. These
things are very hard to bear. And so far from wondering
that there are not more conversions among the natives of India,
I wonder that there are so many.</p>

<p>But what sort of Christians are they? Are they like
English or American Christians? When I landed in India,
and saw what a strange people I was among, how unlike
our own race, I asked a question which many have asked
before: Whether these people <i>could</i> become Christians? It
is a favorite idea of many travellers&mdash;and of many English
residents in India&mdash;that not only is the number of conversions
small, but that the "converts" are not worth having
when they are made. It is said that it is only low caste natives,
who have nothing to lose, that will desert their old religion;
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">263</a></span>
and that they are influenced only by the lowest motives,
and that while they profess to be converted, they are
in no wise changed from what they were, except that to their
old heathen vices they have added that of hypocrisy. Hearing
these things, I have taken some pains to ascertain what
sort of people these native converts are. I have attended
their religious services, and have met them socially, and, so
far as I could judge, I have never seen more simple-minded
Christians. Some of them are as intelligent as the best instructed
members of our New England churches. As to their
low caste, statistics show, among them, a greater proportion
of Brahmins than of any other caste, as might be expected
from their greater intelligence.</p>

<p>The work, then, has not been in vain. The advance is
slow, but it is something that there <i>is</i> an advance. I am
told, as the result of a careful estimate, that if the progress
continues in the future as it has for the last fifteen years, in
two centuries the whole of India with its two hundred millions
of people, will be converted to the Christian religion.
This is a spread of Christianity more rapid than that in the
age of the apostles, for it was three centuries before the faith
which they preached became master of the Roman empire.</p>

<p>With such a record of what Christian Missions have done
in India, with such evidences of their good influence and
growing power, they are entitled to honor and respect as one of
the great elements in the problem of the future of that country.
To speak of them flippantly, argues but small acquaintance
with the historical forces which have hitherto governed
India or indeed Britain itself. It ill becomes Englishmen to
sneer at missions, for to missionaries they owe it that their
island has been reclaimed from barbarism. When Augustine
landed in Britain their ancestors were clothed in skins, and
roaming in forests. It was the new religion that softened
their manners, refined their lives, and in the lapse of generations
wrought out the slow process of civilization.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">264</a></span></p>

<p>In Johnson's "Tour to the Hebrides," he refers to the
early missionaries who civilized Britain in a passage which is
one of the most eloquent in English literature: "We were
now treading that illustrious island which was once the luminary
of the Caledonian regions, whence savage clans and
roving barbarians derived the benefits of knowledge and the
blessings of religion.... Far from me and from my friends,
be such frigid philosophy as may conduct us indifferent and
unmoved over any ground which has been dignified by wisdom,
bravery or virtue. That man is little to be envied
whose patriotism would not gain force upon the plain of
Marathon, or whose piety would not grow warmer among
the ruins of Iona."</p>

<p>That power which has made England so great; which has
made the English race the foremost race in all this world; is
now carried to another hemisphere to work the same gradual
elevation in the East. It is a mighty undertaking.
The lifting up of a race is like the lifting up of a continent.
Such changes cannot come suddenly; but in the slow lapse
of ages the continent may be found to have risen, and to be
covered, as it were, with a new floral vegetation; as that
faith, which is the life of Europe, has entered into the vast
populations of Asia.
</p>

<h3 class="p6">CHAPTER XX.</h3>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">265</a></span></p>
<p class="ch_summ">BENARES, THE HOLY CITY.</p>

<p>We had begun to feel ourselves at home in India. A
stranger takes root quickly, as foreign plants take root in the
soil, and spring up under the sun and rain of the tropics. A
traveller makes acquaintances that ripen into friendship and
bind him so fast that it is a real pain when he has to break
away and leave these new friends behind. Thus Allahabad
had become our Indian home. The missionary community
was so delightful, and everybody was so kind and hospitable,
that we had come to feel as if we were only in an outlying
corner of America. The missionary bungalow was like a
parsonage in New England; and when we left all, and the
train rolled across the long bridge over the Jumna, from
which we saw Miss Seward and Miss Wilson standing on
their veranda, and waving us farewell, it seemed as if we
were leaving home.</p>

<p>But the holy city was before us. Some seventy miles from
Allahabad stands a city which, to the devout Hindoo, is the
most sacred place on earth&mdash;one which overtops all others, as
the Himalayas overtop all other mountains on the globe.
There are holy shrines in different countries, which are held
sacred by the devotees of different religions; but there are
four chief holy cities&mdash;Rome, Jerusalem, Mecca, and Benares.
As the devout Catholic makes a pilgrimage to Rome, to receive
the blessing of the Holy Father; as the Jew traverses
land and sea, that his feet may stand within the gates of Jerusalem,
where he weeps at the place of wailing under the
walls of the ancient temple; as the caravan of the Arab still
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">266</a></span>
crosses the desert to Mecca; so does the devout Hindoo come
to Benares, and count it his supreme joy if he can but see its
domes and towers; and eternal felicity to die on the banks of
the sacred river.</p>

<p>A couple of hours brought us to the Ganges, from which
we had a full view of the city on the other side of the river.
If the first sight did not awaken in us the same emotions as
in the mind of the Hindoo, the scene was picturesque enough
to excite our admiration. The appearance of Benares is very
striking. For two miles it presents a succession of palaces
and temples which are built not only on, but almost in, the
river, as Venice is built in the sea; the huge structures
crowding each other on the bank, and flights of steps going
down into the water, as if they would receive the baptism of
the sacred river as it flowed gently by; as if the people listened
fondly to its murmurs, and when wakened in their
dreams, were soothed to hear its waters lapping the very stones
of their palaces.</p>

<p>We crossed the river on a bridge of boats, and drove out
to the English quarter, which is two or three miles distant,
and here rested an hour or two before we took a courier and
plunged into the labyrinth of the city, in which a stranger
would soon be lost who should attempt to explore it without
a guide. Benares would be well worth a visit if it were only
for its Oriental character. It is peculiarly an Indian city,
with every feature of Asiatic and of Indian life strongly marked.
Its bazaars are as curious and as rich as any in Asia,
with shawls of cashmere, and silks wrought by fine needlework
into every article of costly array. It has also cunning
workmen in precious metals and precious stones&mdash;in gold and
silver and diamonds. One special industry is workmanship
in brass. We brought away a number of large trays, curiously
wrought like shields. One contains a lesson in Hindoo
mythology for those who are able to read it, as on it are
traced all the incarnations of Vishnu.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">267</a></span></p>

<p>While thus rambling about the city, we had an opportunity
to see something of the marriage customs of the Hindoos,
as we met in the streets a number of wedding processions.
The heavenly influences were favorable to such unions. The
Hindoos are great astrologers, and give high importance to
the conjunction of the stars, and do not marry except when
Jupiter is in the ascendant. Just now he rides high in the
heavens, and this is the favored time of love. The processions
were very curious. The bridegroom was mounted on
horseback, tricked out in the dress of a harlequin, with a
crowd on horses and on foot, going before and following after,
waving flags, beating drums, and making all manner of noises,
to testify their joy; while the bride, who was commonly a
mere child, was borne in a palanquin, covered with ribbons
and trinkets and jewelry, looking, as she sat upright in her
doll's house, much more as if she were a piece of frosted cake
being carried to the wedding, than a living piece of flesh and
blood that had any part therein. Altogether the scene was
more like a Punch-and-Judy show, than any part of the serious
business of life. Engagements are often made when the
parties are in childhood, or even in infancy; and the marriage
consummated at twelve. These child-marriages are a great
curse to the country, as they fill the land with their puny offspring,
that wither like weeds in the hot sun of India. It is a
pity that they could not be prohibited; that marriages could
not be forbidden until the parties had reached at least sixteen
years of age.</p>

<p>Another thing which greatly amused us was to see how
the people made way for us wherever we came. The streets
are very narrow, and there is not room for a jostling crowd.
But their politeness stopped at no obstacle. They meant to
give us a free passage. They drew to one side, making themselves
very small, and even hugging the wall, to get out of
our way. We accepted this delicate attention as a mark of
respect, which we thought a touching proof of Oriental courtesy;
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">268</a></span>
and with the modesty of our countrymen, regarded it
as an homage to our greatness. We were a little taken aback
at being informed that, on the contrary, it was to avoid pollution;
that if they but touched the hem of our garments,
they would have had to run to the Ganges to wash away the
stain!</p>

<p>But we need not make merry with these strict observances
of the people, for with them Religion is the great business of
life, and it is as the Mecca of their faith that Benares has
such interest for the intelligent traveller. No city in India,
perhaps none in all Asia, dates back its origin to a more remote
antiquity. It is the very cradle of history and of religion.
Here Buddha preached his new faith centuries before
Christ was born in Judea&mdash;a faith which still sways a larger
part of mankind than any other, though it has lost its dominion
in the place where it began. Here Hindooism, once
driven out, still fought and conquered, and here it still has
its seat, from which it rules its vast and populous empire.</p>

<p>It is always interesting to study a country or a religion in
its capital. As we go to Rome to see Romanism, we come
to Benares to see Hindooism, expecting to find it in its
purest form. Whether that is anything to boast of, we can
tell better after we have seen a little of this, its most holy
city. Benares is full of temples and shrines. Of course we
could only visit a few of the more sacred. The first that
we entered was like a menagerie. It was called the Monkey
Temple; and rightly so, for the place was full of the little
creatures. It fairly swarmed with them. They were overhead
and all around us, chattering as if they were holding a
council in the heart of a tropical forest. The place was for
all the world like the monkey-house in the Zoölogical Gardens
in London, or in our Central Park in New York, and
would be an amusing resort for children were it not regarded
as a place for religious worship. Perhaps some innocent
traveller thinks this a touching proof of the charming simplicity
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">269</a></span>
of the Hindoos, that they wish to call on all animated
nature to unite in devotion, and that thus monkeys (speaking
the language which monkeys understand) are permitted to
join with devout Hindoos in the worship of their common
Creator. But a glance shows the stranger that the monkeys
are here, not to worship, but to be worshipped. According
to the Pantheism of the Hindoos, all things are a part of
God. Not only is he the author of life, but he lives in
his creatures, so that they partake of his divinity; and
therefore whatsoever thing liveth and moveth on the earth&mdash;beast,
or bird, or reptile&mdash;is a proper object of worship.</p>

<p>But the monkeys were respectable compared with the
hideous idol which is enthroned in this place. In the court
of the Temple is a shrine, a Holy of Holies, where, as the
gilded doors are swung open, one sees a black divinity, with
thick, sensual lips, that are red with blood, and eyes that
glare fiendishly. This is the goddess Doorgha, whose sacred
presence is guarded by Brahmin priests, so that no profane
foot may come near her. While they kept us back with holy
horror from approaching, they had no scruples about reaching
out their hands to receive our money. It is the habit of
strangers to drop some small coin in the outstretched palms.
But I was too much disgusted to give to the beggars. They
were importunate, and said the Prince of Wales, who was
there a few days before, had given them a hundred rupees.
Perhaps he felt under a necessity of paying such a mark of
respect to the religion of the great Empire he was to rule.
But ordinary travellers are under no such obligation. The
rascals trade in the curiosity of strangers. It might be well
if they did not find it such a source of revenue. So I would
not give them a penny; though I confess to spending a few
pice on nuts and "sweets" for the monkeys, who are the
only ones entitled to "tribute" from visitors; and then, returning
to the gharri, we rode disgusted away. In another
part of the city is the Golden Temple, devoted to the god
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">270</a></span>
Shiva, which divides with that of the monkeys the homage of
the Hindoos. Here are no chattering apes, though the place
is profaned with the presence of beasts and birds. Some
dozen cows were standing or lying down in the court, making
it seem more like a stable or a barnyard than a holy place.
Yet here was a fakir rapt in the ecstasies of devotion, with
one arm uplifted, rigid as a pillar of iron. He was looked
upon with awe by the faithful who crowded around him, and
who rewarded his sanctity by giving him money; but to our
profane eyes he was a figure of pride (though disguised under
the pretence of spirituality), as palpable to the sight as the
peacock who spread his tail and strutted about in the filthy
enclosure.</p>

<p>But perhaps the reader will think that we have had enough
of this, and will gladly turn to a less revolting form of superstition.
The great sight of Benares is the bathing in the
Ganges. This takes place in the morning. We rose early
the next day, and drove down to the river, and getting a
boat, were rowed slowly for hours up and down the stream.
It is lined with temples and palaces, which descend to the
water by flights of steps, or <i>ghauts</i>, which at this hour are
thronged with devout Hindoos. By hundreds and thousands
they come down to the river's brink, men, women, and children,
and wade in, not swimming, but standing in the water,
plunging their heads and mumbling their prayers, and performing
their libations, by taking the water in their hands,
and casting it towards the points of the compass, as an act of
worship to the celestial powers, especially to the sun.</p>

<p>As the boatmen rested on their oars, that we might observe
the strange scene, C&mdash;&mdash; started with horror to see a corpse
in the water. It was already half decayed, and obscene birds
were fluttering over it. But this is too common a sight in
Benares to raise any emotion in the breast of the Hindoo,
whose prayer is that he may die on the banks of the Ganges.
Does his body drift down with the stream, or become food
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">271</a></span>
for the fowls of the air, his soul floats to its final rest in the
Deity, as surely as the Ganges rolls onward to the sea.</p>

<p>But look! here is another scene. We are approaching the
Burning Ghaut, and I see piles of wood, and human bodies,
and smoke and flame. I bade the boatmen draw to the shore,
that we might have a clearer view of this strange sight.
Walking along the bank, we came close to the funeral piles.
Several were waiting to be lighted. When all is ready, the
nearest male relative walks round and round the pile, and
then applies to it a lighted withe of straw. Here was a body
just dressed for the last rites. It was wrapped in coarse
garments, perhaps all that affection could give. Beside it
stood a woman, watching it with eager eyes, lest any rude
hand should touch the form which, though dead, was still
beloved. I looked with pity into her sad, sorrowful face.
What a tale of affection was there!&mdash;of love for the life that
was ended, and the form that was cherished, that was soon
to be but ashes, and to float away upon the bosom of the
sacred river.</p>

<p>Another pile was already lighted, and burning fiercely. I
stood close to it, till driven away by the heat and smoke.
As the flames closed round the form, portions of the body
were exposed. Now the hair was consumed in a flash, leaving
the bare skull; now the feet showed from the other end
of the pile. It was a ghastly sight. Now a horrid smell filled
the air, and still the pile glowed like a furnace, crackling
with the intense heat, and shot out tongues of flame that
seemed eager to lick up every drop of blood.</p>

<p>In this disposal of the dead there is nothing to soothe the
mourner like a Christian burial, when the body is committed
to the earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, when a beloved
form is laid down under the green turf gently, as on a mother's
breast.</p>

<p>The spectacle of this morning, with the similar one at Allahabad,
have set me a-thinking. I ask, What idea do the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">272</a></span>
Hindoos attach to bathing in the Ganges? Is it purification
or expiation, or both? Is it the putting away of sin by the
washing of water; the cleansing of the body for the sins of
the soul? Or is there in it some idea of atonement? What
is the fascination of this religious observance? Perhaps no
stranger can fully understand it, or enter into the feeling
with which the devout Hindoo regards the sacred river. The
problem grows the more we study it. However we approach
the great river of India, we find a wealth of associations
gathering around it such as belongs to no other river on the
face of the earth. No other is so intimately connected with
the history and the whole life of a people. Other rivers have
poetical or patriotic associations. The ancient Romans kept
watch on the Tiber, as the modern Germans keep watch on
the Rhine. But these are associations of country and of patriotic
pride&mdash;not of life, not of existence, not of religion.
In these respects the only river in the world which approaches
the Ganges is the Nile, which, coming down from the Highlands
of Central Africa, floods the long valley, which it has
itself made in the desert, turning the very sands into fertility,
and thus becoming the creator and life-giver of Egypt.</p>

<p>What the Nile is to Egypt, the Ganges is to a part of
India, giving life and verdure to plains that but for it were
a desert. As it bursts through the gates of the Himalayas,
and sweeps along with resistless current, cooling with its icy
breath the hot plains of India, and giving fertility to the rice
fields of Bengal, it may well seem to the Hindoo the greatest
visible emblem of Almighty power and Infinite beneficence.</p>

<p>But it is more than an emblem. The ancient Egyptians
worshipped the Nile as a god, and in this they had the same
feeling which now exists among the Hindoos in regard to the
Ganges. It is not only a sacred river because of its associations;
it is itself Divine, flowing, like the River of Life in
the Book of Revelation, out of the throne of God. It descends
out of heaven, rising in mountains whose tops touch
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">273</a></span>
the clouds&mdash;the sacred mountains which form the Hindoo
Kylas, or Heaven, the abode of the Hindoo Trinity&mdash;of
Brahma and Shiva and Vishnu. Rushing from under a glacier
in the region of everlasting snow, it seems as if it gushed
from the very heart of the Dweller on that holy mount; as
if that flowing stream were the life-blood of the Creator.
When the Hindoo has seized this idea, it takes strong hold
of his imagination. As he stands on the banks of the Ganges
at night, and sees its broad current quivering under the rays
of the full moon, it seems indeed as if it were the clear stream
flowing through the calm breast of God himself, bearing life
from Him to give life to the world. Hence in his creed it
has all the virtue and the "divine power that belongs in the
Christian system to the blood of Christ. It makes atonement
for sins that are past." "He that but looks on the
Ganges," says the Hindoo proverb, "or that drinks of it,
washes away the stains of a hundred births; but he that
bathes in it washes away the stains of a thousand births."
This is a virtue beyond that of the Nile, or the rivers of Damascus,
or of the Jordan, or even of</p>

<div class="poem">
<p class="i6">Siloa's brook</p>
<p>That flowed fast by the oracle of God.</p>
</div>

<p>It is a virtue which can be found alone in that blood which
"cleanseth from all sin."</p>

<p>The spectacle of such superstition produced a strong revulsion
of feeling, and made me turn away from these waters
that cannot cleanse the guilty soul, nor save the dying, to
the Mighty Sufferer, whose blood was shed for the sins of
the world, and I seemed to hear voices in far-off Christian
lands singing:</p>

<div class="poem">
<p>
E'er since by faith I saw the stream</p>
<p class="i1">Thy flowing wounds supply,</p>
<p>Redeeming love has been my theme,</p>
<p class="i1">And shall be till I die.</p>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">274</a></span></p>

<p>But I do not sit in judgment on the Hindoos, nor include
a whole people in one general condemnation. Some of them
are as noble specimens of humanity, with as much "natural
goodness" as can be found anywhere; and are even religious
in their way, and in zeal and devotion an example to their
Christian neighbors. Of this, a very striking instance can
be given here.</p>

<p>On the other side of the Ganges lives a grand old Hindoo,
the Maharajah of Benares, and as he is famed for his hospitality
to strangers, we sent him a letter by a messenger (being
assured that that was the proper thing to do), saying that
we should be happy to pay our respects to my lord in his
castle; and in a few hours received a reply that his carriage
should be sent to our hotel for us the next morning, and that
his boat would convey us across the river. We did not wait
for the carriage, as we were in haste to depart for Calcutta
the same forenoon, but rode down in our own gharri to the
river side, where we found the boat awaiting us. On the
other bank stood a couple of elephants of extraordinary size,
that knelt down and took us on their broad backs, and rolled
off at a swinging pace to a pleasant retreat of the Maharajah
a mile or two from the river, where he had a temple of
his own, situated in the midst of beautiful gardens.</p>

<p>On our return we were marched into the courtyard of the
castle, where the attendants received us, and escorted us
within. The Maharajah did not make his appearance, as it
was still early, but his secretary presented himself to do the
honors, giving his master's respects with his photograph, and
showing us every possible courtesy. We were shown through
the rooms of state, where the Prince of Wales had been received
a few weeks before. The view from the terrace on
the river side is enchanting. It is directly on the water, and
commands a view up and down the Ganges for miles, while
across the smooth expanse rise the temples and palaces of the
Holy City. What a place for a Brahmin to live or to die!
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">275</a></span></p>

<p>This Maharajah of Benares is well known all over India.
He is a member of the Viceroy's Council at Calcutta, and
held in universal respect by the English community. Sir
William Muir, who is one of the most pronounced Christian
men in India, whom some would even call a Puritan for his
strictness, told me that the Maharajah was one of the best of
men. And yet he is of the straitest sect of the Hindoos,
who bathes in the Ganges every morning, and "does his
pooja." In all religious observances he is most exemplary,
often spending hours in prayer. The secretary, in excusing
his master's absence, said that he had been up nearly all
night engaged in his devotions. How this earnest faith in a
religion so vile can consist with a life so pure and so good, is
one of the mysteries of this Asiatic world which I leave to
those wiser than I am to explain.</p>

<p>We had lingered so long that it was near the hour of our
departure for Calcutta, and we were three miles up the river.
The secretary accompanied us to the boat of the Maharajah,
which was waiting for us, and bade us farewell, with many
kind wishes that we might have a prosperous journey. Lying
against the bank was the gilded barge in which the Maharajah
had received and escorted the Prince of Wales. Waving
our adieu, we gave the signal, and the boatmen pushed off
into the stream. It was now a race against time. We had
a long stretch to make in a very few minutes. I offered the
men a reward if they should reach the place in time. The
stalwart rowers bent to their oars, their swarthy limbs making
swift strokes, and the boat shot like an arrow down the
stream. I stood up in the eagerness and excitement of the
chase, taking a last look at the sacred temples as we shot
swiftly by. It wanted but two or three minutes of the hour
as our little pinnace struck against the goal by the bridge of
boats, and throwing the rupees to the boatmen, we hurried
up the bank, and had just time to get fairly bestowed in the
roomy first-class carriage, which we had all to ourselves,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">276</a></span>
when the train started for Calcutta, and the towers and
domes and minarets of the holy city of India faded from our
sight.</p>

<p>Thinking! Still thinking! What does it all mean?
Who can understand Hindooism&mdash;where it begins and where
it ends? It is like the fabled tree that had its roots down
in the Kingdom of Death, and spread its branches over the
world. Behind it, or beneath it, is a deep philosophy, which
goes down to the very beginnings of existence, and touches
the most vital problems of life and death, of endless dying
and living. Out of millions of ages, after a million births,
following each other in long succession, at last man is cast
upon the earth, but only as a bird of passage, darting swiftly
through life, and then, in an endless transmigration of souls,
passing through other stages of being, till he is absorbed in
the Eternal All. Thus does man find his way at last back
to God, as the drop of water, caught up by the sun, lifted
into the cloud, descends in the rain, trickles in streams
down the mountain side, and finds its way back to the ocean.
So does the human soul complete the endless cycle of existence,
coming from God and returning to God, to be swallowed
up and lost in that Boundless Sea.</p>

<p>Much might be said, by way of argument, in support of
this pantheistic philosophy. But whatever may be urged in
favor of Hindooism in the abstract, its practical results are
terrible. By a logic as close and irresistible as it is fatal, it
takes away the foundation of all morality, and strikes down
all goodness and virtue&mdash;all that is the glory of man, and all
that is the beauty of woman. It is nothing to the purpose
to quote the example of such a man as the Maharajah of
Benares, for there is a strange alchemy in virtue, by which a
pure nature, a high intelligence, and right moral instincts,
will convert even the most pernicious doctrines to the purpose
of a spiritual life. But with the mass of Hindoos it is
only a system of abject superstition and terror. As we rolled
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">277</a></span>
along the banks of the Ganges, I thought what tales that
stream could tell. Could we but listen in the dead of night,
what sounds we might hear! Hush! hark! There is a
footstep on the shore. The rushes on the bank are parted,
and a Hindoo mother comes to the water's edge. Look! she
holds a child in her arms. She starts back, and with a shriek
casts it to the river monsters. Such scenes are not frequent
now, because the government has repressed them by law,
though infanticide is fearfully common in other ways. But
even yet in secret&mdash;"darkly at dead of night"&mdash;does fanaticism
sometimes pay its offering to the river which is worshipped
as a god. This is what Hindooism does for the mother
and for her child. Thus it wrongs at once childhood and
motherhood and womanhood. Who that thinks of such
scenes can but pray that a better faith may be given to the
women of India, that the mother may no longer look with
anguish into the face of her own child, as one doomed to
destruction, but like any Christian mother, clasp her baby to
her breast, thanking God who has given it to her, and bidden
her keep it, and train it up for life, for virtue and for happiness.</p>

<p>But is there any hope of seeing Hindooism destroyed?
I fear not very soon. When I think how many ages it has
stood, and what mighty forces it has resisted, the task seems almost
hopeless. For centuries it fought with Buddhism for the
conquest of India, and remained master of the field. Then
came Mohammedanism in the days of the Mogul Empire. It
gained a foothold, and reared its mosques even in the Holy
City of the Hindoos. To this day the most splendid structure
in Benares is the great Mosque of Aurungzebe. As I climbed
its tall minaret, and looked over the city, I saw here and
there the gilded domes and slender spires that mark the temples
of Islam. But these fierce iconoclasts, who set out from
Arabia to break the idols in pieces, could not destroy them
here. The fanatical Aurungzebe could build his mosque,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">278</a></span>
with its minaret so lofty as to overtop all the temples of Paganism;
but he could not convert the idolaters. With such
tenacity did they cling to their faith, that even the religion
of the Prophet could make little impression, though armed
with all the power of the sword.</p>

<p>And now come modern civilization and Christianity. The
work of "tearing down" is not left to Missions alone. There
is in India a vast system of National Education. In Benares
there is an University whose stately halls would not look out
of place among the piles of Oxford. In the teaching there is a
rigid&mdash;I had almost said a religious&mdash;abstinence from religion.
But science is taught, and science confutes the Hindoo cosmogony.
When it is written in the Purânas that the world
rests on the back of an elephant, and that the elephant stands
on the back of a tortoise, and the tortoise on the back of the
great serpent Nâga, it needs but a very little learning to convince
the young Hindoo that his sacred books are a mass of
fables. But this does not make him a Christian. It lands
him in infidelity, and leaves him there. And this is the state
of the educated mind of India, of what is sometimes designated
as Young India, or Young Bengal. Here they stand&mdash;deep
in the mire of unbelief, as if they had tried to plant their
feet on the low-lying Delta of the Ganges, and found it sink
beneath them, with danger of being buried in Gangetic ooze
and slime. But even this is better than calling to gods that
cannot help them; for at least it may give them a sense of
their weakness and danger. It may be that the educated
mind of India has to go through this stage of infidelity before
it can come into the light of a clearer faith. At present they
believe nothing, yet conform to Hindoo customs for social reasons,
for fear of losing caste. This is all-powerful. It is hard
for men to break away from it in detail. But once that a
breach is made in their ranks, the same social tyranny may
carry them over <i>en masse</i>, so that a nation shall be born in a
day. At present the work that is going on is that of sapping
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">279</a></span>
and mining, of boring holes into the foundation of Hindooism;
and this is done as industriously, and perhaps as effectively,
by Government schools and colleges as by Missions.</p>

<p>At Benares we observed, in sailing up and down the
Ganges, that the river had undermined a number of temples
built upon its banks, and that they had fallen with their huge
columns and massive architecture, and were lying in broken
and shapeless masses, half covered by the water. What a
spectacle of ruin and decay in the Holy City of the Hindoos!
This is a fit illustration of the process which has been going
on for the last half century in regard to Hindooism. The
waters are washing it away, and by and by the whole colossal
fabric, built up in ages of ignorance and superstition, will
come crashing to the earth. Hindooism will fall, and great
will be the fall of it.
</p>

<h3 class="p6">CHAPTER XXI.</h3>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">280</a></span></p>
<p class="ch_summ">CALCUTTA-FAREWELL TO INDIA.</p>

<p>It is a good rule in travelling, as in rhetoric, to keep the
best to the last, and wind up with a climax. But it would
be hard to find a climax in India after seeing the old Mogul
capitals, whose palaces and tombs outshine the Alhambra;
after climbing the Himalayas, and making a pilgrimage
to the holy city. And yet one feels a <i>crescendo</i> of interest in
approaching the capital. India has three capitals&mdash;Delhi,
where once reigned the Great Mogul, and which is still
the centre of the Mohammedan faith; Benares, the Mecca
of the Hindoos; and Calcutta, the capital of the modern
British Empire. The two former we have seen; it is
the last which is now before us.</p>

<p>Our route was southeast, along the valley of the Ganges,
and through the province of Bengal. What is the magic
of a name? From childhood the most vivid association
I had with this part of India, was that of Bengal tigers,
which were the wonder of every menagerie; and it was not
strange if we almost expected to see them crouching in
the forest, or gliding away in the long grass of the jungle.
But Bengal has other attractions to one who rides
over it. This single province of India is five times as
large as the State of New York. It is a vast alluvial
plain, through which the Ganges pours by a hundred mouths
to the sea, its overflow giving to the soil a richness and
fertility like that of the valley of the Nile, so that it
supports a population equal to that of the whole of the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">281</a></span>
United States. The cultivated fields that we pass show
the natural wealth of the country, as the frequent towns
show the density of the population. Of these the largest is
Patna, the centre of the opium culture. But we did not
stop anywhere, for the way was long. From Benares to
Calcutta is over four hundred miles, or about as far as
from New York city to Niagara Falls. We started at eleven
o'clock, and kept steadily travelling all day. Night fell,
and the moon rose over the plains and the palm groves, and
still we fled on and on, as if pursued by the storm spirits of
the Hindoo Kylas, till the morning broke, and found us on
the banks of a great river filled with shipping, and opposite
to a great city. This was the Hoogly, one of the mouths of
the Ganges, and there was Calcutta! A carriage whirled us
swiftly across the bridge, and up to the Great Eastern Hotel,
where we were glad to rest, after travelling three thousand
miles in India, and to exchange even the most luxurious
railway carriage for beds and baths, and the comforts of civilization.
The hotel stands opposite the Government House,
the residence of the Viceroy of India, and supplies everything
necessary to the dignity of a "burra Sahib." Soft-footed
Hindoos glided silently about, watching our every motion,
and profoundly anxious for the honor of being our servants.
A stalwart native slept on the mat before my door,
and attended on my going out and my coming in, as if I had
been a grand dignitary of the Empire.</p>

<p>Calcutta bears a proud name in the East&mdash;that of the City
of Palaces&mdash;from which a traveller is apt to experience
a feeling of disappointment. And yet the English portion
of the city is sufficiently grand to make it worthy to
rank with the second class of European capitals. The Government
House, from its very size, has a massive and stately
appearance, and the other public buildings are of corresponding
proportions. The principal street, called the Chowringhee
road, is lined for two miles with the handsome
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">282</a></span>
houses of government officials or wealthy English residents.
But the beauty of Calcutta is the grand esplanade, called the
Maidan&mdash;an open space as large as our Central Park in
New York; beginning at the Government House, and reaching
to Fort William, and beyond it; stretching for two
or three miles along the river, and a mile back from it to the
mansions of the Chowringhee Road. This is an immense parade-ground
for military and other displays. Here and there
are statues of men who have distinguished themselves in the
history of British India. Tropical plants and trees give to
the landscape their rich masses of color and of shade, while
under them and around them is spread that carpet of green
so dear to the eyes of an Englishman in any part of the
world&mdash;a wide sweep of soft and smooth English turf. Here
at sunset one may witness a scene nowhere equalled except in
the great capitals of Europe. In the middle of the day the
place is deserted, except by natives, whom, being "children
of the sun," he does not "smite by day," though the moon
may smite them by night. The English residents are shut
closely within doors, where they seek, by the waving of
punkas, and by admitting the air only through mats dripping
with water, to mitigate the terrible heat. But as the
sun declines, and the palms begin to cast their shadows
across the plain, and a cool breeze comes in from the sea, the
whole English world pours forth. The carriage of the Viceroy
rolls out from under the arches of the Government
House, and the other officials are abroad. A stranger is surprised
at the number of dashing equipages, with postilions
and servants in liveries, furnished by this foreign city.
These are not all English. Native princes and wealthy baboos
vie with Englishmen in the bravery of their equipages,
and give to the scene a touch of Oriental splendor. Officers
on horseback dash by, accompanied often by fair English
faces; while the band from Fort William plays the martial
airs of England. It is indeed a brilliant spectacle, which,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">283</a></span>
but for the turbans and the swarthy faces under them, would
make the traveller imagine himself in Hyde Park.</p>

<p>From this single picture it is easy to see why Calcutta is to
an Englishman the most attractive place of residence in
India, or in all the East. It is more like London. It is a
great capital&mdash;the capital of the Indian Empire; the seat of
government; the residence of the Viceroy, around whom is
assembled a kind of viceregal court, composed of all the high
officials, both civil and military. There is an Army and
Navy Club, where one may meet many old soldiers who have
seen service in the Indian wars, or who hold high appointments
in the present force. The assemblage of such a number
of notable men makes a large and brilliant English society.</p>

<p>Nor is it confined to army officers or government officials.
Connected with the different colleges are men who are distinguished
Oriental scholars. Then there is a Bishop of Calcutta,
who is the Primate of India, with his clergy, and English
and American missionaries, who make altogether a very
miscellaneous society.<a name="FNanchor_8" id="FNanchor_8" href="#Footnote_8" class="fnanchor">[8]</a> Here Macaulay lived for three years
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">284</a></span>
as a member of the Governor's Council, and was the centre
of a society which, if it lacked other attractions, must have
found a constant stimulus in his marvellous conversation.</p>

<p>And yet with all these attractions of Calcutta, English residents
still pine for England. One can hardly converse
with an English officer, without finding that it is his dream
to get through with his term of service as soon as he may,
and return to spend the rest of his days in his dear native
island. Even Macaulay&mdash;with all the resources that he had
in himself, with all that he found Anglo-Indian society, and
all that he made it&mdash;regarded life in India as only a splendid
exile.</p>

<p>The climate is a terrible drawback. Think of a country,
where in the hot season the mercury rises to 117-120° in the
shade; while if the thermometer be exposed to the sun, it
quickly mounts to 150, 160, or even 170°!&mdash;a heat to which
no European can be exposed for half an hour without danger
of sunstroke. Such is the heat that it drives the government
out of Calcutta for half the year. For six months the Viceroy
and his staff emigrate, bag and baggage, going up the
country twelve hundred miles to Simla, on the first range of
the Himalayas, which is about as if the President of the
United States and his Cabinet should leave Washington on
the first of May, and transfer the seat of government to some
high point in the Rocky Mountains.</p>

<p>But the climate is not the only, nor the chief, drawback
to life in India. It is the absence from home, from one's
country and people, which makes it seem indeed like exile.
Make the best of it, Calcutta is not London. What a man
like Macaulay misses, is not the English climate, with its
rains and fogs, but the intellectual life, which centres in the
British capital. It was this which made him write to his
sister that "A lodgings up three pairs of stairs in London
was better than a palace in a compound at Chowringhee."
I confess I cannot understand how any man, who has a respectable
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">285</a></span>
position in his own country, should choose Calcutta,
or any other part of India, as a place of residence, except for
a time; as a merchant goes abroad for a few years, in the
hope of such gain as shall enable him to return and live in
independence in England or America; or as a soldier goes
to a post of duty ("Not his to ask the reason why"); or as
a missionary, with the purely benevolent desire of doing
good, for which he accepts this voluntary exile.</p>

<p>But if a man has grown, by any mental or moral process, to
the idea that life is not given him merely for enjoyment;
that its chief end is not to make himself comfortable&mdash;to sit
at home in England, and hear the storm roar around the
British Islands, and thank God that he is safe, though all the
rest of the world should perish; if he but once recognize
the fact that he has duties, not only to himself, but to mankind;
then for such a man there is not on the round globe a
broader or nobler field of labor than India. For an English
statesman, however great his talents or boundless his ambition,
one cannot conceive of a higher place on the earth than
that of the Viceroy of India. He is a ruler over more than
two hundred millions of human beings, to whose welfare he may
contribute by a wise and just administration. What immeasurable
good may be wrought by a Governor-General like Lord
William Bentinck, of whom it was said that "he was William
Penn on the throne of the Great Mogul." A share in this beneficent
rule belongs to every Englishman who holds a place in
the government of India. He is in a position of power, and
therefore of responsibility. To such men is entrusted the protection,
the safety, the comfort, and the happiness of multitudes
of their fellow-men, to whom they are bound, if not by
national ties, yet by the ties of a common humanity.</p>

<p>And for those who have no official position, who have
neither place nor power, but who have intelligence and a desire
to do good on a wide scale, India offers a field as broad
as their ambition, where, either as moral or intellectual instructors,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">286</a></span>
as professors of science or teachers of religion, they
may contribute to the welfare of a great people. India is a
country where, more than in almost any other in the world,
European civilization comes in contact with Asiatic barbarism.
Its geographical position illustrates its moral and intellectual
position. It is a peninsula stretched out from the
lower part of Asia into the Indian Ocean, and great seas dash
against it on one side and on the other. So, intellectually
and morally, is it placed "where two seas meet," where modern
science attacks Hindooism on one side, and Christianity
attacks it on the other.</p>

<p>In this conflict English intelligence has already done much
for the intellectual emancipation of the people from childish
ignorance and folly. In Calcutta there are a number of
English schools and colleges, which are thronged with young
Bengalees, the flower of the city and the province, who are
instructed in the principles of modern science and philosophy.
The effect on the mind of Young Bengal has been very great.
An English education has accomplished all that was expected
from it, <i>except</i> the overthrow of idolatry, and here it has conspicuously
failed.</p>

<p>When Macaulay was in India, he devoted much of his
time to perfecting the system of National Education, from
which he expected the greatest results; which he believed
would not only fill the ignorant and vacant minds of the
Hindoos with the knowledge of modern science, but would
uproot the old idolatry. In the recently published volumes of
his letters is one to his father, dated Calcutta, Oct. 12, 1836,
in which he says:</p>

<div class="blockquot">
<p>
"Our English schools are flourishing wonderfully. We find it
difficult&mdash;in some places impossible&mdash;to provide instruction for all
who want it. At the single town of Hoogly 1400 boys are learning
English. The effect of this education on the Hindoos is prodigious.
No Hindoo who has received an English education ever remains sincerely
attached to his religion. Some continue to profess it as a
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">287</a></span>
matter of policy; but many profess themselves pure Deists, and
some embrace Christianity. It is my firm belief that, if our plans of
education are followed up, there will not be a single idolater among
the reputable classes in Bengal thirty years hence. And this will be
effected without any efforts to proselytize; without the smallest interference
with religious liberty; merely by the natural operation of
knowledge and reflection."
</p>
</div>

<p>These sanguine expectations have been utterly disappointed.
Since that letter was written, forty years have passed, and
every year has turned out great numbers of educated young
men, instructed in all the principles of modern science; and yet
the hold of Hindooism seems as strong as ever. I find it
here in the capital, as well as in the provinces, and I do
not find that it is any better by coming in contact with modern
civilization. Nothing at Benares was more repulsive
and disgusting than what one sees here. The deity most
worshipped in Calcutta is the goddess Kali, who indeed gives
name to the city, which is Anglicized from Kali-ghat. She
delights in blood, and is propitiated only by constant sacrifices.
As one takes his morning drive along the streets leading
to her shrine, he sees them filled with young goats, who
are driven to the sacred enclosure, which is like a butcher's
shambles, so constantly are the heads dropping on the pavement,
which is kept wet with blood. She is the patron of
thieves and robbers, the one to whom the Thugs always made
offerings, in setting out on their expeditions for murder. No
doubt the young men educated in the English colleges despise
this horrid worship. Yet in their indifference to all religion,
they think it better to keep up an outward show of conformity,
to retain the respect, or at least the good will, of their
Hindoo countrymen, among whom it is the very first condition
of any social recognition whatever, that they shall not
break away from the religion of their ancestors.</p>

<p>How then are they to be reached? The Christian
schools educate the very young; and the orphanages take
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">288</a></span>
neglected children and train them from the beginning. But
for young men who are already educated in the government
colleges, is there any way of reaching <i>them</i>? None, except
that of open, direct, manly argument. Several years since
President Seelye of Amherst College visited India, and
here addressed the educated Hindoos, both in Calcutta and
Bombay, on the claims of the Christian religion. He was
received with perfect courtesy. Large audiences assembled
to hear him, and listened with the utmost respect. What
impression he produced, I cannot say; but it seems to me
that this is "the way to do it," or at least one way, and a
way which gives good hope of success.</p>

<p>In fighting this battle against idolatry, I think we should
welcome aid from any quarter, whether it be evangelical or
not. While in Calcutta, I paid a visit to Keshoob Chunder
Sen, whose name is well known in England from a visit which
he made some years ago, as the leader of the Brahmo Somaj.
I found him surrounded by his pupils, to whom he was giving
instruction. He at once interrupted his teaching for the
pleasure of a conversation, to which all listened apparently
with great interest. He is in his creed an Unitarian, so far
as he adopts the Christian faith. He recognizes the unity of
God, and gives supreme importance to <i>prayer</i>. The interview
impressed me both with his ability and his sincerity.
I cannot agree with some of my missionary friends who look
upon him with suspicion, because he does not go far enough.
On the contrary, I think it a matter of congratulation that
he has come as far as he has, and I should be glad if he could
get Young Bengal to follow him. But I do not think the
Brahmo Somaj has made great progress. It has scattered
adherents in different parts of India, but the whole number
of followers is small compared with the masses that cling to
their idols. He frankly confessed that the struggle was very
unequal, that the power of the old idolatry was tremendous,
and especially that the despotism of caste was terrific. To
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">289</a></span>
break away from it, required a degree of moral courage that
was very rare. The great obstacle to its overthrow was a
social one, and grew out of the extreme anxiety of Hindoo
parents for the marriage of their children. If they once
broke away from caste, it was all over with them. They
were literally outcasts. Nobody would speak to them, and
they and their children were delivered over to one common
curse. This social ostracism impending over them, is a terror
which even educated Hindoos dare not face. And so
they conform outwardly, while they despise inwardly.
Hence, Keshoob Chunder Sen deserves all honor for the
stand he has taken, and ought to receive the cordial support
of the English and Christian community.</p>

<p>What I have seen in Calcutta and elsewhere satisfies me
that in all wise plans for the regeneration of India, Christian
missions must be a necessary part. One cannot remember
but with a feeling of shame, how slow was England to receive
missionaries into her Indian Empire. The first attempt
of the English Church to send a few men to India was
met with an outcry of disapprobation. Sydney Smith hoped
the Government would send the missionaries home. When
Carey first landed on these shores, he could not stay in British
territory, but had to take refuge at Serampore, a Danish
settlement a few miles from Calcutta, where he wrought a
work which makes that a place of pilgrimage to every Christian
traveller in India. We spent a day there, going over
the field of his labor. He is dead, but his work survives.
There he opened schools and founded a college, the first of
its kind in India (unless it were the government college of
Fort William in Calcutta, in which he was also a professor),
and which led the way for the establishment of that
magnificent system of National Education which is now the
glory of India.</p>

<p>What Carey was in his day, Dr. Duff in Calcutta and Dr.
Wilson in Bombay were a generation later, vigorous advocates
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">290</a></span>
of education as an indispensable means to quicken the
torpid mind of India. They were the trusted advisers and
counsellors of the government in organizing the present
system of National Education. This is but one of many
benefits for which this country has to thank missionaries.
And if ever India is to be so renovated as to enter into the
family of civilized and Christian nations, it will be largely by
their labors. One thing is certain, that mere education will
not convert the Hindoo. The experiment has been tried and
failed. Some other and more powerful means must be taken
to quicken the conscience of a nation deadened by ages of
false religion&mdash;a religion utterly fatal to spiritual life. That
such a change may come speedily, is devoutly to be wished.
No intelligent traveller can visit India, and spend here two
months, without feeling the deepest interest in the country
and its people. Our interest grew with every week of our
stay, and was strongest as we were about to leave.</p>

<p>The last night that we were in Calcutta, it was my privilege
to address the students at one of the Scotch colleges.
The hall was crowded, and I have seldom, if ever, spoken to
a finer body of young men. These young Bengalees had
many of them heads of an almost classical beauty; and with
their grace of person heightened by their flowing white
robes, they presented a beautiful array of young scholars,
such as might delight the eyes of any instructor who should
have to teach them "Divine philosophy." My heart "went
out" to them very warmly, and as that was my last impression
of India, I left it with a very different feeling from that
with which I entered it&mdash;with a degree of respect for its
people, and of interest in them, which I humbly conceive is
the very first condition of doing them any good.</p>

<p>It was Sunday evening: the ship on which we were to
embark for Burmah was to sail at daybreak, and it was necessary
to go on board at once. So hardly had we returned
from our evening service, before we drove down to the river.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">291</a></span>
The steamer lay off in the stream, the tide was out, and even
the native boats could not come up to where we could step
on board. But the inevitable coolies were there, their long
naked legs sinking in the mud, who took us on their brawny
backs, and carried us to the boats, and in this dignified manner
we took our departure from India.</p>

<p>The next morning, as we went on deck, the steamer was
dropping down the river. The guns of Fort William were
firing a salute; at Garden Reach we passed the palace of the
King of Oude, where this deposed Indian sovereign still
keeps his royal state among his serpents and his tigers. We
were all day long steaming down the Hoogly. The country
is very flat; there is nothing to break the monotony of its
swamps and jungles, its villages of mud standing amid rice
fields and palm groves. As we approach the sea the river
divides into many channels, like the lagoons of Venice. All
around are low lying islands, which now and then are swept
by terrible cyclones that come up from the Bay of Bengal.
At present their shores are overgrown with jungles, the
home of wild beasts, of serpents, and crocodiles, of all slimy
and deadly things, the monsters of the land and sea. Through
a net-work of such lagoons, we glide out into the deep;
slowly the receding shores sink till they are submerged, as if
they were drowned; we have left India behind, and all
around is only a watery horizon.
</p>

<h3 class="p6">CHAPTER XXII.</h3>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">292</a></span></p>
<p class="ch_summ">BURMAH, OR FARTHER INDIA.</p>

<p>In America we speak of the Far West, which is an undefined
region, constantly receding in the distance. So in Asia
there is a Far and Farther East, ever coming a little nearer
to the rising sun. When we have done with India, there is
still a Farther India to be "seen and conquered." On the
other side of the Bay of Bengal is a country, which, though
called India, and under the East Indian Government, is not
India. The very face of nature is different. It is a country
not of vast plains, but of mountains and valleys, and springs
that run among the hills; a country with another people
than India, another language, and another religion. Looking
upon the map of Asia, one sees at its southeastern extremity
a long peninsula, reaching almost to the equator, with a central
range of mountains, an Alpine chain, which runs through
its whole length, as the Apennines run through Italy. This
is the Malayan peninsula, on one side of which is Burmah,
and on the other, Siam, the land of the White Elephant.</p>

<p>Such was the "undiscovered country" before us, as we
went on deck of the good ship Malda, four days out from
Calcutta, and found her entering the mouth of a river which
once bore the proud name of the River of Gold, and was said
to flow through a land of gold. These fabled riches have
disappeared, but the majestic river still flows on, broad-bosomed
like the Nile, and which of itself might make the
riches of a country, as the Nile makes the riches of Egypt.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">293</a></span>
This is the mighty Irrawaddy, one of the great rivers of
Eastern Asia; which takes its rise in the western part of
Thibet, not far from the head waters of the Indus, and runs
along the northern slopes of the Himalayas, till it turns
south, and winding its way through the passes of the lofty
mountains, debouches into Lower Burmah, where it divides
into two large branches like the Nile, making a Delta of ten
thousand square miles&mdash;larger than the Delta of Egypt&mdash;whose
inexhaustible fertility, yielding enormous rice harvests,
has more than once relieved a famine in Bengal.</p>

<p>On the Irrawaddy, twenty-five miles from the sea, stands
Rangoon, the capital of British Burmah, a city of nearly a
hundred thousand inhabitants. As we approach it, the most
conspicuous object is the Great Pagoda, the largest in
the world, which is a signal that we are not only in a
new country, but one that has a new religion&mdash;not Brahmin,
but Buddhist&mdash;whose towering pagodas, with their gilded
roofs, take the place of Hindoo temples and Mohammedan
mosques. Rangoon boasts a great antiquity; it is said
to have been founded in the sixth century before Christ, but
its new masters, the English, with their spirit of improvement,
have given it quite a modern appearance. Large
steamers in the river and warehouses along its bank, show
that the spirit of modern enterprise has invaded even this
distant part of Asia.</p>

<p>Burmah is a country with a history, dating back far into
the past. It was once the seat of a great empire, with
a population many fold larger than now. In the interior are
to be found ruins like those in the interior of Cambodia,
which mark the sites of ancient cities, and attest the greatness
of an empire that has long since passed away. This is a
subject for the antiquarian; but I am more interested in its
present condition and its future prospects than its past history.
Burmah is now a part of the great English Empire in
the East, and it has been the scene of events which make a
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">294</a></span>
very thrilling chapter in the history of American Missions.
Remembering this, as soon as we got on shore we took a
gharri, and rode off to find the American missionaries,
of whom and of their work I shall have more to say. We
brought a letter also to the Chief Commissioner, Mr. Rivers
Thompson, who invited us to be his guests while in Rangoon.
This gentleman is a representative of the best class of English
officials in the East, of those conscientious and laborious
men, trained in the civil service in India, whose intelligence
and experience make the English rule such a blessing
to that country. The presence of a man of such character
and such intelligence in a position of such power&mdash;for he is
virtually the ruler of Burmah&mdash;is the greatest benefit to the
country. We shall long remember him and his excellent
wife&mdash;a true Englishwoman&mdash;for their courtesy and hospitality,
which made our visit to Rangoon so pleasant. The Government
House is out of the city, surrounded partly by the
natural forest, which was alive with monkeys, that were
perched in the trees, and leaping from branch to branch.
One species of them had a very wild and plaintive cry,
almost like that of a human creature in distress. It is said
to be the only animal whose notes range through the whole
scale. It begins low, and rises rapidly, till it reaches a pitch
at which it sounds like a far-off wail of sorrow. Every
morning we were awakened by the singing of birds, the first
sound in the forest, with which there came through the open
windows a cool, delicious air, laden with a dewy freshness as
of Spring, the exquisite sensation of a morning in the tropics.
Then came the tramp of soldiers along the walk, changing
guard. In the midst of these strange surroundings stood the
beautiful English home, with all its culture and refinement,
and the morning and evening prayers, that were a sweeter
incense to the Author of so much beauty than "the spicy
breezes that blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle." The evening drive
to the public gardens, where a band of music was playing,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">295</a></span>
gave one a sight of the English residents of Rangoon, and
made even an American feel, in hearing his familiar tongue,
that he was not altogether a stranger in a strange land. The
Commissioner gave me his Report on British Burmah, made
to the Government of India. It fills a large octavo volume,
and in reading it, one is surprised to learn the extent of the
country, which is twice as large as the State of New York,
and its great natural wealth in its soil and its forests&mdash;the
resources for supporting a dense population.</p>

<p>I found the best book on Burmah was by an American
missionary, Dr. Mason, who, while devoted to his religious
work, had the tastes of a naturalist, and wrote of the country
with the enthusiasm of a poet and a man of science.<a name="FNanchor_9" id="FNanchor_9" href="#Footnote_9" class="fnanchor">[9]</a> He
describes the interior as of marvellous beauty, with rugged
mountains, separated by soft green valleys, in which sometimes
little lakes, like the Scottish lochs, sleep under the
shadow of the hills; and rivers whose banks are like the banks
of the Rhine. He says: "British Burmah embraces all
variety of aspect, from the flats of Holland, at the mouths of
the Irrawaddy, to the more than Scottish beauty of the mountainous
valley of the Salwen, and the Rhenish river banks of
the Irrawaddy near Prome." With the zest of an Alpine
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">296</a></span>
tourist, he climbs the wild passes of the hills, and follows the
streams coursing down their sides, to where they leap in
waterfalls over precipices fifty or one hundred feet high.
Amid this picturesque scenery he finds a fauna and flora,
more varied and rich than those of any part of Europe.</p>

<p>The country produces a great variety of tropical fruits; it
yields spices and gums; while the natives make use for many
purposes of the bamboo and the palm. The wild beasts are
hunted for their skins, and the elephants furnish ivory. But
the staples of commerce are two&mdash;rice and the teak wood.
Rice is the universal food of Burmah, as it is of India and
of China. And for timber, the teak is invaluable, as it is the
only wood that can resist the attacks of the white ants. It is
a red wood, like our cedar, and when wrought with any degree
of taste and skill, produces a pretty effect. The better
class of houses are built of this, and being raised on upright
posts, with an open story beneath, and a broad veranda above,
they look more like Swiss chalets than like the common Eastern
bungalows. The dwellings of the poorer people are mere
huts, like Irish shanties or Indian wigwams. They are constructed
only with a frame of bamboo, with mats hung between.
You could put up one as easily as you would pitch
a tent. Drive four bamboo poles in the ground, put cross
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">297</a></span>
pieces and hang mats of bark, and you have a Burmese house.
To be sure it is a slender habitation&mdash;"reeds shaken with the
wind;" but it serves to cover the poor occupants, and if an
earthquake shakes it down, little harm is done. It costs
nothing for house-rent; rice is cheap, and the natives are expert
boatmen, and get a part of their living from the rivers
and the sea. Their wants are few and easily supplied.
"There is perhaps no country in the world," says Mason,
"where there are so few beggars, so little suffering, and so
much actual independence in the lower strata of society."
Thus provided for by nature, they live an easy life. Existence
is not a constant struggle. The earth brings forth
plentifully for their humble wants. They do not borrow
trouble, and are not weighed down with anxiety. Hence the
Burmese are very light-hearted and gay. In this they present
a marked contrast to some of the Asiatics. They have
more of the Mongolian cast of countenance than of the Hindoo,
and yet they are not so grave as the Hindoos on the one
hand, or as the Chinese on the other. The women have
much more freedom than in India. They do not veil
their faces, nor are they shut up in their houses. They
go about as freely as men, dressed in brilliant colored
silks, wound simply and gracefully around them, and carrying
the large Chinese umbrellas. They enjoy also the
glorious liberty of men in smoking tobacco. We meet them
with long cheroots, done up in plantain leaves, in their
mouths, grinning from ear to ear. The people are fond of
pleasure and amusement, of games and festivals, and laugh
and make merry to-day, and think not of to-morrow. This
natural and irrepressible gayety of spirit has given them the
name of the Irish of the East. Like the Irish too, they are
wretchedly improvident. Since they can live so easily, they
are content to live poorly. It should be said, however, that
up to a recent period they had no motive for saving. The
least sign of wealth was a temptation to robbery on the part
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">298</a></span>
of officials. Now that they have security under the English
government, they can save, and some of the natives have
grown rich.</p>

<p>This is one of the benefits of English rule, which make me
rejoice whenever I see the English flag in any part of Asia.
Wherever that flag flies, there is protection to property and
life; there is law and order&mdash;the first condition of civilized
society. Such a government has been a great blessing to
Burmah, as to India. It is not necessary to raise the question
how England came into possession here. It is the old
story, that when a civilized and a barbarous power come in
contact, they are apt to come into conflict. They cannot be
quiet and peaceable neighbors. Mutual irritations end in
war, and war ends in annexation. In this way, after two
wars, England acquired her possessions in the Malayan
Peninsula, and Lower Burmah became a part of the great
Indian Empire. We cannot find fault with England for
doing exactly what we should do in the same circumstances,
what we have done repeatedly with the American Indians.
Such collisions are almost inevitable. So far from regretting
that England thus "absorbed" Burmah, I only regret that
instead of taking half, she did not take the whole. For
British Burmah is not the whole of Burmah; there is still a
native kingdom on the Upper Irrawaddy, between British
Burmah and China, with a capital, Mandelay, and a sovereign
of most extraordinary character, who preserves in full force
the notions of royalty peculiar to Asiatic countries. Recently
a British envoy, Sir Douglas Forsyth, was sent to have some
negotiations with him, but there was a difficulty about having
an audience of his Majesty, owing to the peculiar
etiquette of that court, according to which he was required
to take off his boots, and get down on his knees, and approach
the royal presence on all fours! I forget how the
great question was compromised, but there is no doubt that
the King of Burmah considers himself the greatest potentate
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">299</a></span>
on earth. His capital is a wretched place. A Russian
gentleman whom we met in Rangoon, had just come down
from Mandelay, and he described it as the most miserable
mass of habitations that ever assumed to be called a city.
There were no roads, no carriages, no horses, only a few bullock
carts. Yet the lord of this capital thinks it a great
metropolis, and himself a great sovereign, and no one about
him dares tell him to the contrary. He is an absolute despot,
and has the power of life and death, which he exercises
on any who excite his displeasure. He has but to speak a
word or raise a hand, and the object of his wrath is led to
execution. Suspicion makes him cruel, and death is sometimes
inflicted by torture or crucifixion. Formerly bodies
were often seen suspended to crosses along the river. Of
course no one dares to provoke such a master by telling him
the truth. Not long ago he sent a mission to Europe, and
when his ambassadors returned, they reported to the King
that "London and Paris were very respectable cities, but not
to be compared to Mandelay!" This was repeated to me by
the captain of the steamer which brought them back, who
said one of them told him they did not dare to say anything
else; that they would lose their heads if they should intimate
to his majesty that there was on the earth a greater sovereign
than himself.</p>

<p>But in spite of his absolute authority, this old King lives
in constant terror, and keeps himself shut up in his palace,
or within the walls of his garden, not daring to stir abroad
for fear of assassination.</p>

<p>It requires a few hard knocks to get a little sense into
such a thick head; and if in the course of human events the
English were called to administer these, we should be sweetly
submissive to the ordering of Providence.</p>

<p>But though so ignorant of the world, this old king is
accounted a learned man among his people, and is quite religious
after his fashion. Indeed he is reported to have said
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">300</a></span>
to an English gentleman that "the English were a great
people, but what a pity that they had no religion!" In his
own faith he is very "orthodox." He will not have any
"Dissenters" about him&mdash;not he. If any man has doubts,
let him keep them to himself, lest the waters of the Irrawaddy
roll over his unbelieving breast.</p>

<p>But in the course of nature this holy man will be gathered
to his rest, and then his happy family may perhaps not live
in such perfect harmony. He is now sixty-five years old,
and has <i>thirty sons</i>, so that the question of succession is
somewhat difficult, as there is no order of primogeniture.
He has the right to choose an heir; and has been urged to
do so by his English neighbors, to obviate all dispute to the
succession. But he did this once and it raised a storm about
his ears. The twenty-nine sons that were not chosen, with
their respective mothers, raised such a din about his head
that the poor man was nearly distracted, and was glad to
revoke his decision, to keep peace in the family. He keeps
his sons under strict surveillance lest they should assassinate
him. But if he thus gets peace in his time, he leaves things
in a state of glorious uncertainty after his death. Then
there may be a household divided against itself. Perhaps
they will fall out like the Kilkenny cats. If there should
be a disputed succession, and a long and bloody civil war, it
might be a duty for their strong neighbors, "in the interest
of humanity," to step in and settle the dispute by taking the
country for themselves. Who could regret an issue that
should put an end to the horrible oppression and tyranny of
the native government, with its cruel punishments, its tortures
and crucifixions?</p>

<p>It would give the English the mastery of a magnificent
country. The valley of the Irrawaddy is rich as the valley
of the Nile, and only needs "law and order" for the wilderness
to bud and blossom as the rose. Should the English
take Upper Burmah, the great East Indian Empire would be
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">301</a></span>
extended over the whole South of Asia, and up to the borders
of China.</p>

<p>But the excellent Chief Commissioner has no dream of
annexation, his only ambition being to govern justly the
people entrusted to his care; to protect them in their rights;
to put down violence and robbery, for the country has been
in such a fearful state of disorganization, that the interior
has been overrun with bands of robbers. Dacoity, as it is
called, has been the terror of the country, as much as brigandage
has been of Sicily. But the English are now putting
it down with a strong hand. To develop the resources of
the country, the Government seeks to promote internal communication
and foreign commerce. At Rangoon the track
is already laid for a railroad up the country to Prome. The
seaports are improved and made safe for ships. With such
facilities Burmah may have a large commerce, for which she
has ample material. Her vast forests of teak would supply
the demand of all Southern Asia; while the rice from the
delta of the Irrawaddy may in the future, as in the past, feed
the millions of India who might otherwise die from famine.</p>

<p>With the establishment of this civilized rule there opens a
prospect for the future of Burmah, which shall be better
than the old age of splendid tyranny. Says Mason: "The
golden age when Pegu was the land of gold, and the Irrawaddy
the river of gold, has passed away, and the country
degenerated into the land of paddy (rice), and the stream
into the river of teak. Yet its last days are its best days.
If the gold has vanished, so has oppression; if the gems
have fled, so have the taskmasters; if the palace of the
Brama of Toungoo, who had twenty-six crowned heads at
his command, is in ruins, the slave is free." The poor native
has now some encouragement to cultivate his rice field, for
its fruit will not be taken from him. The great want of the
country is the same as that of the Western States of America&mdash;population.
British Burmah has but three millions of
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">302</a></span>
inhabitants, while, if the country were as thickly settled as
Belgium and Holland, or as some parts of Asia, it might
support thirty millions. Such a population cannot come at
once, or in a century, but the country may look for a slow
but steady growth from the overflow of India and China,
that shall in time rebuild its waste places, and plant towns
and cities along its rivers.</p>

<p>While thus interested in the political state of Burmah we
cannot forget its religion. In coming from India to Farther
India we have found not only a new race, but a new faith
and worship. While Brahminism rules the great Southern
Peninsula of Asia, Buddhism is the religion of Eastern Asia,
numbering more adherents than any other religion on the
globe. Of this new faith one may obtain some idea by a visit
to the Great Pagoda. The Buddhists, like the priests of
some other religions, choose lofty sites for their places of worship,
which, as they overtop the earth, seem to raise them
nearer to heaven. The Great Pagoda stands on a hill, or
rocky ledge, which overlooks the city of Rangoon and the
valley of the Irrawaddy. It is approached by a long flight of
steps, which is occupied, like the approaches to the ancient
temple in Jerusalem, by them that buy and sell, so that it is
a kind of bazaar, and also by lepers and blind men, who
stretch out their hands to ask for alms of those who mount
the sacred hill to pray. Ascending to the summit, we find a
plateau, on which there is an enclosure of perhaps an acre or
two of ground. The Pagoda is a colossal structure, with a
broad base like a pyramid, though round in shape, sloping
upwards to a slender cone, which tapers at last to a sort of
spire over three hundred feet high, and as the whole, from
base to pinnacle, is covered with gold leaf, it presents a very
dazzling appearance, when it reflects the rays of the sun. As a
pagoda is always a solid mass of masonry, with no inner place
of worship&mdash;not even a shrine, or a chamber like that in the
heart of the Great Pyramid&mdash;there was more of fervor than of
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">303</a></span>
fitness in the language of an English friend of missions, who
prayed "that the pagodas might resound with the praises of
God!" They might resound, but it must needs be on the outside.
The tall spire has for its extreme point, what architects
call a finial&mdash;a kind of umbrella, which the Burmese call a
"htee," made of a series of iron rings gilded, from which hang
many little silver and brass bells, which, swinging to and fro
with every passing breeze, give forth a dripping musical sound.
The Buddhist idea of prayer is not limited to human speech;
it may be expressed by an offering of flowers, or the tinkling
of a bell. It is at least a pretty fancy, which leads them
to suspend on every point and pinnacle of their pagodas
these tiny bells, whose soft, aërial chimes sound sweetly in
the air, and floating upward, fill the ear of heaven with a
constant melody. Besides the Great Pagoda, there are other
smaller pagodas, one of which has lately been decorated with
a magnificent "htee," presented by a rich timber merchant
of Maulmain. It is said to have cost fifty thousand dollars,
as we can well believe, since it is gemmed with diamonds and
other precious stones. There was a great festival when
it was set up in its place, which was kept up for several
days, and is just over. At the same time he presented an
elephant for the service of the temple, who, being thus consecrated,
is of course a sacred beast. We met him taking
his morning rounds, and very grand he was, with his crimson
and gold trappings and howdah, and as he swung along with
becoming gravity, he was a more dignified object than the
worshippers around him. But the people were very good-natured,
and we walked about in their holy places, and made
our observations with the utmost freedom. In the enclosure
are many pavilions, some of which are places for worship,
and others rest-houses for the people. The idols are hideous
objects, as all idols are, though perhaps better looking than
those of the Hindoos. They represent Buddha in all positions,
before whose image candles are kept burning.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">304</a></span></p>

<p>In the grounds is an enormous bell, which is constantly
struck by the worshippers, till its deep vibrations make the
very air around holy with prayer. With my American
curiosity to see the inside of everything, I crawled under it
(it was hung but a few inches above the ground), and rose
up within the hollow bronze, which had so long trembled
with pious devotion. But at that moment it hung in silence,
and I crawled back again, lest by some accident the enormous
weight should fall and put an extinguisher on my further
comparative study of religions. This bell serves another
purpose in the worship of Buddhists. They strike upon it
before saying their prayers, to attract the attention of the
recording angel, so that they may get due credit for their
act of piety. Those philosophical spirits who admire all religions
but the Christian, will observe in this a beautiful economy
in their devotions. They do not wish their prayers to
be wasted. By getting due allowance for them, they not
only keep their credit good, but have a balance in their favor.
It is the same economy which leads them to attach prayers to
water-wheels and windmills, by which the greatest amount of
praying may be done with the least possible amount of labor
or time. The one object of the Buddhist religion seems to
be to attain merit, according to the amount of which they
will spend more or less time in the realm of spirits before
returning to this cold world, and on which depends also the
form they will assume on their reincarnation. Among those
who sit at the gate of the temple as we approach, are holy
men, who, by a long course of devotion, have accumulated
such a stock of merit that they have enough and to spare,
and are willing to part with it for a consideration to others
less fortunate than themselves. It is the old idea of works
of supererogation over again, in which, as in many other
things, they show the closest resemblance to Romanism.</p>

<p>But however puerile it may be in its forms of worship,
yet as a religion Buddhism is an immeasurable advance on
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">305</a></span>
Brahminism. In leaving India we have left behind Hindooism,
and are grateful for the change, for Buddhism is altogether
a more respectable religion. It has no bloody rites like
those of the goddess Kali. It does not outrage decency nor
morality. It has no obscene images nor obscene worship. It
has no caste, with its bondage and its degradation. Indeed, the
scholar who makes a study of different religions, will rank
Buddhism among the best of those which are uninspired; if
he does not find in its origin and in the life of its founder
much that looks even like inspiration. There is no doubt that
Buddha, or Gaudama, if such a man ever lived (of which
there is perhaps no more reason to doubt than of any of the
great characters of antiquity), began his career of a religious
teacher, as a reformer of Brahminism, with the honest and
noble purpose of elevating the faith, and purifying the lives
of mankind. Mason, as a Christian missionary, certainly
did not desire to exaggerate the virtues of another religion,
and yet he writes of the origin of Buddhism:</p>

<div class="blockquot">
<p>
"Three hundred years before Alexandria was founded; about the
time that Thales, the most ancient philosopher of Europe, was
teaching in Greece that water is the origin of all things, the soul of
the world; and Zoroaster, in Media or Persia, was systematizing the
fire-worship of the Magi; and Confucius in China was calling on the
teeming multitudes around him to offer to guardian spirits and the
names of their ancestors; and Nebuchadnezzar set up his golden
image in the plains of Dura, and Daniel was laboring in Babylon to
establish the worship of the true God; a reverend sage, with his
staff and scrip, who had left a throne for philosophy, was travelling
from Gaya to Benares, and from Benares to Kanouj, exhorting the
people against theft, falsehood, adultery, killing and intemperance.
No temperance lecturer advocates teetotalism now more strongly
than did this sage Gaudama twenty-three centuries ago. Nor did
he confine his instructions to external vices. Pride, anger, lust,
envy and covetousness were condemned by him in as strong terms
as are ever heard from the Christian pulpit. Love, mercy, patience,
self-denial, alms-giving, truth, and the cultivation of wisdom, he
required of all. Good actions, good words, and good thoughts were
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">306</a></span>
the frequent subjects of his sermons, and he was unceasing in his
cautions to keep the mind free from the turmoils of passion, and
the cares of life. Immediately after the death of this venerable
peripatetic, his disciples scattered themselves abroad to propagate
the doctrines of their master, and tradition says, one party entered
the principal mouth of the Irrawaddy, where they traced its banks
to where the first rocks lift themselves abruptly above the flats
around. Here, on the summit of this laterite ledge, one hundred and
sixty feet above the river, they erected the standard of Buddhism,
which now lifts its spire to the heavens higher than the dome of St.
Paul's."
</p>
</div>

<p>In its practical effects Buddhism is favorable to virtue;
and its adherents, so far as they follow it, are a quiet and
inoffensive people. They are a kind of Quakers, who follow
an inward light, and whose whole philosophy of life is one of
repression of natural desires. Their creed is a mixture of
mysticism and stoicism, which by gentle meditation subdues
the mind to "a calm and heavenly frame," a placid indifference
to good or ill, to joy or sorrow, to pleasure and pain.
It teaches that by subduing the desires&mdash;pride, envy, and
ambition&mdash;one brings himself into a state of tranquillity, in
which there is neither hope nor fear. It is easy to see
where such a creed is defective; that it does not bring out
the heroic virtues, as shown in active devotion to others'
good. This active philanthropy is born of Christianity.
There is a spiritual selfishness in dreaming life away in this
idle meditation. But so far as others are concerned, it bids
no man wrong his neighbor.</p>

<p>Buddha's table of the law may be compared with that of
Moses. Instead of Ten Commandments, it has only Five,
which correspond very nearly to the latter half of the Decalogue.
Indeed three of them are precisely the same, viz.:
Do not kill; Do not steal; and Do not commit adultery;
and the fourth, Do not lie, includes, as a broader statement,
the Mosaic command not to bear false witness against one's
neighbor; but the last one of all, instead of being "not to
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">307</a></span>
covet," is, Do not become intoxicated. These commands are
all prohibitions, and enforce only the negative side of virtue.
They forbid injury to property and life and reputation,
and thus every injury to one's neighbor, and the last of all
forbids injury to one's self, while they do not urge active
benevolence to man nor piety towards God.</p>

<p>These Five Commandments are the rule of life for all men.
But to those who aspire to a more purely religious life, there
are other and stricter rules. They are required to renounce
the world, to live apart, and practice rigid austerities, in
order to bring the body into subjection. Every day is to be
one of abstinence and self-denial. To them are given five
other commands, in addition to those prescribed to mankind
generally. They must take no solid food after noon (a fast
not only Friday, but every day of the week); they must
not visit dances, singing or theatrical representations; must
use no ornaments or perfumery in dress; must not sleep in
luxurious beds, and while living by alms, accept neither gold
nor silver. By this rigid self-discipline, they are expected to
be able to subdue their appetites and passions and overcome
the world.</p>

<p>This monastic system is one point of resemblance between
Buddhism and Romanism. Both have orders of monks and
nuns, who take vows of celibacy and poverty, and live in
convents and monasteries. There is also a close resemblance
in their forms of worship. Both have their holy shrines,
and use images and altars, before which flowers are placed,
and lamps are always burning. Both chant and pray in an
unknown tongue.<a name="FNanchor_10" id="FNanchor_10" href="#Footnote_10" class="fnanchor">[10]</a></p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">308</a></span></p>

<p>This resemblance of the Buddhist creed and worship to
their own, the Jesuit missionaries have been quick to see,
and with their usual artfulness have tried to use it as an
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">309</a></span>
argument to smooth the way for the conversion of the
Asiatics by representing the change as a slight one. But
the Buddhist, not to be outdone in quickness, answers that
the difference is so slight that it is not worth making the
change. The only difference, they say, is "we worship a
man and you worship a woman!"</p>

<p>But Christianity has had other representatives in Burmah
than the Jesuits. At an early day American missionaries,
as if they could not go far enough away from home, in their
zeal to carry the Gospel where it had not been preached before,
sought a field of labor in Southeastern Asia. More
than sixty years ago they landed on these shores. They
planted no colonies, waged no wars, raised no flag, and made
no annexation. The only flag they carried over them was
that of the Gospel of peace. And yet in the work they
wrought they have left a memorial which will long preserve
their sainted and heroic names. While in Rangoon I took
up again "The Life of Judson" by Dr. Wayland, and read it
with new interest on the very spot which had been the scene
of his labors. Nothing in the whole history of missions is
more thrilling than the story of his imprisonment. It was
during the second Burmese war. He was at that time at
Ava, the capital of Burmah, where he had been in favor till
now, when the king, enraged at the English, seized all that
he could lay hands upon, and threw them into prison. He
could not distinguish an American, who had the same features
and spoke the same language, and so Judson shared
the fate of the rest. One day his house was entered by an
officer and eight or ten men, one of whom he recognized
by his hideous tattooed face as the executioner, who seized
him in the midst of his family, threw him on the floor, drew
out the instrument of torture, the small cord, with which he
bound him, and hurried him to the death prison, where he
was chained, as were the other foreigners, each with three
pairs of fetters to a pole. He expected nothing but death,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">310</a></span>
but the imprisonment dragged on for months, varied with
every device of horror and of cruelty. Often he was chained
to the vilest malefactors. Sometimes he was cast into an
inner prison, which was like the Black Hole of Calcutta,
where his limbs were confined with five pairs of fetters. So
loathsome was his prison, that he counted it the greatest
favor and indulgence, when, after a fever, he was allowed to
sleep in the cage of a dead lion! This lasted nearly two
years. Several times his keepers had orders (as they confessed
afterward) to assassinate him, but, restrained perhaps
by pity for his wife, they withheld their hand, thinking that
disease would soon do the work for them.</p>

<p>During all that long and dreadful time his wife watched
over him with never-failing devotion. She could not sleep
in the prison, but every day she dragged herself two miles
through the crowded city, carrying food for her husband and
the other English prisoners. During that period a child was
born, whose first sight of its father was within prison walls.
Some time after even his heathen jailors took pity on him,
and allowed him to take a little air in the street outside of
the prison gate. And history does not present a more touching
scene than that of this man, when his wife was ill, carrying
his babe through the streets from door to door, asking
Burman mothers, in the sacred name of maternity, of that
instinct of motherhood which is universal throughout the
world, to give nourishment to this poor, emaciated, and dying
child.</p>

<p>But at length a day of deliverance came. The English
army had taken Rangoon and was advancing up the Irrawaddy.
Then all was terror at Ava, and the tyrant that had
thrown Judson into a dungeon, sent to bring him out and
to beg him to go to the English camp to be his interpreter,
and to sue for terms of peace. He went and was received
with the honor due to his character and his sufferings. But
the heroine of the camp was that noble American woman,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">311</a></span>
whose devotion had saved, not only the life of her husband,
but the lives of all the English prisoners. The commander-in-chief
received her as if she had been an empress, and at a
great dinner given to the Burmese ambassadors placed her at
his right hand, in the presence of the very men to whom she
had often been to beg for mercy, and had been often driven
brutally from their doors. The tables were turned, and they
were the ones to ask for mercy now. They sat uneasy, giving
restless glances at the missionary's wife, as if fearing lest
a sudden burst of womanly indignation should impel her to
demand the punishment of those who had treated her with
such cruelty. But they were quite safe. She would not
touch a hair of their heads. Too happy in the release of the
one she loved, her heart was overflowing with gratitude, and
she felt no desire but to live among this people, and to do
good to those from whom she had suffered so much. They
removed to Amherst, at the mouth of the Maulmain River,
and had built a pretty home, and were beginning to realize
their dream of missionary life, when she was taken ill, and,
broken by her former hardships, soon sank in death.</p>

<p>Probably "The Life of Judson" has interested American
Christians in Burmah more than all the histories and geographical
descriptions put together. General histories have
never the interest of a personal narrative, and the picture of
Judson in a dungeon, wearing manacles on his limbs, exposed
to death in its most terrible forms, to be tortured or
to be crucified, and finally saved by the devotion of his wife,
has touched the hearts of the American people more than all
the learned histories of Eastern Asia that ever were written.</p>

<p>And when I stood at a humble grave on Amherst Point,
looking out upon the sea, and read upon the stone the name
of <span class="smcap">Ann Hasseltine Judson</span>, and thought of that gentle
American wife, coming out from the peace and protection of
her New England home to face such dangers, I felt that I
had never bent over the dust of one more worthy of all the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">312</a></span>
honors of womanhood and sainthood; tender and shrinking,
but whom love made strong and brave; who walked among
coarse and brutal men, armed only with her own native modesty
and dignity: who by the sick-bed or in a prison cast
light in a dark place by her sweet presence; and who united
all that is noble in woman's love and courage and devotion.</p>

<p>Judson survived this first wife about a quarter of a century&mdash;a
period full of labor, and in its later years, full of precious
fruit. That was the golden autumn of his life. He that had
gone forth weeping, bearing precious seed, came again rejoicing,
bringing his sheaves with him. I wish the Church
in America could see what has been achieved by that well-spent
life. Most of his fellow-laborers have gone to their
rest, though Mr. and Mrs. Bennett at Rangoon, and Dr. and
Mrs. Haswell at Maulmain, still live to tell of the trials and
struggles of those early days.<a name="FNanchor_11" id="FNanchor_11" href="#Footnote_11" class="fnanchor">[11]</a> And now appears the fruit of
all those toilsome years. The mission that was weak has
grown strong. In Rangoon there are a number of missionaries,
who have not only established churches and Christian
schools, but founded a College and a Theological Seminary.
They have a Printing Press, under the charge of the veteran
Mr. Bennett, who has been here forty-six years. In the interior
are churches in great numbers. The early missionaries
found a poor people&mdash;a sort of lower caste among the Burmese&mdash;the
Karens. It may almost be said that they caught
them in the woods and tamed them. They first reduced their
language to writing; they gave them books and schools, and
to-day there are twenty thousand of this people who are
members of their churches. In the interior there are many
Christian villages, with native churches and native pastors,
supported by the people themselves, whose deep poverty
abounds to their liberality in a way that recalls Apostolic
times.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">313</a></span></p>

<p>The field which has been the scene of such toils and sacrifices
properly belongs to the denomination which has given
such examples of Christian devotion. The Baptists were the
first to enter the country, led by an apostle. The Mission
in Burmah is the glory of the Baptist Church, as that of the
Sandwich Islands is of the American Board. They have a
sort of right to the land by reason of first occupancy&mdash;a
right made sacred by these early and heroic memories; and I
trust will be respected by other Christian bodies in the exercise
of that comity which ought to exist between Churches
as between States, in the possession of a field which they
have cultivated with so much zeal, wisdom, and success.</p>

<p class="p2">It is not till one leaves Rangoon that he sees the beauty
of Burmah. The banks of the Irrawaddy, like those of the
Hoogly, are low and jungly; but as we glide from the river
into the sea, and turn southward, the shores begin to rise,
till after a few hours' sail we might be on the coast of Wales
or of Scotland. The next morning found us at anchor off the
mouth of the Salwen River. The steamers of the British
India Company stop at all the principal ports, and we were
now to pass up the river to Maulmain. But the Malda was
too large to cross the bar except at very high tide, for which
we should have to wait over a day. The prospect of resting
here under a tropical sun, and in full sight of the shore, was
not inviting, and we looked about for some way of escape.
Fortunately we had on board Miss Haswell, of the well-known
missionary family, who had gone up from Maulmain
to Rangoon to see some friends off for America, and was now
returning. With such an interpreter and guide, we determined
to go on shore, and hailing a pilot-boat, went down
the ship's ladder, and jumped on board. The captain thought
us very rash, as the sea was rough, and the boat rose and
plunged in waves; but the Malays are like seagulls on
the water, and raising their sail, made of bamboo poles,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">314</a></span>
and rush matting, we flew before the wind, and were soon
landed at Amherst Point. This was holy ground, for here
Judson had lived, and here his wife died and was buried.
Her grave is on the sea-shore, but a few rods from the water,
and we went straight to it. It is a low mound, with a plain
headstone, around which an American sea captain had placed
a wooden paling to guard the sacred spot. There she sleeps,
with only the murmur of the waves, as they come rippling up
the beach, to sing her requiem. But her name will not die,
and in all the world, where love and heroism are remembered,
what this woman hath done shall be told for a memorial of
her. Her husband is not here, for (as the readers of his life
will remember) his last years were spent at Maulmain, from
which he was taken, when very ill, on board a vessel, bound
for the Mauritius, in hope that a voyage might save him when
all other means had failed, and died at sea when but four
days out, and was committed to the deep in the Bay of Bengal.
One cannot but regret that he did not die on land, that
he might have been buried beside his wife in the soil of
Burmah; but it is something that he is not far away, and
the waters that roll over him kiss its beloved shores.</p>

<p>Miss Haswell led the way up the beach to the little house
which Judson had built. It was unoccupied, but there was
an old bedstead on which the apostle had slept, and I
stretched myself upon it, feeling that I caught as much inspiration
lying there as when I lay down in the sarcophagus
of Cheops in the heart of the Great Pyramid. We found a
rude table too, which we drew out upon the veranda, and a
family of native Christians brought us rice and milk and
eggs, with which we made a breakfast in native style. The
family of Miss Haswell once occupied this mission house,
and it was quite enlivening to hear, as we sat there quietly
taking our rice and milk, how the tigers used to come around
and make themselves at home, snuffing about the doors, and
carrying off dogs from the veranda, and killing a buffalo in
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">315</a></span>
the front yard. They are not quite so familiar now along
the coast, but in the interior one can hardly go through a
forest without coming on their tracks. Only last year Miss
Haswell, on her way to attend the meeting of an association,
camped in the woods. She found the men were getting
sleepy, and neglected the fire, and so she kept awake, and sat
up to throw on the wood. It was well, for in the night suddenly
all the cattle sprang up with every sign of terror, and
there came on the air that strong smell which none who have
perceived it can mistake, which shows that a tiger is near.
Doubtless he was peering at them through the covert, and
nothing but the blazing fire kept him away.</p>

<p>After our repast, we took a ride in native style. A pair
of oxen was brought to the door, with a cart turned up at
both ends, in such a manner that those riding in it were
dumped into a heap; and thus well shaken together, we rode
down to the shore, where we had engaged a boat to take us
up the river. It was a long slender skiff, which, with its
covering of bamboo bent over it, was in shape not unlike a
gondola of Venice. The arch of its roof was of course not
very lofty; we could not stand up, but we could sit or lie
down, and here we stretched ourselves in glorious ease, and
as a pleasant breeze came in from the sea, our little bark
moved swiftly before it. The captain of our boat was a
venerable-looking native, like some of the Arabs we saw on
the Nile, with two boatmen for his "crew," stout fellows,
whose brawny limbs were not confined by excess of clothing.
In fact, they had on only a single garment, a kind of French
blouse, which, by way of variety, they took off and washed
in the river as we sailed along. However, they had another
clout for a change, which they drew over them with great
dexterity before they took off the first, so as not to offend us.
Altogether the scene was not unlike what some of my readers
may have witnessed on one of our Southern rivers; and
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_316" id="Page_316">316</a></span>
if we could only have had the rich voices of the negro boatmen,
singing</p>

<div class="poem">
<p>
"Down on the Alabama,"</p>
</div>
<p>the illusion would have been complete. Thus in a dreamy
mood, and with a gentle motion, we glided up the beautiful
Salwen, between low banks covered with forests, a distance of
thirty miles, till at five o'clock we reached the lower end of
Maulmain, and went ashore, and rode two or three miles up
the river to Dr. Haswell's, where Miss H. claimed C&mdash;&mdash; for
her guest, while I was entertained at her brother's in the old
missionary compound, where Dr. Judson lived for so many
years, and which he left only to die. These American
friends, with their kind hospitalities, made us feel quite at
home in Burmah; and as if to bring still nearer Christian
England and America, we were taken the same evening to a
prayer-meeting at the house of an English officer who is in
command here, where they sang Sankey's hymns!</p>

<p>Maulmain is a place of great natural beauty. Though on
the river, it rises from the water's edge in steep and wooded
banks, and has a background of hills. One can hardly find
a lovelier view in all the East than that from the hill behind
it, on which stands an old Buddhist monastery and pagoda.
Here the eye ranges over a distance of many miles. Several
rivers which flow together give the country the appearance
of being covered with water, out of which rise many
elevated points, like islands in a sea. In clear weather, after
the rains, one may see on the horizon the distant peaks of
the mountains in Siam. This was a favorite resort of Dr.
Judson, who, being a man of great physical as well as intellectual
vigor, was fond of walking, and loved to climb the
hills. Miss Haswell, who as a child remembered him, told
us how she once saw him here "playing tag" with his wife,
chasing her as she ran down the hill. This picture of the
old man delighted me&mdash;to think that not all his labors and
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_317" id="Page_317">317</a></span>
sufferings could subdue that unconquerable spirit, but that
he retained even to old age the freshness of a boy, and was
as hearty in play as in preaching. This is the sort of muscular
Christians that are needed to face the hardships of a missionary
life&mdash;men who will not faint in the heat of the
tropics, nor falter at the prospect of imprisonment or death.</p>

<p>While we stood here the Buddhist monks were climbing
slowly up the hill, and I could but think of the difference
between our intrepid missionary and these languid, not to
say lazy, devotees. We had a good chance to observe them,
and to remark their resemblance to similar orders in the
Church of Rome. The Buddhist monk, like his Romish
brother, shaves his head, eats no animal food (the command
of Buddha not to kill, is interpreted not to take life of any
kind), and lives only by the alms of the faithful. Seeing
them here, with their shaven heads and long robes, going
about the streets, stopping before the doors to receive their
daily tributes of rice, one is constantly reminded of the mendicant
friars of Italy. They live in monasteries, which are
generally situated, like this, on the tops of hills, retired
from the world, where they keep together for mutual instruction,
and to join in devotion. They do no work except to
cultivate the grounds of the temple, but give up their lives
to meditation and to prayer.</p>

<p>It would be wrong to speak of such men but with proper
respect. They are quiet and inoffensive; some of them are
learned; still more are serious and devout. Says Dr. Williams:
"Their largest monasteries contain extensive libraries,
and a portion of the fraternity are well acquainted with letters,
though numbers of them are ignorant even of their
own books." "Their moral character, as a class, is on a
par with their countrymen, and many of them are respectable,
intelligent, and sober-minded persons, who seem to be
sincerely desirous of making themselves better, if possible,
by their religious observances."
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_318" id="Page_318">318</a></span></p>

<p>But this life of a recluse, while favorable to study and
meditation, does not inspire active exertion. Indeed the
whole Buddhist philosophy of life seems to be comprised in
this, that man should dream away existence here on earth,
and then lapse into a dreamy eternity.</p>

<div class="poem">
<p>
"To be or not to be, that's the question;"</p>
</div>

<p>and for them it seems better "not to be." Their heaven&mdash;their
Nirvana&mdash;is annihilation, yet not absolute non-existence,
but only absorption of their personality, so that their separate
being is swallowed up and lost in God. They will still be conscious,
but have no hope and no fear, no dread and no desire,
but only survey existence with the ineffable calm of the Infinite
One. This passive, emotionless state is expressed in
all the statues and images of Buddha.</p>

<p>If that be heaven, it is not earth; and they who pass life
in a dream are not the men to revolutionize the world. This
whole monastery, full of monks, praying and chanting for generations,
cannot so stir the mind of Asia, or make its power
felt even in Burmah, as one heroic man like Judson.</p>

<p>Miss Haswell belongs to a family of missionaries. Her
father and mother were companions of Judson, and the
children are in one way and another devoted to the same
work. She has a school for girls, which is said to be
the best in Burmah. The Chief Commissioner at Rangoon
spoke of it in the highest terms, and makes special mention
of it in his Report. She told us with great modesty, and
almost with a feeling of shame, of the struggle and mortification
with which she had literally "begged" the money
for it in America. But never did good seed scattered on the
waters bear richer fruit. If a deputation from all the Baptist
churches which contributed to that school could but pay
it a visit, and see what it is doing, it would never want for
funds hereafter.</p>

<p>Burmah is a country which needs all good influences&mdash;moral
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_319" id="Page_319">319</a></span>
and religious. It needs also a strong government, just
laws rigidly enforced, to keep peace and order in the land.
For though the people are so gay and merry, there is a fearful
degree of crime. In Maulmain there is a prison, which
holds over a thousand prisoners, many of whom have been
guilty of the worst crimes. A few days since there was an
outbreak, and an attempt to escape. A number got out of
the gate, and were running till they were brought up by shots
from the military. Seven were killed and seven wounded.
I went through this prison one morning with the physician
as he made his rounds. As we entered a man was brought
up who had been guilty of some insubordination. He had
once attempted to kill the jailer. The Doctor inquired
briefly into the offence, and said, without further words:
"Give him fifteen cuts." Instantly the man was seized and
tied, arms extended, and legs fastened, so that he could not
move, and his back uncovered, and an attendant standing off,
so that he could give his arm full swing, gave him fifteen
cuts that made the flesh start up like whip-cord, and the
blood run. The man writhed with agony, but did not
scream. I suppose such severity is necessary, but it was a
very painful sight. In the hospital we found some of the
prisoners who had been concerned in the mutiny. The ringleader
had been shot in the leg, which had been amputated.
They had found that the ways of transgressors were hard.</p>

<p>Continuing our walk, we went through the different workshops,
and saw the kinds of labor to which the men were
put, such as making chairs of bamboo, weaving cloth, beating
cocoanut husks to make stuff for mattresses, carving, making
furniture, blacksmithing, &amp;c. The worst offenders were put
to grinding corn, as that was a species of labor in which they
had no tools which could be used as deadly weapons. The
men in this ward&mdash;perhaps a hundred in number&mdash;were desperate
characters. They were almost all highway robbers,
Dacoits, bands of whom have long been the terror of the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_320" id="Page_320">320</a></span>
country. They all had irons on their ankles, and stood up
to their tasks, working with their hands. I was not sorry
to see "their feet made fast in the stocks," for in looking
into their savage faces, one could but feel that he would
rather see them in chains and behind iron bars, than meet
them alone in a forest.</p>

<p>But I turn to a more agreeable spectacle. It is sometimes
more pleasant to look at animals than at men, certainly when
men make beasts of themselves, and when, on the other
hand, animals show an intelligence almost human. One of
the great industries of Burmah is the timber trade. The
teak wood, which is the chief timber cut and shipped, is very
heavy, and requires prodigious force to handle it; and as the
Burmese are not far enough advanced to use machinery for
the purpose, they employ elephants, and bravely do the noble
beasts perform their task. In the timber yards both at Rangoon
and at Maulmain, all the heavy work of drawing and
piling the logs is done by them. I have never seen any animals
showing such intelligence, and trained to such docility
and obedience. In the yard that we visited there were seven
elephants, five of which were at that moment at work. Their
wonderful strength came into play in moving huge pieces of
timber. I did not measure the logs, but should think that
many were at least twenty feet long and a foot square. Yet
a male elephant would stoop down, and run his tusks under
a log, and throw his trunk over it, and walk off with it as
lightly as a gentleman would balance his bamboo cane on the
tip of his finger. Placing it on the pile, he would measure
it with his eye, and if it projected too far at either end,
would walk up to it, and with a gentle push or pull, make
the pile even. If a still heavier log needed to be moved on
the ground to some part of the yard, the mahout, sitting on
the elephant's head, would tell him what to do, and the great
creature seemed to have a perfect understanding of his
master's will. He would put out his enormous foot, and
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_321" id="Page_321">321</a></span>
push it along; or he would bend his head, and crouching
half way to the ground, and doubling up his trunk in front,
throw his whole weight against it, and thus, like a ram,
would "butt" the log into its place; or if it needed to be
taken a greater distance, he would put a chain around it,
and drag it off behind him. The female elephant especially
was employed in drawing, as having no tusks, she could not
lift like her big brothers, but could only move by her power
of traction or attraction. Then using her trunk as deftly as
a lady would use her fingers, she would untie the knot or
unhitch the chain, and return to her master, perhaps putting
out her trunk to receive a banana as a reward for her good
conduct. It was a very pretty sight, and gave us a new idea
of the value of these noble creatures, and of the way in which
they can be trained for the service of man, since they can be
not only made subject to his will, but taught to understand
it, thus showing equal intelligence and docility.</p>

<p>After a day or two thus pleasantly passed, we went on
board the Malda (which had finally got over the bar and
come up to Maulmain), and dropped down the river, and
were soon sailing along the coast, which grows more beautiful
as we steam southward. We pass a great number of
islands, which form the Mergui Archipelago, and just now
might be off the shores of Greece. Within these sheltered
waters is Tavoy, from which it is proposed to build a road
over the mountains to Bangkok in Siam. There has long
been a path through the dense forest, but one that could only
be traversed by elephants. Now it is proposed to have a
good road, the expense to be borne by the two kingdoms. Is
not this a sign of progress, of an era of peace and good will?
Formerly Burmah and Siam were always at war. Being
neighbors and rivals, they were "natural enemies," as much
as were France and England. But now the strong English
hand imposes peace, and the two countries seek a closer connection.
The road thus inaugurated will bind them together,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_322" id="Page_322">322</a></span>
and prove not only an avenue of commerce but a
highway of civilization.</p>

<p>At Penang we enter the Straits of Malacca, on one side of
which is the Malayan Peninsula, and on the other the island
of Sumatra, which is larger than all Great Britain, and
where just now, at this upper end, the Dutch have a war on
their hands. Penang is opposite Acheen, and the Malays,
who are engaged in such a desperate resistance to the Dutch,
often cross the Straits, and may be seen at any time in the
streets of the English settlement. Perhaps it is but natural
that the English should have a sympathy with these natives,
who are defending their country against invaders, though I
do not perceive that this makes them more ready to yield
the ground on their own side of the Straits, where just now,
at Perak, they have a little war of their own. To this war
in Acheen I may refer again, when I come to write of the
Dutch power in Java.</p>

<p>Bayard Taylor celebrates Penang as "the most beautiful
island in the world," which is a great deal for one to say who
has travelled so far and seen so much. I could not be quite
so enthusiastic, and yet I do not wonder at any degree of
rapture in one who climbs the Peak of Penang, which commands
a view not only of the town and harbor below, but of
other islands and waters, as well as of mountains and valleys
in the interior, which are a part of Siam. Turning seaward,
and looking down, this little island of Penang appears as the
gem of the scene&mdash;a mass of the richest tropical vegetation,
set in the midst of tropical seas.</p>

<p>We were now in the tropics indeed. We had been for
weeks, but we had a more "realizing sense" of it as we got
into the lower latitudes. The heat grew intense as we approached
the Equator. One after another we laid aside the
garments of the colder North, and put on the lightest and
thinnest costume, till we did not know but our only relief
would be that suggested by Sydney Smith, "to take off our
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_323" id="Page_323">323</a></span>
flesh and sit in our bones." With double awnings spread
over the deck, and the motion of the ship stirring the air,
still the vertical sun was quite overpowering. We were
obliged to keep on deck day and night, although there was
ample room below. As there were but eight passengers in
the cabin, each had a state-room; but with all this space, and
portholes wide open, still it was impossible to keep cool. An
iron ship becomes so heated that the state-rooms are like
ovens. So we had to take refuge on deck. Every evening
the servants appeared, bringing our mattresses, which were
spread on the skylight above the cabin. This was very well
for the gentlemen of our company, but offered no relief of
coolness for our only lady passenger. But a couple of gallant
young Englishmen, who with us were making the tour
of the world, were determined that she should not be imprisoned
below, and they set up on deck a screen, in which
she was enclosed as in a tent; and not Cleopatra, when
floating in her gilded barge, reclined more royally than she,
thus lifted up into the cool night air. Then we all had our
reward. The glory of the night made up for the fervors of
the day. From our pillows we looked out upon the sea, and
as the hot day brought thunderstorms, the lightning playing
on the distant horizon lighted up the watery leagues around,
till it seemed as if we were</p>

<div class="poem">
<p class="o1">
"Alone, alone, all, all alone,</p>
<p>Alone on the wide, wide sea,"</p>
</div>

<p>floating on in darkness over an unfathomable abyss. At
other times the sea was luminous with the light which she
carries in her own bosom. These Southern seas are full of
those marine insects which shine like glow-worms in the
dark; and when the waters were calm and still, when there
was not a ripple on the bosom of the deep, we leaned over
the stern of the ship to watch the long track of light which
she left in the phosphorescent sea. But brighter than this
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_324" id="Page_324">324</a></span>
watery illumination was the sky above, which was all aglow
with celestial fires. We had long become familiar with the
Southern Cross, which we first saw in Egypt on the Nile,
near the First Cataract. But then it was just above the
horizon. Now it shone in mid-heaven, while around it were
gathered the constellations of the Southern hemisphere. I
have seen the stars on the desert and on the sea, but never
anything before that quite equalled these nights on the
Equator.</p>

<p>But our voyage was coming to an end. We had already
been twice as long on the Bay of Bengal as in crossing the
Atlantic. It was the last day of March when the captain
of the ship came to me, as I was standing on deck, and said:
"Do you see that low point of land, with the trees upon it,
coming down to the water? That is the most Southern
point of Asia." That great continent, which we saw first at
Constantinople, and had followed so far around the globe,
ended here. An hour afterward, as we rounded into Singapore,
a hand pointed Eastward, and a voice at my side said:
"Uncle, there's the Pacific!" She who spoke might perhaps
have said rather, "There are the China Seas," but they
are a part of the great Ocean which rolls its waters from Asia
to America.</p>

<p>Singapore is on an island, at the very end of the peninsula,
so that it may be called truly "the jumping-off place."
On this point of land, but a degree and a half from the
Equator, England has planted one of those colonies by which
she keeps guard along the coasts, and over the waters, of
Southern Asia. The town, which has a population of nearly
a hundred thousand, is almost wholly Chinese, but it is the
English power which is seen in the harbor filled with ships,
and the fort mounted with guns; and English taste which
has laid out the streets and squares, and erected the public
buildings. This might be called the Island of Palms, which
grow here in great profusion&mdash;the tall cocoanut palm with
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_325" id="Page_325">325</a></span>
its slender stem, the fan palm with its broad leaves, and many
other varieties which mantle the hillsides, forming a rich
background for the European bungalows that peer out from
under a mass of tropical foliage.</p>

<p>Whoever goes around the world must needs pass by Singapore.
It is the one inevitable point in Asia, as San Francisco
is in America. One is sure to meet here travellers,
mostly English and American, passing to and fro, from India
to China, or from China to India, making the Grand Tour.
So common are they that they cease to inspire as much awe
as Marco Polo or Capt. Cook, and have even received the
nickname of "globe-trotters," and are looked upon as quite
ordinary individuals. Singapore is a good resting-point for
Americans&mdash;a convenient half-way house&mdash;as it is almost
exactly on the other side of the globe from New York.
Having "trotted" thus far, we may be allowed to rest, at
least over Sunday, before we take a new start, and sail away
into the Southern hemisphere.
</p>

<h3 class="p6">CHAPTER XXIII.</h3>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_326" id="Page_326">326</a></span></p>
<p class="ch_summ">THE ISLAND OF JAVA.</p>

<p>Most travellers who touch at Singapore sweep round that
point like a race-horse, eager to be on the "home stretch."
But in turning north, they turn away from a beauty of which
they do not dream. They know not what islands, embowered
in foliage, lie in those Southern seas&mdash;what visions
would reward them if they would but "those realms explore."
The Malayan Peninsula is a connecting link between
two great divisions of the globe; it is a bridge hundreds of
miles long&mdash;a real Giants' Causeway, reaching out from the
mainland of Asia towards the Island World beyond&mdash;a world
with an interest all its own, which, now that we were so near,
attracted us to its shores. Leaving our fellow-travellers to
go on to Siam or to China, we took the steamer of the Netherlands
India Company for Java. It was a little boat of but
250 tons, but it shot away like an arrow, and was soon flying
like a sea-bird among islands covered with palm groves. On
our right was the long coast of Sumatra. Towards evening
we entered the Straits of Rhio, and in the night crossed the
Equator. When as a child I turned over the globe, I found
this line indicated by a brass ring, and rather expected that
the ship would get a thump as she passed over it; but she
crossed without a shock, or even a jar; ocean melted into
ocean; the waters of the China and the Java seas flowed together,
and we were in the Southern hemisphere.</p>

<p>The first thing on board which struck us strangely was that
we had lost our language. The steamer was Dutch, and the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_327" id="Page_327">327</a></span>
officers spoke only Dutch. But on all these waters will be
found passing to and fro gentlemen of intelligence, holding
official positions here, but who have lived long in Europe, and
who speak English or French. At Rhio we were joined by
the Resident, the highest official of that island, and by the
Inspector of Schools from Batavia; and the next day, as
we entered the Straits of Banca, by the Resident of Palembang
in Sumatra&mdash;all of whom were very polite to us as
strangers. We saw them again in Java, and when we parted,
felt almost that they were not only acquaintances, but friends.
They were of course thoroughly informed about the new
world around us, and were ready to enlighten our ignorance.
We sat on deck at evening, and as they puffed their cigars
with the tranquillity of true Dutchmen, we listened to their
discourse about the islands and people of the Malayan Archipelago.</p>

<p>This part of the world would delight Mr. Darwin by the
strange races it contains, some of which approach the animal
tribes. In the island of Rhio the Resident assured me there
were wild men who lived in trees, and had no language but
cries; and in Sumatra the Resident of Palembang said there
were men who lived in the forests, with whom not only the Europeans,
but even the Malays, could have no intercourse. He
himself had never seen one. Yet, strange to say, they have
a petty traffic with the outer world, yet not through the medium
of speech. They live in the woods, and live by the
chase. They hunt tigers, not with the gun, but with a weapon
called a sumpitan, which is a long tube, out of which they
blow arrows with such force, and that are so keen of point,
and touched with such deadly poison, that a wound is almost
immediately fatal. These tiger skins or elephant tusks
they bring for barter&mdash;not for sale&mdash;they never sell anything,
for money is about the most useless thing they could
have; they cannot eat it, or drink it, or wear it. But as
they have wants, they exchange; yet they themselves are
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_328" id="Page_328">328</a></span>
never seen. They bring what they have to the edge of the
forest, and leave it there, and the Malays come and place
what <i>they</i> have to dispose of, and retire. If the offer is
satisfactory, when the Malays return they find what they
brought gone, and take what is left and depart. If not, they
add a few trifles more to tempt the eyes of these wild men of
the woods, and so at last the exchange is effected, yet all the
while the sellers keep themselves invisible. This mode of
barter argues great honesty on both sides.</p>

<p>This island of Sumatra is a world in itself. The Resident
of Palembang has under him a country as large as the whole
of Java. The people of Palembang are Malays and Chinese,
thousands of whom live on rafts. In the interior of the
island there are different races, speaking a dozen different
languages or dialects. But with all its population, the
greater part of the country is still given up to forest and
jungle, the home of wild beasts&mdash;of the tiger and the rhinoceros.
Wild elephants range the forests in great numbers.
He had often seen them in herds of two or three hundred.
It seemed strange that they were not tamed, as in India and
Burmah. But such is not the habit of the people, who hunt
them for ivory, but never attempt to subdue them, or use
them as beasts of burden. Hence they become a great
nuisance, as they come about the villages and break into the
plantations; and it is only when a grand hunt is organized
for their destruction, that a neighborhood can be for a time
rid of the pest.</p>

<p>But if these are uncomfortable neighbors, there are others
that are more so&mdash;the reptiles, which abound here as in India.
But familiarity breeds contempt or indifference. The
people are not afraid of them, and hardly notice them, but
speak of them in an easy sort of way, as if they were the
most harmless things in nature&mdash;poor innocent creatures,
which might almost be pets in the family, and allowed to run
about the house at their will. Soberly, there are certain domestic
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_329" id="Page_329">329</a></span>
snakes which are indulged with these liberties. Said
Mr. K.: "I was once visiting in Sumatra, and spending a
night at the house of a friend. I heard a noise overhead,
and asked, 'What is that?' 'Oh, nothing,' they said; 'it's
only the serpent.' 'What! do you keep a family snake?'
'Yes,' they said; it was a large black snake which frequented
the house, and as it did no mischief, and hunted the rats,
they let it roam about wherever it liked." Thinking this
rather a big story, with which our friend might practise on
the credulity of a stranger, I turned to the Resident of
Palembang, who confirmed it. He said this domestication
of serpents was not uncommon. There was a kind of boa
that was very useful as an exterminator of rats, and for this
purpose the good Dutch housekeepers allowed it to crawl
about or to lie coiled up in the pantry. Sometimes this interesting
member of the family was stretched out on the
veranda to bask in the sun&mdash;a pleasant object to any stranger
who might be invited to accept hospitality. I think I should
have an engagement elsewhere, however pressing the invitation.
I never could "abide" snakes. From the Old Serpent
down, they have been my aversion, and I beg to decline their
company, though they should be as insinuating as the one
that tempted Eve. But an English merchant in Java afterwards
assured me that "snakes were the best gardeners; that
they devoured the worms and insects and small animals;
and that for his part, he was rather pleased than otherwise
when he saw a big boa crawling among the vines or in the
rice-fields." I thought that the first instance of a serpent's
gardening was in Paradise, the effect of which was not encouraging,
but there is no disputing about tastes. He said
they frequently came around the houses, but did not often
enter them, except that they were very fond of music (the dear
creatures!); and sometimes in the evening, as doors and windows
were left open for coolness, if the music was very fine, a
head might be thrust in of a guest that had not been invited.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_330" id="Page_330">330</a></span></p>

<p>But our conversation was not limited to this harrowing
topic, but ranged over many features of Sumatra&mdash;its scenery
and climate, soil and vegetation. It is indeed a magnificent
island. Over a thousand miles long, and with more square
miles than Great Britain and Ireland together, it is large
enough for a kingdom. In some parts the scenery is as grand
as that of Switzerland. Along the western coast is a range
of mountains like the Alps (some peaks are 15,000 feet
high), among which is set many an Alpine valley, with its
glistening lake. That coast is indented with bays, on one
of which is the Dutch capital, Padang. East of the mountains
the island spreads out into vast plains, watered by noble
rivers. The soil is very rich, yielding all the fruits of
the tropics in great abundance. The tobacco especially is of
a much finer quality than that of Java, and brings twice as
much in the market. This fertility will attract population
both from Asia and from Europe, and under a good government
this island may yet be the seat of an empire worthy of
its greatness.</p>

<p>But just now the Dutch have a task to bring it into subjection.
They have an enemy in the North harder to subdue
than tigers and wild elephants. These are the terrible
Malays, against whom has been kept up for years the war in
Acheen&mdash;a war waged with such deadly and unrelenting
hate and fury, that it has taken on a character of ferocity.
Of the right or wrong of this savage contest, I cannot judge,
for I hear only one side of the story. I am told that the
Malays are a race of pirates, with whom it is impossible to
live in good neighborhood, and that there can be no peace
till they are subdued. At the same time, one cannot refuse
a degree of sympathy even to savages who defend their own
country, and who fight with such conspicuous bravery. To
this all the Dutch officers bore testimony, saying that they
fought "like devils." The Malays are very much like our
American Indians, both in features and in character&mdash;a
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_331" id="Page_331">331</a></span>
proud, high-spirited race, capable of any act of courage or
devotion, but full of that hot blood that resents an insult.
"If you have a Malay servant," I heard often in the East,
"you may scold him or send him away, but <i>never strike</i> him,
for that is an indignity which he feels more than a wound;
which he never forgets or forgives; but which, if he has an
opportunity, he will avenge with blood." Such a people,
when they come into battle, sacrifice their lives without a
moment's hesitation. They have a great advantage, as they
are in their own territory, and can choose their own time
and place of attack, or keep out of the way, leaving the
enemy to be worn out by the hot climate and by disease. Of
course if the Dutch could once bring them within range of
their guns, or entice them into a pitched battle, European
skill and discipline would be victorious. But the Malays are
too wary and active; they hide in the fastnesses of the hills,
and start up here and there in unexpected quarters, and after
a sudden dash, fly to the mountains. They have a powerful
ally in the pestilential climate, which brings on those deadly
fevers that kill more than perish in battle. Such a war
may drag on for years, during which the Dutch territory will
not extend much beyond the places occupied by troops, or
the ports defended by the guns of the fleet. If the Dutch
hold on with their proverbial tenacity, they may conquer in
the end, though at an immense cost in treasure and in life.
If the Malays are once subdued, and by a wise and lenient
policy converted to some degree of loyalty, they may prove,
like the Sikhs in India, the brave defenders of the power
against which they fought so well.</p>

<p>With such conversation to lighten the hours, they did not
seem long, as we were running through the Java Sea. On
the third day from Singapore, we came among the Thousand
Islands, and in the afternoon descried on the horizon the
mountains of Java, and just at sunset were in the roads of
Batavia. There is no harbor, but an open roadstead; and
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_332" id="Page_332">332</a></span>
here a whole fleet of ships were riding at anchor&mdash;ships of
war and merchant ships from all parts of the world. It was
two or three miles from the quay, but as the evening drew
on, we could see lights along the shore; and at eight o'clock,
just as the gun was fired from the flagship of the Dutch Admiral,
we put off in a native boat, manned by a Malay crew.
It was a beautiful moonlight night, and we seemed to be
floating in a dream, as our swarthy boatmen bent to their
oars, and we glided silently over a tropical sea to this unknown
shore.</p>

<p>At the Custom House a dark-skinned official, whose buttons
gave him a military air, received us with dignity, and
demanded if we had "pistolets," and being satisfied that we
were not attempting an armed invasion of the island, gave
but a glance at our trunks, and politely bowed us to a carriage
that was standing outside the gates, and away we
rattled through the streets of Batavia to the Hotel Nederland.</p>

<p>The next morning at an early hour we were riding about
to "take our bearings" and adjust ourselves to the situation.
If we had not known where we were, but only that we
were in some distant part of the world, we could soon guess
that we were in a Dutch rather than in an English colony.
Here were the inevitable canals which the Dutch carry with
them to all parts of the earth. The city is intersected by
these watery streets, and the boats in them might be lying at
the quays of Rotterdam or Amsterdam. The city reminds us
a good deal of the Hague, in its broad streets lined with
trees, and its houses, which have a substantial Dutch look, as
if they were built for comfort and not for show. They are
low and large, spreading out over a great deal of surface, but
not towering ambitiously upwards. A pretty sight it was to
see these fine old mansions, standing back from the street,
with ample space around them, embowered in trees and
shrubbery, with lawns and gardens kept in perfect order; and
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_333" id="Page_333">333</a></span>
with all the doors and windows wide open, through which
we could see the breakfast tables spread, as if to invite even
strangers, such as we were, to enter and share their hospitality.
Before we left Java, we were guests in one of these
mansions, and found that Dutch hospitality was not merely
in name.</p>

<p>Among the ornaments of the city are two large and handsome
public squares&mdash;the King's Plain and Waterloo Plain.
The latter name reminds us that the Dutch had a part in the
battle of Waterloo. With pardonable pride they are persuaded
that the contingent which they contributed to the
army of Wellington had no small part in deciding the issue
of that terrible day, and they thus commemorate <i>their</i> victory.
This plain is used as a parade-ground, and the Dutch cavalry
charge over it with ardor, inspired by such heroic memories.</p>

<p>It may surprise some of my readers accustomed to our new
American cities, to learn how old is Batavia. About the time
that the Pilgrim Fathers sailed from Holland, another expedition
from the same country carried the Dutch flag to the
other side of the world, and Batavia was settled the year
before the landing on Plymouth Rock. Of course it was a
very small beginning of their power in the East, but slowly
the petty trading settlement grew into a colony, and its territory
was extended by degrees till, more than a hundred years
after, it took in the whole island. In the old palace on
Waterloo Plain, now used as a museum, are the portraits of
Dutch governors who have ruled here for two hundred and
fifty years.</p>

<p>But the capital of Java&mdash;at least the residence of the Governor-General&mdash;is
not at Batavia, but at Buitenzorg, nearly
forty miles in the interior, to which one can go by railroad
in two hours. As we took our seats in the carriage we had
the good fortune to meet Mr. Fraser, an English merchant,
who has lived many years in Java, and is well known and
highly respected throughout the island, who gave us information
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_334" id="Page_334">334</a></span>
of the country over which we were passing. The
plains near the sea had at this time an appearance of great
beauty. They were laid out in rice fields which have a more
vivid color than fields of grain, and now shone with an emerald
green. It was the time of the gathering of the harvest,
and the fields were filled with reapers, men and women,
young men and maidens. But one hears not the click of
the reaper. I am told that the attempt to introduce a mowing
machine or a patent reaper would make a revolution in
the island. All the rice of Java is cut by hand, and not
even with the sickle, which is an instrument much too coarse
for this dainty work, but with a knife three or four inches
long, so that the spears are clipped as with a pair of scissors.
Taking a few blades gently, they cut them off, and when they
have a handful bind it in a tiny sheaf about as large as a
bunch of asparagus. When they have cut and bound up
five, one is laid aside for the landlord and four go to the cultivators.</p>

<p>This slow progress might make a young American farmer
very impatient. Perhaps not, if he knew all the charms of
the rice field, which might make a country swain quite willing
to linger. Mr. Fraser explained that this season was
the time, and the rice field the scene, of the matrimonial
engagements made during the year! Ah, now it is all explained.
Who can wonder that the gentle reapers linger over
the rice blades while they are proposing or answering questions
on which their whole life may depend? No doubt in
merry England it has often happened that hay-making and
love-making have gone on in the fields together. And we
cannot wonder that such rural arts should be known in a
land warmed by a tropical sun.</p>

<p>But the food of the natives is not found in the rice fields
alone; it is brought down from the top of the cocoanut palm,
and drawn up from the bottom of caves of the earth. "Do
you see yonder small mountain?" said Mr. F. "That is a
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_335" id="Page_335">335</a></span>
famous hunting-ground for the edible birds' nests, which are
esteemed such a delicacy by the Chinese. The birds are
swallows and build their nests in caves, into which the hunters
are let down by long bamboo ropes, and drawn up laden
with spoil. So great has been the yield, and so highly prized,
that the product of that hill exported to China in one year
returned a profit of £4,000. Of late this has been much
reduced, owing to the diminished production, or that the
Chinese are not ready to pay so much for such dainty luxuries."</p>

<p>At Buitenzorg the low land of the coast is exchanged for
the hills. We are at the foot of the range of mountains
which forms the backbone of the island. To give an idea of
the character of the scenery, let me sketch a picture from my
own door in the Bellevue Hotel. The rooms, as in all tropical
climates, open on a broad veranda. Here, stretched in one
of the easy chairs made of bamboo, we look out upon a scene
which might be in Switzerland, so many features has it which
are Alpine in their character. The hotel stands on a projecting
shelf of rock or spur of a hill, overlooking a deep
gorge, through which flows, or rather rushes, a foaming
mountain torrent, whose ceaseless murmurs come up from
below; while in front, only three or four miles distant, rises
the broad breast of a mountain, very much like the lower
summits or foothills of the Alps, which hang over many a
sequestered vale in Switzerland or in the Tyrol.</p>

<p>But here the resemblance ends. For as we descend from
the broad outlines of the landscape to closer details, it changes
from the rugged features of an Alpine pass, and takes its
true tropical character. There are no snow-clad peaks, for
we are almost under the Equator. The scene might be in the
Andes rather than in the Alps. The mountain before us, the
Salak, is a volcano, though not now in action. As we look
down from our perch, the eye rests upon a forest such as is
never seen in the Alps. Here are no dark pines, such as
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_336" id="Page_336">336</a></span>
clothe the sides of the vale of Chamouni. In the foreground,
on the river bank, at the foot of the hill, is a cluster of native
huts, half hidden by long feathery bamboos and broad-leaved
palms. The forest seems to be made up of palms of every
variety&mdash;the cocoanut palm, the sago palm, and the sugar
palm, with which are mingled the bread-fruit tree, and the
nutmeg, and the banana; and not least of all, the <i>cinchona</i>,
lately imported from South American forests, which yields
the famous Peruvian bark. The attempt to acclimatize this
shrub, so precious in medicine, has been completely successful,
so that the quinine of Java is said to be even better than
that of South America. In the middle distance are the rice
fields, with their intense green, and farther, on the side of
the mountain, are the coffee plantations, for which Java is so
famous.</p>

<p>Buitenzorg has a Botanical Garden, the finest by far to be
found out of Europe, and the richest in the world in the
special department of tropical plants and trees. All that the
tropics pour from their bounteous stores; all those forms of
vegetable life created by the mighty rains and mightier sun
of the Equator&mdash;gigantic ferns, like trees, and innumerable
orchids (plants that live on air)&mdash;are here in countless profusion.
One of the glories of the Garden is an india-rubber
tree of great size, which spreads out its arms like an English
oak, but dropping shoots here and there (for it is a species
of banyan) which take root and spring up again, so that the
tree broadens its shade, and as the leaves are thick and tough
as leather, offers a shield against even the vertical sun. There
are hundreds of varieties of palms&mdash;African and South American&mdash;some
of enormous height and breadth, which, as we
walked under their shade, seemed almost worthy to stand on
the banks of the River of Life.</p>

<p>Such a vast collection offers an attraction like the Garden
of Plants in Paris. I met here the Italian naturalist Beccari,
who was spending some weeks at Buitenzorg to make a
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_337" id="Page_337">337</a></span>
study of a garden in which he had the whole tropics in a
space of perhaps a hundred acres. He has spent the last
eight years of his life in the Malayan Archipelago, dividing
his time, except a few months in the Moluccas, between Borneo
and New Guinea. The latter island he considered richer
in its fauna and flora than any other equal spot on the surface
of the globe, with many species of plants and animals unknown
elsewhere. He had his own boat, and sailed along the
coast and up the rivers at his will. He penetrated into the
forest and the jungle, living among savages, and for the time
adopting their habits of life, not perhaps dressing in skins,
but sleeping in their huts or on the ground, and living on
their food and such game as he could get with his gun. He
laughed at the dangers. He was not afraid of savages or wild
beasts or reptiles. Indeed he lived in such close companionship
with the animal kingdom that he got to be in very intimate,
not to say amicable, relations; and to hear him talk of
his friends of the forest, one would think he would almost beg
pardon of a beast that he was obliged to shoot and stuff in
the interest of science. He complained only that he could
not find enough of them. Snakes he "doted on," and if he
espied a monster coiling round a tree, or hanging from the
branches, his heart leaped up as one who had found great
spoil, for he thought how its glistening scales would shine in
his collection. I was much entertained by his adventures.
He left us one morning in company with our host Carlo, who
is a famous hunter, on an expedition after the rhinoceros&mdash;a
royal game, which abounds in the woods of Java.</p>

<p>The beauty of this island is not confined to one part of
it. As yet we have seen only Western Java, and but
little of that. But there is Middle Java and Eastern Java.
The island is very much like Cuba in shape&mdash;long and narrow,
being near seven hundred miles one way, and less than a
hundred the other. Thus it is a great breakwater dividing
the Java Sea from the Indian Ocean. To see its general
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_338" id="Page_338">338</a></span>
configuration, one needs to sail along the coast to get a distant
view; and then, to appreciate the peculiar character of its
scenery, he should make excursions into the interior. The
Residents of Rhio and Palembang called to see us and made
out an itinéraire; and Mr. Levyssohn Norman, the Secretary
General, to whom I brought a letter from a Dutch
officer whom we met at Naples, gave me letters to the Residents
in Middle Java. Thus furnished we returned to
Batavia, and took the steamer for Samarang&mdash;two days' sail
to the eastward along the northern shore. As we put out
to sea a few miles, we get the general figure of the island.
The great feature in the view is the mountains, a few miles
from the coast, some of which are ten and twelve thousand
feet high, which make the background of the picture, whose
peculiar outline is derived from their volcanic character.
Java lies in what may be called a volcano belt, which is just
under the Equator, and reaches not only through Java, but
through the islands of Bali and Lombok to the Moluccas.
Instead of one long chain of equal elevation in every part, or
a succession of smooth, rounded domes, there is a number of
sharp peaks thrown up by internal fires. Thus the sky line
is changing every league. European travellers are familiar
with the cone-like shape of Vesuvius, overlooking the Bay
of Naples. Here is the same form, repeated nearly forty
times, as there are thirty-eight volcanoes in the island.
Around the Bay of Samarang are nine in one view! Some
of them are still active, and from time to time burst out in
fearful eruptions; but just now they are not in an angry
mood, but smoking peacefully, only a faint vapor, like a fleecy
cloud, curling up against the sky. All who have made the
ascent of Vesuvius, remember that its cone is a blackened
mass of ashes and scoriæ. But a volcano here is not left
to be such a picture of desolation. Nature, as if weary
of ruin, and wishing to hide the rents she has made, has
mantled its sides with the richest tropical vegetation. As
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_339" id="Page_339">339</a></span>
we stand on the deck of our ship, and look landward, the
mountains are seen to be covered near their base with forests
of palms; while along their breasts float belts of light cloud,
above which the peaks soar into the blue heavens.</p>

<p>At the eastern end of the island, near Souraboya, there is a
volcano with the largest crater in the world, except that of
Kilaccea in the Sandwich Islands. It is three miles across, and
is filled with a sea of sand. Descending into this broad space,
and wading through the sand, as if on the desert, one comes
to a new crater in the centre, a thousand feet wide, which is
always smoking. This the natives regard with superstitious
dread, as a sign that the powers below are in a state of anger;
and once a year they go in crowds to the mountain, dragging
a bullock, which is thrown alive into the crater, with other
offerings, to appease the wrath of the demon, who is raging
and thundering below.</p>

<p>Wednesday morning brought us to Samarang, the chief
port of Middle, as Batavia is of Western, and Sourabaya of
Eastern Java. As we drew up to the shore, the quay was
lined with soldiers, who were going off to the war in Acheen.
The regiments intended for that service are brought first to
Java, to get acclimated before they are exposed to what would
be fatal to fresh European troops. These were now in fine
condition, and made a brave sight, drawn up in rank, with
the band playing, and the people shouting and cheering.
This is the glittering side of war. But, poor fellows! they
have hard times before them, of which they do not dream.
It is not the enemy they need to fear, but the hot climate and
the jungle fever, which will be more deadly than the kris of
the Malay. These soldiers are not all Dutch; some are
French. On our return to Batavia, the steamer carried down
another detachment, in which I found a couple of French
zouaves (there may have been others), one of whom told me
he had been in the surrender at Sedan, and the other had
taken part in the siege of Paris. After their terms had
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_340" id="Page_340">340</a></span>
expired in the French army, they enlisted in the Dutch service,
and embarked for the other side of the world, to fight
in a cause which is not their own. I fear they will never see
France again, but will leave their bones in the jungles of
Sumatra.</p>

<p>But our thoughts are not of war, but of peace, as we ride
through the long Dutch town, so picturesquely situated between
the mountains and the sea, and take the railway for
the interior. We soon leave the lowlands of the coast, and
penetrate the forests, and wind among the hills. Our first
stop is at Solo, which is an Imperial residence. It is a curious
relic of the old native governments of Java, that though the
Dutch are complete masters, there are still left in the island
an Emperor and a Sultan, who are allowed to retain their
lofty titles, surrounded with an Imperial etiquette. The
Emperor of Solo lives in his "Kraton," which is what the
Seraglio is among the Turks, a large enclosure in which is
the palace. He has a guard of a few hundred men, who
gratify his vanity, and enable him to spend his money in
keeping a number of idle retainers; but there is a Dutch
Resident close at hand, without whose permission he cannot
leave the district, and hardly his own grounds; while in the
very centre of the town is a fort, with guns mounted, pointing
towards his palace, which it could soon blow about his ears.
Thus "protected," he is little better than a State prisoner.
But he keeps his title "during good behavior," and once a
year turns out in grand state, to make an official visit to the
Resident, who receives him with great distinction; and having
thus "marched up the hill," he "marches down again." We
had a letter to the Resident, and hoped to pay our respects
to his Majesty, but learned that it would require several days
to arrange an audience. It is a part of the Court dignity
which surrounds such a potentate, that he should not be easily
accessible, and we should be sorry to disturb the harmless
illusion.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_341" id="Page_341">341</a></span></p>

<p>But if we did not see the "lion" of Solo, we saw the
tigers, which were perhaps quite as well worth seeing. The
Emperor, amid the diversions with which he occupies his
royal mind, likes to entertain his military and official visitors
with something better than a Spanish bull-fight, namely, a
tiger-fight with a bull or a buffalo, or with men, for which he
has a number of trained native spearmen. For these combats
his hunters trap tigers in the mountains; and in a building
made of heavy timbers fitted close together, with only
space between for light and air, were half a dozen of them in
reserve. They were magnificent beasts; not whelped in a
cage and half subdued by long captivity, like the sleek creatures
of our menageries and zoölogical gardens; but the real
kings of the forest, caught when full grown (some but a few
weeks before), and who roared as in their native wilds. It
was terrific to see the glare of their eyes, and to hear the
mutterings of their rage. One could not look at them, even
through their strong bars, without a shudder. A gentleman
of Java told me that he had once caught in the mountains a
couple of tigers in a pit, but that as he approached it, their
roaring was so terrific, as they bounded against the sides of
the pit, that it required all his courage to master a feeling of
indescribable terror.</p>

<p>Adjoining the dominion of Solo is that of Jookja, where,
instead of an Emperor, is a Sultan, not quite so great a potentate
as the former, but who has his chateau and his military
guard, and goes through the same performance of playing
the king. The Dutch Resident has a very handsome
palace, with lofty halls, where on state occasions he receives
the Sultan with becoming dignity&mdash;a mark of deference made
all the more touching by the guns of the fort, which, from
the centre of the town, keep a friendly watch for the least
sign of rebellion.</p>

<p>This part of Middle Java is very rich in sugar plantations.
One manufactory which we visited was said to
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_342" id="Page_342">342</a></span>
yield a profit of $400,000 a year. Nor is this the product
of slave labor, like the sugar of Cuba. Yet it is not altogether
free labor. There is a peculiar system in Java by
which the government, which is the owner of the land, in
renting an estate to a planter, rents those who live on it with
the estate. It guarantees him sufficient labor to work his
plantation. The people are obliged to labor. This is exacted
partly as a due to the government, amounting to one or two
days in the week. For the rest of the time they are paid
small wages. But they cannot leave their employer at will.
There is no such absolute freedom as that which is said to
have ruined Jamaica, where the negro may throw down his
tools and quit work at the very moment when the planter is
saving his crop. The government compels him to labor, but
it also compels his master to pay him. The system works
well in Java. Laborers are kept busy, the lands are cultivated,
and the production is enormous&mdash;not only making
the planters rich, but yielding a large revenue to Holland.</p>

<p>At Jookja the railroad ends. Further excursions into
the country must be by a private carriage. Some thirty
miles distant is an ancient ruin, which is in Java what the
Great Pyramid is in Egypt, with which it is often compared.
To reach this, we ordered a carriage for the next morning.
Probably the landlord thought he had a Milord Anglais for
his guest, who must make his progress through the island
with royal magnificence; for, when we rose very early for our
ride, we found in front of the door a huge carriage with <i>six
horses</i>! The horses of Java are small, but full of spirit, like
the Canadian ponies. On the box was a fat coachman, who
outweighed both of us inside. Behind us stood two fellows
of a lighter build, whose high office it was to urge our gallant
steeds by voice and lash to their utmost speed. They
were dressed in striped jackets, like circus-riders, and were
as agile as cats. Whenever the mighty chariot lagged a
little, they leaped to the ground, and running forward with
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_343" id="Page_343">343</a></span>
extraordinary swiftness, shouted and lashed the horses till,
with their goadings and their cries, the beasts, driven to
madness, reared and plunged and raced forward so wildly,
that we almost expected to be dashed in pieces. Such is the
price of glory! What grandeur was this! When we were
in Egypt, riding about the streets of Cairo with two "syces"
(servants dressed in white, who run before a carriage to clear
the way), I felt like Joseph riding in Pharaoh's chariot. But
now I felt as if I were Pharaoh himself.</p>

<p>Our route was through long avenues of trees, of palms
and bamboos. The roads, as everywhere in Java, are excellent,
smooth as a floor, solidly built, and well kept. To construct
such roads, and keep them in repair, must be a work
of great difficulty, as in the rainy season the floods come in
such force as would sweep away any but those which are
firmly bedded. These roads are said to be owing to a famous
Dutch governor, Marshal Dændels, who ruled here in the
early part of this century. According to tradition he was
a man of tremendous will, which he enforced with arbitrary
and despotic authority. He laid out a system of highways,
and assigned to certain native officers each his portion to
build. Knowing that things moved slowly in these Eastern
countries, and that the officers in charge might try to make
excuses for delay, he added a gentle admonition that he
should hold each man responsible; and by way of quickening
their sense of duty, he erected gibbets at convenient intervals
along the road, and if an official failed to "come to time,"
he simply had him executed. The spectacle of a few of these
native gentry hanging by the roadside had such an enlivening
effect on the Javanese imagination, that the roads were built
as if by magic. Perhaps the system might be applied with
excellent effect to "contractors" in other parts of the
world!</p>

<p>But on the best roads this speed could not be kept up for
a long time. The stages were short, the relays being but five
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_344" id="Page_344">344</a></span>
miles apart. Every three-quarters of an hour we changed
horses. The stations were built over the roads, something
in the style of an old-fashioned turnpike gate; so that we
drove under the shelter, and the horses, dripping with foam,
were slipped out of the carriage, and left to cool under the
shade of the trees, or rolled over in the dust, delighted to be
free.</p>

<p>As we advanced, our route wound among the hills. On
our right was Merapé, one of the great mountains of Java&mdash;his
top smoking gently, while rice-fields came up to his foot.
This middle part of the island is called the Garden of Java,
and it might be called one of the gardens of the world.
Nowhere in Europe, not even in Lombardy nor in England,
have I seen a richer country. Every foot of ground is in a
high state of cultivation. Not only are the plains and valleys
covered with rice-fields, but the hills are terraced to admit
of carrying the culture far up their sides. Here, as in Western
Java, it was the time of the harvest, and the fields were
filled with joyous reapers. To this perfect tilling of the earth
it is due that this island is one of the most populous portions
of the globe. The country literally swarms with inhabitants,
as a hive swarms with bees; but so few are their wants, that
everybody seems to "live and be merry." We passed
through a number of villages which, though the dwellings
were of the rudest, yet had a pretty look, as they were embowered
in foliage of palms and bamboos. As the country
grew more hilly, our progress was not so swift. Sometimes
we went down a steep bank to cross a river on a boat, and
then it was not an easy task to draw up the carriage on the
opposite bank, and we had to call on Cæsar for help. Almost
a whole village would turn out. At one time I counted
eighteen men pushing and tugging at our wheels, of course
with no eye to the small coin that was scattered among
them when the top of the bank was reached. So great was
the load of dignity we bore!
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_345" id="Page_345">345</a></span></p>

<p>At noon we reached the object of our journey in the
famous ruins of Borobodo. Sir Stamford Raffles says
that all the labor expended on the Pyramids of Egypt sinks
into insignificance when compared with that bestowed on
the grand architectural remains of Java; but after seeing
this, the greatest on the island, his estimate seems to me
very extravagant. This is much smaller than the Great Pyramid,
in the space of ground which it covers, and lower in
height, and altogether less imposing. But without making
comparisons, it is certainly a wonderful pile. It is a pyramid
in shape, some four hundred feet square, and nine stories
high, being ascended by a series of gigantic steps or terraces.
That it was built for Buddhist worship is evident from the
figures of Buddha which cover its sides. It is the monument
not only of an ancient religion, but of an extinct civilization,
of a mighty empire once throned on this island,
which has left remains like those of ancient Egypt. What a
population and what power must have been here ages ago, to
rear such a structure! One can imagine the people gathered
at great festivals in numbers such as now assemble at pilgrimages
in India. Doubtless this hill of stone was often
black with human beings (for as many could stand on its
sides as could be gathered in the Coliseum at Rome), while
on the open plain in front, stretching to a mountain in the
background, a nation might have encamped, like the Israelites
before Sinai, to receive the law. But the temple is in
ruins, and there is no gathering of the people for worship
any more. The religion of the island is changed. Buddhism
has passed away, and Islam has taken its place, to pass
away in its turn. It was Good Friday, in 1876, that I stood
on the top of this pyramid, and thought of Him who on this
day suffered for mankind, and whose religion is yet to possess
the world. When it has conquered Asia, it will cross
the sea, and take this beautiful island, from which it may
pass on to the mainland of the continent of Australia.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_346" id="Page_346">346</a></span></p>

<p>In such musings we lingered for hours, wandering about
the ruins and enjoying the landscape, which is one of the
most beautiful we have seen in all our travels&mdash;the wide
sweep in the foreground reminding us of the view from
Stirling Castle in Scotland.</p>

<p>But the carriage is waiting, and once more the driver
cracks his whip, his horses prance, and away we fly along
the roads, through the valleys, and over the hills. At evening
we reached Magellang, the centre of one of the districts
into which Java is divided, and a town of some importance.
It is a curious geographical fact that it stands exactly in the
centre of the island. One spot is called the Navel of Java.
The Javanese think a certain hill is the head of a great nail,
which is driven into the earth and holds the island firm in
its place. If this be so, it is strange that it does not keep it
more quiet. For if we may use the language of the brokers,
we might say with truth that in Java "real estate is active,"
since it is well shaken up once or twice a year with earthquakes,
and is all the time smouldering with volcanoes.</p>

<p>But however agitated underground, the country is very
beautiful above it. Here as in all the places where the
Dutch "most do congregate," there is a mixture of European
civilization with the easy and luxurious ways of the East.
Some of the villages are as pretty as any in our own New
England, and reminded us of those in the Connecticut valley,
being laid out with a broad open square or common in
the centre, which is shaded by magnificent trees, and surrounded
by beautiful residences, whose broad verandas and
open doors give a most inviting picture of domestic comfort
and generous hospitality. There is a club-house for the
officers, and music by the military band. The Residents
always live very handsomely. They are the great men in
every district. Each one has a spacious residence, with a
military guard, and a salary of six or eight thousand dollars
a year, with extras for the expense of entertaining or of
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_347" id="Page_347">347</a></span>
travelling, and a liberal pension at the close of twenty years
of service.</p>

<p>Magellang is marked with a white stone in our memories
of Java, as it was the scene of a novel experience. When
we drove into the town, we found the hotel full, which obliged
us to fall back upon our letter to the Resident. He was
absent, but his secretary at once took us in hand, and requested
the "Regent" (a native prince who holds office
under the Dutch government, and has special oversight of
the native population) to entertain us. He responded in
the most courteous manner, so that, instead of being lodged
at a hotel, we were received as guests in a princely residence.
His "palace" was in the Eastern style, of but one story
(as are most of the buildings in Java, on account of earthquakes),
but spread out over a large surface, with rows of
columns supporting its ample roof, presenting in front in its
open colonnade what might be regarded as a spacious hall of
audience; and furnishing in its deep recesses a cool retreat
from the heat of the tropical sun. A native guard pacing
before the door indicated the official character of the occupant.
The Regent received us with dignity, but with great
cordiality. He was attired in the rich costume of the East.
His feet were without stockings, but encased in richly embroidered
sandals. He could speak no English, and but a
few words of French&mdash;only Malay, Dutch, and Javanese.
But he sent for a gentleman to dine, who was of Spanish
descent, and who, though a native of Java, and had never
been out of it, yet spoke both French and English, and thus
we were able to converse.</p>

<p>The Regent had a wife, and after a time she entered the
hall, and welcomed my niece with a cordiality almost like
that of two school-girls meeting. She was simply dressed,
in the lightest costume, with bare feet, but in gold-embroidered
slippers. Everything in her attire was very plain,
except that her ears were hung with diamonds that fairly
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_348" id="Page_348">348</a></span>
dazzled us with their brilliancy. She began talking with
great volubility, and seemed not quite to comprehend why it
was that we did not understand Malay or Javanese. However,
with the help of our interpreter, we got along, and were
soon in the most confidential relations. She had very vague
ideas of the part of the world we came from. We tried to
make her understand that the world was round, and that we
lived on the other side of the globe. We asked why the
Regent did not go abroad to see the world? But she signified
with a peculiar gesture, as if counting with her fingers,
that it took a great deal of money. She asked "if we were
rich," to which we replied modestly that we had enough for
our wants. As she talked of family matters, she informed us
that her lord had another wife. Of this she spoke without
the least reserve. It was quite natural that he should desire
this. She (his first wife) had been married to him over
twenty years, and was getting a little <i>passée</i>, and he needed
a young face to make the house bright and gay. Presently
the second wife entered, and we were presented to her. She
was very young&mdash;I should think not twenty years of age.
Evidently the elder occupied the first place in the household,
and the younger took the second. They seemed to stand in
a kind of sisterly relation to each other, without the slightest
feeling of jealousy between them. Both were very pretty,
after the Malayan type&mdash;that is, with mild, soft eyes, and
skins, not black, like Africans, but of a rich brown color.
They would have been even beautiful if they had had also,
what the Africans so often have, dazzling white teeth; but
this is prevented by the constant chewing of the betel-nut and
tobacco.</p>

<p>At half-past eight o'clock we went to dinner. C&mdash;&mdash; had
the honor of sitting between the two wives, and enjoyed the
courtesy of both, who prepared fruit for her, and by many little
attentions, such as are understood in all parts of the world,
showed that they belonged to the true sisterhood of woman.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_349" id="Page_349">349</a></span>
The position of woman in Java is somewhat peculiar. The
people are Mohammedans, and yet the women are not secluded,
nor do they veil their faces; they receive strangers in their
houses and at their tables; thus they have much greater freedom
than their sisters in Turkey or Egypt. The Regent,
being a Mussulman, did not take wine, though he provided
it for his guests. After the dinner, coffee was served, of a
rich, delicious flavor&mdash;for Java is the land of coffee&mdash;followed
by the inevitable cigar. I do not smoke, but could not allow
my refusal to interfere with the habits of those whose guest
I was, and could but admire the ineffable satisfaction with
which the Regent and his friend puffed the fragrant weed.
While they were thus wreathed in clouds, and floating in a
perfect Nirvana of material enjoyment, the gentler sex were
not forgotten. The two wives took their pleasure in their
own fashion. A small box, like a tea-caddy, was brought on
the table, full of little silver cups and cases, containing leaves
of the betel-nut, and spices, cassia and gambier, a little lime,
and a cup of the finest tobacco. Out of these they prepared
a delicate morsel for their lips. With her own dainty fingers,
each rolled up a leaf of the betel-nut, enclosing in it several
kinds of spices, and filling it with a good pinch of tobacco,
which, our Spanish friend explained, was not so much for the
taste, as to make the morsel plump and round, large enough
to fill the mouth (or, as a wine-taster would say of his favorite
madeira or port, to give it sufficient <i>body</i>); and also, he
added, it was to clean the teeth, and to give an aromatic fragrance
to the breath! I repeat, as exactly as I can recall them,
his very words.</p>

<p>Whether the precious compound had all these virtues, certainly
these courtly dames took it with infinite relish, and
rolled it as a sweet morsel under their tongues, and looked
on their lord with no jealousy of his enjoyment of his cigar.</p>

<p>Here was a picture of conjugal felicity. The family was
evidently an affectionate and happy one. The Regent loved
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_350" id="Page_350">350</a></span>
both his wives, and they sat side by side without envy or uncharitableness,
happy in the sunshine of his face, and chewed
their betel-nut with a composure, an aspect of tranquil enjoyment,
which many in more civilized countries may admire,
but cannot equal.</p>

<p>In the morning, when the family came together, I remarked
that the first wife, who then apparently saw her husband for
the first time, came forward, and bending low, kissed his
jewelled hand; and soon after the second wife entered, and
kissed the first wife's hand, thus observing that natural order
of precedence which is so beautiful in every well-regulated
family.</p>

<p>I observed also with curious interest the relations of master
and servant in this Oriental household. The divisions are
very marked. The Regent, for example, is regarded by his
retainers with an awe as if he were a sacred person. No one
approaches him standing. The theory is, that no inferior
must ever be in a position or attitude where his head is
higher than his master's. If the Regent but looks at a man,
he drops as if shot with a bullet. If a servant wishes to
communicate with his master, he falls, not on his knees, but
on his haunches, and in this posture shuffles forward till he
comes behind his chair, and meekly whispers a word into his
ear. He receives his orders, and then shuffles back again.
In one way, the division of ranks in Java is more marked
even than that of castes in India. The Javanese language,
which is a branch of the Malay, has three separate forms
of speech&mdash;one, that used by a superior addressing an inferior;
second, that of an inferior addressing a superior; and
a third, that used between equals. Such divisions would
seem to cut off all relations between those of different rank.
And yet, with all this stooping and bowing, abject as it seems
to us, the relation of the master to his dependants is rather
patriarchal; and to these same servants the Regent will
speak, not only kindly, but familiarly, all the more so as the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_351" id="Page_351">351</a></span>
lines are so drawn that there is no danger that they should
ever presume on undue familiarity.</p>

<p>In the morning the Regent took me out for a ramble. We
strolled along under the trees, admiring the beauty of the
country. After half an hour's walk, suddenly, like an apparition,
an open phaeton stood beside us, with two beautiful
ponies, into which the Regent invited me to step, and taking
his seat by my side, drove me about the town. We returned
for breakfast, and then he sent for his musicians to give us a
performance, who, beating on drums and other native instruments,
executed a plaintive kind of music. With such attentions
did this Javanese prince and his wives (none of whom
we had ever seen till a few hours before, and on whom we
had no claim whatever) win our hearts by their kindness, so
that, when the carriage came round to the door, we were sorry
to depart. The Regent pressed us to stay a month, or as
long as we would. We could not accept a longer hospitality;
but we shall remember that which we had. We keep his
photograph, with others which we like to look upon; and if
these words can reach the other side of the world, they will
tell him that his American friends have not forgotten, and
will not forget, the kind manner in which they were entertained
in the island of Java by the Regent of Magellang.</p>

<p>The drive of to-day was hardly less interesting than that of
yesterday, although our pride had a fall. It was a great
come-down, after riding with six horses to be reduced to
four! But the mortification was relieved by adding now and
then, at the steep places, a pair of buffaloes. As we were
still in the hill country, we were all day among the coffee
plantations, which thrive best at a considerable elevation
above the sea. Other products of the island flourished
around us in rich abundance: the spices&mdash;aloes and cassia,
and nutmeg and pepper. And there was our old friend, the
peanut. They were gathering perhaps the very nuts that
were yet to ornament the stands of the apple-women of New
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_352" id="Page_352">352</a></span>
York, and to be a temptation to bootblacks and newsboys.
Amid such fields and forests, over mountain roads, and listening
to the roar of mountain streams, we came down to
Ambarrawa, a place of note in Java, as containing the
strongest fortress in the island. It is planted here right in
the heart of Middle Java, where, half a century ago, was a
formidable insurrection, which was quelled only after an obstinate
contest, lasting five years&mdash;from 1825 to 1830. Ambarrawa
is connected by railroad with Samarang. It is easy
to see that both the railroads which start from that point,
and which have thus a base on the sea (the one leading to
Solo and Jookja, the residences of the Emperor and the
Sultan, who might make trouble, and the other to the great
fortress of Ambarrawa), have been constructed with a military
as well as a commercial purpose.</p>

<p>So the Dutch have had their wars in Java, as the English
have had in India; but having conquered, it must be said
that on the whole they have ruled wisely and well. The best
proof of this is the perfect tranquillity that reigns everywhere,
and that with no great display of armed force. What a contrast
in this respect between the two most important islands
in the East and West Indies&mdash;Java and Cuba! They are
about equal in the number of square miles. Both have been
settled by Europeans for nearly three centuries, and yet to-day
Cuba has less than two millions of inhabitants, and is in
a chronic state of insurrection; while Java has over fifteen
millions (or eight times as many), and is as quiet as Holland
itself. The whole story is told in one word&mdash;the one is
Dutch rule, and the other is Spanish rule.</p>

<p>We spent our Easter in Samarang&mdash;a day which is not
forgotten in this part of the world, although Sunday is not
observed after the manner of Scotland or New England, but
rather of Continental Europe, with bands playing on the
public square, and all the European world abroad keeping
holiday. From Samarang, another two days' sail along the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_353" id="Page_353">353</a></span>
same northern coast, with the grand outline of mountains on
the horizon, brought us back to Batavia.</p>

<p>Batavia was not the same to us on the second visit as on
the first; or rather it was a great deal more, for now we
knew the place, the streets were familiar, and we felt at
home&mdash;the more so as a Scotch gentleman, to whom we
brought a letter from Singapore, Mr. James Greig (of the
old house of Syme, Pitcairn &amp; Co., so well known in the
East), took us in charge, and carried us off to one of those
large mansions which we had so much admired on our former
visit, set far back from the street, and surrounded with trees;
and constructed especially for this climate, with spacious
rooms, wide hall, high ceilings, and broad veranda, and all
the devices for mitigating the heat of the tropics. More
than all, this hospitable mansion was lighted up by the sweetest
feminine presence in one who, though of an old Dutch
family well known in Java, had been educated in Paris, and
spoke English and French, as well as Dutch and Malay, and
who gave us such a welcome as made us feel that we were
not strangers. Not only did these friends open their house
to us, but devoted themselves till our departure in going
about with us, and making our visit pleasant. I do not
know whether to call this Scotch or Dutch hospitality, but
it was certainly of the most delightful kind.</p>

<p>As we had three or four days before the sailing of the
French steamer for Singapore, our friends planned an excursion
into the mountains of Western Java, for which we returned
to Buitenzorg, and engaged a couple of <i>cahars</i>,
carriages as light as if made of wicker-work, with the
small Javanese ponies, and thus mounted, began to climb the
hills. Our route was over the great post-road, which runs
through the island to Souraboya&mdash;a road which must have
been constructed with immense labor, as it passes over high
mountains, but which is as solidly built and as well kept as
Napoleon's great road over the Simplon Pass of the Alps.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_354" id="Page_354">354</a></span>
Indeed it is very much the same, having a rocky bed for its
foundation, with a macadamized surface, over which the carriage
rolls smoothly. But it does not climb so steadily upward
as the Simplon or the Mont Cenis. The ascent is not
one long pull, like the ascent of the Alps, but by a succession
of hills, one beyond another, with many a deep valley between,
so that we go alternately up hill and down dale. The hills are
very steep, so that the post-carriage, which is as heavy and
lumbering as a French diligence, has to be drawn up by
buffaloes. Thus it climbs slowly height after height, and
when it has reached the summit, goes thundering down the
mountain, and rolls majestically along the road. But our
light carriages suited us much better than these ponderous
vehicles; and as our little ponies trotted swiftly along,
we were in a very gay mood, making the woods ring with
our merry talk and glee. Sometimes we got out to stretch
our limbs with a good walk up the hills, turning as we reached
the top to take in the landscape behind us, which spread out
broader and broader, as we rose higher and higher. At
every stage the view increased in extent and in majesty, till
the whole island,</p>

<div class="poem"><p>
"From the centre all round to the sea,"</p>
</div>

<p>was piled with mountains, which here, as in Middle Java,
showed their volcanic origin by their forms, now rising in
solitary cones, and now lying on the horizon in successive
ridges, like mighty billows tossed up on a sea of fire, that in
cooling had cracked in all fantastic shapes, which, after being
worn down by the storms of thousands of years, were mantled
thick with the verdure of forests. As in England the ivy creeps
over old walls, covering ruined castles and towers with its perpetual
green, so here the luxuriance of the tropics has overspread
the ruin wrought by destroying elements. The effect
is a mingled wildness and beauty in these mountain landscapes,
which often reminded us of Switzerland and the Tyrol.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_355" id="Page_355">355</a></span></p>

<p>The enjoyment of this ride was increased by the character
of the day, which was not all sunshine, but one of perpetual
change. Clouds swept over the sky, casting shadows on the
sides of the mountains and into the deep valleys. Sometimes
the higher summits were wrapped so as to be hidden
from sight, and the rain fell heavily; then as the storm
drifted away, and the sun burst through the parted clouds,
the glorious heights shone in the sudden light like the Delectable
Mountains.</p>

<p>The object of our journey was a mountain retreat four
thousand feet above the level of the sea&mdash;as high as the Righi
Kulm, but in no other respect like that mountain-top, which
from its height overlooks so many Swiss lakes and cantons.
It is rather like an Alpine valley, surrounded by mountains.
This is a favorite resort of the Dutch from Batavia. Here
the Governor-General has a little box, to which he retires,
from his grander residence at Buitenzorg, and here many
sick and wounded officers find a cool retreat and recover
strength for fresh campaigns. The place bears the musical
name of Sindanglaya, which one would think might have
been given with some reference to the music of murmuring
winds and waters which fill the air. The valley is full of
streams, of brooks and springs, that run among the hills.
Water, water everywhere! The rain pattering on the roof
all night long carried me back to the days of my childhood,
when I slept in a little cot under the eaves, and that sound
was music to my ear. The Scotch mist that envelopes the
mountains might make the traveller fancy himself in the
Highlands; and so he might, as he seeks out the little
"tarns" that have settled in the craters of extinct volcanoes,
where not only wild deer break through the tangled wood of
the leafy solitudes, but the tiger and the rhinoceros come to
drink. Streams run down the mountain-sides, and springs
ooze from mossy banks by the roadside, and temper the air
with their dripping coolness. What a place to rest! How
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_356" id="Page_356">356</a></span>
this perfect quiet must bring repose to the brave fellows from
Acheen, and how sweet must sound this music of mountain
streams to ears accustomed to the rude alarms of war!</p>

<p>That we were in a new quarter of the world&mdash;far away,
not only from America and Europe, but even from Asia&mdash;we
were reminded by the line of telegraph which kept us
company over the mountains, and which here crosses the
island on its way to Australia! It goes down the coast to
Bangaewangi, where it dives into the sea only to come up on
the mainland of the great Southern Continent. Indeed we
were strongly advised to extend our journey around the world
to Australia, which we could have reached in much less time
than it had taken to come from Calcutta to Singapore. But
we were more interested to visit old countries and old nations
than to set foot on a virgin continent, and to see colonies and
cities, which, with all their growth, could only be a smaller
edition of what we have so abundantly in the new States of
America.</p>

<p>We were now within a few miles of the Southern Ocean,
the greatest of all the oceans that wrap their watery mantle
around the globe. From the top of the Gédé, a mountain
which rose above us, one may look off upon an ocean broader
than the Pacific&mdash;a sea without a shore&mdash;whose waters roll
in an unbroken sweep to the Antarctic Pole.</p>

<p>From all these seas and shores, and woods and waters, we
now turned away, and with renewed delight in the varied
landscapes, rode back over the mountains to Buitenzorg, and
came down by rail to Batavia.</p>

<p>Before I depart from this pleasant land of Java, I must
say a word about the Dutch and their position in South-eastern
Asia. The Dutch have had possession of Java over
250 years&mdash;since 1623&mdash;without interruption, except from
1811 to 1816, when Napoleon had taken Holland; and as
England was using all her forces on land and sea to cripple
the French empire in different parts of the world, she sent a
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_357" id="Page_357">357</a></span>
fleet against Java. It yielded almost without opposition;
indeed many of the Dutch regarded the surrender as simply
placing the island under British protection, which saved it
from the French. For five years it had an English Governor,
Sir Stamford Raffles, who has written a large work on Java.
After the fall of Napoleon, England restored Java to the
Dutch, but kept Ceylon, Malacca, and the Cape of Good
Hope. Thus the Dutch have lost some of their possessions
in the East, and yet Holland is to-day the second colonial
power in the world, being inferior only to England. The
Dutch flag in the East waves not only over Java, but over
almost the whole of the Malayan Archipelago, which, with the
intervening waters, covers a portion of the earth's surface
larger than all Europe.</p>

<p>There are some peculiar physical features in this part of
the world. The Malayan Archipelago lies midway between
Asia and Australia, belonging to neither, and yet belonging
to both. It is a very curious fact, brought out by Wallace,
whose great work on "The Malayan Archipelago" is altogether
the best on the subject, that this group of islands is in
itself divided by a very narrow space between the two continents,
which it at once separates and unites. Each has its
own distinct fauna and flora. The narrow Strait of Bali, only
fifteen miles wide, which separates the two small islands of
Bali and Lombok, separates two distinct animal and vegetable
kingdoms, which are as unlike as are those of the United
States and Brazil. One group belongs to Asia, the other to
Australia. Sumatra is full of tigers; in Borneo there is not
one. Australia has no carnivora&mdash;no beasts that prey on
flesh&mdash;but chiefly marsupials, such as kangaroos.</p>

<p>There are a good many residents in the East who think
Holland, in the management of her dependencies, has shown
a better political economy than England has shown in India.
An English writer (a Mr. Money), in a volume entitled
"How to Govern a Colony," has brought some features of
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_358" id="Page_358">358</a></span>
the Dutch policy to the notice of his countrymen. I will
mention but one as an illustration. Half a century ago Java
was very much run down. A native rebellion which lasted
five years had paralyzed the industry of the country. To
reanimate it, a couple of years after the rebellion had been
subdued, in 1832, the home government began a very liberal
system of stimulating production by making advances to
planters, and guaranteeing them labor to cultivate their
estates. The effect was marvellous. By that wise system of
helping those who had not means to help themselves, a new
life was at once infused into all parts of the island. Out of
that has grown the enormous production of coffee, sugar, and
tobacco. Now Java not only pays all the expenses of her
own government, (which India does not do, at least without
contracting very heavy loans,) but builds her own railroads,
and other roads and bridges, and supplies the drain of the
Acheen war, and remits every year millions to the Hague to
build railroads in Holland.</p>

<p>Is it too much to believe that there is a great future in
store for South Eastern Asia? We talk about the future of
America. But ours is not the only continent that offers
vast unoccupied wastes to the habitation of man. Besides
Australia, there are these great islands nearer to Asia,
which, from the overflow of India and China, may yet have
a population that shall cultivate their waste places. I found
in Burmah a great number of Bengalees and Madrasees, who
had crossed the Bay of Bengal to seek a home in Farther India;
while the Chinese, who form the population of Singapore,
had crept up the coast. They are here in Java, in
every seaport and in every large town in the interior, and
there is every reason to suppose that there will be a yet
greater overflow of population in this direction. Sumatra
and Borneo are not yet inhabited and cultivated like Java,
but in their great extent they offer a magnificent seat for
future kingdoms or empires, which, Asiatic in population,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_359" id="Page_359">359</a></span>
may be governed by European laws, and moulded by European
civilization.</p>

<p>One thing more before we cross the Equator&mdash;a word
about nature and life in the tropics. I came to Java partly
to see the tropical vegetation, of which we saw but little in
India, as we were there in winter, which is at once the cold
and the dry season, when vegetation withers, and the vast
plains are desolate and dreary. Nature then holds herself
in reserve, waiting till the rains come, when the earth will
bloom again. But as I could not wait for the change of seasons,
I must needs pass on to a land where the change had
already come. We marked the transition as we came down
the Bay of Bengal. There were signs of changing seasons
and a changing nature. We were getting into the rainy
belt. In the Straits of Malacca the air was hot and thunderous,
and we had frequent storms; the heavens were full
of rain, and the earth was fresh with the joy of a newly-opened
spring. But still we kept on till we crossed the
Equator. Here in Java the rainy season was just over. It
ends with the last of March, and we arrived at the beginning
of April. For months the windows of heaven had been
opened, the rains descended, and the floods came; and lo!
the land was like the garden of the Lord. Here we had at
last the tropical vegetation in its fullest glory. Nothing can
exceed the prodigality and luxuriance of nature when a
vertical sun beats down on fields and forests and jungles that
have been drenched for months in rain. Vegetation of every
kind springs up, as in the temperate zone it appears only
when forced in heated conservatories (as in the Duke of
Devonshire's gardens at Chatsworth), and the land waves
with these luxuriant growths. In the forest creeping plants
wind round the tall trunks, and vines hang in festoons from
tree to tree.</p>

<p>But while the tropical forest presents such a wild luxuriance
of growth, I find no single trees of such stature as I
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_360" id="Page_360">360</a></span>
have seen in other parts of the world. Except an occasional
broad-spreading banyan, I have seen nothing which, standing
alone, equals in its solitary majesty the English oak or the
American elm. Perhaps there is a difference in this respect
between countries in the same latitude in the Eastern and
Western hemispheres. An English gentleman whom we
found here in charge of a great sugar plantation, who had
spent some years in Rio Janeiro, told me that the trees of
Java did not compare in majesty with those of Brazil. Nor
is this superiority confined to South America. Probably
no trees now standing on the earth equal the Big Trees of
California. And besides these there are millions of lofty
pines on the sides of the Sierra Nevada, which I have seen
nowhere equalled unless it be in the mighty cedars which
line the great Tokaido of Japan. On the whole, I am a
little inclined to boast that trees attain their greatest height
and majesty in our Western hemisphere.</p>

<p>But the glory of the tropics is in the universal life of
nature, spreading through all her realms, stirring even under
ground, and causing to spring forth new forms of vegetation,
which coming up, as it were, out of the darkness of the
grave, seek the sun and air, whereby all things live.</p>

<p>Of course one cannot but consider what effect this marvellous
production must have upon man. Too often it overpowers
him, and makes him its slave, since he cannot be its
master. This is the terror of the Tropics, as of the Polar
regions, that nature is too strong for man to subdue her.
What can he do&mdash;poor, puny creature&mdash;against its terrible
forces; against the heat of a vertical sun, that while it
quickens the earth, often blasts the strength of man, subduing
his energy, if not destroying his life? What can man do
in the Arctic circle against the cold that locks up whole continents
in ice? Much as he boasts of his strength and of his
all-conquering will, he is but a child in the lap of nature,
tossed about by material forces as a leaf is blown by the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_361" id="Page_361">361</a></span>
wind. The best region for human development and energy
is the temperate zone, where nature stimulates, but does not
overpower, the energies of man, where the winter's cold
does not benumb him and make him sink into torpor, but
only pricks him to exertion and makes him quicken his
steps.</p>

<p>The effect of this fervid climate shows itself not only upon
natives, but upon Europeans. It induces a languor and indisposition
to effort. It has two of the hardest and toughest
races in the world to work upon, in the English in India and
the Dutch in Java, and yet it has its effect even upon them,
and would have a still greater were it not that this foreign
element is constantly changing, coming and going, whereby
there is all the time a fresh infusion of European life. Here
in Java the Dutch have been longer settled than the English
in India; they more often remain in the island, and the effect
of course is more marked from generation to generation. The
Dutchman is a placid, easy-going creature, even in his native
Holland, except when roused by some great crisis, like a
Spanish invasion, and then he fights with a courage which has
given him a proud name in history. But ordinarily he is of
a calm and even temper, and likes to sit quietly and survey
his broad acres, and smoke his pipe in blissful content with
himself and all the world beside. When he removes from
Holland to the other side of the world, he has not changed
his nature; he is a Dutchman still, only with his natural love
of ease increased by life in the tropics. It is amusing to see
how readily his Dutch nature falls in with the easy ways of
this Eastern world.</p>

<p>If I were to analyze existence, or material enjoyment in this
part of the world, I should say that the two great elements
in one's life, or at least in his comfort, are sleep and smoke.
They smoke in Holland, and they have a better right to
smoke in Java; for here they but follow the course of nature.
Why should not man smoke, when even the earth itself respires
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_362" id="Page_362">362</a></span>
through smoke and flame? The mountains smoke, and
why not the Dutch? Only there is this difference: the
volcanoes sometimes have a period of rest, but the Dutch
never. Morning, noon, and night, before breakfast and after
dinner, smoke, smoke, smoke! It seems to be a Dutchman's
ideal of happiness. I have been told of some who dropped
to sleep with the cigar in their lips, and of one who required
his servants to put his pipe between his teeth while he was
yet sleeping, that he might wake up with the right taste in
his mouth. It seemed to me that this must work injury to
their health, but they think not. Perhaps there is something
in the phlegmatic Dutch temperament that can stand this
better than the more mercurial and excitable English or
American.</p>

<p>And then how they do sleep! Sleep is an institution in
Java, and indeed everywhere in the tropics. The deep stillness
of the tropical noon seems to prescribe rest, for then
nature itself sinks into repose. Scarcely a leaf moves in the
forest&mdash;the birds cease their musical notes, and seek for rest
under the shade of motionless palms. The sleep of the Dutch
is like this stillness of nature. It is profound and absolute
repose. For certain hours of the day no man is visible. I
had a letter to the Resident of Solo, and went to call on him
at two o'clock. He lived in a grand Government House, or
palace; but an air of somnolence pervaded the place, as if it
were the Castle of Indolence. The very servant was asleep
on the marble pavement, where it was his duty to keep watch;
and when I sent in my letter, he came back making a very
significant gesture, leaning over his head to signify that his
master was asleep. At five o'clock I was more fortunate, but
even then he was dressed with a lightness of costume more
suitable for one who was about to enter his bath than to give
audience.</p>

<p>There is a still graver question for the moralist to consider&mdash;the
effect of these same physical influences upon human
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_363" id="Page_363">363</a></span>
character. No observer of men in different parts of the
world can fail to see that different races have been modified
by climate, not only in color and features, but in temperament,
in disposition, and in character. A hot climate makes
hot blood. Burning passions do but reflect the torrid sun.
What the Spaniard is in Europe, the Malay is in Asia.
There is a deep philosophy in the question of Byron:</p>

<div class="poem">
<p class="o1">
"Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle</p>
<p class="i1">Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime,</p>
<p>Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle,</p>
<p class="i1">Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime?"</p>
</div>

<p>But I must not wander into deep philosophy. I only say
that great as is the charm of life in the tropics, it is not
without alloy. In landing in Java it seemed as if we had
touched the shores of some enchanted island, as if we had
found the Garden of Paradise lying far off in these Southern
seas. We had come to the land of perpetual spring and perpetual
summer, where nature is always in bloom, and frost
and snow and hail have fled away to the bleak and wintry
North. But as we are obliged to go back to that North, we
wish to be reconciled to it. We find that one may have too
much even of Paradise. There is a monotony in perpetual
summer. The only change of seasons here is from the dry
season to the rainy season; and the only difference between
these, so far as we can see, is that in the dry season it
rains, and in the rainy season it pours. We have been here
in the dry season, and yet we have had frequent showers,
with occasional thunderstorms. If we should stay here a
year, we should weary of this unrelieved monotony of sun
and rain. We should long for some more marked change of
seasons, for the autumn leaves and the winter winds, and
the gradual coming on of spring, and all those insensible gradations
of nature which make the glory of the full round
year.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_364" id="Page_364">364</a></span></p>

<p>And what a loss should we find in the absence of twilight.
Java, being almost under the Equator, the days and nights
are almost equal throughout the year; there are no short
days and no long days. Day and night come on suddenly&mdash;not
instantly, but in a few minutes the night breaks into the
full glare of day, and the day as quickly darkens into night.
How we should miss the long summer twilight, which in our
Northern latitudes lingers so softly and tenderly over the
quiet earth.</p>

<p>Remembering these things, we are reconciled to our lot in
living in the temperate zone, and turn away even from the
soft and easy life of the tropics, to find a keener delight in
our rugged clime, and to welcome even the snow-drifts and
the short winter days, since they bring the long winter evenings,
and the roaring winter fires!</p>

<p>We leave Java, therefore, not so much with regret that we
can no longer sit under the palm groves, and indulge in the
soft and easy life of the tropics, as that we part from friends.
Our last night in Batavia they took us to a representation
given by amateurs at the English Club, where it was very
pleasant to see so many English faces in this distant part
of the world, and to hear our own mother tongue. The next
morning they rode down with us to the quay, and came off
to the steamer, and did not leave us till it was ready to
move; and it was with a real sadness that we saw them over
the ship's side, and watched their fluttering signals as they
sailed back to the shore. These partings are the sore pain of
travel. But the friendships remain, and are delightful in
memory. A pleasure past is a pleasure still. Even now it
gives us a warm feeling at the heart to think of those kind
friends on the other side of the globe.
</p>

<h3 class="p6">CHAPTER XXIV.</h3>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_365" id="Page_365">365</a></span></p>
<p class="ch_summ">UP THE CHINA SEAS&mdash;HONG KONG AND CANTON.</p>

<p>In Singapore, as in Batavia, the lines fell to us in pleasant
places. An English merchant, Mr. James Graham, carried
us off to his hospitable bungalow outside the town, where we
passed four days. It stood on a hill, from which we looked
off on one side to the harbor, where were riding the ships of
all nations, and on the other to an undulating country, with
here and there an English residence embowered in trees.
In this delightful retreat our hosts made us feel perfectly at
home. We talked of England and America; we romped
with the children; we played croquet on the lawn; we received
calls from the neighbors, and went out to "take tea"
in the good old-fashioned way. We attended service, the
Sunday before going to Java, in the Cathedral, and on our
return, in the Scotch church; so that around us, even at this
extremity of Asia, were the faces and voices, the happy domestic
life, and the religious worship, of dear old England.</p>

<p>But just as we began to settle into this quiet life, the
steamer was signalled from Ceylon which was to take us to
China, and we had to part from our new friends.</p>

<p>It had been in my plan to go from here to Siam. It is but
three days' sail from Singapore up the Gulf to Bangkok; but
it is not so easy to get on from there. Could we have been
sure of a speedy passage to Saigon, to connect with the French
steamer, we should not have hesitated; but without this, we
might be detained for a week or two, or be obliged to come
back to Singapore. Thus uncertain, we felt that it was safer
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_366" id="Page_366">366</a></span>
to take the steamer direct for Hong Kong, though it was a
sore disappointment to pass across the head of the Gulf of
Siam, knowing that we were so near the Land of the White
Elephant, and leave it unvisited.</p>

<p>The China seas have a very bad name among sailors and
travellers, as they are often swept by terrible cyclones; but
we crossed at a favorable season, and escaped. The heat was
great, and passengers sat about on deck in their easy cane
chairs, as on the Red Sea; but beyond that, we experienced
not so much discomfort as on the Mediterranean. On the
sixth morning we saw in the distance an island, which, as
we drew nearer, rose up so steeply and so high that it appeared
almost like a mountain. This was the Peak of Hong
Kong&mdash;a signal-station from which men, with their glasses,
can look far out to sea, and as soon as one of the great steamers
is descried on the horizon, a flag is run up and a gun
fired to convey the news to the city below. Coming up behind
the island, we swept around its point, and saw before us
a large town, very picturesquely situated on the side of a hill,
rising street above street, and overlooking a wide bay shut
in by hills, so that it is sheltered from the storms that
vex the China seas. The harbor was full of foreign ships,
among which were many ships of war (as this is the rendezvous
of the British fleet in these waters), which were
firing salutes; among those flying the flags of all nations was
one modest representative of our country, of which we did
not need to be ashamed&mdash;the Kearsarge. We afterwards
went on board of her, and saw and stroked with affection,
mingled with pride, the big gun that sunk the Alabama.</p>

<p>Hong Kong, like Singapore, is an English colony, but with
a Chinese population. You can hardly set foot on shore before
you are snapped up by a couple of lusty fellows, with
straw hats as large as umbrellas on their heads, and who,
though in bare feet, stand up as straight as grenadiers, and
as soon as you take your seat in a chair, lift the bamboo
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_367" id="Page_367">367</a></span>
poles to their shoulders, and walk off with you on the double-quick.</p>

<p>No country which we see for the first time is exactly as we
supposed it to be. Somehow I had thought of China as a
vast plain like India; and behold! the first view reveals a
wild, mountainous coast. As we climb Victoria Peak above
Hong Kong, and look across to the mainland, we see only
barren hills&mdash;a prospect almost as desolate as that of the
Arabian shores on the Red Sea.</p>

<p>But what wonders lie beyond that Great Wall of mountains
which guards this part of the coast of China! One
cannot be in sight of such a country without an eager impulse
to be in it, and after two or three days of rest we set
out for Canton, which is only eight hours distant. Our
boat was an American one, with an American captain, who
took us into the wheel-house, and pointed out every spot of
interest as we passed through the islands and entered the
Canton river. Forty miles south is the old Portuguese port
of Macao. At the mouth of the river are the Bogue Forts,
which played such a part in the English war of 1841, but
which were sadly battered, and now lie dismantled and ungarrisoned.
Going by the stately Second Bar Pagoda, we
next pass Whampoa, the limit to which foreign vessels could
come before the Treaty Ports were opened. As we ascend
the river, it is crowded with junks&mdash;strange craft, high at
both ends, armed with old rusty cannon, with which to beat
off the pirates that infest these seas, and ornamented at the
bow with huge round eyes, that stand out as if from the head
of some sea-monster, some terrible dragon, which keeps
watch over the deep. Amid such fantastic barks, with their
strange crews, we steamed up to Canton.</p>

<p>At the landing, a son of Dr. Happer, the American missionary,
came on board with a letter from his father inviting
us to be his guests, and we accordingly took a native boat,
and were rowed up the river. Our oarsman was a woman,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_368" id="Page_368">368</a></span>
who, besides the trifle of rowing our boat up the stream, had
a baby strapped on her back! Perhaps the weight helped
her to keep her balance as she bent to the oar. But it was
certainly bringing things to a pretty fine point when human
muscles were thus economized. This boat, well called in
Chinese a <i>tan-ka</i> or egg-house, was the home of the family.
It sheltered under its little bamboo cover eight souls (as many
as Noah had in the Ark), who had no other habitation.
Here they ate and drank and slept; here perhaps children
were born and old men died. In Canton it is estimated that
a hundred and fifty thousand people thus live in boats, leading
a kind of amphibious existence.</p>

<p>Above the landing is the island of Shameen, a mile long,
which is the foreign quarter, where are the Hongs, or Factories,
of the great tea-merchants, and where live the wealthy
foreign residents. Rounding this island, we drew up to the
quay, in front of Dr. Happer's door, where we found that
welcome which is never wanting under the roof of an American
missionary. Dr. Happer has lived here thirty-two years,
and was of course familiar with every part of Canton, and
was an invaluable guide in the explorations of the next three
or four days.</p>

<p>When we were in Paris, we met Dr. Wells Williams, the
well-known missionary, who had spent over forty years in
China, twelve of them in Peking, of which he said, that
apart from its being the capital, it had little to interest a
stranger&mdash;at least not enough to repay the long journey to
reach it. He said it would take a month to go from Shanghai
to Tientsin, and then cross the country cramped up in
carts to Peking, and visit the Great Wall, and return to
Shanghai. Canton was not only much nearer, but far more
interesting, and the best representative of a Chinese city in
the Empire.</p>

<p>The next morning we began our excursions, not with
horses and chariots, but with coolies and chairs. An English
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_369" id="Page_369">369</a></span>
gentleman and his wife, who had come with us from Singapore,
joined us, making, with a son of Dr. Happer and the
guide, a party of six, for whom eighteen bearers drew up
before the door, forming quite a procession as we filed through
the streets. The motion was not unpleasant, though they
swung us along at a good round pace, shouting to the people
to get out of the way, who forthwith parted right and left,
as if some high mandarin were coming. The streets were narrow
and densely crowded. Through such a mass it required
no small effort to force our way, which was effected only by
our bearers keeping up a constant cry, like that of the gondoliers
in Venice, when turning a corner in the canals&mdash;a
signal of warning to any approaching in the opposite direction.
I could but admire the good-nature of the people,
who yielded so readily. If we were thus to push through a
crowd in New York, and the policemen were to shout to the
"Bowery boys" to "get out of the way," we might receive
a "blessing" in reply that would not be at all agreeable.
But the Chinamen took it as a matter of course, and turned
aside respectfully to give us a passage, only staring mildly
with their almond eyes, to see what great personages were
these that came along looking so grand.</p>

<p>Our way led through the longest street of the city, which
bears the sounding name of the Street of Benevolence and
Love. This is the Broadway of Canton, only it is not half
as wide as Broadway. It is very narrow, like some of the
old streets of Genoa, and paved, like them, with huge slabs
of stone. On either side it is lined with shops, into which
we had a good opportunity to look as we brushed past them,
for they stood wide open. They were of the smallest dimensions,
most of them consisting of a single room, even when
hung with beautiful embroideries. There may be little recesses
behind, hidden interiors where they live, though apparently
we saw the whole family. In many shops they were
taking their meals in full sight of the passers-by. There was
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_370" id="Page_370">370</a></span>
no variety of courses; a bowl of rice in the centre of the
table was the universal dish (for rice is the staff of life in
Asia, as bread is in America), garnished perchance with some
"little pickle," in the shape of a bit of fish and soy, to serve
<i>as a sauce piquante</i> to stimulate the flagging appetite. But
apparently they needed no appetizer, for they plied their
chop-sticks with unfailing assiduity.</p>

<p>Our first day's ride was probably ten or twelve miles, and
took us through such "heavenly streets" as we never knew
before, and did not expect to walk in till we entered the
gates of the New Jerusalem. Besides the Street of Benevolence
and Love, which might be considered the great highway
of the Celestial City, there were streets which bore the
enrapturing names of "Peace," "Bright Cloud," and "Longevity;"
of "Early-bestowed Blessings" and of "Everlasting
Love;" of "One Hundred Grandsons" and (more ambitious
still) of "One Thousand Grandsons;" of "Five Happinesses"
and of "Refreshing Breezes;" of "Accumulated
Blessings" and of "Ninefold Brightness." There was a
"Dragon street," and others devoted to "The Ascending
Dragon," "The Saluting Dragon," and "The Reposing
Dragon;" while other titles came probably a little nearer
the plain fact, such as "The Market of Golden Profits."
All the shops have little shrines near the door dedicated to
<i>Tsai Shin</i>, or the God of Wealth, to whom the shopkeepers
offer their prayers every day. I think I have heard of
prayers offered to that divinity in other countries, and no
one could doubt that these prayers at least were fervent and
sincere.</p>

<p>But names do not always designate realities, and though
we passed through the street of a "Thousand Beatitudes" and
that of a "Thousandfold Peace," we saw sorrow and misery
enough before the day was done.</p>

<p>One gets an idea of the extent of a city not only by traversing
its streets, but by ascending some high point in the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_371" id="Page_371">371</a></span>
vicinity that overlooks it. The best point for such a bird's-eye
view is the Five-storied Pagoda, from which the eye
ranges over a distance of many miles, including the city and
the country around to the mountains in the distance, with
the broad river in front, and the suburb on the other side.
The appearance of Canton is very different from that of a
European city. It has no architectural magnificence. There
are some fine houses of the rich merchants, built of brick,
with spacious rooms and courts; but there are no great
palaces towering over the city&mdash;no domes like St. Paul's in
London, or St. Peter's in Rome, nor even like the domes
and minarets of Constantinople. The most imposing structure
in view is the new Roman Catholic Cathedral. Here
and there a solitary pagoda rises above the vast sea of human
dwellings, which are generally of but one, seldom two
stories in height, and built very much alike; for there is
the same monotony in the Chinese houses as in the figures
and costumes of the Chinese themselves. Nor is this level
surface relieved by any variety of color. The tiled roofs,
with their dead color, but increase the sombre impression of
the vast dull plain; yet beneath such a pall is a great city,
intersected by hundreds of streets, and occupied by a million
of human beings.</p>

<p>The first impression of a Chinese city is of its myriad,
multitudinous life. There are populous cities in Europe,
and crowded streets; but here human beings <i>swarm</i>, like
birds in the air or fishes in the sea. The wonder is how
they all live; but that is a mystery which I could not solve
in London any more than here. There is one street a mile
long, which has in it nothing but shoemakers. The people
amused us very much by their strange appearance and dress,
in both which China differs wholly from the Orient. A
Chinaman is not at all like a Turk. He does not wear a
turban, nor even a long, flowing beard. His head is shaved
above and below&mdash;face, chin, and skull&mdash;and instead of the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_372" id="Page_372">372</a></span>
patriarchal beard before him, he carries only a pigtail behind.
The women whom we met in the streets (at least those of
any position, for only the common work-women let their feet
grow) hobbled about on their little feet, which were like dolls'
feet&mdash;a sight that was half ludicrous and half painful.</p>

<p>But if we were amused at the Chinese, I dare say they
were as much amused at us. The people of Canton ought
by this time to be familiar with white faces. But, strange to
say, wherever we went we attracted a degree of attention
which had never been accorded us before in any foreign city.
Boys ran after us, shouting as they ran. If the chairs were
set down in the street, as we stopped to see a sight, a crowd
gathered in a moment. There was no rudeness, but mere
curiosity. If we went into a temple, a throng collected
about the doors, and looked in at the windows, and opened
a passage for us as we came out, and followed us till we got
into our chairs and disappeared down the street. The ladies
of our party especially seemed to be objects of wonder.
They did not hobble on the points of their toes, but stood
erect, and walked with a firm step. Their free and independent
air apparently inspired respect. The children
seemed to hesitate between awe and terror. One little fellow
I remember, who dared to approach too near, and whom
my niece cast her eye upon, thought that he was done for,
and fled howling. I have no doubt all reported, when they
went home, that they had seen some strange specimens of
"foreign devils."</p>

<p>But the Chinese are a highly civilized people. In some
things, indeed, they are mere children, compared with Europeans;
but in others they are in advance of us, especially those
arts which require great delicacy, such as the manufacture of
some kinds of jewelry, exquisite trinkets in gold and silver,
in which Canton rivals Delhi and Lucknow, and in the finest
work in ivory and in precious woods; also in those which
require a degree of patience to be found nowhere except
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_373" id="Page_373">373</a></span>
among Asiatics. For example, I saw a man carving an
elephant's tusk, which would take him a whole year! The
Chinese are also exquisite workers in bronze, as well as in
porcelain, in which they have such a conceded mastery that
specimens of "old China" ornament every collection in
Europe. Their silks are as rich and fine as any that are produced
from the looms of Lyons or Antwerp. This need not
surprise us, for we must remember the great antiquity of
China; that the Chinese were a highly civilized people when
our ancestors, the Britons, were barbarians. They had the
art of printing and the art of gunpowder long before they were
known in Europe. Chinese books are in some respects a
model for ours now, not only in cheapness, but in their extreme
lightness, being made of thin bamboo paper, so that a
book weighs in the hand hardly more than a newspaper.</p>

<p>Of course every stranger must make the round of temples
and pagodas, of which there are enough to satisfy any number
of worshippers. There is a Temple of the Five Genii,
and one of the Five Hundred Arhans, or scholars of Buddha.
There is a Temple of Confucius, and a Temple of the Emperor,
where the mandarins go and pay to his Majesty and to
the Sage an homage of divine adoration. I climbed up into
his royal seat, and thought I was quite as fit an object of
worship as he! There is a Temple of Horrors, which outdoes
the "Chamber of Horrors" in Madame Tussaud's
famous exhibition of wax-works in London. It is a representation
of all the torments which are supposed to be endured
by the damned, and reminds one of those frightful
pictures painted in the Middle Ages in some Roman Catholic
countries, in which heretics are seen in the midst of flames,
tossed about by devils on pitchforks. But the Chinese soften
the impression. To restore the balance of mind, terrified by
these frightful representations, there is a Temple of Longevity,
in which there is a figure of Buddha, such as the ancient
Romans might have made of Bacchus or Silenus&mdash;a mountain
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_374" id="Page_374">374</a></span>
of flesh, with fat eyes, laughing mouth, and enormous
paunch. Even the four Kings of Heaven, that rule over the
four points of the compass&mdash;North, South, East, and West&mdash;have
much more of an earthly than a heavenly look. All
these figures are grotesque and hideous enough; but to their
credit be it said, they are not obscene, like the figures in the
temples of India. Here we made the same observation as in
Burmah, that Buddhism is a much cleaner and more decent
religion than Hindooism. This is to its honor. "Buddhism,"
says Williams, "is the least revolting and impure of all
false religions." Its general character we have seen elsewhere.
Its precepts enjoin self-denial and practical benevolence.
It has no cruel or bloody rites, and nothing gross
in its worship. Of its priests, some are learned men, but the
mass are ignorant, yet sober and inoffensive. At least they
are not a scandal to their faith, as are the priests of some
forms of Christianity. That the Chinese are imbued with
religious ideas is indicated in the very names of the streets
already mentioned, whereby, though in a singular fashion,
they commemorate and glorify certain attributes of character.
The idea which seems most deep-rooted in their minds is
that of retribution according to conduct. The maxim most
frequent in their mouths is that good actions bring their own
reward, and bad actions their own punishment. This idea
was very pithily expressed by the famous hong-merchant,
Howqua, in reply to an American sea-captain, who asked
him his idea of future rewards and punishments, to which he
replied in pigeon-English: "A man do good, he go to Joss;
he no do good, very much bamboo catchee he!"</p>

<p>But we will leave the temples with their grinning idols; as
we leave the restaurants, where lovers of dainty dishes are
regaled with dogs and cats; and the opium-shops, where the
Chinese loll and smoke till they are stupefied by the horrid
drug; for Canton has something more attractive. We found
a very curious study in the Examination Hall, illustrating, as
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_375" id="Page_375">375</a></span>
it does, the Chinese manner of elevating men to office. We
hear much in our country of "civil service reform," which
some innocently suppose to be a new discovery in political
economy&mdash;an American invention. But the Chinese have
had it for a thousand years. Here appointments to office are
made as the result of a competitive examination; and although
there may be secret favoritism and bribery, yet the
theory is one of perfect equality. In this respect China is
the most absolute democracy in the world. There is no
hereditary rank or order of nobility; the lowest menial, if
he has native talent, may raise himself by study and perseverance
to be Prime Minister of the Empire.</p>

<p>In the eastern quarter of Canton is an enclosure of many
acres, laid off in a manner which betokens some unusual purpose.
The ground is divided by a succession of long, low
buildings, not much better than horse-sheds around a New
England meeting-house of the olden time. They run in
parallel lines, like barracks for a camp, and are divided into
narrow compartments. Once in three years this vast camping-ground
presents an extraordinary spectacle, for then are
gathered in these courts, from all parts of the province, some
ten thousand candidates, all of whom have previously passed
a first examination, and received a degree, and now appear
to compete for the second. Some are young, and some
are old, for there is no limit put upon age. As the candidates
present themselves, each man is searched, to see that he
has no books, or helps of any kind, concealed upon his person,
and then put into a stall about three feet wide, just
large enough to turn around in, and as bare as a prisoner's
cell. There is a niche in the wall, in which a board can be
placed for him to sit upon, and another niche to support a
board that has to serve as breakfast-table and writing-table.
This is the furniture of his room. Here he is shut in from
all communication with the world, his food being passed to
him through the door, as to a prisoner. Certain themes are
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_376" id="Page_376">376</a></span>
then submitted to him in writing, on which he is to furnish
written essays, intended generally, and perhaps always, to
determine his knowledge of the Chinese classics. It is sometimes
said that these are frivolous questions, the answers to
which afford no proof whatever of one's capacity for office;
but it should be remembered that these classics are the writings
of Confucius, which are the political ethics of the country,
the very foundation of the government, without knowing
which one is not qualified to take part in its administration.</p>

<p>The candidate goes into his cell in the afternoon, and
spends the night there, which gives him time for reflection,
and all the next day and the next night, when he comes out,
and after a few days is put in again for another trial of the
same character; and this is repeated a third time; at the end
of which he is released from solitary confinement, and his
essays are submitted for examination. Of the ten thousand,
only seventy-five can obtain a degree&mdash;not one in a hundred!
The nine thousand and nine hundred must go back disappointed,
their only consolation being that after three years
they can try again. Even the successful ones do not thereby
get an office, but only the right to enter for a third competition,
which takes place at Peking, by which of course their
ranks are thinned still more. The few who get through this
threefold ordeal take a high place in the literary or learned
class, from which all appointments to the public service are
made. Here is the system of examination complete. No
trial can be imagined more severe, and it ought to give the
Chinese the best civil service in the world.</p>

<p>May we not get a hint from this for our instruction
in America, where some of our best men are making
earnest efforts for civil service reform? If the candidates,
who flock to Washington at the beginning of each administration,
were to be put into cells, and fed on bread and water,
it might check the rage for office, and the number of applicants
might be diminished; and if they were required to pass
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_377" id="Page_377">377</a></span>
an examination, and to furnish written essays, showing at
least some degree of knowledge of political affairs, we might
have a more intelligent class of officials to fill consular posts
in different parts of the world.</p>

<p>But, unfortunately, it might be answered that examinations,
be they ever so strict, do not change human nature, nor
make men just or humane; and that even the rigid system of
China does not restrain rulers from corruption, nor protect
the people from acts of oppression and cruelty.</p>

<p>Three spots in Canton had for me the fascination of horror&mdash;the
court, the prison, and the execution ground. I had
heard terrible tales of the trial by torture&mdash;of men racked to
extort the secrets of crime, and of the punishments which
followed. These stories haunted me, and I hoped to find
some features which would relieve the impression of so much
horror. I wished to see for myself the administration of
justice&mdash;to witness a trial in a Chinese court. A few years
ago this would have been impossible; foreigners were excluded
from the courts. But now they are open, and all can
see who have the nerve to look on. Therefore, after we had
made a long circuit through the streets of Canton, I directed
the bearers to take us to the Yamun, the Hall of Justice.
Leaving our chairs in the street, we passed through a large
open court into a hall in the rear, where at that very moment
several trials were going on.</p>

<p>The court-room was very plain. A couple of judges sat
behind tables, before whom a number of prisoners were
brought in. The mode of proceeding was very foreign to
American or European ideas. There was neither jury nor
witnesses. This simplified matters exceedingly. There is no
trial by jury in China. While we haggle about impanelling
juries and getting testimony, and thus trials drag on for
weeks, in China no such obstacle is allowed to impede the
rapid course of justice; and what is more, there are no lawyers
to perplex the case with their arguments, but the judge
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_378" id="Page_378">378</a></span>
has it all his own way. He is simply confronted with the
accused, and they have it all between them.</p>

<p>While we stood here, a number of prisoners were brought
in; some were carried in baskets (as they are borne to execution),
and dumped on the stone pavement like so many
bushels of potatoes; others were led in with chains around
their necks. As each one's name was called, he came forward
and fell on his knees before the judge, and lifted up his
hands to beg for mercy. He was then told of the crime of
which he was accused, and given opportunity if he had anything
to say in his own defence. There was no apparent
harshness or cruelty towards him, except that he was presumed
to be guilty, unless he could prove his innocence;
contrary to the English maxim of law, that a man is to be
presumed innocent until he is proved guilty. In this, however,
the Chinese practice is not very different from that
which exists at this day in so enlightened a country as
France.</p>

<p>For example, two men were accused of being concerned together
in a burglary. As they were from another prefecture,
where there is another dialect, they had to be examined
through an interpreter. The judge wished to find out who
were leagued with them, and therefore questioned them separately.
Each was brought in in a basket, chained and doubled
up, so that he sat helplessly. No witness was examined,
but the man himself was simply interrogated by the judge.</p>

<p>In another case, two men were accused of robbery with
violence&mdash;a capital offence, but by the Chinese law no man
can be punished with death unless he confesses his crime;
hence every means is employed to lead a criminal to acknowledge
his guilt. Of course in a case of life and death he
will deny it as long as he can. But if he will not confess,
the court proceeds to take stringent measures to <i>make</i> him
confess, for which purpose these two men were now put to
the torture. The mode of torture was this: There were two
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_379" id="Page_379">379</a></span>
round pillars in the hall. Each man was on his knees, with
his feet chained behind him, so that he could not stir. He
was then placed with his back to one of these columns, and
small cords were fastened around his thumbs and great toes,
and drawn back tightly to the pillar behind. This soon produced
intense suffering. Their breasts heaved, the veins on
their foreheads stood out like whipcords, and every feature
betrayed the most excruciating agony. Every few minutes
an officer of the court asked if they were ready to confess,
and as often they answered, "No; never would they confess
that they had committed such a crime." They were told if
they did not confess, they would be subjected to still greater
torture. But they still held out, though every moment
seemed an hour of pain.</p>

<p>While these poor wretches were thus writhing in agony, I
turned to the judge to see how he bore the spectacle of such
suffering. He sat at his table quite unmoved; yet he did
not seem like a brutal man, but like a man of education,
such as one might see on the bench in England or America.
He seemed to look upon it as in the ordinary course of proceedings,
and a necessary step in the conviction of a criminal.
He used no bravado, and offered no taunt or insult. But
the cries of the sufferers did not move him, nor prevent his
taking his accustomed ease. He sat fanning himself and
smoking his pipe, as if he said he could stand it as long as
they could. Of course he knew that, as their heads were at
stake, they would deny their guilt till compelled to yield;
but he seemed to look upon it as simply a question of endurance,
in which, if he kept on long enough, there could be
but one issue.</p>

<p>But still the men did not give in, and I looked at them
with amazement mingled with horror, to see what human
nature could endure. The sight was too painful to witness
more than a few moments, and I rushed away, leaving the
men still hanging to the pillars of torture. I confess I felt a
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_380" id="Page_380">380</a></span>
relief when I went back the next day, to hear that they had
not yielded, but held out unflinchingly to the last.</p>

<p>Horrible as this seems, I have heard good men&mdash;men of
humanity&mdash;argue in favor of torture, at least "when applied
in a mild way." They affirm that in China there can be no
administration of justice without it. In a country where
testimony is absolutely worthless&mdash;where as many men can
be hired to swear falsely for ten cents apiece as you have
money to buy&mdash;there is no possible way of arriving at the
truth but by <i>extorting</i> it. No doubt it is a rough process,
but it secures the result. As it happened, the English gentleman
who accompanied us was a magistrate in India, and
he confirmed the statement as to the difficulty, and in many
cases the impossibility, of getting at the truth, because of the
unfathomable deceit of the natives. Many cases came before
him in which he was sure a witness was lying, but he was
helpless to prove it, when a little gentle application of the
thumbscrew, or even a good whipping, would have brought
out the truth, which, for want of it, could not be discovered.</p>

<p>To the objection that such methods may coerce the innocent
as well as the guilty&mdash;that the pain may be so great
that innocent men will confess crimes that they never committed,
rather than suffer tortures worse than death&mdash;the
answer is, that as guilt makes men cowards, the guilty
will give up, while the innocent hold out. But this is
simply trusting to the trial by lot. It is the old ordeal by
fire. A better answer is, that the court has beforehand
strong presumptive evidence of the crime, and that a prisoner
is not put to the torture until it has been well ascertained
by testimony obtained elsewhere that he is a great offender.
When it is thus determined that he is a robber or a murderer,
who ought not to live, then this last step is taken to
compel him to acknowledge his guilt, and the justice of his
condemnation.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_381" id="Page_381">381</a></span></p>

<p>But there are cases in which a man may be wrongfully accused;
an enemy may bribe a witness to make a complaint
against him, upon which he is arrested and cast into
prison. Then, unless he can bring some powerful influence
to rescue him, his case is hopeless. He denies his guilt, and
is put to the rack for an offence of which he is wholly innocent.
Such cases, no doubt, occur; and yet men who have
lived here many years, such as Dr. Happer and Archdeacon
Gray, tell me that they do not believe there is a country in
the world where, on the whole, justice is more impartially
administered than in China.</p>

<p>I was so painfully interested in this matter, that I went
back to the Yamun the next day in company with Dr. Happer,
to watch the proceedings further. As before, a number
of prisoners were brought in, with chains around their necks,
each of whom, when called, fell down on his knees before the
judge and begged for mercy. They were not answered
harshly or roughly, but listened to with patience and attention.
Several whose cases were not capital, at once confessed
their offence, and took the punishment. One young
fellow, a mere overgrown boy of perhaps eighteen, was
brought up, charged with disobedience to parents. He confessed
his fault, and blubbered piteously for mercy, and was
let off for this time with rather a mild punishment, which
was to wear a chain with a heavy stone attached, which he
was to drag about after him in the street before the prison,
where he was exposed to the scorn of the people. The
judge, however, warned him that if he repeated the disobedience,
and was arrested again, he would be liable to be punished
with death! Such is the rigor with which the laws
of China enforce obedience to parents.</p>

<p>A man accused of theft confessed it, and was sentenced to
wear the <i>cangue</i>&mdash;a board about three feet square&mdash;around
his neck for a certain time, perhaps several weeks, on which
his name was painted in large characters, with the crime of
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_382" id="Page_382">382</a></span>
which he was guilty, that all who saw him might know that
he was a thief!</p>

<p>These were petty cases, such as might be disposed of in
any police court. But now appeared a greater offender. A
man was led in with a chain around his neck, who had the
reputation of being a noted malefactor. He was charged
with both robbery and murder. The case had been pending
a long time. The crime, or crimes, had been committed four
years ago. The man had been brought up repeatedly, but as
no amount of pressure could make him confess, he could not
be executed. He was now to have another hearing. He
knelt down on the hard stone floor, and heard the accusation,
which he denied as he had done before, and loudly protested
his innocence. The judge, who was a man of middle age,
with a fine intellectual countenance, was in no haste to condemn,
but listened patiently. He was in a mild, persuasive
mood, perhaps the more so because he was refreshing himself
as a Chinaman likes to do. As he sat listening, he took
several small cups of tea. A boy in attendance brought him
also his pipe, filled with tobacco, which he put in his mouth,
and took two or three puffs, when he handed it back; and
the boy cleaned it, filled it, and lighted it again. With such
support to his physical weakness, who could not listen
patiently to a man who was on his knees before him pleading
for his life? But the case was a very bad one. It had
been referred back to the village in which the man was
born, and the "elders," who form the local government in
every petty commune in China, had inquired into the facts,
and reported that he was a notorious offender, accused of no
less than seven crimes&mdash;five robberies, one murder, and one
maiming. This was a pretty strong indictment. But the
man protested that he had been made the victim of a conspiracy
to destroy him. The judge replied that it might be
that he should be wrongfully accused by one enemy, but it
was hardly possible that a hundred people of his native village
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_383" id="Page_383">383</a></span>
should combine to accuse him falsely. Their written
report was read by the clerk, who then held it up before the
man, that he might see it in white and black. Still he
denied as before, and the judge, instead of putting him to
the torture, simply remanded him to prison for further examination.
In all these cases there was no eagerness to convict
or to sentence the accused. They were listened to with
patience, and apparently all proper force was allowed to what
they had to say in their own defence.</p>

<p>This relieves a good deal the apparent severity of the
Chinese code. It does not condemn without hearing. But,
on the other hand, it does not cover up with fine phrases or
foolish sentiment the terrible reality of crime. It believes
in crime as an awful fact in human society, and in punishment
as a repressive force that must be applied to keep
society from destruction.</p>

<p>Next to the Yamun is the prison, in which are confined
those charged with capital offences. We were admitted by
paying a small fee to the keepers, and were at once surrounded
by forty or fifty wretched objects, some of whom
had been subjected to torture, and who held up their limbs
which had been racked, and showed their bodies all covered
with wounds, as an appeal to pity. We gave them some
money to buy tobacco, as that is the solace which they crave
next to opium, and hurried away.</p>

<p>But there is a place more terrible than the prison; it is
the execution-ground. Outside the walls of Canton, between
the city gate and the river, is a spot which may well
be called Golgotha, the place of a skull. It is simply a dirty
vacant lot, partly covered with earthenware pots and pans, a
few rods long, on one side of which is a dead wall; but
within this narrow space has been shed more blood than on
any other spot of the earth's surface. Here those sentenced
to death are beheaded. Every few days a gloomy procession
files into the lane, and the condemned are ranged against the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_384" id="Page_384">384</a></span>
wall on their knees, when an assistant pulls up their pinioned
arms from behind, which forces their heads forward, and the
executioner coming to one after another, cleaves the neck with
a blow. A number of skulls were scattered about&mdash;of those
whose bodies had been removed, but whose heads were left
unburied. In the lane is the house of the executioner&mdash;a
thick, short-set man, in a greasy frock, looking like a
butcher fresh from the shambles. Though a coarse, ugly
fellow, he did not look, as one might suppose, like a monster
of cruelty, but was simply a dull, stolid creature, who undertook
this as he would any other kind of business, and cut off
human heads with as little feeling as he would those of
so many sheep. He picks up a little money by exhibiting
himself and his weapon of death. He brought out his sword
to show it to us. It was short and heavy, like a butcher's
cleaver. I took it in my hand, and felt of the blade. It
was dull, and rusted with stains of blood. He apologized
for its appearance, but explained that it had not been used
recently, and added that whenever it was needed for service,
he sharpened it. I asked him how many heads he had cut
off. He did not know&mdash;had not kept count&mdash;but supposed
some hundreds. Sometimes there were "two or three tens"&mdash;that
is, twenty or thirty&mdash;at once. Rev. Mr. Preston
told me he had seen forty cut off in one morning. Dr.
Williams had such a horror of blood that he could never be
present at an execution, but he one day saw nearly two
hundred headless trunks lying here, with their heads, which
had just been severed from the bodies, scattered over the
ground. Mr. Preston had seen heads piled up six feet high.
It ought to be said, however, that in ordinary times no
criminal convicted of a capital offence can be executed anywhere
in the province (which is a district of nearly eighty
thousand square miles, with twenty millions of inhabitants)
except in Canton, and with the cognizance of the governor.</p>

<p>The carnival of blood was during the Taiping rebellion in
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_385" id="Page_385">385</a></span>
1855. That rebellion invaded this province; it had possession
of Whampoa, and even endangered Canton. When it
was suppressed, it was stamped out in blood. There were
executions by wholesale. All who had taken part in it were
sentenced to death, and as the insurgents were numbered by
tens of thousands, the work went on for days and weeks and
months. The stream of blood never ceased to flow. The
rebels were brought up the river in boat-loads. The magistrates
in the villages of the province were supposed to have
made an examination. It was enough that they were found
with arms in their hands. There were no prisons which
could hold such an army, and the only way to deal with them
was to execute them. Accordingly every day a detachment
was marched out to the execution ground, where forty or
fifty men would be standing with coffins, to receive and carry
off the bodies. They were taken out of the city by a certain
gate, and here Dr. Williams engaged a man to count them as
they passed, and thus he kept the fearful roll of the dead;
and comparing it with the published lists he found the number
executed in fourteen months to be eighty-one thousand!
An Aceldama indeed! It is not, then, too much to say that
taking the years together, within this narrow ground blood
enough has been shed to float the Great Eastern.</p>

<p>But decapitation is a simple business compared with
that which the executioner has sometimes to perform. I
observed standing against the wall some half a dozen rude
crosses, made of bamboo, which reminded me that death is
sometimes inflicted by crucifixion. This mode of punishment
is reserved for the worst malefactors. They are not
nailed to the cross to die a lingering death, but lashed to
it by ropes, and then slowly strangled or cut to pieces.
The executioner explained coolly how he first cut out an eye,
or sliced off a piece of the cheek or the breast, and so proceeded
deliberately, till with one tremendous stroke the body
was cleft in twain.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_386" id="Page_386">386</a></span></p>

<p>Thus Chinese law illustrates its idea of punishment, which
is to inflict it with tremendous rigor. It not only holds to
capital punishment, but sometimes makes a man in dying
suffer a thousand deaths. A gentleman at Fuhchau told me
that he had seen a criminal starved to death. A man who
had robbed a woman, using violence, was put into a cage in
a public place, with his head out of a hole, exposed to the
sun, and his body extended, and there left to die by inches.
The foreign community were horror-struck; the consuls
protested against it, but in vain. He lingered four days
before death came to put an end to his agony. There were
about twenty so punished at Canton in 1843, for incendiarism.</p>

<p>We shudder at these harrowing tales of "man's inhumanity
to man." But we must not take the pictures of these
terrible scenes, as if they were things which stare in the
eyes of all beholders, or which give the fairest impression
of Chinese law; as if this were a country in which there
is nothing but suffering and crime. On the contrary, it is
pre-eminently a land of peace and order. The Chinese are a
law-abiding people. Because a few hundred bad men are
found in a city of a million inhabitants, and punished with
severity, we must not suppose that this is a lawless community.
Those who would charge this, may at least be called
on to point out a better-governed city in Europe.</p>

<p>This fearful Draconian code can at least claim that it is
successful in suppressing crime. The law is a terror to evil-doers.
The proof of this is that order is so well preserved.
This great city of Canton is as quiet, and life and property
are as safe, as in London or New York. Yet it is done with
no display of force. There is no obtrusion of the police or
the military, as in Paris or Vienna. The gates of the city
are shut at night, and the Tartar soldiers make their rounds;
but the armed hand is not always held up before the public
eye. The Chinese Government has learned to make its authority
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_387" id="Page_387">387</a></span>
respected without the constant display of military
power.</p>

<p>The Chinese are the most industrious people on the face
of the earth, for only by constant and universal industry can
a population of four hundred millions live. When such
masses of human beings are crowded together, the struggle
for existence is so great, that it is only by keeping the
millions of hands busy that food can be obtained for the
millions of mouths. The same necessity enforces peace with
each other, and therefore from necessity, as well as from
moral considerations, this has been the policy of China from
the beginning. Its whole political economy, taught long
since by Confucius, is contained in two words&mdash;Industry and
Peace. By an adherence to these simple principles, the Empire
has held together for thousands of years, while every
other nation has gone to pieces. China has never been an
aggressive nation, given to wars of conquest. It has indeed
attempted to subdue the tribes of Central Asia, and holds a
weak sway over Turkistan and Thibet; while Corea and Loochoo
and Annam still acknowledge a kind of fealty, now
long since repudiated by Burmah and Siam. But in almost
all cases it has "stooped to conquer," and been satisfied with
a sort of tribute, instead of attempting roughly to enforce
its authority, which would lead to perpetual wars. Thus has
China followed the lesson of Confucius, furnishing the most
stupendous example on the face of the earth of the advantage
to nations of industry and peace.</p>

<p>The reason for this general respect and obedience to law
may be found in another fact, which is to the immortal honor
of the Chinese. It is the respect and obedience to parents.
In China the family is the foundation of the state; and the
very first law of society, as well as of religion, is: "Honor
thy father and mother." In no country in the world is this
law so universally obeyed. The preservation of China amid
the wreck of other kingdoms is largely due to its respect to
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_388" id="Page_388">388</a></span>
the Fifth Commandment, which has proved literally "a commandment
with promise;"&mdash;the promise, "that thy days may
be long in the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee,"
having been fulfilled in the preservation of this country from
age to age.</p>

<p>As a consequence of this respect to parents, which imposes
an authority over children, and binds them together, the
family feeling in China is very strong. This, however noble
in itself, has some evil effects, as it often separates the people
of a town or village by feuds and divisions, which are as
distinct, and as jealous and hostile, as the old Highland clans
in Scotland. This interferes with the administration of justice.
If a crime is committed, all of one's clan are in league
to screen and protect the offender, while the rival clan is as
eager to pursue and destroy him. Woe to the man who is
accused, and who has no friend! But the disposition to
stand by each other manifests itself in many acts of mutual
helpfulness, of devotion and personal sacrifice.</p>

<p>Carrying out the same idea, the nation is only a larger
family, and the government a patriarchal despotism. There
is no representative government, no Congress or Parliament;
and yet there is a kind of local government, like that of our
New England towns. Every village is governed by "elders,"
who are responsible for its police, who look after rascals, and
who also aid in assessing the taxes for the local and general
governments. By this union of a great central power with
local administration of local affairs, the government has managed
to hold together hundreds of millions of human beings,
and make its authority respected over a large part of Asia.</p>

<p>This family feeling moulds even the religion of China,
which takes the form of a worship of ancestors. Those who
have given them existence are not lost when they have ceased
to breathe. They are still the links of being by which, and
through which, the present living world came from the hand
of the Creator, and are to be reverenced with a devotion next
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_389" id="Page_389">389</a></span>
to that felt for the Author of being himself. Their memory
is still cherished. Every household has its objects of devotion;
every dwelling has its shrine sacred to the memory of
the dead; and no temple or pagoda is more truly holy ground
than the cemeteries, often laid out on hill-sides, where reposes
the dust of former generations. To these they make frequent
pilgrimages. Every year the Emperor of China goes
in state to visit the tombs of his ancestors. The poor emigrant
who leaves for America or Australia, gives a part of
his earnings, so that, in case of death, his body shall be brought
back to China to sleep in the soil that contains the dust of
his ancestors. Thus the living are joined to the dead; and
those who have vanished from the earth, from the silent hills
where they sleep, still rule the most populous kingdom of
the world.</p>

<p>One cannot leave China without a word in regard to its
relations with other countries. In this respect a great
change has taken place within this generation. The old exclusiveness
is broken down. This has come by war, and war
which had not always a justifiable origin, however good may
have been its effects. The opium war in 1841 is not a thing
to be remembered by England with pride. The cause of that
war was an attempt by the Chinese government in 1839 to
prevent the English importation of opium. Never did a
government make a more determined effort to remove a
terrible curse that was destroying its population. Seeing the
evil in all its enormity, it roused itself like a strong man to
shake it off. It imposed heavy penalties on the use of opium,
even going so far as to put some to death. But what could it
do so long as foreigners were selling opium in Canton, right
before its eyes? It resolved to break up the trade, to stop the
importation. As a last resort, it drew a cordon around the
factories of the foreign merchants, and brought them to
terms by a truly Eastern strategy. It did not attack them,
nor touch a hair of their heads; but it assumed that it had
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_390" id="Page_390">390</a></span>
at least the right to exercise its authority over its own people,
by forbidding them to have any intercourse with foreigners.
Immediately every Chinese servant left them. No man
could be had, for love or money, to render them any service,
or even to sell them food. Thus they were virtually prisoners.
This state of siege lasted about six weeks. At the
end of that time the British merchants surrendered all the
opium, at the order of their consular chief, Charles Elliot, for
him to hand it over to the Chinese; it amounted to 20,283
chests (nearly three million pounds in weight), mostly on
board ship at the time. The Chinese received it at the
mouth of the river, near the Bogue Forts, and there destroyed
it, by throwing it overboard, as our fathers destroyed the
tea in Boston harbor. To make sure work of it, lest it
should be recovered and used, they broke open the chests
and mixed it thoroughly with salt water. As it dissolved in
the sea, it killed great quantities of fish, but that opium at
least never killed any Chinamen.</p>

<p>This brought on war. Much has been said of other
causes, but no one familiar with affairs in the East doubts
that the controlling motive was a desire to force upon China
the trade in opium which is one chief source of the revenue
of India.</p>

<p>The war lasted two years, and ended in a complete victory
for the foreigners. The Bogue Forts were bombarded, and
foreign ships forced their way up the river. Canton was
ransomed just as it was to have been attacked, but Amoy,
Ningpo, Shanghai, and Chinkiang were assaulted and captured.
The war was finally terminated in 1842 by a treaty,
by the terms of which China paid to England six millions of
dollars for the opium which had been destroyed, and opened
five ports to foreign trade. This, though a gain to European
and Indian commerce, was a heavy blow to Canton, which,
instead of being the only open port, was but one of five.
The trade, which before had been concentrated here, now
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_391" id="Page_391">391</a></span>
spread along the coast to Amoy, Fuhchau, Ningpo, and
Shanghai.</p>

<p>But the Ruler of Nations brings good out of evil. Wrong
as was the motive of the opium war, it cannot be doubted
that sooner or later war must have come from the attitude
of China toward European nations. For ages it had maintained
a policy of exclusiveness. The rest of the world were
"outside barbarians." It repelled their advances, not only
with firmness, but almost with insult. While keeping this
attitude of resistance, as foreign commerce was continually
knocking at its doors, a collision was inevitable. Recognizing
this, we cannot but regret that it should have occurred
for a cause in which China was in the right, and England in
the wrong.</p>

<p>In the wars of England and France with China, Europe
has fought with Asia, and has gotten the victory. Will it
be content with what it has gained, or will it press still
further, and force China to the wall? This is the question
which I heard asked everywhere in Eastern Asia. The
English merchants find their interests thwarted by the obstinate
conservatism of the Chinese, and would be glad of an
opportunity for a naval or military demonstration&mdash;an occasion
which the Chinese are very careful not to give. There
is an English fleet at Hong Kong, a few hours' sail from
Canton. The admiral who was to take command came out
with us on the steamer from Singapore. He was a gallant
seaman, and seemed like a man who would not willingly do
injustice; and yet I think his English blood would rise at
the prospect of glory, if he were to receive an order from
London to transfer his fleet to the Canton River, and lay it
abreast of the city, or to force his way up the Pei-ho. The
English merchants would hail such an appearance in these
waters. Not content with the fifteen ports which they have
now, they want the whole of China opened to trade. But
the Chinese think they have got enough of it, and to any
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_392" id="Page_392">392</a></span>
further invasion oppose a quiet but steady resistance. The
English are impatient. They want to force an entrance, and
to introduce not only the goods of Manchester, but all the
modern improvements&mdash;to have railroads all over China, as
in India, and steamers on all the rivers; and they think it
very unreasonable that the Chinese object. But there is
another side to this question. Such changes would disturb
the whole internal commerce of China. They would throw
out of employment, not thousands nor tens of thousands, but
millions, who would perish in such an economical and industrial
revolution as surely as by the waters of a deluge. An
English missionary at Canton told me that it would not be
possible to make any sudden changes, such as would be involved
in the general introduction of railroads, or of labor-saving
machines in place of the labor of human hands, without
inflicting immense suffering. There are millions of
people who now keep their heads just above water, and that
by standing on their toes and stretching their necks, who
would be drowned if it should rise an inch higher. The
least agitation of the waters, and they would be submerged.
Can we wonder that they hesitate to be sacrificed, and beg
their government to move slowly?</p>

<p>America has had no part in the wars with China, although
it is said that in the attack on the forts at the mouth of the
Pei-ho, when the English ships were hard pressed, American
sailors went on board of one of them, and volunteered to
serve at the guns, whether from pure love of the excitement
of battle, or because they felt, as Commodore Tatnall expressed
it, that "blood was thicker than water," is not recorded.<a name="FNanchor_12" id="FNanchor_12" href="#Footnote_12" class="fnanchor">[12]</a>
American sailors and soldiers will never be wanting
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_393" id="Page_393">393</a></span>
in any cause which concerns their country's interest and
honor. But hitherto it has been our good fortune to come
into no armed collision with the Chinese, and hence the American
name is in favor along the coast. Our country is represented,
not so much by ships of war as by merchants and
missionaries. The latter, though few in number, by their
wisdom as well as zeal, have done much to conciliate favor
and command respect. They are not meddlers nor mischief-makers.
They do not belong to the nation that has forced
opium upon China, though often obliged to hear the taunt
that is hurled against the whole of the English-speaking race.
In their own quiet spheres, they have labored to diffuse
knowledge and to exhibit practical Christianity. They have
opened schools and hospitals, as well as churches. In Canton,
a generation ago, Dr. Peter Parker opened a hospital, which
is still continued, and which receives about nine hundred
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_394" id="Page_394">394</a></span>
every year into its wards, besides some fifteen thousand who
are treated at the doors. For twenty years it was in charge
of Dr. Kerr, who nearly wore himself out in his duties; and
is now succeeded by Dr. Carrow, a young physician who left
a good practice in Jersey City to devote himself to this work.
Hundreds undergo operation for the stone&mdash;a disease quite
common in the South, but which Chinese surgery is incompetent
to treat&mdash;and who are here rescued from a lingering
death. That is the way American Christianity should be
represented in China. In Calcutta I saw the great opium
ships bound for Hong Kong. Let England have a monopoly
of that trade, but let America come to China with healing
in one hand and the Gospel in the other.</p>

<p>Nor is this all which American missionaries have done.
They have rendered a service&mdash;not yet noticed as it should
be&mdash;to literature, and in preparing the way for the intercourse
of China with other nations. An American missionary, Dr.
Martin, is President of the University at Peking, established
by the government. Dr. S. Wells Williams, in the more
than forty years of his residence in China, has prepared a
Chinese-English Dictionary, which I heard spoken of everywhere
in the East as the best in existence. In other ways
his knowledge of the language and the people has been of
service both to China and to America, during his twenty-one
years' connection with the Legation. And if American
diplomacy has succeeded in gaining many substantial advantages
for our country, while it has skilfully avoided wounding
the susceptibilities of the Chinese, the success is due in
no small degree to this modest American missionary.</p>

<p>De Quincey said if he were to live in China, he should go
mad. No wonder. The free English spirit could not be so
confined. There is something in this enormous population,
weighed down with the conservatism of ages, that oppresses
the intellect. It is a forced stagnation. China is a boundless
and a motionless ocean. Its own people may not feel it,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_395" id="Page_395">395</a></span>
but one accustomed to the free life of Europe looks upon it
as a vast Dead Sea, in whose leaden waters nothing can live.</p>

<p>But even this Dead Sea is beginning to stir with life.
There is a heaving, as when the Polar Ocean breaks up, and
the liberated waves sweep far and wide&mdash;</p>

<div class="poem">
<p>
"Swinging low with sullen roar."</p>
</div>
<p>Such is the sound which is beginning to be heard on all the
shores of Asia. Since foreigners have begun to come into
China, the Chinese go abroad more than ever before. There
is developed a new spirit of emigration. Not only do they
come to California, but go to Australia, and to all the islands
of Southern Asia. They are the most enterprising as well as
the most industrious of emigrants. They have an extraordinary
aptitude for commerce. They are in the East what
the Jews are in other parts of the world&mdash;the money-changers,
the mercantile class, the petty traders; and wherever they
come, they are sure to "pick up" and to "go ahead." Who
can put bounds to such a race, that not content with a quarter
of Asia, overflows so much of the remaining parts of the
Eastern hemisphere?</p>

<p>On our Pacific Coast the Chinese have appeared as yet only
as laborers and servants, or as attempting the humblest industries.
Their reception has not been such as we can regard
with satisfaction and pride. Poor John Chinaman! Patient
toiler on the railroad or in the mine, yet doomed to be kicked
about in the land whose prosperity he has done so much to
promote. There is something very touching in his love for
his native country&mdash;a love so strong that he desires even in
death to be carried back to be buried in the land which gave
him birth. Some return living, only to tell of a treatment
in strange contrast with that which our countrymen have received
in China, as well as in violation of the solemn obligations
of treaties. We cannot think of this cruel persecution
but with indignation at our country's shame.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_396" id="Page_396">396</a></span></p>

<p>No one can visit China without becoming interested in the
country and its people. There is much that is good in the
Chinese, in their patient industry, and in their strong domestic
feeling. Who can but respect a people that honor
their fathers and mothers in a way to furnish an example to
the whole Christian world? who indeed exaggerate their
reverence to such a degree that they even worship their ancestors?
The mass of the people are miserably poor, but
they do not murmur at their lot. They take it patiently, and
even cheerfully; for they see in it a mixture of dark and
bright. In their own beautiful and poetical saying: "The
moon shines bright amid the firs." May it not only shine
through the gloom of deep forests, but rise higher and higher,
till it casts a flood of light over the whole Eastern sky!
</p>

<h3 class="p6">CHAPTER XXV.</h3>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_397" id="Page_397">397</a></span></p>
<p class="ch_summ">THREE WEEKS IN JAPAN.</p>

<p>We left Hong Kong on the 15th of May, just one year
from the day that we sailed from New York on our journey
around the world. As we completed these twelve months,
we embarked on our twelfth voyage. After being so long
on foreign ships&mdash;English and French and Dutch: Austrian
Lloyds and Messageries Maritimes&mdash;it was pleasant to be at
last on one that bore the flag of our country, and bore it so
proudly as "The City of Peking." As we stepped on her
deck, and looked up at the stars above us, we felt that we
were almost on the soil of our country. As we were now
approaching America, though still over six thousand miles
away, and nearly ten thousand from New York, we thought
it was time to telegraph that we were coming, but found that
"the longest way round was the nearest way home." The
direct cable across the Bay of Bengal, from Penang to Madras,
was broken, and the message had to go by Siberia. It
seemed indeed a long, long way, but the lightning regards
neither space nor time. Swift as thought the message flew
up the coast of China to Siberia, and then across the whole
breadth of two continents, Asia and Europe, and dived under
the Atlantic, to come up on the shores of America.</p>

<p>The harbor of Hong Kong was gay with ships decorated
with flags, and the British fleet was still firing salutes, which
seemed to be its daily pastime, as the City of Peking began
to move. With a grand sweep she circled round the bay,
and then running swiftly into a winding passage among
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_398" id="Page_398">398</a></span>
islands, through which is the entrance to the harbor, steamed
out on the broad Pacific.</p>

<p>We had intended to go to Shanghai, and through the Inland
Sea of Japan, but we sacrificed even such a pleasure
(or rather left it till the next time) to take advantage of this
noble ship, that was bound direct for Yokohama. Our course
took us through the Channel of Formosa, in full sight of the
island, which has had an unenviable notoriety from the treatment
of the crews of ships wrecked on its inhospitable coast.
Leaving it far behind, in six days we were running along the
shores of Japan, and might have seen the snowy head of
Fusiyama, had it not been wrapped in clouds. The next
morning we left behind the long roll of the Pacific, and
entered the Bay of Yedo&mdash;a gulf fifty miles deep, whose
clear, sparkling waters shone in the sunlight. Fishing-boats
were skimming the tranquil surface. The Japanese are born
to the sea. All around the coast they live upon it, and are
said to derive from it one-third of their subsistence. The
shores, sloping from the water's edge, are sprinkled with
Japanese villages. Some thirty miles from the sea we pass
Mississippi Bay, so called from the flag-ship of Commodore
Perry, which lay here with his fleet while he was conducting
the negotiations for the opening of Japan; the headland
above it bears the name of Treaty Point. Rounding this
point, we see before us in the distance a forest of shipping,
and soon cast anchor in the harbor of Yokohama.</p>

<p>Yokohama has a pleasant look from the sea, an impression
increased as we are taken off in a boat, and landed on the
quay&mdash;a sea wall, which keeps out the waves, and furnishes
a broad terrace for the front of the town. Here is a wide
street called "The Bund," on which stand the principal
hotels. From our rooms we look out directly on the harbor.
Among the steamers from foreign ports, are a number of
ships of war, among which is the Tennessee, the flagship of
our Asiatic squadron, bearing the broad pennant of Admiral
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_399" id="Page_399">399</a></span>
Reynolds, whom we had known in America, and indeed had
bidden good-by at our own door, as we stepped into the carriage
to drive to the steamer. We parted, hoping to meet in
Asia, a wish which was now fulfilled. He was very courteous
to us during our stay, sending his boat to bring us on
board, and coming often with his excellent wife to see us on
shore. It gave us a pleasant feeling of nearness to home, to
have a great ship full of our countrymen close at hand.</p>

<p>In the rear of the town the hill which overlooks the harbor,
bears the foreign name of "The Bluff." Here is quite
an American colony, including several missionary families,
in which we became very much at home before we left Japan.</p>

<p>Yokohama has an American newness and freshness. It is
only a few years since it has come into existence as a place
of any importance. It was only a small fishing village until
the opening of Japan, since which it has become the chief
port of foreign commerce. It is laid out in convenient
streets, which are well paved, and kept clean, and altogether
the place has a brisk and lively air, as of some new and
thriving town in our own country.</p>

<p>But just at this moment we are not so much interested to
see American improvements as to see the natives on their own
soil. Here they are in all their glory&mdash;pure-blooded Asiatics&mdash;and
yet of a type that is not Mongolian or Malayan or
Indian. The Jap is neither a "mild Hindoo" nor a "heathen
Chinee." His hair is shaved from his head in a fashion quite
his own, making a sort of triangle on the crown; and no long
pigtail decorates his person behind. We recognize him at
once, for never was a human creature so exactly like his portrait.
We see every day the very same figures that we have
seen all our lives on tea-cups and saucers, and fans and
boxes. Our first acquaintance with them was as charioteers,
in which they take the place, not of drivers, but of horses;
for the <i>jin-riki-sha</i> (literally, a carriage drawn by man power)
has no other "team" harnessed to it. The vehicle is exactly
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_400" id="Page_400">400</a></span>
like a baby carriage, only made for "children of a larger
growth." It is simply an enlarged perambulator, on two
wheels, drawn by a coolie; and when one takes his seat in it,
he cannot help feeling at first as if he were a big baby, whom
his nurse had tucked up and was taking out for an airing.
But one need not be afraid of it, lest he break down the
carriage, or tire out the steed that draws it. No matter how
great your excellency may be, the stout fellow will take up
the thills, standing where the pony or the donkey ought to
be, and trot off with you at a good pace, making about four
miles an hour. At first the impression was irresistibly ludicrous,
and we laughed at ourselves to see what a ridiculous
figure we cut. Indeed we did not quite recover our sobriety
during the three weeks that we were in Japan. But after all
it is a very convenient way of getting about, and one at least
is satisfied that his horses will not run away, though he must
not be too sure of that, for I sometimes felt, especially when
going down hill, that they had got loose, and would land me
with a broken head at the bottom.</p>

<p>But Yokohama is only the gate of Yedo (or Tokio, as it is
the fashion to call it now, but I keep to the old style as more
familiar), of which we had read even in our school geographies
as one of the most populous cities of Asia. The access
is very easy, for it is only eighteen miles distant, and there is
a railroad, so that it is but an hour's ride. While on our
way that morning, we had our first sight of Fusiyama.
Though seventy miles distant, its dome of snow rose on the
horizon sharp and clear, like the Jungfrau at Interlachen.</p>

<p>Arrived at Yedo, the station was surrounded by <i>jinrikishas</i>,
whose masters were kept in better order than the cabmen of
New York. Wishing to appear in the capital with proper
dignity, we took two men instead of one, so that each had a
full team; and fine young bloods they were, full of spirit,
that fairly danced with us along the street, in such gay fashion
that my clerical garb was hardly sufficient to preserve my
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_401" id="Page_401">401</a></span>
clerical character. We first trotted off to the American
Minister's, Mr. Bingham's, who received us with all courtesy,
and sent for the interpreter of the Legation, Rev. Mr.
Thompson, an American missionary, who kindly offered to
be our guide about the city, and gave up the day to us. With
such a cicerone, we started on our rounds. He took us first
to what is called the Summer Palace, though it is not a palace
at all, but only a park, to which the Mikado comes once
in a while to take his royal pleasure. There are a few rest-houses
scattered about, where one, whether king or commoner,
might find repose; or strolling under the shade of trees,
and looking off upon the tranquil sea. Next we rode to the
Tombs of the Tycoons, where, under gilded shrines, beneath
temples and pagodas, sleep the royal dead. The grounds are
large and the temples exquisitely finished, with the fine lacquer
work for which the Japanese are famous; so that we had to
take off our shoes, and step very softly over the polished
floors. Riding on through endless streets, our friend took us
to a hill, ascended by a long flight of steps, on the top of
which, in an open space, stood a temple, an arbor, and a tea-house.
This point commands an extensive view of Yedo.
It is a city of magnificent distances, spreading out for miles
on every side; and yet, except for its extent, it is not at all
imposing, for it is, like Canton, a mere wilderness of houses,
relieved by no architectural magnificence&mdash;not a single lofty
tower or dome rising above the dead level. But, unlike
Canton, the city has very broad streets, sometimes crossed
by a river or a canal, spanned by high, arched bridges. The
principal business street is much wider than Broadway, but
it has not a shop along its whole extent that would make any
show even in "The Bowery." The houses are built only one
story high, because of earthquakes which are frequent in
Japan, caused, as the people believe, by a huge fish which
lies under the island, and that shakes it whenever he tosses
his head or lashes his tail. The houses are of such slight
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_402" id="Page_402">402</a></span>
construction that they burn like tinder; and it is not surprising
that the city is often swept by destructive fires. But
if the whole place were thus swept away, or if it were shaken
to pieces by an earthquake in the night, the people would
pick themselves up in the morning and restore their dwellings,
with not much more difficulty than soldiers, whose
tents had been blown down by the wind, would find in pitching
them again and making another camp. Some of the
government buildings are of more stately proportions, and
there are open grounds in certain quarters of the city, adorned
with magnificent trees, like the ancient oaks which cast their
shadows on the smooth-shaven lawns of England, and give
to English parks such an air of dignity and repose.</p>

<p>The Castle of the late Tycoon, which may be said to be the
heart of the city, around which it clusters, is more of a fortress
than a palace. There is an immense enclosure surrounded by
a deep moat (whose sides are very pretty, banked with rich
green turf), and with picturesque old towers standing at intervals
along the walls. In the rear of the grounds of the old Castle
is the much less ambitious residence of the Mikado, where
he is duly guarded, though he does not now, as formerly,
keep himself invisible, as if he were a divinity descended from
the skies, who in mysterious seclusion ruled the affairs of men.</p>

<p>By this time we were a little weary of sight-seeing, and
drew up at a Japanese tea-house, to take our tiffin. The
place was as neat as a pin, and the little maids came out to
receive us, and bowed themselves to the ground, touching
the earth with their foreheads, in token of the great honor
that had come to their house&mdash;homage that we received with
becoming dignity, and went on our way rejoicing.</p>

<p>The pleasantest sights that we saw to-day were two which
showed the awakened intelligence and spirit of progress
among the people. These were the Government College,
with two hundred students, manned in part by American
professors (where we found our countryman Dr. Veeder
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_403" id="Page_403">403</a></span>
in his lecture-room, performing experiments); and an old
Temple of Confucius which has been turned into a library
and reading-room. Here was a large collection of books and
periodicals, many from foreign countries, over which a number
of persons were quietly but studiously engaged. The
enclosure was filled with grand old trees, and had the air of
an academic grove, whose silent shades were devoted to study
and learning.</p>

<p>After this first visit to the capital, we took a week for an
excursion into the interior, which gave us a sight of the
country and of Japanese life. This we could not have made
with any satisfaction but for our friends the missionaries.
They kindly sketched the outlines of a trip to the base of
Fusiyama, seventy miles from Yedo. It was very tempting,
but what could we do without guides or interpreters? We
should be lost like babes in the wood. It occurred to us
that such a journey might do <i>them</i> good. Dr. Brown and
Dr. Hepburn, the oldest missionaries in Japan, had been
closely confined for months in translating the Scriptures, and
needed some relief. A little country air would give them
new life; so we invited them to be our guests, and we would
make a week of it. We finally prevailed upon them to "come
apart and rest awhile," not in a "desert," but in woodland
shades, among the mountains and by the sea. Their wives
came with them, without whom their presence would have
given us but half the pleasure it did. Thus encompassed and
fortified with the best of companions, with a couple of English
friends, we made a party of eight, which, with the usual
impedimenta of provisions and a cook, and extra shawls and
blankets, required eleven <i>jinrikishas</i>, with two men harnessed
to each, making altogether quite a grand cavalcade,
as we sallied forth from Yokohama on a Monday noon in
"high feather." To our staid missionary friends it was an
old story; but to us, strangers in the land, it was highly exciting
to be thus starting off into the interior of Japan. The
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_404" id="Page_404">404</a></span>
country around Yokohama is hilly and broken. Our way
wound through a succession of valleys rich with fields of
rice and barley, while along the roads shrubberies, which at
home are cultivated with great care, grew in wild profusion&mdash;the
wisteria, the honeysuckle, and the eglantine. The succession
of hill and valley gave to the country a variety and
beauty which, with the high state of cultivation, reminded
us of Java. As we mounted the hills we had glimpses of
the sea, for we were skirting along the Bay of Yedo. After
a few miles we came to an enchanting spot, which bears the
ambitious title of the Plains of Heaven, yet which is not
heaven, and is not even a plain&mdash;but a rolling country, in
which hill and valley are mingled together, with the purple
mountains as a background on one side and the blue waters
on the other.</p>

<p>As we rode along, I thought how significant was the simple
fact of such an excursion as this in a country, where a few
years ago no foreigner's life was safe. On this very road,
less than ten years since, an Englishman was cut down for
no other crime than that of being a foreigner, and getting in
the way of the high daimio who was passing. And now we
jogged along as quietly, and with as little apprehension, as
if we were riding through the villages of New England.</p>

<p>On our way lies a town which once bore a great name, Kamakura,
where nine centuries ago lived the great Yoritomo, the
Napoleon of his day, the founder of the military rule in the
person of the Shogun (or Tycoon, a title but lately assumed),
as distinguished from that of the Mikado. Here he made
his capital, which was afterwards removed, and about three
hundred years since fixed in Yedo; and Kamakura is left,
like other decayed capitals, to live on the recollections of
its former greatness. But no change can take away its
natural beauty, in its sheltered valley near the sea.</p>

<p>A mile beyond, we came to the colossal image of Dai-Buts,
or Great Buddha. It is of bronze, and though in a sitting
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_405" id="Page_405">405</a></span>
posture, is forty-four feet high. The hands are crossed upon
the knees. We crawled up into his lap, and five of us sat
side by side on his thumbs. We even went inside, and
climbed up into his head, and proved by inspection that
these idols, however colossal and imposing without, are
empty within. There are no brains within their brazen
skulls. The expression of the face is the same as in all
statues of Buddha: that of repose&mdash;passive, motionless&mdash;as
of one who had passed through the struggles of life, and attained
to Nirvana, the state of perfect calm, which is the
perfection of heavenly beatitude.</p>

<p>It was now getting towards sunset, and we had still five
or six miles to go before we reached our resting-place for the
night. As this was the last stage in the journey, our fleet
coursers seemed resolved to show us what they could do.
They had cast off all their garments, except a cloth around
their loins, and straw sandals on their feet, so that they were
stripped like Roman gladiators, and they put forth a speed
as if racing in the arena. A connoisseur would admire their
splendid physique. Their bodies were tattooed, like South
Sea Islanders, which set out in bolder relief, as in savage
warriors, their muscular development&mdash;their broad chests
and brawny limbs. With no stricture of garments to bind
them, their limbs were left free for motion. It was a study
to see how they held themselves erect. With heads and
chests thrown back, they balanced themselves perfectly. The
weight of the carriage seemed nothing to them; they had
only to keep in motion, and it followed. Thus we came
rushing into the streets of Fujisawa, and drew up before the
tea-house, where lodgings had been ordered for the night.
The whole family turned out to meet us, the women falling
on their knees, and bowing their heads till they touched the
floor, in homage to the greatness of their guests.</p>

<p>And now came our first experience of a Japanese tea-house.
If the <i>jin-riki-sha</i> is like a baby carriage, the tea-house
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_406" id="Page_406">406</a></span>
is like a baby house. It is small, built entirely of
wood with sliding partitions, which can be drawn, like
screens, to enclose any open space, and make it into a room.
These partitions are of paper, so that of course the "chambers"
are not very private. The same material is used for
windows, and answers very well, as it softens the light, like
ground glass. The house has always a veranda, so that the
rooms are protected from the sun by the overhanging roof.
The bedrooms are very small, but scrupulously clean, and
covered with wadded matting, on which we lie down to
sleep.</p>

<p>At Fujisawa is a temple, which is visited by the Mikado
once or twice in the year. We were shown through his
private rooms, and one or two of us even stretched ourselves
upon his bed, which, however, was not a very daring feat, as
it was merely a strip of matting raised like a low divan or
ottoman, a few inches above the floor. The temples are not
imposing structures, and have no beauty except that of position.
They generally stand on a hill, and are approached by
an avenue or a long flight of steps, and the grounds are set
out with trees, which are left to grow till they sometimes
attain a majestic height and breadth. In front of this temple
stands a tree, which we recognized by its foliage as the
<i>Salisburia adiantifolia</i>&mdash;a specimen of which we had in
America on our own lawn, but there it was a shrub brought
from the nursery, while here it was like a cedar of Lebanon.
It was said to be a thousand years old. Standing here, it
was regarded as a sacred tree, and we looked up to it with
more reverence than to the sombre temple behind, or the
sleepy old bonzes who were sauntering idly about the
grounds.</p>

<p>The next morning, as we started on our journey, we came
upon the Tokaido, the royal road of Japan, built hundreds
of years ago from Yedo to Kioto, to connect the political
with the spiritual capital&mdash;the residence of the Tycoon with
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_407" id="Page_407">407</a></span>
that of the Mikado. It is the highway along which the
daimios came in state to pay their homage to the Tycoon at
Yedo, as of old subject-princes came to Rome. It is constructed
with a good deal of skill in engineering, which is shown in
carrying it over mountains, and in the building of bridges.
Portions of the road are paved with blocks of stone like the
Appian Way. But that which gives it a glory and majesty
all its own, is its bordering of gigantic cedars&mdash;the <i>Cryptomeria
Japonica</i>&mdash;which attain an enormous height, with
gnarled and knotted limbs that have wrestled with the
storms of centuries.</p>

<p>As we advance, the road comes out upon the sea, for we
have crossed the peninsula which divides the Bay of Yedo
from the Pacific, and are now on the shores of the ocean
itself. How beautiful it seemed that day! It was the last
of May, and the atmosphere was full of the warmth of
early summer. The coast is broken by headlands shooting
out into the deep, which enclose bays, where the soft, warm
sunshine lingers as on the shores of the Mediterranean, and
the waters of the mighty Pacific come gently rippling up the
beach. So twixt sea and land, sunshine and shade, we sped
gaily along to Odawara&mdash;another place which was once the
residence of a powerful chief, whose castle is still there,
though in ruins; its stones, if questioned of the past, might
tell a tale like that of one of the castles on the Rhine. These
old castles are the monuments of the same form of government,
for the Feudal System existed in Japan as in Germany.
The kingdom was divided into provinces, ruled by great daimios,
who were like the barons of the Middle Ages, each with
his armed retainers, who might be called upon to support
the central government, yet who sometimes made war upon it.
This Feudal System is now completely destroyed. As we
were riding over the Tokaido, I pictured to myself the great
pageants that had swept along so proudly in the days gone
by. What would those old barons have thought if they
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_408" id="Page_408">408</a></span>
could have seen in the future an irruption of invaders from
beyond the sea, and that even this king's highway should
one day be trodden by the feet of outside barbarians?</p>

<p>At Odawara we dismissed our men, (who, as soon as they
received their money, started off for Yokohama,) as we had to
try another mode of transportation; for though we still kept
the Tokaido, it ascends the mountains so steeply that it is
impassable for anything on wheels, and we had to exchange
the <i>jinrikisha</i> for the <i>kago</i>&mdash;a kind of basket made of bamboo,
in which a man is doubled up and packed like a bundle,
and so carried on men's shoulders. It would not answer
badly if he had neither head nor legs. But his head is
always knocking against the ridge-pole, and his legs have to be
twisted under him, or "tied up in a bow-knot." This is the
way in which criminals are carried to execution in China;
but for one who has any further use for his limbs, it is not
altogether agreeable. I lay passive for awhile, feeling as if I
had been packed and salted down in a pork-barrel. Then I
began to wriggle, and thrust out my head on one side and the
other, and at last had to confess, like the Irishman who was
offered the privilege of working his passage on a canal-boat
and was set to leading a horse, that "if it were not for the
honor of the thing, I had as lief walk." So I crawled out
and unrolled myself, to see if my limbs were still there, for
they were so benumbed that I was hardly conscious of their
existence, and then straightening myself out, and taking a
long bamboo reed, which is light and strong, lithe and springy,
for an alpenstock, I started off with my companions. We all
soon recovered our spirits, and</p>

<div class="poem">
<p class="o1">
"Walked in glory and in joy</p>
<p>Along the mountain side,"</p>
</div>

<p>till at nightfall we halted in the village of Hakoné, a mountain
retreat much resorted to by foreigners from Yedo and
Yokohama.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_409" id="Page_409">409</a></span></p>

<p>Here we might have been in the Highlands of Scotland,
for we were in the heart of mountains, and on the border of
a lake. To make the resemblance more perfect, a Scotch
mist hung over the hills, and rain pattered on the roof all
night long, and half the next day. But at noon the clouds
broke, and we started on our journey. Dr. and Mrs. Brown
and Mrs. Hepburn kept to their baskets, and were borne a
long way round, while the rest of us were rowed across
the lake, a beautiful sheet of water, nestled among the hills,
like Loch Katrine. One of these hills is tunnelled for two
miles, to carry the water under it to irrigate the rice
fields of some twenty villages. Landing on the other side of
the lake, we had before us a distance of eight or ten miles.
Our coolies stood ready to carry us, but all preferred the
freedom of their unfettered limbs. The mountain is volcanic,
and on the summit is a large space made desolate by frequent
eruptions, out of which issues smoke laden with the fumes of
sulphur, and hot springs throw off jets of steam, and boil and
bubble, and hiss with a loud noise, as if all the furies were
pent up below, and spitting out their rage through the
fissures of the rocks. The side of the mountain is scarred
and torn, and yellow with sulphur, like the sides of Vesuvius.
The natives call the place Hell. It was rather an
abrupt transition, after crossing the Plains of Heaven a day
or two before, to come down so soon to the sides of the pit.</p>

<p>Towards evening we came down into the village of Miya-no-shita
(what musical names these Japanese have!), where
our friends were waiting for us, and over a warm cup of tea
talked over the events of the day. This is a favorite resort,
for its situation among the mountains, with lovely walks on
every side, and for its hot springs. Water is brought into
the hotel in pipes of bamboo, so hot that one is able to bear
it only after slowly dipping his feet into it, and thus sliding in
by degrees, when the sensation is as of being scalded alive.
But it takes the soreness out of one's limbs weary with a long
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_410" id="Page_410">410</a></span>
day's tramp; and after being steamed and boiled, we stretched
ourselves on the clean mats of the tea-house, and slept the
sleep of innocence and peace.</p>

<p>One cannot go anywhere in Japan without receiving a
visit from the people, who, being of a thrifty turn, seize the
occasion of a stranger's presence to drive a little trade. The
skill of the Japanese is quite marvellous in certain directions:
They make everything <i>in petto</i>, in miniature&mdash;the smallest
earthenware; the tiniest cups and saucers. In these mountain
villages they work, like the Swiss, in wooden-ware, and
make exquisite and dainty little boxes and bureaus, as if
for dolls, yet with complete sets of drawers, which could not
but take the fancy of one who had little people at home waiting
for presents. Besides the temptation of such trinkets,
who could resist the insinuating manner of the women who
brought them? The Japanese women are not pretty. They
might be, were it not for their odious fashions. We have
seen faces that would be quite handsome if left in their
native, unadorned beauty. But fashion rules the world in
Japan as in Paris. As soon as a woman is married her eyebrows
are shaved off, and her teeth blackened, so that she
cannot open her mouth without showing a row of ebony instead
of ivory, which disfigures faces that would be otherwise
quite winning. It says a good deal for their address, that
with such a feature to repel, they can still be attractive.
This is owing wholly to their manners. The Japanese men
and women are a light-hearted race, and captivate by their
gayety and friendliness. The women were always in a merry
mood. As soon as they entered the room, before even a
word was spoken, they began to giggle, as if our appearance
were very funny, or as if this were the quickest way to be on
good terms with us. The effect was irresistible. I defy the
soberest man to resist it, for as soon as your visitor laughs,
you begin to laugh from sympathy; and when you have got
into a hearty laugh together, you are already acquainted, and
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_411" id="Page_411">411</a></span>
in friendly relations, and the work of buying and selling goes
on easily. They took us captive in a few minutes. We
purchased sparingly, thinking of our long journey; but our
English friends bought right and left, till the next day they
had to load two pack-horses with boxes to be carried over
the mountains to Yokohama.</p>

<p>The next day was to bring the consummation of our journey,
for then we were to go up into a mountain and see the
glory of the Lord. A few miles distant is the summit of
Otometoge, from which one obtains a view of Fusiyama,
looking full in his awful face. We started with misgivings,
for it had been raining, and the clouds still hung low upon
the mountains. Our way led through hamlets clustered together
in a narrow pass, like Alpine villages. As we wound
up the ascent, we often stopped to look back at the valley below,
from which rose the murmur of rushing waters, while
the sides of the mountains were clothed with forests. These
rich landscapes gave such enchantment to the scene as repaid
us for all our weariness. At two o'clock we reached the
top, and rushed to the brow to catch the vision of Fusiyama,
but only to be disappointed. The mountain was there, but
clouds covered his hoary head. In vain we watched and
waited; still the monarch hid his face. Clouds were round
about the throne. The lower ranges stood in full outline, but
the heaven-piercing dome, or pyramid of snow, was wrapped
in its misty shroud. That for which we had travelled seventy
miles, we could not see at last.</p>

<p>Is it not often so in life? The moments that we have
looked forward to with highest expectations, are disappointing
when they come. We cross the seas, and journey far, to
reach some mount of vision, when lo! the sight that was to
reward us is hidden from our eyes; while our highest raptures
come to us unsought, perhaps in visions of the night.</p>

<p>But our toilsome climb was not unrewarded. Below us
lay a broad, deep valley, to which the rice fields gave a vivid
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_412" id="Page_412">412</a></span>
green, dotted with houses and villages, which were scattered
over the middle distance, and even around the base of Fusiyama
himself. Drinking in the full loveliness of the scene,
we turned to descend, and after a three hours' march, footsore
and weary, entered our Alpine village of Miya-no-shita.</p>

<p>The next morning we set out to return. Had the day
shone bright and clear, we should have been tempted to renew
our ascent of the day before. But as the clouds were
still over the sky, we reluctantly turned away. Taking another
route from that by which we came, we descended a deep
valley, and winding around the heights which we had crossed
before, at eleven o'clock reëntered Odawara.</p>

<p>And now we had done with our marching and our kagos,
and once more took to our chariots, which drew up to the
door&mdash;the men not exactly saddled and bridled, but stripped
for the race, with no burden added to the burden of the flesh
which they had to carry. A crowd collected to see us depart,
and looked on admiringly as we went dashing through the
long street of Odawara, and out upon the Tokaido. Our
way, as before, led by the sea, which was in no tempestuous
mood, but calm and tranquil, as if conscious that the summer
was born. The day was not too warm, for the clouds that were
flying over the sky shielded us from the direct rays of the
sun; yet as we looked out now and then, the giant trees cast
their shadows across our path. An American poet sings:</p>

<div class="poem">
<p>
"What is so rare as a day in June?"</p>
</div>
<p>Surely nothing could be <i>more</i> rare or fair; but even the
sky and the soft Summer air seemed more full of exquisite
sensations to the strangers who were that day rolling along
the shores of the Pacific, under the mighty cedars of the
Tokaido.</p>

<p>Once more I was surprised and delighted at the agility and
swiftness of the men who drew our <i>jin-riki-shas</i>. As we had
but twenty-three miles to go in the afternoon, we took it
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_413" id="Page_413">413</a></span>
easily, and gave them first only a gentle trot of five miles to
get their limbs a little supple, and then stopped for tiffin.
Some of the men had on a loose jacket when we started, besides
the girdle about the loins. This they took off and
wrung out, for they were dripping with sweat, and wiped
their brawny chests and limbs, and then took their chopsticks
and applied themselves to their rice, while we went upstairs
in the tea-house, and had our soup and other dishes served
to us, sitting on the floor like Turks, and then stretched ourselves
on the mats, weary with our morning's walk, and even
with the motion of riding. While we were trying to get a
little rest our men talked and laughed in the court below as
if it were child's play to take us over the road. As we resumed
our places and turned out of the yard, I had the curiosity
to "time" their speed. I had a couple of athletic fellows,
who thought me a mere feather in weight, and made
me spin like a top as they bowled along. They started off at
an easy trot, which they kept up, without breaking, mile
after mile. I did not need to crack the whip, but at the
word, away they flew through villages and over the open
country, never stopping, but when they came to slightly rising
ground, rushing up like mettlesome horses, and down at
full speed. Thus they kept on, and never drew rein till they
came to the bank of a river, which had to be crossed in a
boat. I took out my watch. It was an hour and a quarter,
and they had come seven miles and a half! This was doing
pretty well. Of course they could not keep this up all day;
yet they will go thirty miles from sunrise to sunset, and even
forty, if spurred to it by a little extra pay. Sometimes, indeed,
they go even at a still greater speed for a short distance.
The first evening, as we came into Fujisawa, I do not doubt
that the last fifteen minutes they were going at a speed of ten
miles an hour, for they came in on a run. This is magnificent,
but I cannot think it very healthful exercise. As gymnasts
and prize-fighters grow old and die before their time,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_414" id="Page_414">414</a></span>
so with these human racehorses. Dr. Hepburn says it exhausts
them very early; that they break down with disease
of the heart or lungs. They are very liable to rheumatism.
This is partly owing to their carelessness. They get heated,
and then expose their naked bodies to drafts of cold air,
which of course stiffens their limbs, so that an old runner becomes
like a foundered horse. But even with all care, the
fatigue is very exhausting, and often brings on diseases which
take them off in their prime. Yet you cannot restrain their
speed, any more than that of colts that have never been broken.
I often tried to check them, but they "champed at the
bit," and after a few vain remonstrances I had to give it up,
and "let them slide."</p>

<p>We did not stop at Fujisawa, where we had slept before,
for it is a large and noisy town, but pushed on three miles
farther, across a sandy beach to Enoshima, a little fishing
village, which stands on a point of land jutting out into the
sea, so that at high tide it is an island, and at low tide a
peninsula. Indeed, it is not much more than a projecting
rock of a few hundred acres, rising high out of the waters,
and covered thickly with groves of trees, among which are
several Buddhist temples. As we strolled along the top of
the cliffs at sunset, there were a dozen points of view where
we could sit under the shade of trees a hundred feet above
the waves, as on the cliffs of the Isle of Wight, saying with
Tennyson:</p>

<div class="poem">
<p class="o1">
"Break, break, break,</p>
<p>At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!"</p>
</div>

<p>The next morning we rambled over the hills again, for it
was a spot where one could but linger. The bay was alive
with boats, as</p>

<div class="poem">
<p>"The fishers went sailing out into the West."</p>
</div>

<p>On the shore were divers, who plunged from the rocks into
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_415" id="Page_415">415</a></span>
deep water, to bring up shells and coral for us, and a sort of
sponge peculiar to this country, with spicules like threads
of spun glass. Under the cliff is a long cave, hollowed out by
the waves, with an arch overhead like a vaulted roof. Thus
under ground or above ground we wandered hour after hour.</p>

<p>But all things pleasant must have an end. The week was
gone; it was Saturday noon: and so reluctantly leaving
both the mountains and the sea, and taking to our chariots
once more, we struck into the Tokaido, and in four hours
were rolling along the Bund at Yokohama.</p>

<p>Three days after we made a second visit to Yedo, to visit
an American gentleman who held a position in the Foreign
Office, and spent a night at his pretty Japanese house in the
Government grounds. Here being, as it were, in the interior
of the State Department, we got some European news;
among which was the startling intelligence of a revolution in
Turkey, and that Abdul Aziz had been deposed!</p>

<p>In our second excursion about the city, as we had long
distances to traverse, we took two prancing bucks to each
jinrikisha, who ran us such a rig through the streets of Yedo
as made us think of John Gilpin when he rode to London
town. The fellows were like wild colts, so full of life that
they had to kick it off at the heels. Sometimes one pulled
in front while the other pushed behind, but more often they
went tandem, the one in advance drawing by a cord over his
shoulder. The leader was so full of spring that he fairly
bounded over the ground, and if we came to a little elevation,
or arched bridge, he sprang into the air like a catamount,
while his fellow behind, though a little more stiff, as a "wheel
horse" ought to be, bore himself proudly, tossing up his head,
and throwing out his chest, and never lagged for an instant.
C&mdash;&mdash; was delighted, nothing could go too fast for her; but
whether it was fear for my character or for my head, I had
serious apprehension that I should be "smashed" like Chinese
crockery, and poked my steeds in the rear with my umbrella
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_416" id="Page_416">416</a></span>
to signify that I was entirely satisfied with their performances,
and that they need not go any faster!</p>

<p>While in Yedo we attended a meeting of missionaries,
English, Scotch, and American, in a distant part of the city,
and in the evening paid a visit to Prof. Verbeck, who has
been here so long that he is an authority on all Japanese
matters. It was eight o'clock when we set out to return to
our friends in the Foreign Office, and we bade our men take
us through the main streets, that we might have a view of
Yedo by night. The distance was some three miles, the
greater part through the principal street. It was near the
time of the full moon, but fortunately she was hidden to-night
by clouds, for even her soft radiance could not give
such animation and picturesqueness to the scene as the lights
of the city itself. The broad street for two miles was in a
flare of gas-light, like one of the great streets of Paris. The
shops were open and lighted; added to which were hundreds
(perhaps thousands) of <i>jin-riki-shas</i>, each with its Chinese
lantern, glancing two and fro, like so many fireflies on a summer
night, making a scene such as one reads of in the Arabian
Nights, but as I had never witnessed before.</p>

<p>But that which is of most interest to a stranger in Japan,
is not Yedo or Fusiyama, but the sudden revolution which
has taken place in its relations with other countries, and in
its internal condition. This is one of the most remarkable
events in history, which, in a few years, has changed a whole
nation, so that from being the most isolated, the most exclusive,
and the most rigidly conservative, even in Asia, it has
become the most active and enterprising; the most open to
foreign influences; the most hospitable to foreign ideas, and the
most ready to introduce foreign improvements. This change
has taken Japan out of the ranks of the non-progressive
nations, to place it, if not in the van of modern improvement,
at least not very far in the rear. It has taken it out
of the stagnant life of Asia, to infuse into its veins the life
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_417" id="Page_417">417</a></span>
of Europe and America. In a word, it has, as it were, unmoored
Japan from the coast of Asia, and towed it across the
Pacific, to place it alongside of the New World, to have the
same course of life and progress.</p>

<p>It is a singular fact, which, as it has united our two
nations in the past, ought to unite us in the future, that the
opening of Japan came from America. It would have come
in time from the natural growth of the commerce of the
world, but the immediate occasion was the settlement of
California. The first emigration, consequent on the discovery
of gold, was in 1849; the treaty with Japan in 1854. As soon
as there sprang up an American Empire on our Western coast,
there sprang up also an American commerce on the Pacific.
Up to that time, except the whalers from New Bedford that
went round Cape Horn, to cast their harpoons in the North
Pacific, or an occasional vessel to the Sandwich Islands, or that
brought a cargo of tea from China, there were few American
ships in the Pacific. But now it was ploughed by fleets of
ships, and by great lines of steamers. The Western coast of
America faced the Eastern coast of Asia, and there must be commerce
between them. Japan lay in the path to China, and it
was inevitable that there must be peaceful intercourse, or
there would be armed collision. The time had come when the
policy of rigid exclusion could not be permitted any longer.
Of course Japan had the right which belongs to any independent
power, to regulate its commerce with foreign nations.
But there were certain rights which belonged to all nations,
and which might be claimed in the interest of humanity. If
an American ship, in crossing the Pacific on its way to China,
were shipwrecked on the shores of Japan, the sailors who
escaped the perils of the sea had the right to food and shelter&mdash;not
to be regarded as trespassers or held as prisoners.
Yet there had been instances in which such crews had been
treated as captives, and shut up in prison. In one instance
they were exhibited in cages. If they had fallen among
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_418" id="Page_418">418</a></span>
Barbary pirates, they could not have been treated with
greater severity. This state of things must come to an end;
and in gently forcing the issue, our government led the way.
As English ships had broken down the wall of China, so did
an American fleet open the door of Japan, simply by an attitude
of firmness and justice; by demanding nothing but
what was right, and supporting it by an imposing display of
force. Thus Japan was opened to the commerce of America,
and through it of the world, without shedding a drop of
blood.</p>

<p>The result has been almost beyond belief. A quarter of
a century ago no foreign ship could anchor in these waters.
And now here, in sight of the spot where lay the fleet
of Commodore Perry, I see a harbor full of foreign ships.
It struck me strangely, as I sat at our windows in the
Grand Hotel, and looked out upon the tranquil bay. There
lay the Tennessee, not with guns run out and matches
lighted, but in her peaceful dress, with flags flying, not only
from her mast-head, but from all her yards and rigging.
There were also several English ships of war, with Admiral
Ryder in command, from whose flag-ship, as from the Tennessee,
we heard the morning and evening gun, and the bands
playing. The scene was most beautiful by moonlight, when
the ships lay motionless, and the tall masts cast their shadows
on the water, and all was silent, as in so many sleeping
camps, save the bells which struck the hours, and marked the
successive watches all night long. It seemed as if the angel
of peace rested on the moonlit waters, and that nations
would not learn war any more.</p>

<p>The barrier once broken down, foreign commerce began to
enter the waters of Japan. American ships appeared at the
open ports. As if to give them welcome, lighthouses were built
at exposed points on the coast, so that they might approach
without danger. A foreign settlement sprung up at Yokohama.
By and by young men went abroad to see the world,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_419" id="Page_419">419</a></span>
or to be educated in Europe or America, and came back with
reports of the wealth and power of foreign nations. Soon a
spirit of imitation took possession of Young Japan. These
students affected even the fashions of foreign countries, and
appeared in the streets of Yedo in coat and pantaloons, instead
of the old Japanese dress; and ate no longer with chopsticks,
but with knives and forks. Thus manners and customs changed,
to be followed by a change in laws and in the government
itself. Till now Japan had had a double-headed government,
with two sovereigns and two capitals. But now there was a
revolution in the country, the Tycoon was overthrown, and
the Mikado, laying aside his seclusion and his invisibility,
came from Kioto to Yedo, and assumed the temporal power,
and showed himself to his people. The feudal system was
abolished, and the proud daimios&mdash;who, with their clans of
armed retainers, the <i>samourai</i>, or two-sworded men, were
independent princes&mdash;were stripped of their estates, which
sometimes were as large as German principalities, and forced
to disband their retainers, and reduced to the place of pensioners
of the government. The army and navy were reconstructed
on European models. Instead of the old Japanese
war-junks, well-armed frigates were seen in the Bay of Yedo&mdash;a
force which has enabled Japan to take a very decided
tone in dealing with China, in the matter of the island of Formosa;
and made its power respected along the coast of Eastern
Asia. We saw an embassy from Corea passing through
the streets of Yokohama, on its way to Yedo, to pay homage
to the Mikado, and enter into peaceful relations with Japan.
A new postal system has been introduced, modelled on our
own. In Yokohama one sees over a large building the sign
"The Japanese Imperial Post-Office," and the postman goes
his rounds, delivering his letters and papers as in England
and America. There is no opposition to the construction of
railroads, as in China. Steamers ply around the coast and
through the Inland Sea; and telegraphs extend from one end
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_420" id="Page_420">420</a></span>
of the Empire to the other; and crossing the sea, connect
Japan with the coast of Asia, and with all parts of the world.
Better than all, the government has adopted a general system
of national education, at the head of which is our own Prof.
Murray; it has established schools and colleges, and introduced
teachers from Europe and America. In Yedo I was
taken by Prof. McCartee to see a large and noble institution
for the education of girls, established under the patronage of
the Empress. These are signs of progress that cannot be
paralleled in any other nation in the world.</p>

<p>With such an advance in less than one generation, what
may we not hope in the generation to come? In her efforts
at progress, Japan deserves the sympathy and support of the
whole civilized world. Having responded to the demand for
commercial intercourse, she has a just claim to be placed on
the footing of the most favored nations. Especially is she
entitled to expect friendship from our country. As it fell to
America to be the instrument of opening Japan, it ought to
be our pride to show her that the new path into which we
led her, is a path of peace and prosperity. Japan is our nearest
neighbor on the west, as Ireland is on the east; and among
nations, as among individuals, neighbors ought to be friends.
It seemed a good token that the American Union Church in
Yokohama should stand on the very spot where Commodore
Perry made his treaty with Japan&mdash;the beginning, let us hope,
of immeasurable good to both nations. As India is a part of
the British Empire, and may look to England to secure for
her the benefits of modern civilization, so the duty of stretching
out a hand across the seas to Japan, may fairly be laid on
the American church and the American people.</p>

<p>Our visit was coming to an end. A day or two we spent
in the shops, buying photographs and bronzes, and in paying
farewell visits to the missionaries, who had shown us so much
kindness. The "parting cup" of tea we took at Dr. Hepburn's,
and from his windows had a full view of Fusiyama, that
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_421" id="Page_421">421</a></span>
looked out upon us once more in all his glory. We were to
embark that evening, to sail at daylight. Mr. John Ballagh
and several ladies of "The Home," who had made us
welcome in their pleasant circle, "accompanied us to the
ship." We had a long row across the bay just as the moon
was rising, covering the waters with silver, and making the
great ships look like mighty shadows as they stood up
against the sky. "On such a night" we took our farewell
of Asia.</p>

<p>The next morning very early we were sailing down the bay
of Yedo, and were soon out on the Pacific. But the coast
remained long in sight, and we sat on deck watching the
receding shores of a country which in three weeks had
become so familiar and so dear; and when at last it sunk
beneath the waters, we left our "benediction" on that beautiful
island set in the Northern Seas.</p>

<p>We did not steer straight for San Francisco, although it is
in nearly the same latitude as Yokohama, but turned north,
following what navigators call a Great Circle, on the principle
that as they get high up on the globe, the degrees of
longitude are shorter, and thus they can "cut across" at the
high latitudes. "It is nearer to go around the hill than to
go over it." We took a prodigious sweep, following the <i>Kuroshiwo</i>,
or Black Current, the Gulf Stream of the Pacific, which
flows up the coast of Asia, and down the coast of America.
We bore away to the north till we were off the coast of Kamschatka,
and within a day's sail of Petropaulovski, before we
turned East. Our ship was "The Oceanic," of the famous
White Star line, which, if not so magnificent as "The City
of Peking," was quite as swift a sailer, cleaving the waters
like a sea-bird. In truth, the albatrosses that came about
the ship for days from the Aleutian Islands, now soaring in
air, and now skimming the waters, did not float along more
easily or more gracefully.</p>

<p>As we crossed the 180th degree of longitude, just half the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_422" id="Page_422">422</a></span>
way around the world from the Royal Observatory at Greenwich,
we "gained a day," or rather, recovered one that we
had lost. As we had started eastward, we lost a few minutes
each day, and had to set our watches every noon. We were
constantly changing our meridian, so that no day ended
where it began, and we never had a day of full twenty-four
hours, but always a few minutes, like sands, had
crumbled away. By the time we reached England, five
hours had thus dropped into the sea; and when we had compassed
the globe, we had parted, inch by inch, moment by
moment, with a whole day. It seemed as if this were so
much blotted out from the sum of our being&mdash;gone in the
vast and wandering air&mdash;lost in the eternities, from which
nothing is ever recovered. But these lost moments and
hours were all gathered up in the chambers of the East, and
now in mid-ocean, one morning brought us a day not in the
calendar, to be added to the full year. Two days bore the
same date, the 18th of June, and as this fell on a Sunday,
two holy days came together&mdash;one the Sabbath of Asia,
the other of America. It seemed fit that this added day
should be a sacred one, for it was something taken, as it
were, from another portion of time to be added to our lives&mdash;a
day which came to us fresh from its ocean baptism, with
not a tear of sorrow or a thought of sin to stain its purity;
and we kept a double Sabbath in the midst of the sea.</p>

<p>Seventeen days on the Pacific, with nothing to break the
boundless monotony! In all that breadth of ocean which
separates Asia and America, we saw not a single sail on the
horizon; and no land, not even an island, till we came in
sight of those shores which are dearer to us than any other
in all the round world.</p>

<p>Here, in sight of land, this story ends. There is no need
to tell of crossing the continent, which completed our circuit
of the globe, but only to add in a word the lesson and the
moral of this long journey. Going around the world is an
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_423" id="Page_423">423</a></span>
education. It is not a mere pastime; it is often a great
fatigue; but it is a means of gaining knowledge which can
only be obtained by observation. Charles V. used to say
that "the more languages a man knew, he was so many more
times a man." Each new form of human speech introduced
him into a new world of thought and life. So in some degree
is it in traversing other continents, and mingling with other
races. However great America may be, it is "something"
to add to it a knowledge of Europe and Asia. Unless one be
encased in pride, or given over to "invincible ignorance," it
will teach him modesty. He will boast less of his own country,
though perhaps he will love it more. He will see the
greatness of other nations, and the virtues of other people.
Even the turbaned Orientals may teach us a lesson in dignity
and courtesy&mdash;a lesson of repose, the want of which is a defect
in our national character. In every race there is something
good&mdash;some touch of gentleness that makes the whole
world kin. Those that are most strange and far from us,
as we approach them, show qualities that win our love and
command our respect.</p>

<p>In all these wanderings, I have met no rudeness in word
or act from Turks or Arabs, Hindoos or Malays, Chinese
or Japanese; but have often received kindness from strangers.
The one law that obtains in all nations is the law of kindness.
Have I not a right to say that to know men is to love them,
not to hate them nor despise them?</p>

<p>He who hath made of one blood all nations of men to dwell
on the earth, hath not forgotten any of His children. There
is a beauty in every country and in every clime. Each zone
of the earth is belted with its peculiar vegetation; and there
is a beauty alike in the pines on Norwegian hills, and the
palms on African deserts. So with the diversities of the
human race. Man inhabits all climes, and though he changes
color with the sun, and has many varieties of form and feature,
yet the race is the same; all have the same attributes
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_424" id="Page_424">424</a></span>
of humanity, and under a white or black skin beats the same
human heart. In writing of peoples far remote, my wish
has been to bring them nearer, and to bind them to us by
closer bonds of sympathy. If these pictures of Asia make
it a little more real, and inspire the feeling of a common
nature with the dusky races that live on the other side of the
globe, and so infuse a larger knowledge and a gentler charity,
then a traveller's tale may serve as a kind of lay sermon,
teaching peace and good will to men.</p>

<h3 class="p6">FOOTNOTES:</h3>

<p class="footnote"><a name="Footnote_1" id="Footnote_1" href="#FNanchor_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> That we may not do injustice, we add the excuse which is given,
which is, that such attendance of the police is necessary to prevent
a general mélée and bloodshed. It seems that these fakirs, holy as
they are, belong to different sects, between which there are deadly
feuds, and if left to themselves unrestrained, when brought into
close contact in a procession, they might tear each other in pieces.
But this would be no great loss to the world.</p>

<p class="footnote"><a name="Footnote_2" id="Footnote_2" href="#FNanchor_2"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> Mr. Talboys Wheeler.</p>

<p class="footnote"><a name="Footnote_3" id="Footnote_3" href="#FNanchor_3"><span class="label">[3]</span></a> There are many parallels between Louis XIV. and Aurungzebe.
They were contemporaries&mdash;and both had long reigns, the former a
little over, and the latter a little less than, half a century. They
were the most splendid sovereigns of their time&mdash;one in Europe, and
the other in Asia, and with both the extravagance and prodigality of
the monarchs prepared the way for revolution after their deaths.</p>

<p class="footnote"><a name="Footnote_4" id="Footnote_4" href="#FNanchor_4"><span class="label">[4]</span></a> This is given as an average distance in an air line. The nearest
peak, Boonderpunch (Monkey's Tail), is forty-five miles as the crow
flies, though by the nearest accessible route, it is a hundred and
forty! Nunda Davee is a hundred and ten in an air line, but by the
paths over the mountains, must be over two hundred.</p>

<p class="footnote"><a name="Footnote_5" id="Footnote_5" href="#FNanchor_5"><span class="label">[5]</span></a> A very fascinating book, especially to Alpine tourists, or those
fond of climbing mountains. The title, "The Abode of Snow," is a
translation of the word Himalaya. The writer is a son of the late
Dr. Wilson, of Bombay. Taking a new field, he has produced a
story of travel and adventure, which will be apt to tempt others to
follow him.</p>

<p class="footnote"><a name="Footnote_6" id="Footnote_6" href="#FNanchor_6"><span class="label">[6]</span></a> "Narrative of Mr. Shepherd." He owed his escape to the fact
that before the surrender of the garrison he had made an attempt
to pass through the rebel lines and carry word to Allahabad to hasten
the march of troops to its relief, and had been taken and thrown
into prison, and was there at the time of the massacre.</p>

<p class="footnote"><a name="Footnote_7" id="Footnote_7" href="#FNanchor_7"><span class="label">[7]</span></a> As the historian of the mutiny has frequent occasion to speak of
the treachery of the Sepoys, it should not be forgotten that to this
there were splendid exceptions; that some were "found faithful
among the faithless." Even in the regiments that mutinied there
were some who were not carried away by the general madness; and,
when the little remnant of English soldiers retreated into the Residency,
these loyal natives went with them, and shared all the dangers
and hardships of the siege. Even after it was begun, they were
exposed to every temptation to seduce them from their allegiance;
for as the lines of the besiegers drew closer to the Residency and
hemmed it in on every side, the assailants were so near that they
could talk with those within over the palisades of the intrenchments,
and the Sepoys appealed to their late fellow-soldiers by
threats, and taunts, and promises; by pride of race and of caste; by
their love of country and of their religion, to betray the garrison.
But not a man deserted his post. Hundreds were killed in the siege,
and their blood mingled with that of their English companions-in-arms.
History does not record a more noble instance of fidelity.</p>

<p class="footnote"><a name="Footnote_8" id="Footnote_8" href="#FNanchor_8"><span class="label">[8]</span></a> There are not many Americans in Calcutta, and as they are few,
we are the more concerned that they should be respectable, and not
dishonor our national character. Sometimes I am told we have had
representatives of whom we had no reason to be proud. We are now
most fortunate in our Consul, General Litchfield, a gentleman of excellent
character, who is very obliging to his countrymen, and commands
in a high degree the respect of the English community.
There is here also an American pastor, Dr. Thorburn, who is very
popular, and whose people are building him a new church while he
is absent on a visit to his own country; and what attracts a stranger
still more, an excellent family of American ladies, engaged in the
Zenana Mission, which is designed to reach Hindoo women, who, as
they live in strict seclusion, can never hear of Christianity except
through those of their own sex. This hospitable "Home" was
made ours for a part of the time that we were in Calcutta, for which,
and for all the kindness of these excellent ladies, we hold it in grateful
remembrance.</p>

<p class="footnote"><a name="Footnote_9" id="Footnote_9" href="#FNanchor_9"><span class="label">[9]</span></a> This book furnishes a good illustration of the incidental service
which missionaries&mdash;aside from the religious work they do&mdash;render
to the cause of geography, of science, and of literature. They are
the most indefatigable explorers, and the most faithful and authentic
narrators of what they see. Its full title is: "<span class="smcap">Burmah</span>: its People
and Natural Productions; or Notes on the Natives, Fauna, Flora,
and Minerals, of Tenasserim, Pegu, and Burmah; With systematic
catalogues of the known Mammals, Birds, Fishes, Reptiles, Insects,
Mollusks, Crustaceans, Anellides, Radiates, Plants, and Minerals, with
vernacular names." In his preface the writer says:</p>

<p class="footnote">"No pretensions are made in this work to completeness. It is not
a book composed in the luxury of literary leisure, but a collection of
Notes [What is here so modestly called Notes, is an octavo of over
900 pages] which I have been making during the twenty years of my
residence in this country, in the corners of my time that would otherwise
have been wasted. Often to forget my weariness when travelling,
when it has been necessary to bivouac in the jungles; while the
Karens have been seeking fuel for their night-fires, or angling for
their suppers in the stream; I have occupied myself with analyzing
the flowers that were blooming around my couch; or examining the
fish that were caught; or an occasional reptile, insect, or bird, that
attracted my attention. With such occupations I have brightened
many a solitary hour; and often has the most unpromising situation
proved fruitful in interest; for 'the barren heath, with its mosses,
lichens, and insects, its stunted shrubs and pale flowers, becomes a
paradise under the eye of observation; and to the genuine thinker
the sandy beach and the arid wild are full of wonders.'"</p>

<p class="footnote"><a name="Footnote_10" id="Footnote_10" href="#FNanchor_10"><span class="label">[10]</span></a> Dr. S. Wells Williams, who was familiar with Buddhism during
his forty years residence in China, says ("Middle Kingdom," Vol.
II., p. 257):</p>

<p class="footnote">"The numerous points of similarity between the rites of the Buddhists
and those of the Romish Church, early attracted attention, ...
such as the vow of celibacy in both sexes, the object of their seclusion,
the loss of hair, taking a new name and looking after the care of
the convent. There are many grounds for supposing that their favorite
goddess Kwanyin, i. e., the Hearer of Cries, called also Holy
Mother, Queen of Heaven, is only another form of Our Lady. The
monastic habit, holy water, counting rosaries to assist in prayer, the
ordinances of celibacy and fasting, and reciting masses for the dead,
worship of relics, and canonization of saints, are alike features of
both sects. Both burn candles and incense, and bells are much used
in their temples: both teach a purgatory, from which the soul can
be delivered by prayers, and use a dead language for their liturgy,
and their priests pretend to miracles. These striking resemblances
led the Romish missionaries to suppose that some of them had been
derived from the Romanists or Syrians who entered China before the
twelfth century; others referred them to St. Thomas, but Prémare
ascribes them to the devil, who had thus imitated holy mother
church in order to scandalize and oppose its rights. But as Davis
observes: 'To those who admit that most of the Romish ceremonies
are borrowed directly from Paganism, there is less difficulty in accounting
for the resemblance.'"</p>

<p class="footnote">The following scene in a Buddhist temple described by an eye-witness,
answers to what is often seen in Romish churches:</p>

<p class="footnote">"There stood fourteen priests, seven on each side of the altar,
erect, motionless, with clasped hands and downcast eyes, their shaven
heads and flowing gray robes adding to their solemn appearance. The
low and measured tones of the slowly moving chant they were singing
might have awakened solemn emotions, and called away the
thoughts from worldly objects. Three priests kept time with the
music, one beating an immense drum, another a large iron vessel,
and a third a wooden bell. After chanting, they kneeled upon low
stools, and bowed before the colossal image of Buddha, at the same
time striking their heads upon the ground. Then rising and facing
each other, they began slowly chanting some sentences, and rapidly
increasing the music and their utterance until both were at the climax
of rapidity, they diminished in the same way until they had returned
to the original measure.... The whole service forcibly
reminded me of scenes in Romish chapels."</p>

<p class="footnote"><a name="Footnote_11" id="Footnote_11" href="#FNanchor_11"><span class="label">[11]</span></a> Dr. Haswell died a few months after we left Burmah.</p>

<p class="footnote"><a name="Footnote_12" id="Footnote_12" href="#FNanchor_12"><span class="label">[12]</span></a> As this incident has excited a great deal of interest, I am happy
to give it as it occurred from an eye-witness. One who was on board
of Commodore Tatnall's ship writes:</p>

<p class="footnote">"I was present at the battle in the Pei-ho in 1859, and know all
the particulars. Admiral Hope having been wounded, was urged to
bring up the marines before sunset, and sent his aid down to take
them off the three junks, where they were waiting at the mouth of
the river. The aid came on board the "Toeywan" to see Commodore
Tatnall, tell him the progress of the battle, and what he had
been sent down for, adding that, as the tide was running out, it
would be hard work getting up again. As he went on, Tatnall began
to get restless, and turning to me (I sat next), said: 'Blood is thicker
than water; I don't care if they do take away my commission.'
Then turning to his own flag-lieutenant at the other end of the table,
he said aloud: 'Get up steam;' and everything was ready for a start
in double-quick time. When all was prepared, the launches, full of
marines, were towed into action by the "Toeywan"; and casting
them off, the Commodore left in his barge to go on board the British
flag-ship, to see the wounded Admiral. On the way his barge was
hit, his coxswain killed, and the rest just managed to get on board
the "Lee" before their boat sunk, owing their lives probably to
his presence of mind. It was only the men in this boat's crew who
helped to work the British guns. I suppose Tatnall never meant his
words to be repeated, but Hope's aid overheard them, and thus immortalized
them."</p>








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