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THE OTHER SIDE
OF THE LANTI

SIR FREDERICK TREVES

THE OTHER SIDE OF
THE LANTERN

THE GARDEN OF THE UNFORGOTTEN.

THE OTHER SIDE
OF THE LANTERN

AN ACCOUNT OF A COMMONPLACE
TOUR ROUND THE WORLD

SIR FREDERICK TREVES, BART.

G.C.V.O., C.B., LL.D.

Sergeant-Surgeon to H.M. the King. Author of "The Tale of a Field Hospital "
«• The Cradle of the Deep."

WITH FORTY ILLUSTRATIONS FROM
PHOTOGRAPHS BY THE AUTHOR

POPULAR EDITION

GASSELL AND COMPANY, LTD.

London, New York, Toronto and Melbourne

1910

First Edition January 1905.

Reprinted January, February i and 20, March, May and October 1905, 1906.
Popular Edition July 1906. Reprinted November 1906, 1907, 1908, 1910.

GIFT

DEDICATED
BY SPECIAL PERMISSION

His MOST GRACIOUS MAJESTY
KING EDWARD VII

M899339

PREFACE

A PAPER lantern, round and red, hangs under a cloud of cherry
blossom in a Japanese village. There is a very familiar flower
symbol painted upon one side of it. Some children have crossed
the green to see what is on the other side of the lantern. A
like curiosity has led to the writing of this trivial book.

London, October, 1904.

CONTENTS

PART I.— THE MEDITERRANEAN AND THE RED SEA

• PAGE

THE STARTING FROM TILBURY i

II.

THE MEDITERRANEAN 6

III.

THE STAGE VILLAIN'S TOWN 12

IV.

COALING AT PORT SAID 16

THE SUEZ CANAL 19

VI.

THE RED SEA 23

VII.

THE IDLER AT SEA 27

PART IL— INDIA

THE COMING TO INDIA 29

II.

AN IMPRESSION OF INDIA 33

HI.

THE WHITES AND THE BROWNS 42

IV.
THE BAZAAR 51

x *^*" CONTENTS.

V. PAGE

AGRA AND ITS BOOK OF KINGS 57

VI.

THE FORT AT AGRA 63

VII.

THE PALACE IN THE FORT 65

VIII.

THE TAJ MAHAL 78

IX.

THE TOMB OF A SCHEMER 83

THE CITY OF UNTRODDEN STREETS 85

XI.

THE MAUSOLEUM AT SIK&NDRA 88

XII.
DELHI 90

XIII.

Two MOSQUES IN DELHI 93

XIV.

AN INDIAN EDEN 96

XV.

THE RIDGE AT DELHI .100

XVI.

THE KASHMIR GATE 109

XVII.

THE GARDEN OF THE UNFORGOTTEN . . . .115

XVIII.

THE PILLARS OF GOLIATH AND DAVID . . . .120

XIX.

THE SURPRISING CITY OF JEYPORE 123

XX.

AMBER . . .131

CONTENTS. ^ xi

XXI. FAG*

UDAIPUR BY THE LAKE 136

XXII.
A PALACE GATEWAY 141

XXIII.

CHITOR AND THE POOL IN THE CLIFF . . . .144

XXIV.
SIMLA 149

XXV.

THE MEN WITH THE PLANKS 155

XXVI.

THE CITY OF TRAMPLED FLOWERS 158

XXVII.

THE GHATS AT BENARES . 163

XXVIII.
CAWNPORE 167

XXIX.

THE RESIDENCY AT LUCKNOW 180

XXX.

ON THE WAY TO BURMAH . . . . .189

PART III— BURMAH AND CEYLON

RANGOON AND THE BURMAN 193

II.

THE LADIES OF CREATION 196

III.

THE GOLDEN PAGODA 201

IV.

THE FOREST OF YOUTH 208

THE PALACE OF THE KING OF KINGS . 211

xii ^* CONTENTS.

VI.

A BURMESE PUBLIC LIBRARY 218

VII.

THE IRRAWADDY 222

VIII.

THE CAPITAL CITY OF CEYLON 225

IX.

THE CINGALESE AND THEIR DEALINGS WITH DEVILS . 230

THE WILD GARDEN 236

XI.

KANDY AND THE TEMPLE OF FRANGIPANNI BLOSSOMS . 238

XII.

PENANG AND SINGAPORE 243

XIII.

A PRIMITIVE VENICE 249

XIV.

THE MANGROVE SWAMP 250

PART IV.— CHINA

THE ISLAND OF THE MIST . . . . . .252

II.

A THEATRE AND A HOSPITAL . . . . . .258

III.

THE PEARL RIVER 261

IV.

A FLOATING SUBURB 267

V.
THE NIGHTMARE CITY OF CANTON 271

VI.

WHITE CLOUD HILL 278

THE HEALING OF

CONTENTS.

VII.

THE SlCK . . .

^^ xiii

PAGE
283

THE UPHOLDING c
THE MAN OF THE

VIII.

)F THE LAW .

IX.

WORLD

. 288

2Q3

SHANGHAI

. 299

PART V.— JAPAN

THE FIRST SIGHT OF JAPAN 301

II.

THE INLAND SEA AND CERTAIN TOWNS . . . .305

ill.

THE CAPITAL OF OLD JAPAN 309

IV.

THE BUYING OF AN INCENSE-BURNER . . . .313

THE JAPANESE GARDEN 318

VI.

A RELIGION OF CHERRY-BLOSSOM AND OLD MEMORIES 326

VII.

THE GENTLE LIFE 333

VIII.

THE JAPANESE THEATRE 338

IX.

TOKYO THE REFORMED 343

THE ST. PETER'S OF JAPAN 349

XI.

THREE TEMPLES IN KYOTO 352

xiv ^^ CONTENTS.

A JAPANESE DINNER .

XII.
• 1 • I

PACK
• S^O

XIII.

364

XIV.

XV.

XVI.

NIKKO .

XVII.

• •••••

• 383

THE CHERRY FESTIVAL
THE PEOPLE OF THE Coi
SIGNS OF THE TIMES .

XVIII.

388

XIX.

LJNTRY.

303

XX.

• •«•••

. 400

PART

VI— AMERICA

THE SANDWICH ISLANDS

• 405

THE YOSEMITE VALLEY
THE SCENE OF THE END

ii.

4OQ

in.

OF THE WORLD

- 415

INDEX 421

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

THE GARDEN OF THE UNFORGOTTEN Frontispiece

THE BAZAAR: DELHI . . To face page 52

THE GOLDEN PAVILION AT AGRA : THE TAJ MAHAL IN THE

DISTANCE ,, „ 66

THE TAJ MAHAL, FROM A WINDOW IN THE PALACE AT AGRA „ „ 76

THE TAJ MAHAL ,, ,, 80

GATEWAY OF THE PALACE AT FVTEHPUR-SIKRI . . ,, ,,84

THE GREAT GATE OF VICTORY, FATEHPUR-SIKRI . . . ,, ,,86

THE KASHMIR GATE „ ,, no

THE CITY OF UDAIPUR, FROM ONE OF THE ISLAND PALACES „ ,, 136

AN ISLAND PALACE, UDAIPUR ,, ,, 138

THE GHATS, BENARES ,, ,, 164

THE RESIDENCY, LUCKNOW ,, „ 184

THE MOAT, MANDALAY . . • . . . . ,, „ 214

A CORNER OF THE PALACE AT MANDALAY . ..,,,, 216

THE IRRAWADDY ........... 222

A POND IN THE TROPICS „ „ 236

THE LAKE OF KANDY ,, „ 238

A. MALAY VILLAGE, SINGAPORE ,, ,, 248

THE CANTON RIVER „ „ 262

A STREET IN SHANGHAI ........,,,, 298

A SHANGHAI WHEELBARROW ,, ,, 300

A JAPANESE HOUSE AND MATSU TREE „ ,.302

A STREET IN KYOTO ,, „ 310

A JAPANESE SUMMER-HOUSE .......,,,, 318

A BUDDHIST TEMPLE, KURODANI ,, ,, 322

THE TEMPLE GATE „ „ 326

xvi **^ LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

OVERLOOKING LAKE BIWA To face page 328

THE TEMPLE OF KITANO TENJIN AND ITS PLUM TREE . ,, ,, 330

A SHINTO TEMPLE ,, „ 336

A RELIGIOUS PROCESSION AT KYOTO ,, ,, 354

THE TEMPLE OF THE Fox „ ,, 356

THE CHERRY TREE BY THE MONASTERY WALK . . „ „ 358

THE PALACE MOAT, TOKYO „ „ 370

A COUNTRY HOUSE „ ,, 376

KARA „ „ 380

NlKKO . . . ,, >, 384

CHERRY BLOSSOM „ „ 39°

DIAMOND HEAD, HONOLULU „ „ 408

THE YOSEMITE VALLEY ,, „ 4*2

IN THE BIG TREE GROVE, CALIFORNIA ..•..,,,, 414

THE OTHER SIDE OF
THE LANTERN

part 5

THE MEDITERRANEAN AND THE RED SEA

THE STARTING FROM TILBURY.

TlLBURY on the Thames is quite a fitting place from which to
take ship for a journey to the Radiant East, especially when the
time is November and when the river is shut in by a freezing fog.
The spot is benumbing and without sentiment, but it has some
interest by contrast It is the grey curtain hanging before the
brilliant scenes of the play.

The voyager, leaving his native island, who would follow en-
tailed impressions, should start from a sunny cove in Devonshire
and put off in a boat He should hear the keel of the galley slide
down the pebbled beach to the tread of heavy boots, and should
take the splashing sea suddenly. Ruddy men should row him
and his luggage to the ship, while those who wave handkerchiefs
on the shore should have behind them a green coomb full of com-
fortable shadows, and above them gorse-covered downs. There
should be no sounds but the rumble and swish of the oars, the
babbling of the water against the boat's bow, and the cry of the
disturbed seagull.

This, however, is not, in modern view, the embarquement de
luxe. Those " who go down to the sea in ships " go down in a

2 ~ THE MEDITERRANEAN.

too-animated train filled with restless and disordered folk and their
disorderly belongings. Labels, parcels, fragments of refreshments,
messages of farewell, unopened letters, and a variable ruin of
flowers hang about these people. From the strange assortment
of things they clutch some of them might be escaping from a modern
Pompeii. They have for the most part adopted that ill-formulated
clothing which an undecided public considers to be " suited for
the sea" — steamer hats, steamer cloaks, steamer boots. There
are women made repulsive by the headgear of men and sober
elders garbed like Captain Kettle. There is such a medley of
wardrobes that the most dull of men may appear as compounded of
a ship's steward and a deer-stalker, while his wife may have the
head of a golf caddie on the body of a cook.

They talk or laugh or weep in gusts. They exhibit unaccount-
able impulses and alarms. A man springs up in the carriage with
set lips and glaring eyes and pats himself all over in search of a
wallet he has already locked in a trunk. A woman, with a glance
of terror, plunges into a bag by her side, and claws up its con-
tents as a terrier digs up earth, in a quest as futile as that of the
Philosopher's Stone.

As the train nears the docks it puffs gingerly across many
lines of rail, dodging rows of sheds, ramparts of boxes, or barricades
of timber. It hesitates many times, going, as it were, step by step
and feeling its way. When the damp quay side is reached, the
people drop from the train with such hurry that it might be about
to sink into the tide. There is surely not a moment to be lost!
They stumble and reel along the dock, dragging bags and rugs,
children and trunks, over ropes and chains, round Gargantuan
posts, and under appalling cranes. Their hurry and anxiety are
such that the train might have come from Sodom or Gomorrah.

When the ship is gained they still find no peace. They
skurry over the deck, up and down the staircases, and along
the corridors, like ants in a disturbed ant-heap, and still drag-
ging things. It would appear that there is scarcely a person
who has not lost something — a child, or a bundle, or the
site of a cabin. The ship is to them a maze with many ends,
where all ends are alike. They perceive folk going down a stair,

TILBURY. " 3

so they press after them. They see food laid out in a saloon, so
they hasten to eat it — but absently, with their loins girded and a
sense that at any moment they may be compelled to jump up to
commence again the blind tramp of the ship.

Whistles and bells cause shocks which, on every recurrence, gal-
vanise the lethargic into movement. The great underlying passion
throughout the vessel is a primary one — to make for the utmost
comfort and to miss nothing that the gods (or the shipping com-
pany) may provide. As an arena for the display of the resources of
selfishness a departing ship has great advantage.

At last there come three ghostly blasts from a whistle. The
moment is here when the " friends " are to leave the ship, and the
deck becomes dotted with groups of individuals simultaneously bid-
ding one another farewell. It would seem as if at once they had
become emotional by signal. A great spasm of feeling has seized
the little companies on deck, and if a ship could feel, its beams
would be thrilled by all the misery and forlornness which lie in the
hollow of two clasped hands.

The " friends " leave the ship like a funeral procession, line up
on the quay — a phalanx of blank wretchedness, spurious hilarity,
and lack of invention in the matter of facial expression and
of utterance. It is obvious that many are at their wits' end to
fill the great gaps of silence by appropriate speech. They are,
however, promptly driven, like offending sheep, into the waiting
train by porters who regard displays of emotion as means merely
of making trains late, and who invade the silence of grief by the
hearty clanging of bells.

The " friends " at last are off, but not the ship. In due course,
however, with infinite slowness and apparent reluctance, the great
vessel is coaxed out of the dock into the Thames as one would
lead some large suspicious beast into a pool.

The Tilbury of a November day opens into view. This spot
then is the starting point, the Cape Farewell, the white headland
of home which, according to all traditions, should be gazed at
until it fades from the sight. Owing to the mist Tilbury has an
aptitude for fading, but no other suitable quality. As a land-
scape it is a fitting background for any conception of human dreari-

4 THE MEDITERRANEAN.

ness, so that those on the ship who are most bereft must feel
that the place is quite in accord with their miseries. It is certainly
a scene which can claim to be appropriate to " all those who are
anyways afflicted or distressed in mind, body, or estate."

Such happy possessions as this spot may have owned in ancient
days, or under the summer sun, have been torn from it, and so com-
plete has been the sack that little is left but the mist, the rank flat,
some untidy lumber, and the mud.

The Thames creeps from under the fog, as if it came forth from
a tunnel. Here at Tilbury it is a villainous tramp of a river. Dirty,
sullen, and strong, it lurches down to the sea. It seems to revel
in its dirtiness, for every eddy it turns up brings from the depths
fresh realisations of a deeper dirt. It rubs its muddy shoulders
along the shrinking banks, so that they are soiled by its touch.
Mud and mist replace the glories of stream and sky. Where there
may have been fields trodden by leisurely folk, with stiles for them
to rest at and hedgerows for them to make love among, there are
gullies and dykes of slime, a village of dismal sheds, and a spinney
of cranes and derricks. The very grass, struggling up among ashes
and rusting iron, looks lean and dissipated.

All this is the outcome of man's enterprise and industry. The
huge, beery ogre of labour, dirty and sweating from his work, has
thrown himself down in the lady's garden, and the lilies and
roses are crushed and sullied by his inconsiderate form.

In the background towards London there rises in the mist, be-
yond a palisade of masts, a forest of chimneys with foliage of smoke.
Ships seem to be standing on dry land, and factories to be floating
on the river. Spars and rigging, which have hummed with the
bright wind of the Indies, hang over rows of callous houses. Here
and there is a puff of red flame from a furnace door — a will o' the
wisp in a mist of soot.

The stream would appear to come from a Purgatorio of labour,
from some spectral workshop in which there is no rest from the
dulness of eternal toil. Yet there is something about the place
characteristic of England, of the obstinate energy of the race, and
of its brutal disregard of all obstacles physical, moral, or aesthetic
when work is to be done or money is to be made.

TILBURY. 5

The steamer swings at last towards the sea, and her long
journey is begun. The chilled dock quay is deserted save for a few
men who are languidly dragging in wet ropes, and a few others
who are absorbed in what Stevenson calls that " richest form of
idleness — hanging about harbour sides."

Half crouching behind a pile of rusty boiler plates one solitary
sobbing woman is trying to hide herself and yet keep her eyes on
the ship. She is the only one of the " friends " who has deliberately
failed to catch the special train. She alone of the host has re-
mained to see the vessel start on its way. She is a middle-aged
widow of lamentable aspect, who has come to see her only son off to
India. As she watches, she mops her eyes with a handkerchief
rolled up into an anguished ball. She hides because her dear son
would be vexed if she had not returned by the train as he had
ordered her. The dear son at the moment is drinking whiskey
and water in the second-class saloon with unrestrained delight.
He has already confided to the acquaintance of an hour how much
money " he has screwed out of the old mater."

It is the " old mater " alone who watches the ship glide away
and be lost in the mist

II.

THE MEDITERRANEAN.

As to the actual leaving of England very little lingers in the
memory. The afternoon is passed drifting down a dun river in a
faint flat country. The river seems to wander where it likes
through an unresisting swamp. The banks become more distant
and less definite, but no one notes where the river ends and the
sea begins. The steamer drifts into the ocean and on into the
night. A row of yellow dots against the utter darkness is Dover ;
a longer and a larger row is Brighton, and that is the last that
the ordinary passenger sees of the delectable island

By the following morning the pilot has been dropped, the
steamer is well away down the Channel, and on the next day is in
the Bay of Biscay. This bay has been so much abused that the
dread of it is apparently constitutional Yet in the experience of
many it is more often smooth than rough. On this particular
voyage the sea was as calm as a village mill pond the whole way
from London to Port Said. On every day there was fine weather
from dawn to sundown. As soon as the Thames was left behind
and the night in the Channel was passed the ship sailed into
summer.

On the third day the Burlengas came into view early in the
morning. Afar off these little islands look like half-molten ice-
bergs resting on the sea. As they were approached gaunt yellow
cliffs stood up. Above them were quiet downs, and it was a matter
of wonder if any just awakened islander was watching the ship
glide by from some hidden cove. At the foot of the cliffs, waves
were tumbling languidly among the rocks, while within the black
shadow among the crags one could fancy

"the blind wave feeling round his long sea-hall."
6

GIBRALTAR. * ;

Beyond the islands came a phantom coast with white specks
and patches for houses and towns and strips of fawn-coloured sand
for beaches. Between the land and the ship a few white fishing
vessels stood out into the bay, and ahead of the little fleet porpoises
rollicked along with the streaming tide.

On the morning of the next day the steamer came to Gibraltar.

The first impression of this famous colony is one of aggrieved
disappointment. It is so unlike the photographs and pictures
which have been familiar from youth. Of that grim precipice which
rises sheer from the sea of the pictures there is no trace. There
is nothing terrible or menacing or even soldier-like about Gibraltar
as seen from the western sea. It does not suggest a tunnelled
rock nor a lurking ambush full of guns, nor could any place look
less like an impregnable fortress.

Where are the walls, the trenches, the frowning ramparts, the
glacis, and the bastions ?

All that one sees is a steep hillside bare enough towards the
sky, but full of the harmless shadow of trees about its foot. There
is a harbour, around which crowds a homely, shrinking town, with
a glimpse here and there of gardens and nursemaidenly walks.
On the summit of the hillside is a look-out, from which women
might watch for the home-coming of fishing boats as the sun went
down.

There are certain features, however, in the landscape which are
anomalous. The harbour is evidently something more than a
haven for fishing-boats, for between the green slope and the sea
are many grey and monstrous ships of war, which are like anything
but ships. One, indeed, looks like a half-submerged gasometer
with the skeleton of an iron foundry erected on its sullen dome.

Ashore bugles are to be heard from time to time, and lines
of white helmets in steady march show that there is a heart to the
colony which it does not wear on its sleeve. A little acquaintance
with the place, and it comes to be understood why it is called " the
rock." A further knowledge discovers that the familiar precipice —
the Lion's Face — rises from low ground and not from the sea, and
that it looks ever towards Spam.

The interests of this small Mediterranean settlement are bound

8 ^ THE MEDITERRANEAN.

up solely with battle, murder, and sudden death. The commodity
it cultivates and professes to supply is sudden death. Its wealth
is represented by weapons of destruction, its treasure-houses are
stored with shot and shell, its vaults with dynamite and gunpowder.
The highest aspiration of the little sea town is to kill, and its pious
hope is to develop its powers for destroying life to wide limits. It
is the further aim and object of the colony to effect these ends
with the least amount of personal risk to itself. There is about
Gibraltar, therefore, something of the whited sepulchre, something
of the vineyard that grows about the slumbering volcano. An
enemy so ignorant as to mistake it for a Mediterranean seaside
resort would be convinced of error with some suddenness, while
the unfriendly who would ask for bread at Gibraltar would receive a
scorpion.

Few places are more interesting to Englishmen than is the
fortress of Gibraltar, and so long as the galleries which tunnel the
rock exist there is no need for any monument to British spirit and
endurance in this part of the world. There are few chapters in
the history of British arms more electric than is the story of the
four years' siege of the rock. It is good to see the gullies and
holes in which the besieged lived, and the burrows they dug inch
by inch out of the stubborn cliff. Although months dragged on
into years, they were never outwitted and never daunted. Although
shells rained on them like stones from a crater, they still clung
to the rock, till they reached victory in the end.

Those who hurry ashore from the ship see little but one
narrow crowded street filled with a suburban type of shop of the
kind which is assumed to minister to the needs of tourists. A
few reach the base of the great precipice which frowns towards
Spain, while still fewer find the odd little hamlet of Catalan Bay,
which lies on the eastern side of the mighty crag like a mouse
between a lion's paws.

Between Gibraltar and Marseilles is a passage of some forty-
eight hours.

The approach to Marseilles is picturesque, and the busy town
looks well from the sea. It is indeed one of that great series
of towns which appear at their best only at a distance. Marseilles

MARSEILLES. - 9

stands pleasantly. The sea at its foot is blue. Romantic islands
of bare rock hide the entrance to its harbour, while beyond its
confines is a line of dignified hills. On a mound above the shining
roofs of the town is the Church of Notre Dame de la Garde, with
the great golden image of the Virgin erect on its tower.

On a nearer approach to the harbour mouth, the picturesqueness
of the town disappears little by little as its details are gradually
laid bare. Out of pleasant shadows come factories and gas works.
A line of bright colour, that charmed when afar off, changes into a
row of sordid sheds. A patch of gold turns out to be a warehouse
wall, covered with glaring advertisements, upon which the sun
chances to fall. The town which, when seen from the sea, might
be an enchanted city, is found to be a place with railway stations,
tram lines, jails, barracks, and the usual trailing rags of mean
streets.

The morning after the arrival at Marseilles is a morning of
restless excitement. The overland contingent is expected. In
due course the special train from London crawls down to the quay
as if utterly exhausted. The passengers it brings are scanned with
suspicious interest as they stumble up the gangway to the ship.
They are, for the most part, pallid, have the sickly and crumpled
aspect peculiar to a night in the train, wear the clothes of cities,
and step on the ship with puzzled diffidence. Any woman on the
gangway who awakes to the fact that she is being stared at, at once
claps her hands to the back of her head, possessed by the idea that
her hair, " done " in the train, is coming down.

The steamer is to sail as soon as the overlanders are on board,
and the drama of departure, as acted on the quay and as viewed
from the hurricane deck, is stirring enough. The great vessel is
close to the dock, where it towers, like a black street side, above
the roof of the embarkation shed. The shed is long, low, cavernous.
Within its shadows are ramparts of sacks, luggage in helpless
clumps, sentry-box-like offices, deck chairs in lines. Among these
move cabs, wheelbarrows, passengers, pedlars, lascars, loafers, and
gendarmes. Everybody is in a hurry, and when the warning
whistle blows this haste degenerates into a melee.

Between the shed and the vessel the edge of the quay is glaring

io THE MEDITERRANEAN.

in the sun. The ground is black with coal dust Oranges and
lemons in open baskets make a great splash of yellow on the black,
and the vendor who screams over them screams from under a
scarlet shawl. Behind the fruit baskets a restless cluster of purple
air balloons made united efforts to fly away. On the bare stones
are displayed those lace scarves and gaudy handkerchiefs which
are on sale at every port in the world, and are assumed to be the
product of local industry.

A clown with a whitened and unshaven face, in the garb of a
pierrot, grins up at the ship. Two sour-looking acrobats in green
tights go through languid contortions on a dirty carpet. A boy,
in what was once a black evening dress coat, shrieks out the
" Marseillaise/' Three groups of dejected men, with harp and viol,
play three different tunes simultaneously, and a widow grinds
" God Save the King " obstinately from an organ. This hubbub
is almost drowned by the rattle of incessant hand-barrows over the
cobble stones of the quay.

The eyes of the crowd are all turned up to the ship, all brows
are wrinkled and dirty, all mouths are open and yelling for money,
while any gaps on the black flags are filled by capless urchins, who
bawl out of simple lightheartedness.

The steamer is at last dragged away by tugs from this noisome
mob, and the filthy water of the dock, dotted as it is by scraps of
paper, orange peel, and miscellaneous refuse, is soon changed for
the clean sea.

On one evening Stromboli was sighted. The volcano chanced
to be active. When it first came into view it appeared as a small
red dot on the horizon which could not be distinguished from the
port light of a ship. In time the dot grew until a kind of fiery tail
could be seen to trail down from it. The dot was the crater, and
the tail was a stream of glowing lava on the mountain side. On
a still nearer approach, the strange light came to look like a
wondrous firefly skimming the black sea, and as it grew and grew
it changed to a blazing column against the dark — just such a pillar
of fire as led the night marches of the Israelites. As the island
was passed lurid puffs of flame and smoke could be seen to well
forth from the crater, while a cloud of red steam hung like a fiery

CRETE. * ii

baldachino over the cascade of red-hot lava. The mountain stood
out black against the glare in the sky as if it were a peak of the
nether world

A day passed and the vessel came upon Crete. It was about an
hour after sunrise that the ship was steaming along the coast of
the island, and the view of it was delicate and wonderful. The
cliffs that rose from the sea were lean and dim, but the mountains
far inland were lit by the rising sun, so that every dome and
pinnacle stood out in freshest outline. The whole range was
covered with snow, and long shadows, falling across the great snow-
fields, deepened the brilliancy of the bare heights and the gloom
of the ravines. Above the many peaks towered Mount Ida, a dome
of white springing out of the snowdrifts and still tinted by the
rising sun with the faint colour of the pink carnation. This dainty
vision of Mount Ida was the most beautiful spectacle that had
presented itself since the journey began.

III.

THE STAGE VILLAIN'S TOWN.

On the afternoon of the eleventh day the steamer entered the
harbour of Port Said. The approach to Egypt is in some degree
mysterious. As the land is neared the sea becomes duller and
deader. To the right there appear on the horizon a skeleton light-
house, some isolated patches of black, which prove to be houses,
some palms, and a minaret. This is Damietta. There is not the
faintest sign of land, there is no suggestion of a coast, much less of
a continent The lighthouse, the palms, the two or three houses,
and the minaret rise abruptly from the sea. The sea appears to
flow between them and around them. If this be Egypt, then the
country is buried by an inundation.

It is more a matter of mystery that after Damietta is passed
still no land appears, although the vessel steams ever nearer and
nearer to port. The few little points standing out of the sea which
represent Damietta go by, and then the horizon again shows
nothing but a line of unbroken ocean. This strange appearance
depends upon the fact that in the north of the Delta the land of
Egypt is a dead flat, and Port Said lies in the bend of a wide bay.
Thus Damietta looks like a detached fragment of land which is
drifting quietly away to sea.

Many miles are traversed, after this segment of a country has
floated out of sight, before Port Said comes into view. Its appear-
ance also is peculiar. One becomes aware of a row of houses on
the horizon, which spring out of the sea and appear to be lapped
by the water on all sides. The row of houses, moreover, presents
no unfamiliar appearance. They arouse no suggestion of the
brilliant East. If one can imagine a detached street of lodging
houses from Southend or an isolated row of middle class premises

PORT SAID. <" 13

from a Lancashire town drifting about in the Mediterranean in
company with a lighthouse, then there is a conception of Port Said
from the sea. Of land there is no hint ; there is no coast line, no
cliff, none of the appurtenances of a seaside town. The objects
that come next into view are two steam dredgers and a statue.
Finally, the town reveals itself and the fact that the houses that
look seawards have no more architectural character when seen near
at hand than they possess when afar off. A minaret or two are
noticed, a row of lubeck trees comes into sight, then a line of
camels crossing the now visible sand, and finally boats full of
strange people bawling in strange tongues.

The steamer moors in the opening of the canal, close to the
town, and opposite to its principal street. Those who go ashore go
in boats ferried by men who never cease to wrangle in yells. The
town lies upon a flat which is raised but little above the level of
the sea If the houses were less shanty-like one might imagine
that the steamer had anchored in the Grand Canal of some third-
rate Venice.

Port Said owes its interest to its reputation for wickedness and
general depravity. Iniquity is, by repute, the chief commodity of
the place. The villain of many romances has come from Port
Said, and he is always a ruffian of an acrid type. One thinks to
find at this town on the mud flat a colony of scoundrels such as
Bret Harte loved to depict, swarthy men with long black hair and
heavy moustaches, inclined to sombreros and the wearing of
scarves for belts, men who carry knives, who play cards on barrel
heads, and who talk a language compounded of Spanish oaths and
the patois of Whitechapel. On going ashore the visitor looks for
that lurid form of drinking saloon made familiar by romance, which
is a maelstrom for the virtuous and a shooting gallery for the
wicked. He expects to find a dead man lying under a tree with
a revolver wound in his head, or to meet the dark-eyed Italian
lady whose footsteps lead to the pit and whose acquaintance is
merely an introduction to the mortuary.

All "those who are filled with expectations of this kind will be
disappointed. Port Said may be as wicked as even Paris or
London, but it does not carry the caste mark upon its face. Its

i4 ^ THE MEDITERRANEAN.

criminality — even if it flourished like the green bay tree — is well
concealed. The town would hardly be selected as a place for the
education of youth, but then it does not profess to be an academy
for morals any more than it pretends to be a health resort. Port
Said is, without doubt, physically dirty, and it is probable that its
morality is about as neglected as its streets, but — in justice to the
claims of other Levantine towns — its pretence to especial eminence
in the matter of depravity cannot be allowed.

The principal street of Port Said is made up of a series of
houses and shops which are little above the dignity of shanties.
The thoroughfare gives the visitor the impression of being some
sort of " native street " in a London exhibition. Everybody lives
in the road, and the crowd the tourist struggles through is made
up of Arabs, Egyptians, Bedouins, Greeks, Turks, Maltese, French,
Spanish, and English, of donkey boys, postcard sellers, beggars,
native policemen, Nile boatmen, British sailors, coal coolies, and
tavern touts.

The people of Port Said live largely on the tourist ; they regard
him as prey ; they look upon him as game ; they hunt him ; they
rob him ; they give him an effusive welcome but no peace. When
the first boat lands the whole street rises and swoops down with
yells upon those who step ashore ; and with the host come their
dogs, their donkeys, their blind, their halt, and their lame.

The boys dance round each new-comer with delight. They
address him as " Mr. Gladstone " and his wife as " Mrs. Langtry."
They protest that they know him or that they carried his bag when
last he landed. They offer to do all things for him, and never for
one moment, while he walks the unsavoury streets of the town, do
they leave him. He is invited to buy postcards, sun helmets,
Japanese carvings, bananas, Maltese lace, and live mice in a box.
He is implored to allow himself to be led to the station, to the
custom house, to the post office, to a dancing saloon, or to the
English cemetery. It is a relief to return to the quiet of the boat,
even though the boat is coaling. All night long noise of some sort
continues. Port Said neither slumbers nor sleeps. Indeed, the
chief music-hall of the town announces, as the greatest of its joys,
that it is " open all night."

PORT SAID. * 15

It is said of Port Said that it is the spot where the East meets
the West. If so, the meeting is not happy for the East. The man
from the desert, as he draws near to western civilisation, may
expect to be led by benevolent hands to some Palace of Delight.
In reality he is taken by the scruff of the neck and is pushed into
a Slough of Despond. What is ill in the man is made more evil ;
what is good in him is trampled out. The blessings of civilisation
come to him in the guise of tinned meat, gin, and coal carrying, and
he obtains doubtful advantage from these means of grace. He
finds himself as much out of place as is a palm in a drinking bar,
and by the time he is admitted into the beneficent bosom of the
West he has become as dirty in mind and body as are the streets
of this outpost of the greater world.

Port Said affords a display of the West at its worst and of
the East spoiled. Yet at the time of sunset, a glory of the East
can even make beautiful this mongrel city, with its reeking
taverns, its slop shops, and its gambling halls. At this time the
squalid house-tops become turrets and battlements of gold. The
sky is the colour of the yellow rose, the clouds are tinted with
lilac, the shadows in the street are purple and long. Picking her
way across the dirty quay is an English girl in a white dress, and
as the light which the East alone has seen falls upon her dainty
face and makes a halo of her fair hair it is possible to realise how
at Port Said the East and the West may meet

IV.

COALING AT PORT SAID.

The miseries of coaling have often enough been dwelt upon.
They are depressing in their coarseness and gloom. The ship
is rendered desolate. Everyone escapes from it who can. Even
the familiar deck chairs go. They pile themselves in a heap on
the front deck, where they are covered with tarpaulins so that the
whole mass of them looks like a hurriedly constructed bier. There
is indeed some suggestion that the ship has become a house of
mourning. All the port holes are closed, whereby the cabins are
rendered suffocating. Deck rooms are locked as a comment upon
the habits of ship loafers generally, and the owners of these
rooms are rendered homeless. The stairs, the corridors, and the
music-room are covered with rough canvas. Furniture is muffled
up. The smoking-room is made a waste. The ship looks like a
house which has been made ready for an auction, or has been taken
in hand for the purposes of spring cleaning, or has been " packed
up " preparatory to evacuation at the end of the season.

Clouds of coal-dust envelop the poor vessel and penetrate into
every part of it. The deck becomes an ash drift Whatever
the hand finds to touch it finds to be black. Coal-dust becomes
the breath of the nostrils, coal-dust settles upon the face, powders
the neck, and creeps among the hair. Moreover, in no part of
the ship is there any escape from the husky din which accom-
panies the ritual of coaling.

Coaling at Port Said by daylight is a pageant which could be
of interest only to a dust contractor. Coaling at Port Said at
night is one of the sights of the world, and would have fired the
heart of Dante.

The ship lies at her moorings in the middle of the still canal.

PORT SAID. * 17

The passengers have gone ashore, and a strange quiet has fallen
upon the vessel. The clang of the ship's bell, marking the hour,
and the splash in the water of an empty bottle, thrown out of a
scuttle, may be the only sounds to be heard. The night is dark ;
the few lights visible are those that flicker on the quay and about
the restless street, or that stream from the port-holes of a ship
near by in regular dots of light which seem to pour from the
interior of a ponderous flute.

Without the least warning the stillness of the gloom is broken
by a far-away noise, by a sound which at first is like to the hum-
ming of millions of eager insects pouring out of the desert. As
the sound draws nearer it inclines to the wailing of beasts, and then
to the murmuring of a countless host of men.

Any on deck who run to the ship's side and look into the
dark see, bearing down on the vessel, two enormous black rafts,
which might be the rafts of Charon drifting from the banks of
the Styx. High aloft on each raft are cressets blazing with fire.
The flames and the smoke from the iron baskets twist and eddy
over the rafts, and by the wavering glare they cast it is seen that
the decks are swarming with a horde of men. They are sending
up through the murk horrible yells and shouts mingled with a
still more loathsome babble of unhuman talk.

As the rafts glide nearer, propelled by some unseen force, the
red glow from the cressets falls upon the mob. It falls upon them
as a fluttering light which now blazes forth and now is buried in
smoke. Half of the wild crew will be furnace-red, half will be
invisible.

The raft is a raft of coal, and on its black plateau are hundreds
of men, vague as the shadows they crowd among. Their gar-
ments flutter in the wind, showing bare arms and legs, grinning
faces and white teeth, with here and there a dun turban or the
shred of a blue scarf. Their clothing consists of long and scanty
gowns, so that many of the awful gang look like old women or
bony witches in tattered skirts. Around the edge of the raft,
wherever there is room to sit, these men, with so horrible a
semblance to old women, crouch, with their heads wrapt up in
rags like harridans with aching jaws.
c

1 8 H TRE MEDITERRANEAN.

When the floating1 cauldrons of smoke and men reach the ship
it becomes apparent that they are no crafts of Inferno sailing
hither from the pit, but a commonplace gang of coolies who have
come to do the coaling.

The rafts are made fast to the great vessel, planks are run up
to the coal bunkers, and then there begins an unceasing pro-
cession of gaunt folk carrying yellow baskets full of coal up one
plank and returning with them empty along another. As they pass
up and down their rags dance in the wind, clouds of coal-dust and
smoke circle round them, while the light from the cressets flashes
fitfully upon the file, making their sweating limbs glow as with a
fervent heat. The stream of basket carriers might be coming out
from the crater of a volcano, and it is a matter of wonder that
they are neither charred nor smothered. They are all so much
alike that the procession on the plank may be made up of one
toiling man multiplied a hundred times. The figures on the slope
and the figures grubbing among the black caverns of the coal
never cease to give forth a discordant chant as if they were moan-
ing the phrases of some dismal litany.

Hour after hour the dry tramp of feet along the plank con-
tinues, hour after hour the same hoarse dirge is screamed forth
from a hundred creaking throats, hour after hour the spades are
at work and the baskets come and go. Then the scuffle of feet
ceases, the scrape of the shovels dies away, the fire in the cressets
flutters out, the barges are empty, and to the same weird chant
they glide away and are lost in the gloom.

THE SUEZ CANAL.

On the morning of the day after Port Said was reached the
steamer from Brindisi arrived with mails and passengers. Some
two hours were occupied in the transference of the mails, and as
soon as the last bag was on board the Brindisi steamer slipped
away, and we were free to start on our journey. The ship almost
directly entered the Suez Canal. The canal, it is needless to say,
extends from Port Said to Suez, and is nearly one hundred miles
in length. The larger proportion of this distance is represented
by an artificially made canal, and the rest by a channel through
the Bitter Lakes and Lake Timsah. The vessel, in the charge
of a pilot, proceeds at the rate of five or six knots an hour. The
passage of the canal, therefore, may occupy some twenty hours,
allowing for stoppages.

The journey is remarkable, and is one of the strangest which
can be made in an ocean-going liner. The canal is narrow and
straight, while from sea to sea it traverses the desert. From the
deck of the ship the wandering plain lies stretched out on either
side, an arid wilderness of yellow sand. Through this dead and
barren waste the little canal makes its way like a stream of life.

The landscape is the most rudimentary that the mind could
imagine. It is almost in a monotone. The biscuit-coloured desert
extends wherever the eye can follow, the sky is cloudless. Here
and there are patches of starving bush or a rocky hillock half
hidden in a sand drift. There are a line of telegraph posts, a
distant mud dredger with a few natives at work on the bank, and
that is all except the stream of green water. The landscape is
wearisome, the scene is repeated over and over again — ever the
sand, the sun, and the small stream. If one stretched out a large

20 v THE MEDITERRANEAN.

sheet of dust-coloured paper and made a crease along it from
one margin to the other and let a little water trickle along the
crease, it would show to a child the Suez Canal in the desert The
very loneliness of this scorched wilderness is terrible, its monotony
and its lack of limit are oppressive.

It is just such a landscape as might have been found upon the
primitive earth when it was still almost without form and void,
when its surface was still heated, cracked, and stifling, and when
as yet no form of life had crept out into the air. It looks so very
lifeless and so old. The wrinkles of a million years are upon
its shrivelled face. It may be that since the world came into
being this part of its surface has never changed, so that looking
over the waste one can gaze still upon the first dry land that rose
out of the abyss, and upon which fell the first light of the dawning
sun. Through these sands, which may have drifted and eddied
under primeval winds, the tiny stream runs straight from ocean to
ocean. There is so little that looks artificial about the canal that it
might be a living river, and possibly the first stream which trickled
across the still warm earth was like unto this.

The steamer moves at so slow a pace that the pulsations of the
engines cannot be felt, and the vessel seems to be blown along by
the light wind. For some time after leaving Port Said the rail-
way to Cairo runs by the side of the canal, while between the rail-
road and the waterway is the sweet water canal. A few villages
are passed and many " stations " of the canal company. These
trim settlements are real oases in the sand, pleasant to look at

The great Bitter Lake is a beautiful expanse of water, and the
passage across it is an agreeable relief after the somewhat too
formal canal. We anchored in the lake to allow three other
steamers to pass. It was just at sunset, when the daring colours in
the sky are such as can be seen only in Egypt

This peculiarly picturesque scene had a great fascination for
the many who, leaning over the ship's rail, looked across the plum-
coloured waters of the lake and had their faces lit by the strange
glow from the west.

On entering the canal again it was already so dark that an
electric searchlight was fixed to the ship's prow. This white light

SUEZ. ' 21

produced a quite extraordinary illusion. The water of the canal
became the deepest indigo, and its banks an intense white. The
ship seemed to be afloat in arctic regions, and to be slowly creeping
along a crack or open way between two ice floes. Any boulder
or hillock on the bank threw a long, black shadow across the snow,
the sea seemed to be freezing, and there was a chilly-looking mist
in the air. Beyond the area illuminated by the searchlight there
was nothing but the blackest night.

At Suez the steamer remained one hour. It was in the middle
of the night. The noise with which the business of that port is
conducted was quite astounding. If there be any proportion
between the amount of business done and the clamour with which it
is attended, Suez must be a flourishing seaport.

Lying in the dark in a deck cabin, one might have imagined
that the vessel was being boarded by pirates. Much of this noise
proceeded from a fussy tug. As the steamer, to the relief of all,
began to steam away from Suez, the tug again came into being,
and, following the ship, apparently tried to cling to her side. This
manoeuvre was attended by a series of fearful screams from the
tug, which far surpassed anything that the port had up to that time
produced. Lascars, not to be outdone, shrieked at the tug from
the ship's decks, and an abusive quartermaster, who spoke in the
English tongue, could at least claim that in the matter of personal
invective he omitted nothing. The tug still pounded after the
steamer, while the yells that came from those on board were finally
raised to a pitch of the most acute agony. At last out of the awful
clamour from the persistent craft it was possible to isolate the
sentence, " Men a boat," which utterance was repeated with such
rapidity that it might have been fired from a Maxim gun. No
reviling from the steamer could stay or drown this cry, but as the
smaller vessel was falling astern from sheer weakness, it was
discovered that the native owner, by repeating the words " Men a
boat," wished it to be known that one of his crew had been left on
board the liner. This information he endeavoured to communicate
by one hundred dying gasps. The steamer was stopped, the
panting tug came once more alongside under another hail of abuse
and the lost man was restored with appropriate curses to his

22 THE MEDITERRANEAN.

hoarse and now speechless friends. After this we passed into the
quiet of the open sea, and were able to appreciate what Kipling
calls " her excellent loneliness."

During the morning of the next day the ship was steaming
down the Gulf of Suez, and in the afternoon of that day entered
the Red Sea. The weather was fine, the sea profoundly blue, the
wind astern and strong enough to bring a white crest upon each
wave. The land on either side was still barren and waterless, with-
out trace of life of any kind. There were nothing but scorching
rock and sand, yellow beaches with scarred cliffs standing bare in
the sun, so that such shadows as fell seemed hot and red.

The whole coast was a mockery. Where there should have
been green downs upon the cliffs there was only dust ; where a
cool valley should have opened to the sea there was nothing but
a rift in the rock, hoarse with burning winds ; where a stream
should have dropped to the beach from a ledge of wet fern there
was merely a cascade of sand Sand dunes took the place of
living hills, and sand drifts of grassy slopes. The country looked
as if it were made up of the output of a furnace where the soil
was ash and the rocks calcined stone.

Yet at night in this ship, on its way through a land of drought
and utter emptiness, some few hundred folk would be merry over a
dinner furnished with food from all parts of the world, drinking the
wines of France and Spain, and eating salads and fruits from
English gardens.

Some way down the coast, lying dead on the shore, was the
wreck of a small " tramp " steamer. One can only wonder what
happened to the crew. Had they all been drowned, or had they
landed upon this blistering beach to be mocked by the memory
of kindly beaches at home? Had they climbed the charred cliff
and from the summit found nothing but a waste stretching away
hopelessly to the horizon, or had they wandered about, tricked by
dark hollows in the rocks or by shadowed places where water
should have been, until they died of thirst ?

The poor wreck lying on the beach — the only sign the foul
country afforded of anything that had lived — was like a skeleton
of white bones by the side of a track in a desert.

VI.

THE RED SEA.

The passage of the Red Sea occupies about three and a half
days. Between Suez and Aden certain barren islands are met with,
which are of little interest beyond that they provide an excellent
scenic effect when it chances that the sun sets directly behind them.

The island of Perim is passed some six hours before Aden is
entered It is probably the most melancholy of the possessions
of Great Britain. The island stands well out of the sea, and is one
and a half miles long. At a distance it appears to be composed
solely of brown, dried earth. There is apparently not a blade of
grass nor of anything green in the colony, and it is as dull to
contemplate as a dust-heap. A toy settlement can be seen close
to the sea, made up of houses so white and prim that they might
be built of cardboard. At the south of the island is a sandy beach,
and on the headland above it, a lighthouse. Between the beach
and the lighthouse a sorry path extends across the drab hillside.
There is a fascination about this path on account of its supernatural
dreariness. It is a matter of wonder that anyone should find
occasion to follow this narrow way to the beach unless it be to
seek death in the water.

Apart from Perim, some glimpses of other islands, and the
exploits of flying fish, the sole interest in the Red Sea is the
weather. This sea is famous for the peculiar type of climate it
provides. It is assumed that there is no heat of so uncommon a
kind as that of the Red Sea. Thus it is that this waterway is one
of the few places on the globe where the weather is an ever sincere
subject of conversation.

Arrangements are made for dealing with the eccentricities of
temperature as soon as Suez is left. Sun screens are put up on

24 ' THE RED SEA.

each side of the vessel so as to keep the deck in shade; wind
scoops are thrust into the scuttles of the cabins ; electric fans are
set buzzing, and punkahs swing over every table of the dining
saloon. The officers, the crew, and the stewards appear in white
dresses. The sofas in the music saloon and the settees in the
smoking room are covered with white linen.

The weather becomes hot by subtle degrees, but the discomfort
it leads to is not to be measured by any thermometer. The
temperature — as taken on deck at noon — was 70° F. on the
first day in the Red Sea. It rose to 82° on the second day, and
88° on the third and fourth days. On these days the temperature
in the lower cabins was over 90°. It was considered to be a cool
passage, for there was a head wind nearly all the way, while a
benevolent thunderstorm with heavy rain came out of the sky
one morning. Notwithstanding these blessings the heat was
trying. In the words of the German manager of an Egyptian
hotel, the weather was, in fact, " enormous Jot."

It was a moist heat, like that of a rich man's greenhouse. It
made everyone limp, sticky, and irritable. The nights were little
better than the days. Children declined to sleep and were very
fretful while some of the ladies were moved to tears.

There was a disposition to do nothing but foster the art of
lying about. After lunch every chair on the shady side of the ship
was occupied by sleeping passengers or by people at least with
closed eyes and dropped books. The long row of recumbent
figures made the deck look like a hospital ward filled with
anaesthetised patients.

It was the ambition of everyone to lie or sit in what is called
a " complete draught," so that wherever any wind could be found
there would be little groups gathered together drinking it in. In
England there is a desire to get out of a draught, in the Red Sea
to get into one ; and at night the most fortunate were those who
slept in such a blast as made their scanty garments flutter like a
flag.

Many of the passengers slept on deck — a few ladies in the
music saloon, a few men in the smoking-room, but the greater
number of both sexes in the open. It was necessary only to

THE RED SEA. ' 25

have a mattress and a pillow placed on the floor, and the sleeping
arrangements were complete. The ladies took possession of the
forward deck, where they built themselves a kind of zareba out of
deck chairs and other loose barricades. They did not, however,
diffuse around themselves either the blessing of peace or the charm
of repose. They talked more or less all night, and, according to
the impressions of some, the zareba might have enclosed a parrot
house.

On one morning, about 4 a.m., the occupants of the ladies' laager
had fallen upon sleep, to the joy of all. But at that hour a thunder-
storm arose, and on the first flash of lightning the more timid
burst out of the corral, and, trampling on the bodies of prostrate
men, rushed screaming down the companion.

After this, the suburbs of the ladies' quarter were regarded as
unsafe to sleep in.

At 6 a.m. each morning the ladies went below, and then for one
hour the deck was given up to the men, who paraded luxuriantly
in pyjamas. Military officers, learned judges, and responsible
merchants were brought down to one level — that of pyjamas. In
these simple garments they walked the ship, while the decks were
being washed down with that lavish use of water and noise which
is peculiar to the mariner.

Gasping and damp women who had spent a night of steamy
misery below were early to appear on deck. Some, who were led
up by stewardesses, looked like imprisoned miners, just rescued,
and brought to the pit's mouth.

Among these was a nurse who was in charge of a popular baby.
The baby was a boy, aged about twelve months. According to the
smoking-room account it was given a sleeping draught in the train
between Paris and Marseilles to keep it quiet, and was brought on
board at Marseilles still comatose. It caused some alarm by declin-
ing to wake the whole of the next day, and became at once famous
as the child with the " sleeping sickness." Early one Red Sea
morning the nurse, who was rendered flabby by heat, crawled up
on deck with the baby. She soon became " that ill " that she had
to stumble below, leaving the infant with a py jama-clad officer of
dragoons, who offered to take it. The child was not sleeping on

26 THE RED SEA.

this occasion, and indeed, as soon as the nurse had fled, it began to
howl dismally. The dragoon was much alarmed by this change
in the habits of the infant. He was himself suffering at the time
from prickly heat, and it struck him that the baby's unhappiness
might be due also to the same cause. So, with the assistance and
advice of a mining expert, who was smoking in pyjamas in the
next chair, the baby was entirely undressed, and rubbed with a
tobacco pouch. This treatment, although not in accord with the
usages of the nursery, was immediately effectual, for when the still
limp nurse returned to the deck the baby was naked, but neither
ashamed nor complaining.

VII.
THE IDLER AT SEA.

It was dark when Aden was reached, so of this isolated sun-
burnt settlement nothing could be seen but the broken row of lights
which dotted the shore and the hillside. The run of four days
from Aden to Bombay was uneventful, but it was occupied by those
incongruous amusements which are a phenomenon of all long sea
voyages, and which are accepted as among the wonders of the deep.
On the evening of the first day out from Aden there was a fancy
dress ball, and on the succeeding days there followed " sports "
peculiar to ocean life.

The promenade deck in this particular vessel was covered in by
a boat deck, so that viewed from either end the former looked like
a long tunnel open on one side of its length to the sea. That deck
which faced the sun was always an avenue of lights and shadows,
and the ripple of the sea was reflected on the white beams which
formed the roof of the covered way. All along this avenue was a
disjointed row of deck chairs, the occupants of which, in bright
summer costumes, were writing, sleeping, reading, or playing cards.

The promenade was narrowed to the space between the line of
chairs and the ship's rail. Here some would be strolling, some
playing " buckets " or deck quoits, while others watched the children
who crawled about the deck promiscuously. The children's toys
were not necessarily appropriate to the sea. One small boy had,
as a means of relaxation, a live dormouse in a box, while another
dragged a motor-car along, to which was attached a Noah's Ark.
The small girls devoted most of their time to putting dolls to bed
or to making imagined tea.

On a still and warm day the deck suggested a verandah over-
looking the sea, or a miniature promenade at some place which was

28 THE RED SEA.

fashionable, idle, and sunny. The young man and the maiden
would lean over the rail as they would loll over the balustrade by
the Casino Garden at Monte Carlo, but they looked seawards, so
that the words they whispered were lost in the babble of the ship's
wake. They would lean there to watch the sun go down, and
their figures would stand out as black silhouettes against the
crimson sky. After the sun had set they would go to the forecastle
to look for the Southern Cross. This search always involved some
time, for the forecastle was apt to be deserted, so there was no one
to instruct them, and as the light of the early moon fell upon this
part of the deck it often appeared as if the young man was looking
for the Southern Cross in the maiden's eyes.

Many on the ship watched this companionship with kindly
interest, wondering if it would last till the end of a voyage which
was longer than this, and if in years to come the sound of the sea
would bring back to these two a memory of ineffable delight

Every day and all day long there was something to see, and the
sight was one that never fretted the spirit of warm laziness which
drugged the loungers on the deck. There was always the " stark-
barrelled swell" of the sea, with now and then a misty cape, and
now and then a ship on its way homewards. There were the
porpoises who tumbled in the vessel's course, shooting out of and
in the glazed water as if they were black, glutinous drops thrown
up from some fountain under the ocean. There was the timid
fringe of phosphorescent light which hung about the wave from the
ship's bows, and there was the pathway made by the moon across
the indigo plain of waters at night.

When all lights were out and the decks were deserted there was
still the swish of the sea along the side, the ship's bell marking the
hour, the deep pulse of the engines, and the mysterious creaking
of innumerable bulkheads.

part
INDIA

THE COMING TO INDIA.

ON the morning of the 2ist day after leaving Tilbury, Bombay
was sighted. It was a fine sunny morning — as all had been — but
ahead was a haze along the horizon which hid the land. There
were sea birds in the air, and on the water a boat with a white
lateen sail. The life seemed to have gone out of the sea, for the
waves had become dull and of a sluggish green. Every eye was
turned in the direction of the ship's bow, and soon there emerged
from the mist a low hill, alone like an island, grey and indistinct.
This was India.

As the ship drew near, other high ground came into view, rising
above a ghostly coast. In due course a lighthouse, gaudy in stripes
of red, white, and black, appeared. Behind the lighthouse were a
narrow spit of land with soft rounded trees on it and the tower of a
disused pharos. Here, too, were white houses with red roofs,
dotting the green, and below them a sandy beach by a fortified wall

Beyond this narrow spur of land — called, as I came to know,
Colaba — was the city of Bombay, shrouded by the mist. Through
the haze it was possible to make out the steeples and towers, the
domes and pinnacles of a great city.

The approach is stately, for the harbour is magnificent, but
there is no particular character about the scene. One is con-
scious of entering a wide sound and of a city on a bright inlet ;
but the sound might be in Italy and the city in England This is
not the India one has dreamed about. There is no suggestion of

30 INDIA.

" India's coral strand," no hot beach peopled by turbaned heathen,
no line of cocoanut palms by the water's edge. One looks in vain
for buildings that follow in some way the architecture of the
" willow pattern plate," and, above all, one looks for elephants with
howdahs on their backs.

There is, in place of the palms, a line of factory chimneys ;
while a quite common row of quays meets the sea in place of the
coral strand. There are no heathen recognisable as such, and
certainly none in the act of bowing down to stocks and stones.
There are people in turbans, but they are evidently mere loungers
about harbour sides, and the buildings appear, at the distance,
to differ but little from those at Limehouse. Of elephants there
are none.

A launch, illumined by a chuprassie, or messenger, in scarlet
robes, landed us on the quay at about the time of high noon.

On stepping into the street it was evident enough, in spite of
any previous impressions, that we were in a strange country. There
were all the elements of the life of a large city, but every one of
these factors was in some way made curious by unexpected details,
foreign to a standard founded upon accustomed towns. There
were roads and houses, cabs and tram cars, as well as a continuous
crowd of passers-by, but both the place and the people were
strange. The very stones were strange, the roads were covered
by a peculiarly smelling dust, the houses were unusual in design,
being prominent in the matter of roofs and balconies, in verandahs,
and in lack of orthodox windows. The cabs were a type of
victoria, which were driven by lounging men in turbans or tar-
booshes. The tram cars were skeletons of tram cars, and the
horses that drew them had solar topees on their heads.

The passers-by were as unexpected as if they had just strolled
out of a comic opera house the stage of which was cumbered by
unavoidable dirt, and the wardrobe of which was composed of re-
productions of Joseph's coat of many colours. The crowd, al-
though large enough, had neither the bustle of London nor the
vivacity of Paris.

There were slouching dogs, too, of unfamiliar breed hanging
about entries, and on the housetops the cosmopolitan sparrow was

BOMBAY. * 31

ousted by crows with grey heads, or by kites who whistled with an
affected tremolo when they sailed languidly over the town. There
were uncouth carts drawn by bullocks and filled with unwonted
wares, while often there lolled through the crowd a dusty buffalo,
a blue bare beast who may once have had both intelligence and
hair, but who, on the loss of both, remained a dejected embodi-
ment of the ugliness of stupidity and of the beastliness of life.

Bombay is what is called a fine city, but its interest to the
visitor goes little beyond the statement presented in the guide
books to the effect that it is situated in Lat. 18° 53' 45" and on an
island (which is not apparent), that it has over 820,000 inhabitants,
that it is happy in possessing an " impressive line of Government
buildings," that much of its excellence clings about " public offices
and educational institutions," and that it is peculiarly rich in
cemeteries. Beyond these attractions the charm of Bombay to
those who land for the first time upon its " spacious quays " is
bound up in the fact that it is one of the cities of India, that the
soil and the people are Indian, and that it is part of that continent
which has entered with so much romance into the history of the
world.

There is interest in everything that one sees, in the railway
trains, the shops, the boats on the beach, the policemen, the street
sweepers, the unfamiliar trees and shrubs, and the fragmentary de-
monstrations of how the people live. Kites and crows, vultures
and squirrels are all elements new to city life ; while the first time
that a parrakeet is sighted, perched on a house top, there arises
the conviction that it must have escaped from a cage.

Beyond all this it may be claimed that the chief things, which
in tourist language will " well repay a visit " in Bombay, are the
native quarter and the Malabar Hill.

The Malabar Hill is a modest mound behind the city, brave
with gardens and bright villas, from whose summit is to be obtained
a view of the sea and of the gleaming harbour. It is a matter of
interest that all large bays, viewed from a height, are supposed to
resemble the Bay of Naples. The harbour of Bombay comes into
this classification of bays, and is therefore regarded as a local Bay
of Naples ; but the very stones on Malabar Hill must turn when

32 v INDIA.

each inspired tourist after another discovers and reveals this stale
resemblance, for the sweeping Sound of Bombay shows scarcely
a feature which has any parallel in the great Italian inlet.

It may be well to notice here also another experience of new-
comers. If any complaint be made of the climate of a place, the
visitor is assured that the weather (strangely enough) is quite
exceptional for the time of the year. The Riviera, for instance, is
supposed to enjoy a winter climate of everlasting sunshine and
clear skies, and when the chilled visitor to the Mediterranean finds
— as he often does — a drab and depressing heaven, filled with the
wind of an English November, he, at the same time, finds that the
circumstance is so uncommon that he may be proud of it, for the
weather he has come upon is practically unheard of during the
Mediterranean winter.

So in Bombay. The climate was unpleasantly hot, steamy,
and enervating ; but then came the assurance that this ex-
perience was so rare that it might be cherished in the memory,
as it would be, no doubt, in that of the oldest inhabitant.

II.

AN IMPRESSION OF INDIA.

An impression of India, based upon a sojourn in the country
of little more than two months, must of necessity be imperfect.
Although in my journeyings in India I travelled between three
and four thousand miles, I scarcely went beyond that great
plain which occupies the central part of the continent, and which
stretches from the Himalayas in the north to the tableland of the
Deccan in the south. Moreover the season was the winter, when
little or no rain falls, when the land is dried up and the hillsides
are brown, when the great rivers have shrunk into sluggish streams,
sulking through a gully of sand and stones, and when most of the
flowers have gone. It was possible only to picture the land as it
would be in the summer. Then the rivers would be bustling tides
swinging to the sea, the bare wastes would be green, while rivulets
would be dripping from a thousand hills.

Still, the country as it was was wonderful enough, with its
forests of unfamiliar trees, its fields strange with a curious hus-
bandry, its villages which had so little to suggest that they were
abodes of men. Although the face of the land changes as the
seasons pass, the inhabitants are still the same, and it is they who
give to the country its most impressive interest.

Unchanged also by the rise and waning of the heat, or by
the rains, are the crowded towns with their bazaars, their temples,
and their maze of streets.

Possibly the first impression of India, which succeeds the
realisation of the strangeness of all things, is an impression of
teeming life — of the unwonted number of living beings, human
and animal, who crowd the land. The country would seem to be
overrun by a multitude of men, women, and children all of about
D 33

34 INDIA.

the same degree, a little below the most meagre comfort, and a
little above the nearest reach of starvation. They crowd every-
where over the length and breadth of the Peninsula, for they
number two hundred and ninety millions.

In the towns they hustle one another as they trample along in
the dust, so that each narrow street is full to its walls. The driver
of a donkey has to yell himself hoarse to make a way for his beast,
and the bullock reaches the lane's end by ploughing his shoulders
through the crowd as through a field of maize. From the tower of
any walled city a many-coloured stream can be seen moving out
of each gate across the plain. The streams are made up of brown-
faced men, tramping away to be lost on the horizon, tramping in
to be lost in the town. From sunrise to sundown the muffled
sound of their steps never ceases, and at night there is no dark
alley without the sleeping figure of the homeless man.

Beyond the confines of the cities the dry road that leads from
town to town is alive with the same wandering folk. They are
busy in a hundred fields , they huddle against the mud walls of the
villages, and even in the open plain or in the jungle one will not
long miss a man's white turban or a woman's blue hood.

These are some of the great hordes who provide in their lean
bodies victims for the yearly sacrifice to cholera, famine, and plague.
Plague will slay 20,000 in a week, cholera will destroy ten times
that number in a year, and the famine of one well-remembered time
accounted for five-and-a -quarter millions of dead people. Yet the
numbers of the living seem ever the same. There may be, now
and then, a freer passage through the bazaars, less colour in the
stream from the city gate, less bustle on the highway, but the living
column wavers not, for the host that can give up one hundred
thousand on one fell march can move on as a great host still.

It may interest the curious to know that the density of the
population of British India is such that there are — on an average —
279 people to the square mile. " How thick this population is,"
writes Sir William Hunter,* " may be realised from the fact that,
in 1886, France had only 187 people to the square mile."

This ever-pressing crowd is not limited to human beings.
* "A History of the Indian Peoples." Oxford, 1897.

FIRST IMPRESSIONS. , 55

Animal life seems to swarm everywhere in proportionate degree.
Wherever the traveller goes he will see always

"kites sailing circles in the golden air."

Vultures perch on high gates or ruined turrets about the outskirts
of the city. The grey-headed Indian crow is everywhere, on the
walls, in the alleys, in the temple courts. Always alert and im-
pudent, he pries into everything, watching, wrangling, and thieving
with unquenchable energy.

The cheery mina birds are scarcely outnumbered by the crows.
They are less noisy, less vulgar, but they are present in their
thousands. The plumage of the mina is a little dingy, but there is
some white hidden in the wing which flashes forth like a dainty,
unintended display of white linen when the bird flutters coquet-
tishly away. Green parrakeets are as common as rooks in a
cathedral town. Flocks of pigeons, disturbed from some scene of
pillage, are constantly fluttering over the houses ; while sparrows,
hoopoes, peacocks, cranes, and birds of less well-known types fill
up the ranks in the great company of winged things.

In the pinched streets of the bazaar there are nearly as many
animals as men. Camels stalk along indifferently as if they were
alone in the desert, donkeys with packs patter on their way in
companies of twenty, while with them are bullocks drawing carts,
cows coming in from the fields, or buffaloes carrying bundles of
indefinite garbage.

A Brahmani bull will be lying asleep in front of a temple.
Sheep will be dodging in and out of the crowd in search of a
living, and to every empty cart or to any convenient awning pole
a calf is likely to be tied. A rat or two will now and then run
across the little lane ; while the disreputable, snarling Pariah dog
with the mark of the starving rogue upon his brow, will be skulking
wherever a shadow will hide him from the fate of Cain.

It may be that the impression of a host of animals in the street
is due to their unwonted admixture with the traffic. This would
be understood by imagining the Bond Street of Delhi transferred
to the Bond Street of London. One could then see camels striding
•down the road with supercilious disregard of the police, a train of

36 v INDIA.

donkeys winding among the hansoms, and goats picking their way
between the carriages. A fat grey bull would be dozing on the
step of a hatter's shop, a couple of sheep would be nosing among
the trifles on a milliner's counter, while a buffalo, laden with
a pile of straw, would hustle the frock-coated lounger from the
pavement.

Another animal who helps to make up the crowd of living things
in India is the monkey. He assumes many sizes and shapes, and
appears particularly to favour the haunts of men. The first time
the traveller sees him grinning from a house-top or stealing along
a verandah a momentary impression arises that he must have
escaped from some organ-grinder's " outfit."

In a street of shops, in the native quarter of Agra, I had the
good fortune to see a considerable melee among a company of
monkeys. Some thirty baboons, large and small, were engaged in
this disturbance. It may have been a family quarrel, a phase of a
vendetta, or a mere vulgar riot. Anyhow, it was serious. The
fighting took place on the house-tops, along balconies, on shop
awnings, and in the street. The noise was amazing, for those
monkeys who were actually unable to attempt feats of arms were
encouraging spectators, who chattered and screamed without
ceasing. The whole place seemed alive with devil-possessed
baboons. There was a general haze of disorder, violence, and
outrage illumined by horrible spasms of fighting in many quarters.
Two monkeys locked in a shrieking embrace — a hairy, electrified
bundle of wriggling arms, tails, and feet, grinning teeth and
gibbering mouths — would drop from a parapet on to a shop awning
to the terror of the shopkeeper beneath. The crowd in the street
stood still to gaze at the spectacle until some buffaloes, crawling
along with smug unconcern, strolled into them as if they had been
invisible. The battle ended as abruptly as it had commenced.

Lastly there is everywhere the little grey-striped squirrel. He
suggests an alert, impressionable lizard rather than a squirrel, for he
moves always in ecstatic jumps. If he is not neurotic, he simulates
that fashionable disorder admirably. He is as much at home on
the top of a palace as in the gutter, and apparently only uses a
tree as a olace of refuge. He will be found in every town, as well

FIRST IMPRESSIONS. ' 3;

as in every street in the town and on all high roads. When his
nerves are very tried he makes a curious clicking noise which
suggests the winding up of a clockwork top.

Next to the impression of this all-pervading host comes the
realisation that India is a country of intense colour. The atmo-
sphere is bright, contrasts in shade are extreme, and colours are
brilliant, crude, and lavish. All the plains and the hillsides at
this season of the year are brown with dried-up grass, while the
roads that lead into the towns are grey with powdered earth. In
contrast with these great monotonous tints the patches of cultivated
ground — the cotton fields, the winter wheat, and other crops —
stand out as slashes of daring green. Among these tracts of grey,
green, and brown are the towns with white walls, flashing minarets
or domes, and shaded lanes. In these lanes will be found the
people who give the great mass of colour to the country by their
many-tinted costumes. In any bazaar are to be seen all the colours
of the spectrum dotted about a background of chequered light, and
tempered by the comfortable browns and umbers of mere dirt.

If one could recall any picture of India which would convey
these two impressions of the living crowd and the crowd of colours,
it would come to the memory in some such scene as this : —

A hard, azure sky against which stands out, keenly cut, some
cocoanut palms and a slate-coloured dome. The dome rises above
a white wall which ends below in a dusty road. It is ever in
India the white wall with the sun on it. In the wall are shops
— square recesses where men squat as mere patches of red and
yellow, white and blue. An awning of brown matting, propped
up by bamboos, takes a little from the bareness of the wall and
shades the spots where the plaster has fallen away from the bricks.
Crows glistening like beetles look down from the wall.

The road is full of moving figures, lean and black-haired. The
gaunt garments that are wrapped about them are of every colour
in the world. A purple hood for the head and a scarlet gown, a
bright green turban with an amber cloak, an orange-tinted tunic
and a yellow scarf, a naked brown boy, and a man clothed all in
white make up the ever-changing eddies of colour in the street

The light that beats upon all this is blinding, while the shadows

38 INDIA.

by the walls are lit up with the gleam of brass vessels and the
silver bangles on the women's feet.

A further impression which soon possesses the traveller in
India is that of the melancholy which hangs over both the land
and its people. The country in the first place is not beautiful. So
far as it can be seen during a journey of some few thousand miles
it is monotonous and often dreary. Its boundless extent is
oppressive, since for league after league the face of the land may re-
laain the same.

It looks homeless. The villages are piteous clusters of mud
Trails, daubed around the sides of a thick pond in the bare earth.
Where there should be a village green there is a patch of stained
dust covered with rubbish and peopled by fowls and dogs, by naked
children and bony cattle. Cultivation is carried out in despairing
patches snatched from the waste, and the labour of the husband-
man seems infinite. Every drop of water for these sorry fields
has to be drawn from a well in a bucket of cow-hide. Masses of
parched cactus make a poor substitute for the hedge of English
hawthorn or wild rose, and an unsteady tract of dust through
the jungle takes the place of the turnpike road of the old
country.

As a town is approached the land becomes, as a rule, less
desolate. There are wider roads, with trees by the side of them,
ampler fields, greener crops, and possibly the park-like expanse of
a cantonment. Some parts of the country, where the water supply
is good, are as green as the land in England, but there is never
about it the comfortable look of Dorset or Devon. The best patch
of green wheat suggests such a crop as a lonely man, wrecked on
a desert island, may have produced after many seasons of labour
and of grubbing with his hands.

India leaves on the mind an impression of poorness and
melancholy, even if in certain districts cultivation is luxuriant, and
if, after the rains, the country is brilliant with blossoms which no
meadow in England can produce.

The great continent, moreover, is a country of grim extremes.
It has a range of mountains, and those mountains are the loftiest
in the world It has plains, and they extend in a dead fiat for

FIRST IMPRESSIONS. , 39

endless thousands of square miles. There are months of absolute
drought followed by months of unceasing rain ; so that the cactus
hedge may only exchange its covering of brown earth to be half
swept away by the flood. There is nothing in the land that is
temperate, and it is seldom at peace from some climatic plague
or another.

Sadder than the country are the common people of it. They
are lean and weary-looking, their clothing is scanty, they all seem
poor, and "toiling for leave to live." They talk little and laugh
less. Indeed, a smile, except on the face of a child, is uncommon.
They tramp along in the dust with little apparent object other than
to tramp. Whither they go, Heaven knows, for they look like men
who have been wandering for a century. Their meagre figures are
found against the light of the dawn, and move across the great red
sun as it sets in the west, and one wonders if they still tramp on
through the night.

There are many who squat on the ground in little groups in
the street or with their backs against walls. They seem to be
waiting for some end, and to be weary of the watching, although
there is about them the air of most pitiable patience. Vivacious
they are not ; energetic they are not ; nor are they either hearty
or brisk. They appear feeble and depressed, and to have culti-
vated with extraordinary finish the features of utter boredom.

They are a religious people, but their religion is gloomy. They
have changed the bright deities of the Veda — the God of the Clear
Blue Sky and the Goddess of the Dawn — for less kindly objects
of worship. They are terrified by demons, or are haunted by the
burden of sins which they have committed in a previous state of
existence. Every misfortune is a punishment, and their priests can
offer them little comfort other than to warn them to avert worse
troubles to come by suitable offerings. Their Heaven is hard to
reach, for, even if the way be straight, it is disconsolate and very
long. They are fatalists. Che sara sara, "What will be, will
be ! " If the God kills, he kills. There is always the hope of one
more meal, and the sweeter hope that after death their bodies
may be burned and the ashes cast into the motherly Ganges.

It is no wonder that Buddha — whose life began in Oudh —

40 INDIA.

urged his disciples to go forth " in pity for the world." To him
existence was little more than a tale of sorrow and suffering, and
he thought that it was well when the tale was told. " Let no man,"
he said, " love anything ; loss of the beloved is evil. Those who
love nothing and hate nothing have no fetters." And at this very
moment of writing, when no less than 17,000 men and women are
dying of plague in India every week, it is possible to understand
how the teacher came to teach as he did.

Both Buddhists and Brahmans insist that meditation should
form part of all practical religion, and those who hold to these
beliefs certainly lack in India no opportunity for this pious exercise.
India is a country which appears to foster meditation, and to the
sombre-minded from any land it may be commended as a place to
think in.

Another encouragement to melancholy in the native of India
is the terrible incubus of caste which keeps the man of low degree
from ever rising from the mire, and stamps out from the stoutest
heart any pulse of ambition. Born a sweeper you shall die a
sweeper, your children shall be sweepers, and there shall be ever
upon your brow a mark as clear as the mark of Cain, but it shall
be made in dirt instead of blood. Such is the form of curse under
which millions start forth on the journey of the world in the heyday
of life.

Finally no little of the gloom which hangs over the people is
due to the degrading position which women are made to hold, as
well as to the customs and traditions which deprive their lives of
opportunities for pleasure and of facilities for advancement. The
standard of enjoyment among any people, and indeed the touch-
stone of a nation's cheerfulness, depends mainly upon the women.
Yet a reasonable merriment would be as little expected from the
women of India as from the man with the Iron Mask. There may
be female Mark Tapleys in this Peninsula of the Pessimist, but
their efforts must be severely tried.

It is not to be assumed that a uniform melancholy is common
to all the inhabitants of the country. Among the hills a more
cheery people are to be met with, while with the inhabitants of
Rajputana and the Punjab there is not that continued solemnity

FIRST IMPRESSIONS. ' 41

which would befit those who are conscious that their continent has
merited the title of " the land of sudden deaths."

In the bazaars and in the markets there is more animation,
more sense of ease, and some display of comfort. But the standard
of comfort is not high. The delights of the native of India may be
substantial, but they are not too apparent to the Western eye, and
it is clear that those who enjoy them do not need " the stranger to
intermeddle with their joys."

III.

THE WHITES AND THE BROWNS.

The English in India form an exceedingly small company
among the two hundred and ninety millions of people with whose
destinies they are concerned. It may not be unseemly to call
to mind that England is not the only Western power which has
endeavoured to establish its standard in India, The Portuguese
first set foot in the country and founded the earliest outpost of
European influence — for did not Vasco da Gama land at Calicut
one day in May, 1498 ? But the possessions of Portugal in India
are represented now only by the little settlements at Goa, Daman,
and Diu. The Dutch made valiant progress in their efforts to
absorb the mighty Peninsula, but there is no Dutch soil in India
now. The Danes, the Swedes, and the Prussians came and es-
tablished trading companies, but the memory of these alone re-
mains. The French played a strong and determined part in an
attempt to colonise the country, but the French flag now flies only
over the towns of Pondicherri, Chandernagore, Mahe, Yanaon, and
Karikal.

The governing of India is a wondrous thing to contemplate ;
wonderful to reckon by how few it is done, with what apparent
ease and small parade of power ; wonderful to see how difficulties
have been moulded into gains, how prejudices have been turned
to good account, and how strong bricks have been made from un-
inviting straw. Above all are to be admired those broad principles
of justice, honesty, and kindness which are at the foundation of
British rule.

What it has cost in human lives to carry the British flag from
the Himalayas to the southernmost cape is terrible to contemplate.
True, indeed, it is that the very earth of India " wears the red

THE WHITES AND THE BROWNS^ 43

record " of the English name — the record of men who have died of
heat in the burning plains, who have perished of cold among the
snows, who have been cut down in lonely passes or have wasted
away from disease in fetid swamps.

In the annals of the history of India there are no more graphic
documents than those to be found in the English cemeteries
throughout the country.

Gracious memorials, such as those at Lucknow and Cawnpore,
do not cover all the heroic dead who have laid down their lives
in this " Land of Regrets."

In the smallest cemetery in the least-remembered town there
are the graves of men who died in the van of the column, but who
now lie within the low walls of the compound, unknown and for-
gotten. And they died so young! Lads of nineteen and men
of thirty ; and not men only, for there are the graves of the gallant
women who followed the men they loved — the wives, the sisters,
and the mothers.

I am reminded of one very little burying-ground where a plain
stone records the death of the wife of a subaltern. It states that
she died aged " 1 8 years and II months." One can picture her, a
fair-haired girl, fresh from a west of England village, who went as
a bride with her lad to this dismal land — a boy and a girl. She
died in the fiendish heat (for she died in June) with her thoughts,
I fancy, turned towards the ivy-covered house at home, with its
kindly gardens and murmuring meadows. There is a pathetic
apology in the added words " and 1 1 months " as if to show that
she was not really so very young, but was indeed quite old in the
dignity of wifehood. There is little on her grave but cracked
earth, which turns to dust in the summer and to mud in the rains,
and this has to serve for a covering of green turf within sound of an
English trout stream.

In the study of the British residents in India one of the
first problems which is presented to the newcomer is bound up in
the word " cantonment." The visitor is told that the friend to
whom he has a letter of introduction rents the best bungalow in
the cantonment, or that another friend is all-powerful in certain
phases because he is the cantonment magistrate. To this is

INDIA.

added the advice that milk should be obtained from the canton-
ment dairy.

There may be some to whom it is necessary to explain that
the cantonment is the British quarter — the camp or settlement
of the army and people of occupation. The cantonment will, as
a rule, therefore, be outside the town and in strong contrast with
the town. One cantonment will differ but little from another, since
the British have wasted no exuberant invention over the planning
of their places of sojourn.

On alighting at a cantonment station one expects at once to
see what a cantonment looks like, but a cantonment is not a thing
that exposes itself immodestly to the eye. From the railway station
there extends an ample road which is at once lost among trees.
Of the camp there is probably nothing to be seen save the top of a
barrack building or the spire of a church. The cantonment, in
fact, is everywhere planted with trees by the tree-loving English,
and is therefore hidden in green.

It consists of a series of roads which are wide and straight, with
trees on either side of them, and beyond the trees white walls.
One of these roads is always named " The Mall " in virtue of some
undying memory which hangs about the precincts of Charing Cross.
Beyond the roads are stiff rows of barracks as simple in design
as the wooden blocks of buildings from a child's toy box. They
are dotted about in just such a way as a boy would place them on
a table when playing at town building. Near about the barracks
are hospitals, stores, a racket court, " horse lines," a dairy, a bank,
a post-office, and a church. The church professes a style of archi-
tecture which may be called amateur Gothic, but it is brave with
whitewash and green paint.

A little removed are the bungalows where the English live.
Some have thatched roofs, all have verandahs, and all have gardens
within a low wall, for it is evident that the design of the bungalow
has come from an English brain, filled with reverence for the
thatched cottages and rose gardens in the old country.

Whatever may be the purpose of the building in the canton-
ment, whether it be a telegraph office, a bank, or a court house,
it stands in a garden and looks like a bungalow, so that a cheque

THE WHITES AND THE BROWNS^ 45

will be cashed at a table by a French window which opens upon a
creeper-laden verandah, the while the bank clerk sits at the receipt
of custom in white clothes under the aegis of a punkah.

Somewhere in the cantonment will be a line of shops reputed
to be European. In one vile shed — as unassuming as a mule stable
— will dwell a man who professes to be a " naval and military dress-
maker." In another emporium " English tobacco " is sold, and a
hovel that looks like a gutted cobbler's shop is defined by a board
as the warehouse of a "coach and saddle builder." There are a
chemist's shop and a grocery store for the residents, and a " photo
studio," where post-cards and ancient Indian weapons are retailed
for the benefit of the tourist.

Far afield are the parade ground, the polo ground, the race
course, and the jail, with (in cantonments of high standing) a
park, and the withered travesty of golf links.

Those who dwell in the bungalows are very pleasant folk, who
are engaged in responsible work full of uncommon detail. They
devote their leisure with some success to seeking for comfort in
an uncomfortable country, and they are drawn together by the
bonds of a common exile. To those of their countrymen who stray
into their cantonments they offer a kindly welcome and a too
lavish hospitality, and many of the most pleasant memories of a
sojourn in India linger about the bungalows of friends whose
acquaintance is to be counted in days. While the instincts of a
generous host form the first motives in their kindness, there is
possibly also in their hearts some desire to meet those who have so
recently shaken the dust of Piccadilly from their feet, and who can
bring with them the latest of the little news of home, and can talk
of theatres and hansoms as of things of yesterday.

There are features in cantonment table talk which are in-
digenous. One hears always of the horrors of the last hot weather,
of the sins of dhobies, of evils wrought by the rains, of cobras in
bath rooms, and of intended migrations to the hills. It comes to
be known that the most august ladies are the wives of the L.G.
and the G.O.C., that the D.A.A.G. and the P.M.O. have played
parts in certain "plain tales from the hills," and that the C.O. of
R.E. is anxious to show you kindness.

46 INDIA.

In the British colony there are more who protest that " they like
India " than who really like it To the young subaltern India has
actual joys. He has plenty of sport, he can afford to play polo,
and he has more servants than he could dream of possessing in
England. The young girl also finds that in India she can revel in
the very best of " good times." She is a rara avis, and is made
much of. In the cold weather there are dances and picnics, diver-
sions at the club, and possible dallying on a river in an English
boat propelled by an English youth. In the hot weather there are
the hills, where heart-stirring things happen under the deodars.

With the middle-aged in India there is apt to be an abiding
weariness and a never-dying longing for home. Some of the
melancholy of the native has entered into their souls, the land has
become a desert, and life a dreary tramp. Although the sky may
be radiant with sun, they would change it for a November fog,
if only the fog hung over London streets. Although they have a
lordly house and many servants they would give it all for a flat in
Bayswater. The jungle may be beautiful, but their longings are
rather for certain muddy streets and bleak heaths, and, if mere
wishing could do it, the palm, the bamboo, and the golden mohur
would change to the lavender bush and the hollyhock in the game-
keeper's garden.

Upon those who have grown old in India there has usually
fallen the peace of a tardy resignation. Friends at home are dead
or gone, they themselves have become moulded to the routine of
Indian ways, so that they fear that life in England might be
strange and difficult now that the threads that bound them to the
old country have been dropped so long. They have outlived the
yearning for home, and would end their days wherever such end is
easiest and, possibly, cheapest.

The natives of the country — as has been already said — are a
woful folk, brown-skinned, with bright raiment, but dolorous coun-
tenance. That the great mass of the people are of Aryan descent
is apparent enough, and the distinctions which separate them from
the aboriginal tribes — such as the Goorkhas and the Bhils — are
still unmistakable. The type of face which characterises the true
East Indian is for the most part a high type — a lofty forehead, a

THE WHITES AND THE BROWNS.' 47

well-shaped nose, with delicate nostrils, a finely chiselled mouth
with parted lips, showing the whitest of white teeth, expressive
eyes, shaded by heavy lids, while under the turban or hood is sleek,
black hair.

But for the brown skin many would be handsome, and the
peasant of few countries can surpass the Indian in the undoubted
dignity of his mien. Many of the men might be swarthy Italians
or sun-tanned Spaniards. At Simla I happened upon a few people
of the hills, who wore caps and whose hair, long, black, and
straight, was cut abruptly short at the level of the neck. These
might have come from Florence in the days of Savonarola. They
recalled the men who figured in old pictures of that time. One of
them might have been a model for the brothers in Millais' picture
of " Lorenzo and Isabella."

The Indian serves at least to show that the turban is one of the
most picturesque forms of head-dress, as it is one of the most
rational.

The women are for the most part abject, and are occupied in
all manner of sordid work — grubbing about in the dirt or crouch-
ing before a mill stone or bearing most oppressive burdens on their
heads. All but the youngest of them have managed to eliminate
most of the distinctive attractions of their sex. There is nothing
of suggestion in their dress, there is little left for the wholesome
imagination as to the form their scant robes cover. There is an
utter absence of coquetry, of any attempt to please, of any evidence
of dressing for effect. A few extra bells on the toes, a brightening
of the bangles on the wrist, or an exceptional nose ring would
appear to be the limit to which the middle-aged beauty could
extend her attractions.

They are bare-footed and bare-legged. The naked human foot
is not pleasant to contemplate after the age of babyhood, but when
it is brown and covered with mud it is not a thing to even look
upon. Many a time in the streets of an Indian town prejudiced
travellers must recall with regret the trim, tightly drawn stocking
and the bright buckled shoe of the Paris boulevard.

There are two special attractions which the women of India
can claim. They have, in the first place, a splendid carnage. They

48 ^ INDIA.

walk with a lissom grace and with dignified movement In com-
parison with them in this respect the European woman is a
stumbling automaton. A second merit is theirs. The heads of
the Indian women are not disfigured by any hideous practice in the
matter of the dressing of hair. The head of the Western lady is
made uncouth by meaningless lumps and bunches decreed by
fashion, so that while her brow assumes the shape of a pumpkin,
her neck is bared like the neck of a plucked fowl Beneath the
thin hood the Indian girl wears is to be seen the simple, exquisite
outline of the female head, unspoiled by any barbaric fancies of
the hairdresser.

The young women and girls are pretty enough. The little
girls have their " hair up " from the time they can run, and wear
the hood and long skirts of their elders. While they are dre
to look like miniature matrons, their brown faces, their solemn eyes,
their parted lips and brilliant teeth remind one of timid black-and-
tan terriers. They are shy and modest Their hands and feet, if
unspoiled by unworthy toil, are singularly beautiful The Indian
girl dressed for a festa, with her many-plaited red frock, her blue
hood and tasselled scarf, her sparkling rings and bangles, is a
picturesque and gaudy personage, even if she appear a little
weighed down by her splendour. It may be added, however, that
the too often repeated blue and red of the Indian peasant woman's
dress becomes in time monotonous.

Of the Indian lady, nothing that comes within the knowledge
of men is known — she is "purdah." She is secluded within her
house like a nun, and when she goes forth she is carefully pro-
tected from the light as if she were a photographic film. Strangely
unlike the Western lady, she shrinks from the possibility of being
seen of men.

If the grown-up Indian woman cannot look beautiful she can, at
least, look old. She seems to possess, above all living things, the
power of assuming in the most grisly form the phenomena which
attend extreme length of years. He who would see what a
human being might look like at the age of 200 years should seek
out one of the toothless old women who crouch in the dark door-
ways in the bazaar. He would find a crooked, grey ghost in rags,

THE WHITES AND THE BROWNS. , 49

" Whose shrivelled skin, sun-tanned,
Clings like a beast's hide to its fleshless bones,"

whose face shows wrinkles which obliterate the features and seem
to be graven down to the very skull. Such a poor soul may be
no more than sixty, but Methuselah on his death-bed could not
have looked older.

One such venerable crone I met with in a native hospital in a
native state. She was attending upon her granddaughter who was
ill, and her surroundings incidentally revealed some features of the
Indian sick room. The room, very small and dark, was lit by one
dim window near the roof. From the sill of the window a chance
pigeon contemplated the sick bed. The floor of the room was of
stone, while the sole suggestion of furniture was an iron bedstead
without either head or foot and an earthenware water jar. A chair
or a table would have been superfluous, as all visitors would
naturally sit on the floor, and on the floor the belongings of the
invalid would find a place.

The patient was a married woman of eighteen, plump and
pretty. She was the wife of a Mohammedan pedlar, who had left
her here while he had continued on his journey. As she squatted
upright on the bed her eyes gleamed in the dark. She was radiant
with earrings and necklaces and lit up by many bangles. She had
a trouble in her thigh, from which she had suffered much at the
hands of many Indian physicians. At last she had come upon an
English surgeon, and was on the way to be well She displayed
her operation wound with whispered pride, putting her hands to-
gether to show how pleased she was that it had been done. For
a native of India she was very cheery, and all things seemed to
amuse her.

In one corner of the small room, and in its deepest shadow, a
little old woman sat on a quilt on the floor. Her property, con-
sisting of a blanket, an untidy bundle and a small basin, was dis-
tributed on the stones around her. Her head was covered by a
drab hood, and she was the brownest and most shrivelled human
being that the mind could picture. She looked like a dried-up
walnut kernel that had long rattled in its shell. Propped up on
the brown cross bones which formed her knees was a heavy green
E

50 INDIA.

book. This was the Koran, from which sacred volume she read
aloud to her bright-eyed granddaughter the whole day through.
She read " from morn tifl noon, from noon till dewy eve " without
a moment for rest The smiling girl from her bed and the stray
pigeon from the window ledge looked down upon her with a pretty
interest The surgeon asked the ancient dame how old she was,
to which she replied that " she had long forgotten.*

The buxom girl and the wrinkled thing who read from the book
formed a curious couple. They might have been the Princess and
the Fairy Godmother of the story book, and the pigeon the Prince
in disguise. The witch-Eke grandmother was proud at heart It
was the long reading of the Koran that had brought back health
to the little maid. When she looked up at the laughing face she
must have felt that the endless drawl of texts for many weeks had
met with its reward, for although her conception of comfort in the
sick room may have been ritualistic it was well meant The
patient was soothed by the crooning voice, while the pigeon, who
had been attracted at first by curiosity, seemed to draw pleasure
from the company of these two.

IV.
THE BAZAAR.

The term " bazaar " implies that quarter of an Indian town
which is occupied by the shopkeepers and is devoted to business.
The native bazaar at one place is very much like that at another.
It is at Delhi, perhaps, that the shopkeepers' quarter can be seen
at its best, and what is here written is based upon what was seen
in that city.

The bazaar is made up of a tangle of streets, lanes, and alleys,

h are crowded by a rabble of human beings and beasts of

the field. The road is mere trodden earth, stained brown or

black by the emptyings from casual pots. It is littered with

garbage, which may still be green or in any stage of withering

and decay. The houses, of no form or pattern, are often ruinous

and never clean. The shops, which occupy the ground floor, are

mere square recesses, as free from decoration or design as the

interior of a cart shed They huddle one after another, but at a

^ring level

Above the shops are the houses proper. Of one storey only
as a rule, and built mainly of wood, they form an unsteady palisade
of balconies with tattered awnings and dangling mats, overhang-
ing windows, and plain white walls. There are no visible roofs,
but on the housetops are often heaps of fodder or piles of wood.
As no two adjacent buildings will be of even height, the skyline,
along the streets, is notched like the edge of a rag. The street
looks unsteady as if it had been shaken out of line by an earth-
:e. One house will be leaning across the road, and another
be staggering back from it They reel like a row of drunken
men linked together arm in arm.

The woodwork of some of the balconies may be fantastically

52 , INDIA.

carved, or there will be here and there a stone building of some
dignity. The timber is bare and burnt by the sun, while the plaster
and whitewash which cover the bricks is thinned by the ravages
of the rain. There will be in all streets the picturesqueness of
broken lines, of careless informality, and of luxuriant neglect

There is little about any native bazaar to suggest commercial
prosperity, as it is understood by the European. The suggestion
is rather that the quarter is the bankrupts' quarter, the city a city
of ruined men, and the shops mere make-shifts in deserted streets.

Every lane in the bazaar is thronged with life and colour, as
well as with an atmosphere of dirt and noise. It is hard to see
the road for the tramping of feet, it is hard to see the road's end
by reason of the burdens carried aloft upon men's heads. There
is ever a solid stream of living forms and vivid tints. On the
surface of the tide are heads turbaned with white or yellow, or
green or pink, gleaming eyes, white teeth, with now and then a
nun-like head shaded by a blue hood. At a lower level are tunics
of every colour in a flower garden, brown backs, bare arms, white
robes blending with red skirts. Among the stalky undergrowth
of naked legs will be seen creeping a dog or a fowl fluttering
with panic.

In the crowd are old men with staffs, and girls with water jars,
bearers of palanquins, wild long-haired fakirs, water carriers, and
coolies with bundles of every shape upon their skulls. Everything
is carried upon the head, whether it be a bale of silk, borne by
a servant before his master, or a basket of manure carried by a
squalid woman.

Here through the mob a string of donkeys will plod along,
and there will be a buffalo ridden by a boy, or a camel with a
man rocking on his back, or a couple of cows pushed forward
by a yelling harridan with a stick.

The vehicles in the bazaar will be represented by the bullock
tonga, by the gharry (which looks like a bathing machine), and
by the ekka, or two-wheeled pony cart. This latter — the hansom
of the city — has the aspect of a Punch and Judy show, aloft on
an ice-cream vendor's barrow, and those who ride therein squat
cross-legged under the canopy.

THE BAZAAR. * 53

Women are chattering in the balconies, or, folding their brown
arms upon the rail, are gazing down into the street. Above them
on the roof may be a man in a gaudy turban driving importunate
pigeons from his grain, while below them are the tattered awnings
of brown canvas or coloured rags which keep the sun from the
shops.

The shops are raised on a platform a little above the level
of the street. As has been already said, they are merely square,
cavern-like gaps. Their walls show traces of whitewash and
of brown patches left by a generation of oily heads. There is
neither window nor door, and at night the shop is closed by
just such a gate of rough wood as will be used to shut in an English
cow-house. The feature of the shop is the floor. The vendor
squats on a mat on the floor, while his assistants or family crouch
around him. The customer also squats on the floor or on the
platform before the shop. The merchant's wares are deposited
on the ground in shallow baskets, brass dishes, or pots, according
to their kind. On the floor also are his books, his cash-box, his
clothes, his articles de toilette, his great pipe, and the utensils
from which he eats.

The dweller in the bazaar lives in the street, coram populo,
and his inner life is generously laid open to the public gaze. In
the morning he may think well to wash himself in front of his
shop, and to clean his teeth with a stick, while he crouches among
his goods and spits into the lane. He sits on the ground in the
open to have his head shaved, and watches the flight of the
barber's razor by means of a hand glass. The barber squats in
front of him, and from time to time whets his blade upon his
naked leg. The shopkeeper will change his clothes before the
eyes of the world when he is so moved. He also eats in the open,
and after the meal he washes his mouth with ostentatious
publicity and empties his bowl into the road.

Every phase of the fine art of cooking — with a suppression
of no detail — can be witnessed by the lounger in the bazaar.
At the same time he can note how the Indian woman washes her
head, by wetting it and rubbing thereon the dust from under
her feet.

54 INDIA.

Indeed, in the bazaar, life is seen in its nakedness. There
is little that is hidden from the gaze of the curious. There is no
suggestion of " keeping up appearances," nor is any effort made
to practise crude social deceptions. The mysteries of the house-
hold are as bluntly laid open as are the apartments of a doll's
house when the front of the establishment is thrown wide by a
delighted child There are deeper shadows in courtyards and
mean entries and behind hanging mats which the eye cannot
penetrate, but if among the gloom there is the holy of holies of
the Indian home, it may well be left in mystery.

The contents of the shops themselves are above all things
interesting and endless in variety. Here a merchant sits, cross-
legged, among trays and bowls of fragrant spices, the odours
from which curl around him like incense. There is a vendor of
grain squatting behind pyramids of rice and pulse laid out on
mats, while birds watch his store from precarious perches in
every corner of his shop. Here is a maker of sweetmeats busy
with sticky cooking pots, and the piles of dainties which fence
him in are black with flies.

There are shops ablaze with gaudy silks or green with vege-
tables and fruits. The twang of the cotton bow makes music
among a hillock of white fluff on one side of the street, and the
hammer of the gold-beater beats time on the other. The potter
is busy with his wheel, moulding jars with his fingers, and the
brassmaker or the blacksmith sends the glint of metal and the
glow of fire out into the murk of the road. Here is a meat shop,
where the butcher, sitting amid acute smells, grips his knife
between his feet and shapes rags of beef by drawing them across
the blade with his hands. His neighbour on one side is making
slippers, while he on the other bends with a graver over a silver
cup.

In one shop two women will be grinding at a wheel, and the
passer-by must wonder, when the plague comes, which one will
be taken and which one left. Here is a dyer drawing dripping
clothes from a vat of saffron dye, and near by is a weaver, or a
maker of mats, or a rocking line of restless schoolboys with slates
and pencils, learning to write and to add up sums.

THE BAZAAR. v 55

Over all spread the sapphire sky and the burning glare of the
sun, while from every shadow there steals the sickly odour of
cooking oil.

It is at night and under the moon that the streets of an
Indian town become filled with the most unearthly spirit of
romance. I recall one such night in Bombay when the moon
was high in the heavens.

The street was narrow, for the houses on either side of it
leaned towards one another. They were lofty and fantastic
in shape, so that the gap of light that marked the road made
it look like a narrow way through a gorge of rocks. The white
glory of the moon, falling from broken housetops, turned into
marble the wood-carved mullions of an overhanging window,
poured, slanting-wise, into a verandah and made beautiful its poor
roof, its arches, and its bulging rail, and then dripping through rents
and holes in ragged awnings, filled little pools of cool light in
the hot, untidy road.

The shops were closed and were tost in the blackest shadows,
although, here and there, a splash of moonlight would strike the
stone platform which stood in front of them and reveal a bench,
a barred door, or a heavy chest. A few steps of a rambling
stair would climb up through the glamour and then vanish in the
dusk. The pillars of a stone balcony would stand out like
alabaster in the moon, appearing poised in the air, as if the
corner of a palace projected into the street. A denser mass of
shadow would mask an arched entry whose flagstones led through
utter darkness to a courtyard flooded with light.

On the pale stones of one such courtyard was the recumbent
figure of a man wrapped from head to foot in a purple cloak,
like a corpse laid out for burial. Under the verandahs and in
caverns of darkness many other figures were stretched out on
mats, on low tables, or on bare stones, all wrapped up so that
no face could be seen, all motionless, all lean like the dead.
These mummy-like bundles (that were sleeping men) might all
have been lifeless bodies put out of doors to wait for some
tumbril to come by.

On certain lintels was the mark in red paint which showed

56 v INDIA.

that the plague had visited the house, and so quiet was the place
andv so still the wrapped-up men that one could fancy that the
lane was in a city of death. The figures looked so thin and lay
so flat as to show, under the meagre covering, the feet, the points
of the knees, and the outline of the head. One figure drew up
a bony leg as I passed, and it seemed as if a man left for dead
was still alive.

Some were wrapped in red garments, some in yellow, and
a few in white. In every one the wrapping entirely enveloped
the head, for the native of India when he sleeps — whether in
a room or in the open — will always cover up his face.

Possibly a few of those who slept were servants lying outside
their masters' houses, but the greater number of them were the
homeless men of the city. Some were asleep in the very roadway,
so that the passer-by would need to step over them.

The quiet in the place was terrible. The only sound came
from the shuffling feet of two prowling dogs who rooted among
the garbage in the gutter. It was just such a street as Dore
was wont to paint, and such an one as has figured in many a
rapier-and-cloaked-figure romance. It was a street that breathed
murder, and to which would be fitting the stab in the back,
the sudden shriek, the struggling body dragged into a dark
doorway by knuckles clutching at the livid neck. It was the
street of the Arabian Nights, and there was in it the hush that
comes before a tragedy.

In one place in the street a bar of red light from an open
door fell across the road and across a muffled figure asleep upon
the stones. In another place a motionless woman bent over the
rail of a verandah, her head outlined against the glare of a lamp
in the room behind her. For what she watched, Heaven knows!

Beyond these two streaks of light, which burnt into the arctic
pallor of the moon, there was nothing to suggest that the dwellers
in the street did more than mimic death.

AGRA AND ITS BOOK OF KINGS.

The great red fort at Agra was built by Akbar, ever to be
known as " Akbar the Great." Its morose bastions and its dainty
palaces are rilled with memories of the valiant King, of his son
Jahangir, and of his grandson Shah Jahan. Never was there
such a cycle of romance as clings to the names of these three
men. Their halls still stand, their pleasure gardens still blossom,
and the sun still shines into the chambers where their ladies loved,
languished, and died

It was Shah Jahan who built the Pearl Mosque — the most
divine of all courts of prayer. It was he who raised on the river's
bank the Taj Mahal — the loveliest edifice that has ever been
framed by the hands of men.

The name of Akbar came into the annals of the history of
India in this wise. Somewhere about the time 1001 A.D., when
the Normans were invading England, Mohammedan armies were
streaming over the plains of India from the north-west passes
in the Himalayas. The invaders were victorious, and they
established in due time kingdoms and dynasties which were main-
tained— if maintained at all — by incessant conflict

At last came Babar the Moghul, who invaded India in 1526,
and found the country divided among many Mohammedan kings
and as many Hindu princes. He concerned himself with no
petty rivals, and sought no conciliatory alliances. His task was
to conquer India, and he so far succeeded that when he died at
Agra in 1530 he left behind him "an empire which stretched
from the river Amu in Central Asia to the borders of the Gangetic
Delta in Lower Bengal."

Thus was founded the great Moghul Empire which, before the

58 c INDIA.

English came, was the most powerful dynasty which has ever
gripped the sceptre of government in India. It was a dynasty
which rose to majestic heights, which reached the supreme pin-
nacle of relentless power, of arrogance and of splendour, and
which, at its zenith, could claim to be the most magnificent court
in the whole world

Of Babar the Lion no trace remains at Agra, unless it be a
little summer garden by the river side, where his body is said to
have rested before it was removed for burial in Kabul. His
son, Humayun, succeeded him, and held somewhat feebly to the
crown his father had established. He was King for twenty-six
years, and his tomb, which stands on the great high road leading
south from Delhi, is one of the finest in India, His wife was a
Persian lady, and she bore him a son who became the Emperor
Akbar.

Akbar succeeded to the throne when he was a lad of fourteen,
and he reigned for nearly fifty years, from 1556 to 1605, and it is
noteworthy that his reign was nearly contemporary with that of
Queen Elizabeth of England She came to the throne two
years after his accession, and died two years before him. Akbar
was a born King, a man of stirring talents, who showed himself
to be both a daring soldier and a tactful diplomatist. His reign
was a reign of conciliation ; he fused the petty kingdoms into
which India was split up into one united empire, while he re-
conciled to his rule as well the conquered Hindus as the inde-
pendent Mohammedan princes. What he could not effect by
statesmanship he attained by force. He it was who stormed
and took the famous fortress of Chitor, and the gates of that
citadel he carried with him to Agra, where they remain to this
day. He was singularly tolerant in his religious views. His
favourite wife was a Hindu princess. Another of his wives was a
Christian lady named Miriam. At least, so the story goes, and
those who tell it show still in his palace at Fatehpur-Sikri a house,
in perfect state, called Miriam's House. He was an enlightened
and just ruler, through whom the Moghul dynasty attained the
highest peak it was ever destined to reach.

He built the great palace of Fatehpur-Sikri on a hill near by

AGRA AND ITS BOOK OF KINGS.' 59

to Agra. The palace with its many halls still towers over the
plain. It is empty and wofully deserted, but the hand of ruin
has passed it by, so that if the dead King could once more ride
up the cobbled way that leads to the palace gates he would find
that four hundred years have wrought but little havoc upon his
sturdy walls.

Akbar — as has been already said — built the red fort at Agra.
At Agra he died, and he was buried in a stately garden at Sikandra,
which garden lies some six miles from the fort towards the north.
So the great Emperor slept with his fathers, and Jahangir his
son reigned in his stead.

Jahangir reigned twenty and two years over India, and, in the
words of the Book of Kings, " he did evil in the sight of the Lord."
He was an indifferent ruler and an unsuccessful general. He spent
his nights in drunken revelry, and it is said of him that " he talked
religion over his cups until he reached a certain stage of intoxica-
tion, when he fell to weeping." *

An Englishman of distinction, Sir Thomas Roe, gives an ac-
count of a private audience he had with this monarch — who in-
cidentally assumed the title of the " Conqueror of the World."
The Emperor utilised the audience to enquire anxiously of Sir
Thomas how much he drank in the day, how he esteemed beer as
an intoxicant, and whether he could make it in Agra. It would
appear that as soon as the Conqueror of the World was informed
upon these vital points the interview closed.

Jahangir's palace still stands — in a state of perfect preservation
— within the walls of the fort of Agra. It is a gloomy building,
severe and grim. Owing, however, to the thickness of its walls
and the seclusion of the royal apartments, the structure is well
suited to the needs of a monarch who was in the habit of becoming
tipsy after sundown, and of weeping and howling when sufficiently
advanced in drink.

To Jahangir's merit must be placed the building of Akbar's

resplendent tomb at Sikandra, and of the still more glorious

structure which covers the remains of Itmad-ud-Daulah, the father

of his favourite wife. Another matter in his life which should count

* Sir William Hunter's "History of the Indian Peoples," p. 141.

60 ^ INDIA.

for righteousness was his undying devotion to this wife, Nur
Jahan, and her unsparing love of him.

Jahangir died in 1627, and was succeeded by his son Shah
Jahan, who was at the time of his father's death engaged in raising
a rebellion against him. Shah Jahan was thirty-six years old when
he came to the throne. His mother was Jahangir's second wife,
a Hindu princess known as Jodh-Bai. Shah Jahan unfortunately
commenced his career as Emperor by murdering his brother and
such other members of the house of Akbar as might become rivals
to the throne.

In 1615, when Shah Jahan was twenty-three years of age, he
married Arjumand Banu — a lady whose name has been made im-
mortal, for she was the lady of the Taj, the wife of his youth, over
whose small body was erected the most glorious building in the
world.

Arjumand Banu was of Persian descent Her grandfather,
Itmad-ud-Daulah, was an adventurer from Teheran, and the tomb
that Jahangir erected over his remains has already been alluded
to as one of the monuments of his reign. Her father was a minister
of great influence in the court. His name was Asaf Khan, and his
sister (the aunt of Arjumand Banu) was the Empress Nur Jahan,
the favourite wife of the dead King.

The lady of the Taj died in 1629, so the two were married
for fourteen years. She had seven children, and died during the
birth of the eighth. If it be supposed that she was about seventeen
years old when she married, she would have been about thirty-one
when she died. It will be noticed that she died the year after her
husband came to the throne ; so the lady of the Taj was an empress
for but one short year.

One might imagine that the happiest days of her life had been
spent in Agra. It was there, by the Jumna, that the young
Prince became her lover and her husband, and it was by the Jumna,
no doubt, that she wished that her body might rest. She died far
away from Agra ; for she seems to have followed her husband on
an expedition to the Deccan, and to have died in Burhanpur, a place
many days' journey from the river fort.

Shah Jahan is said to have been a man of grave and solemn

AGRA AND ITS BOOK OF KINGS.. 61

countenance who seldom smiled. He was a good king who lived
royally. In splendour and lavish magnificence his court was with-
out an equal in the world, and there is little doubt that in his
palaces the pomp and circumstance which surround an emperor
were only to be surpassed by the glory of dreams.

He was the Great Moghul. Those who would see how an
emperor should live must needs travel to Agra or to Delhi. There
was nothing in Europe to compare with this radiant court. The
halls in the palace of the King of England were humble and in-
significant by the side of the gorgeous domes which covered the
head of the Emperor of India. The throne upon which he sat — the
famous Peacock Throne — was estimated to have cost six millions
sterling, and the palace was worthy of the throne. The conception
of " oriental magnificence " and of the " splendours of the East "
has its prime origin in the courts of this most kingly of all kings.
What the poet might imagine of the glamour which should encircle
a throne he realised, while it would seem that he reached the end
of those inventions which could minister to the possibilities
of personal ambition.

Shah Jahan not only built the Pearl Mosque and the Taj
Mahal, but he reared on the walls of the great red fort at Agra
the palace of white marble, which crowns the fortress still. He
founded the new city of Delhi, and built there another white palace,
which in some elements of splendour was more magnificent than
that of Agra.

All this and more he did during a reign of thirty years, but his
end was not peace. One of his sons — a child of the lady of the
Taj — rose up against him, deposed him, and made him a prisoner
in that very palace of Agra which he himself had raised. There
he lingered for seven years, and there he died one day in December.
1666. At the time of his death he was seventy-four years of age.

The son who deposed him — the Emperor Aurangzeb — although
he bestowed upon himself the title of the " Conqueror of the
Universe " — lived to see the great Moghul Empire fade. He ruled
in sumptuous magnificence at Delhi, but before his end came the
flaming cresset which had cast its glare over nearly the whole
of India began to flicker and become dim.

62 <. INDIA.

The last of the Moghul Emperors was the paltry old puppet
who ran out of Delhi when the British entered it in 1857 after the
ever-memorable siege. This poor pantaloon monarch, who had
no more regal reality than the king in a pantomime, hid in a tomb
by the roadside, whence he was taken like a pickpocket back to
Delhi, and finally sent as a prisoner to Rangoon. There he died
in 1 862, the sorry relic of a line of magnificent emperors.

VI.

THE FORT AT AGRA.

Agra figures very largely in the guide books, wherein both
eloquence and adjectives are lavished upon it. For the various
" objects of interest " encountered, the guide book has a severe
classification and a graduated order of merit. Those objects
which are peculiarly precious are defined as "imposing," as
** most elegant," or as " miracles of beauty." They are admitted
into a sacred coterie under the insigne of "the most interesting
features of India." Such structures as just escape being miracles
of beauty are received into the second class of the order under
the category of things " which will well repay a visit." The third
class embraces tombs and temples which are " pleasing," and which
the tourist " should not fail to see if time permits."

Agra is happy in possessing examples of all these degrees of
excellence, so that it can satisfy the pampered intellect which is
only to be appeased by palaces, as well as the simpler mind which
finds joy in " carvings in soapstone and imitations of old inlay
work."

The fort at Agra stands upon an eminence near the banks of
the river Jumna, a little outside the busy town it guards so
valiantly. It is built wholly of dark red stone, and it is doubtful
if there is in the world a fort which looks more fort-like. It has
great walls rising like cliffs above flanking defences, a line of battle-
ments for a legion of armed men, and loopholes for a thousand
musketeers.

There is around it a huge moat, across which stretch ponderous
drawbridges, and beyond the bridges are the most mighty and
terrible gates that the timid could conceive. There are, moreover,
huge bastions and frowning towers that care for nothing and defy
the world.

64 INDIA.

Those who wish to see such a place of refuge as they have
fashioned in their dreams should see the great fort at Agra. There
is nothing they will have imagined so massive, so valiant, and so
red. What a fortress of rock it must have seemed to the fluttering
town folk as they hurried breathless under its portals, dragging
with them their children and their clinging wives, just as the dust
cloud of the galloping horde appeared along the outskirts of the
city!

What a giant it is, and what terrible armaments its circuit must
enclose! The very walls call up the clash of arms, the blasts of
trumpets, the clatter of hoofs on stones, the thunder and glare of
the bursting mine, the forest of scaling ladders, and the heap of
dead in the moat. It is just such a fort as should figure in an
allegory, or be engraven on a shield as an heraldic symbol. It
is just such a fort as would delight a boy if he could have it in
miniature and in copious red paint. It is to be feared that the
modern soldier would regard Akbar's stronghold at Agra as a
paltry place of arms. Still it looks so strong, it stands so gallantly
in front of the town, and, when seen from the plain with the sun
upon its eastern face, it looks so beautiful.

This eastern face is that which turns towards the river, and
here on the summit of the great red height stands Shah Jahan's
palace of marble. The fortress wall rises sheer from the ditch, as
ponderous a mass of stone as is a precipice of granite. On the top
of this rampart, where the battlements should be, is the frail palace.
From afar it appears as a delicate line of polished walls pierced
by tiny windows surmounted by gilded cupolas and broken by
arcades with alabaster pillars. There one can see the chamber in
the Jasmine tower where the ladies sat after sundown, the queen's
white terrace, and beyond all these the peerless domes of the Pearl
Mosque glistening in the sun like ice.

There could be no contrast more extreme than that between the
savage war-tanned fortress wall and the gentle buildings which
crown its summit. It looks as if a cloud had become entangled
among the armaments of a stronghold, or as if a shower of white
rose leaves had fallen upon a headsman's block.

VII.
THE PALACE IN THE FORT.

Within the fort and along its eastern face are two palaces
side by side ; one, built of red stone, is strong, dismal, and
unlovely; the other, of white marble, is fragile, exquisite, and
radiant. The red palace has dingy courts, its corridors are dim,
its walls are austere, and it crouches sulkily in the shadow behind
the ramparts of the fort. The white palace crowns the bastion
like a creeping flower, lifts its domes towards the sun, lays bare
its tender columns to the breeze, and its courtyards to the falling
dews. One is a refuge for armed men, a place for stacked spears,
for boisterous banqueting and ribald speech. The other is for
women's feet, for the sound of lutes, the frou-frou of silk, and
the stately pacing of a smiling prince. The red building is
Jahangir's palace, the otKer the palace of Shah Jahan.

Jahangir's palace is built wholly of red sandstone, of the same
stone indeed as the walls of the fort. It is an extensive building
which has been well preserved. It is approached by a heavy
gateway, with the look rather of the entrance to a stronghold
than to a residence for kings. There is within the gate a noble
courtyard, from which lead wide halls with many corridors.
There are, besides, suspicious passages, and a maze of chambers
fashioned all of the same ruddy stone. Beneath the great rooms is
a wilderness of dark ways, and lines of chambers which never see
the sun. There is everywhere a sense of heaviness and gloom.
Most of the pillars and the brackets under the eaves are copiously
carved, but the decoration is barbaric and truculent. Here and
there is a moulding of lotus flowers cut out of stone, but they are
not the flowers which dot the fountain pools in the garden. They
are such buds as a soldier might carve with his dagger out of

F 65

66 INDIA.

wood by the camp fire. In one hall the ceiling is supported by
sloping beams of carved stone, but the things graven upon the
beams are crawling snakes and loathly dragons. There are no
arches in the building, and the substitutes for the arch, although
always ingenious, are clumsy and harsh.

The decoration of the royal residence is — the guide books
say — for the most part " pure Hindu." It is claimed that it is bold
and virile, but it is not pleasing. Much of the dinginess of the
palace is due to the fact that time has laid bare its walls and
ceilings, for the harsh stone was once covered by plaster and
gaudy paint. There are traces of this decoration still, and although
the colours are now faint, it is evident that they were in old days
bright enough, and were bestowed upon bold designs.

As one walks through the silent dust which covers the floors
of the bald courts, it is impossible not to realise that the red
palace of Jahangir was built for sturdy men. It was for men who
had been hardened by life in camps, by angry marches, and the
roar of battle. It was within its portal that the captain, hot from
war, could throw down his arms in a careless heap, and stretch
his tired limbs in the cool of its dim passages. The Hall of
Audience was more suited for savage debate and the hammer fall
of the determined fist than for leisurely discourse. Along the
dark corridors and up the steep stairs one would expect pather the
clang of mailed feet than the rustle of the courtly gown.

In that part of the palace where the ladies lived there is
little to recall the gentle life. Rather do its walls suggest a
prison, a place of safe keeping for timid captives who had been
dragged to the palace with other spoils of war. It is easy to
imagine on the verandah a fluttering woman, with terror in her
writhing fingers, and the awful look of the hunted in her eyes.

It is pleasant to turn from the sinister courts of Jahangir to
the White Palace reared by his son Shah Jahan.

This palace covers a great extent of ground, and is a wonder
of courtyards and pavilions, of passages and corridors, and of
domes and pillared halls. Within its precincts are pleasure
gardens, fountain squares, mosques, a lady's market place, baths
shimmering with glass, throne rooms for the court, and turrets to

THE PALACE AT AGRA. , 6;

sleep in when the nights are hot. There are, moreover, secret
passages which lead to hidden doors, and secret stairs which
mount to unexpected roofs or plunge by whispering ways into
the shadows of the moat. All the buildings are in a singularly
good state — are, indeed, so little spoiled by time that no great
labour could make the palace as it was when Shah Jahan was
king.

The palace is entered through the Hall of Public Audience.
This building, which looks out upon the tilt yard, is a vast piazza,
the floor of which is raised a little from the ground. It is open on
all sides but one, and is like a pine forest, where strong, white
pillars stand in line instead of the trunks of trees. The columns
are in aisles under a gorgeous roof, whose wide-spread eaves form
a shelter from the sun. On the one side which is not open to
the square is a raised alcove of white marble, made beautiful by
inlaid stones. Aloft, in this recess, was placed the Emperor's
throne. On either side of the alcove there were grilles in the
wall which let light into closed passages, and through these
fretted openings bright-eyed ladies of the Court peeped out upon
the crowd.

Go back a few centuries and here is the great Armoury Square
filled with a thousand men-at-arms, their horses in gay trappings,
their elephants covered with cloths of crimson and tassels of
gold. The courtyard is alive with colour, is dazzling with the
gleam of spears, and hot with the noise and dust of impatient
feet and clattering hoofs. In the Hall of Audience are the hushed
people — a rustling, eager crowd of all degrees — the courtier,
radiant as a peacock, the inquisitive boy, the sullen chief whose
estate has gone, the pallid youth whose gaze is ever on the grilles
in the wall, the sober merchant, and the man of law.

In the alcove sits the great king in a jewelled robe, effulgent
beyond common speech, most valiant to gaze upon but yet filled
with awe, worshipped as all-powerful, but sickly with a hundred
fears. In the wall behind the Emperor's throne is a small door,
which must have been watched with awful expectancy on the
audience day.

Beyond this royal doorway is the gallery of the Machchi

68 c INDIA.

Bhawan or Fishing Tank. This is a large square, with an arcade
on all sides of it, both in the gallery and beneath the same.
Grass now grows in the square under the shade of a pipal tree,
but it is said that in days gone by the place was filled with water,
and that the Emperor fished there surrounded by his Court On
one of the galleries, where the floor stands out beyond the rest,
is a canopy of white pillars supporting a marble dome. Under
the shade of this baldachino, if the story be true, the great Moghul
sat and fished. The spot, quiet as it is, would not charm the
meditative heart of Isaak Walton. To him the roof of stone and
these stately cloisters would ill compare with an April sky in
England and with a river bank green with willows and nodding
rushes. Those, however, who would wish to see how an emperor
should fish, or would care to learn what the gentle art might
demand when it becomes the sport of kings, should visit the
Machchi Bhawan.

From one corner of this strange enclosure a paved way leads
to the Gem Mosque or Naginah Musjid. It was here that the
Empress and the ladies of the Court came to pray, and if the
peaceful beauty of the spot could avail them anything their
prayers must have reached Heaven.

The mosque is very small, very unpretending, very white.
It is built wholly of spotless marble, free of any but the plainest
decoration. It is merely a little white square, with high walls
open to the sky. The enclosure would be bare but for a minia-
ture fountain and its baby stream. Over the mihrab — which is
on the side nearest to Mecca — are three white domes. Under
the domes is a tiny cloister, beyond whose pillars are such shades
as lie beneath the wings of a dove. The little white square itself
is dazzling: it sparkles in the sun. The spot is so chaste, so
virginal, that it must needs be the court of a nunnery, and no
sound could break its quiet harsher than a whispered prayer
from timid lips.

Here on the cool stone knelt the ladies of the Court — exquisite
little figures wrapped in glistening silk, one in rose, one in yellow,
and one in blue. Black locks stray from under bright hoods as
the shapely heads are bowed towards Mecca. Beneath the robe's

THE PALACE AT AGRA. ' 69

edge are glimpses of bare feet and of gold rings, which tinkle on
the marble as first one restless ankle is moved and then another.
A pair of green parrakeets might watch the worshippers from the
walls, but otherwise no eye can look upon them as they pray.

From the Gem Mosque there is a short passage which opens at
once into the gallery of the Ladies' Bazaar. It is here that silks
and jewels, feathers and pearls, singing birds and pretty toys were
laid out for sale. The bazaar and the mosque stand side by side.
The one leads directly to the other, and it is interesting to note —
as a comment upon the ways of women — that the House of Prayer
and the Market for Finery should be joined by a convenient
corridor. It may be that visions of new possibilities in dress did
enter the heads of the little ladies who knelt in the mosque, and
disturbed their prayers. If such disorder was wrought in their
minds it did not pass away with the century in which they lived,
for it is probable that in modern times some of the most vivid in-
ventions in dress have been revealed to women as they sat in
church.

The bazaar by the mosque is as perfect now as it was in the
days when it was thronged by sellers, holding aloft bright scarves
and golden brooches, all eager to catch the royal eye. The place is
in the form of a square with niches on all its sides, in which was
displayed whatever could minister to feminine vanity.

The market place and its tiny shops are built of rude and
common stone, but the royal gallery, which hangs over one side of
it, is of white marble from no mean quarry. In this balcony is a
canopy to shield the imperial ladies from the sun, and between
the canopy and the doorway of the mosque is a screen of latticed
marble — pale as snow — to hide them from plebeian eyes. The
gleaming silken robes that flickered through the lattice, as the
royal folk passed by, must have been good to see, and when the
Empress took her seat by the balcony's edge the vendors of
pretty things must have felt that their trinkets and embroideries
had suddenly become dull.

Here in this miniature bazaar, within the palace wall, any who
wish may still gaze upon the daintiest realisation of Vanity Fair
that the world can show.

70 INDIA.

From that corner of the Machchi Bhawan which is farthest from
the Ladies' Bazaar a devious and obscure passage leads to a mosque
which is even smaller than is the Naginah Musjid just described.
This is the Emperor's Private Mosque, in which he worshipped
alone. It is hidden away from the brilliant terraces and the
crowded halls of the palace, so that he who prayed here would
find the silence broken by no sound of lute or singing, and by no
clatter of arms. Only the murmuring of birds would fall upon his
ear, and he would be as solitary as if he knelt in the heart of a
forest.

It is a very small mosque of white marble, pathetic in its plain-
ness and childlike in its simplicity. There is merely a narrow
court — the smallest in the palace, and at one end — the end to-
wards Mecca — are three little arches, so simple that they have no
feature but their shape. The court is open to heaven, and the
roof over the humble arcade of naked arches is flat There are no
domes, no carvings, no decorations. The place, indeed, is as bare
as a hermit's cell. It lies buried among the walls of a palace whose
magnificence is unparalleled. So well is the tiny mosque hidden
that many a strutting courtier must have been at a loss to find it,
and the waiting noble must have wondered where the great king
hid. The people beyond the palace walls would picture the
Emperor at prayer within a building of glittering domes, ablaze
with precious stones, heavy with beaten gold, and luxuriant with
the tenderest work of the artist.

There is nothing in the palace more touching than this poor
little corner where the king prayed, where he knelt to thank God
for victories, where he bowed in humility under defeats, where he
poured out the tale of his weakness, and where he wrung Heaven to
save him from the plotting rival, or the knife of the assassin.

Let those who would know something of the heart of the man
who built the Taj recall this glorious palace of his at Agra ; walk
through the still more gracious halls he fashioned at Delhi ; read
of the splendours and unequalled grandeur of his court, and then
seek out the plain little yard where the great king crept to pray.

The most sumptuous part of the palace of Shah Jahan — the
heart of the mansion — lies towards the river on the edge of the

THE PALACE AT AGRA. ^ 71

fortress wall. It is built wholly of white marble, and wherever
carving is seemly there are chiselled flowers or twining leaves,
while on every arch and panel are fine patterns in inlaid stone
in jade and jasper, in lapis lazuli or malachite, in bloodstone and
cornelian. Whatever stone from the quarry can imitate the tint of
blossom or fruit lies there embedded in marble like flowers in ice.
In every wall that looks out upon the river are windows filled with
marble fretwork, through which come glimpses of the wide stream
by day and of the cold light of the moon at night. There
may be princely palaces more gaudy and more lavish in gilt, and
mansions more spacious in extent with loftier walls, but no abode
of kings can excel the white palace of Agra in its delicacy and
its lovable tenderness. Little has changed within its precincts
since the time when :

" By winding ways of garden and of court
The inner gate was reached, of marble wrought,
White, with pink veins; the lintel lazuli,
The threshold alabaster, and the doors
Sandal-wood, cut in pictured panelling ;
Whereby to lofty halls and shadowy bowers
Passed the delighted foot, on stately stairs,
Through latticed galleries, 'neath painted roofs
And clustering columns, where cool fountains — fringed
With lotus and nelumbo — danced ; and fish
Gleamed through their crystal, scarlet, gold, and blue."

Near by the fishing tank and overlooking a long stretch of the
river is the Hall of Private Audience. It is the most beautiful
pavilion in the palace, and is snow-white from its ample platform
to the great drip stones beneath the roof — a wonder of glistening
pillars, of exquisite carving, and of marvels in tinted stone.

The river front of this pavilion is open save for the aisles of
pillars, but away from the river the great hall sinks into the
shadow of many arches, and here in the faint and mysterious light
the Emperor sat It needs only a few obsequious nobles in cloth
of gold and robes of ruby to be clustered around the solemn
columns to bring back the scene as it was when the king held court
in the pavilion. It needs little imagination to realise the trembling
knees and fumbling hands of the pallid man, who, with his eyes

72 c INDIA.

fixed upon the jewelled presence far in the shadows of the hall,
staggered up the white steps to seek an audience of the king.

Near about the centre of the palace is a closed square occupied
by the Grape Garden. It is formal in all its planning, and on it
from three sides open the windows of the ladies' apartments. It
is a quiet spot, removed from the vulgar eye, and much frequented
by birds, while through the middle of it, they say, a stream once
ran.

On that side of the garden which looks towards the Jumna is
the King's Private Pavilion. It is a brilliant building like in design
to the Hall of Private Audience, but smaller and less extravagant
in ornament. In front of it are a fountain tank in marble, a white
terrace with a balustrade of trellis-work, and a flight of small steps
which lead down to the garden. Rows of pillars fill the open side
of the pavilion, and here the sun falls slanting-wise towards the
evening ; but that part of the hall which comes near to the river is
in shadow, and in its panelled walls are windows filled with pale
marble tracery. Through this lattice work can be seen the sweep
of the great stream, with the Taj standing above it, and here on
many a night

"The moon has glittered through the lace-worked stone."

On either side of the King's Hall are courtyards of marble, as
simple and as white as courts within convent walls. On the river
side of each are the two Golden Pavilions. They are exquisite
arcades of many arches, over which are gilded domes and pointed
spires. They stand on the very edge of the fortress wall, and a
flower dropped over the balustrade which holds them in would
fall into the moat.

It is said that in these most dainty pavilions the ladies kept
their jewels in recesses in the walls. Certainly the recesses are
there, as well as the narrow holes that lead to them, and every
tourist searches each hiding-place as he would search the bottom
of an empty golf bag. From the Golden Pavilions, however, the
perfume and the glamour of fair women and the enchanting
incense that hung about them have gone as completely as have
the trinkets that once were hidden there.

THE PALACE AT AGRA. > 73

There can be little doubt that the most beautiful corner of this
palace is where the pavilion stands in which the royal ladies
spent their day, and in which they slept in the summer time.
This is the Jasmine Tower. It rests upon the summit of the
fort wall — a fabric of Sevres china planted on a rampart of coarse
stone. It crowns, indeed, a bastion in that rampart, so that it may
as well be called the Jasmine Bastion as the Jasmine Tower. This
boudoir among the battlements is as strangely placed as is the
daisy which may crown in time the earthworks of a battery, or
the nest which birds may build within the muzzle of a war-worn
gun.

In the tower is an octagon chamber, crowned by a golden
dome. This room — its walls, its columns, its floor, its ceiling — is
brilliant with most lavish decoration.

" O'er the alabaster roof there run
Rich inlayings of lotus and of bird,
Wrought in skilled work of lazulite and jade,
Jacynth and jasper; woven round the dome,
And down the sides, and all about the frames
Wherein are set the fretted lattices,

Through which there breathe, with moonlight and cool airs,
Scents from the shell-flowers and the jasmine sprays."

This octagon room opens by five sides upon a white marble
balcony, which hangs over the great wall, and but for the
balustrade of lattice work, a careless foot might slip into the
empty air.

On three sides the chamber leads into a hall, with an aisle of
shadows. In the hall are a marble pool and a fountain, while
beyond the sheltering pillars is a courtyard ablaze in the sun.

In the tower — open on all sides to the lazy breeze — the ladies
idled ; watching the ferry-boats cross the river, the men come
home from work in the fields, the horsemen that galloped down
to the ford, and the camels that trailed away from the city until
they were mere dots against the sky. In this tower they toyed
with their embroideries and their trinkets, listened to the singer
and the teller of stories, and dozed over the half-touched lute.
On the floor were carpets from Persia and rugs from the north,

74 INDIA.

beyond the hills. On the walls were silks from the distant east,
mirrors of silver and lamps of gold. Everywhere there were
flowers and sparkling stones, and over all the odour of roses and
the warm mist of laziness.

Now the tower is empty, and the whistling tourist tramps
perspiringly over its dainty stones, with a red guide book in one
hand and a camera in the other. He pronounces it " all ripping,"
and hurries off to " do " the Taj before the next train leaves.

Those who have seen all these things in the palace at Agra
have still much to see. For the curious there is the Shish Mahal
— a suite of royal baths, lit only by artificial light. The walls and
roofs of this strange " palace " are lined with countless small
mirrors and discs of glass. In one wall are recesses for coloured
lamps, so that when water fell in front of them the stream should
be tinted like the rainbow. A secret passage leads from these
gaudy chambers to the Jasmine Tower, and another makes a way
of escape by the water gate.

For the adventurous there will be discovered under the foun-
tain by the King's Pavilion, and hidden in a quiet corner, a low
entry. It leads by a black and narrow stair — which might be
called "the conspirator's staircase" — to a labyrinth of passages
which are in darkness, or are lit by occasional gashes in the fort
wall. Among these passages will be found many rooms, both
large and small, a great well, a place of prayer, and a variety of
chambers which were intended to form a refuge from the summer
heat These subterranean halls and corridors are now much fre-
quented by snakes, and have in consequence lost some of their
attractiveness.

Last of all there is, in the older part of the palace and over-
hanging the fortress wall, a simple eight-sided room. It has
within it two rows of columns, one inside the other, for the outer
row serves to make a verandah for the chamber. It is a plain
little place, in marked contrast with the superb palace within the
confines of which it is found. There is a particular interest about
this small octagon room, for it was here, so they say, that Shah
Jahan died He died a prisoner on a day in December, in the
year 1666, at the age of 74. He had been a prisoner seven years.

THE PALACE AT AGRA. 75

As he lay on his couch in this tower, a wonderful view
stretched out before him. The tower stands high. Below it and
beyond the outer fortifications is a belt of green trees, and beyond
the trees is the river Jumna, which here makes a great sweep, as
if it bowed before the palace as it passed. In December the
stream is so low that islands of fawn-coloured sand rise out of the
water. Not a breath of wind ruffles the surface of the river,
which glistens in the sun like polished metal. The banks are
green and flat, and green is the country beyond the river — so
verdant that it has the look of England. The eight-walled tower
faces towards the east, and every day of the seven years that the
old King lay a prisoner here he would see the sun rise across the
river.

Two other things he could see from his windows. Towards
the north is the Jasmine Tower, standing out over the moat.
This is the tower which he had willed should be the sweetest
pavilion in the palace, for it was to be the home of his
Empress. On any day during his captivity he could hear the
sound of laughing women there, and the northern wind would
bear to his prison snatches of their songs and faint eddies of their
perfumes, but the voices would be strange and the songs un-
familiar. There was, however, a thing more beautiful than the
Jasmine Bastion that the King could see from his tower. In
front of the palace, and standing high upon the river's bank, is
the Taj Mahal — the very glory of his life — where the wife of his
youth lay sleeping, and where his own body was to rest when his
long captivity was over. In the morning the first light that
dawned would fall upon the great white dome, and in the evening
the last rays of the setting sun would flood the arches that
covered the head of his Queen.

There was some bitterness in this, but, perhaps, some comfort
in it. It is fitting that the last gaze of the dying King should be
fixed upon the river and the Taj.

Within the fort wall, but some way removed from the palace,
is the Pearl Mosque. This also was built by Shah Jahan, and it
has been written of it that it is the most exquisite house of prayer
in the world. It is raised high upon a gross platform of sandstone.

;6 INDIA.

Its outer walls are red, dull, and plain. No building could appear
more unattractive from the outside, and but for glimpses of white
domes the four commonplace walls might enclose a store for
goods or a tramway terminus. The mosque, moreover, is
approached by a steep and uninviting staircase of rough stone, at
the summit of which is a solid gateway, that, in guide-book
language, is " very fine." The gateway breaks suddenly into a
large square, open to the sky, and on the opposite side of the
square is the Pearl Mosque.

The blaze of white is so unexpected and so intense that one
needs must gasp. The contrast is so astonishing — on one side
the enclosure of dull walls, the coarse, toiling stairs, the hot gate-
way ; and on the other this ice-field of pure white. The square
with its walls and its cloisters, and the mosque with its domes and
pillars, are all of white marble, and when the sun fills the
enclosure the effect is almost blinding. The onlooker, standing
for the first time under the gloomy archway, draws a quick breath,
as he would if he came suddenly upon a great stretch of sunlit
snow, or a glacier revealed by an abrupt turning on a road.

There is some other charm in the Pearl Mosque beside that
which is due to its absolute whiteness. There is a comfortable
sense of proportion and of dignified design. On three sides of
the square are colonnades, interrupted by great gates with
cupolas. On the fourth side is the mosque, with those three
white domes which can be seen so far off, and on each dome is
a glittering spire. In the mosque are many columns arranged
in three aisles. They support delicate Saracenic arches and a
curiously vaulted roof.

As a place of prayer it is simple and chaste. Shadows of
amber and brown fill its recesses as with incense. It is open to
the sky, and the sky is blue. It is open to the sun, and the sun
floods its courts and cloisters. The least devout must feel that
it is a holy place, pure and spotless, and filled with the silent
benediction of peace.

Anyone who would wish to fashion in their minds the most
sufficing picture of a man in prayer could possibly find no spot
in the world more fitting for such realisation than the Pearl

THE TAJ MAHAL, FROM A WINDOW
IN THE PALACE AT AGRA.

THE PEARL MOSQUE. ^ 7;

Mosque. The square would be empty save for the sun, shadows
alone would occupy the white aisles, and, kneeling on the marble
of the court, with only the heavens above him, would be the
figure of a solitary man prostrate in prayer, with his turbaned
head touching the stone.

The Pearl Mosque would better become this kneeling figure
than would the steps before the high altar in St. Mark's at
Venice, or in the Sistine Chapel at Rome. These places are
grand, resplendent, and elaborate. The Pearl Mosque can claim
only a divine simplicity and that access to Heaven which belongs
to an unruffled mere of white water.

VIII.

THE TAJ MAHAL.

The Taj Mahal is a white marble mausoleum of immense size,
erected on the high bank of the Jumna where the river bends to
the east just below Agra. It was built — as has been already stated
— by the Emperor Shah Jahan over the remains of his wife Ar-
jumand Banu, the wife of his youth. She died in 1629, a little more
than a year after her husband came to the throne, and in 1630
the building of the Taj was commenced. Thirty-seven years after
the death of his queen the body of the Emperor was laid by her
side, and under the great dome the two now sleep together. The
mausoleum stands aloft on a huge platform of marble. In front
of it is a glorious garden such as the East alone can produce, while
behind it is the river. The height of the building from the
garden walk to the pinnacle which crowns the dome is some two
hundred and forty feet.

The Taj is constructed entirely of white marble, and is in
general terms a square building surmounted by a single large
dome and some minor cupolas and minarets. Its sides look to the
four cardinal points of the compass. The south side is turned
towards the garden, and here is the entrance to the mausoleum.
The north wall looks over the river, while the west wall faces the
palace of Agra. Each quarter of the building is the same. On
every one of the four sides there is an enormous arch, which reaches
to the base of the dome, and which encloses an equally great recess.
This deep recess has a beautifully faceted and vaulted roof. On
either side of each main arch are two small alcoves placed one
above the other. These recesses also extend deep into the build-
ing. Each of the four angles of the mausoleum is cut away, and on
the flat surface thus produced are two more deep alcoves in every
way identical with those which flank the great arch.

THE TAJ MAHAL. > 79

On the far wall of each one of these arched spaces are windows
of fine marble work with many square panes. Over the four
principal arches is a floral design in coloured stone, together with
a text from the Koran in letters of black. Inlaid work of simple
character crowns the lesser arches, marks out the parapet of the
building, and encircles the base of the main dome. With these
exceptions the mausoleum is wholly white. Not only is the roof
of every recess wonderfully faceted, but every wall is cunningly
carved, and the same pattern is repeated over and over again.

On the four corners of the platform upon which the Taj stands
are lofty and massive minarets, looking to European eyes a little
like lighthouses. The individual stones, of white marble, are
marked out by black lines, so that the towers are made to assume
the aspect of great solidity and strength.

Within the mausoleum are passages and rooms and an inner
wall which encloses the area beneath the dome, where are the
tombs of the queen and her husband As is usual in Mohammedan
sepulchres, these tombs do not contain the bodies of the dead.
These lie in a vault below, level with the surface of the ground.
They are covered by plain tomb-stones, which are, however, exactly
beneath the elaborately carved monuments in the hall above them.

The Taj is in a garden full of trees and palms, lavishly green.
It has many shady paths, and these are so formally disposed that
they may be alleys for the meditative. This garden sanctuary is
shut in by a great red wall. On that part of the wall which faces
the entrance to the tomb is a massive gateway of ruddy stone. No
garden in the world has such a gate. Such is its extent that the
way through it is dark, and so high is it that the twenty-six marble
cupolas which crown its summit seem toys to those who look up at
the point of its colossal arch.

All the way from the great gate to the Taj Mahal there ex-
tends through the garden a narrow strip of water between two
stone causeways. On either side of the water is a line of cypresses
in formal order, and beyond the paved paths are luxuriant trees.

Everyone who visits Arjumand Banu's tomb for the first time
approaches it with curiosity, tinged probably by a faint disposition
to be hostile. So much has been written about this wonderful

8o c INDIA.

building, so much rhapsody has been lavished upon it, that there is
some suspicion of over-praise. The claim that it is the most beauti-
ful building in the world is a claim that many at once resent Its
outlines are familiar enough from pictures and models, and it may
be that they hardly warrant unrestrained ecstasy. The visitor pro-
poses to himself to put sentiment aside and review the building
critically. He is aware that it is very large, very white, and pic-
turesquely situated. No doubt he will find it pretty, but he intends
to submit it to a common-sense inspection, for he is inclined to
believe that the masculine and practical brain will declare the Taj
Mahal to be a much overrated monument. He has, indeed, already
imagined himself, on his return home, giving to his friends
evidence of originality of mind by asserting that " as for the Taj,
he sees nothing in it."

The Taj Mahal should be visited late in the afternoon, when the
sunlight falls upon it from the west. The first glimpse of it comes
through the gloomy archway of the great gate. It stands aloft
on its marble platform at the end of the garden causeway, a thing
of white against the blue sky. It is poised between the masses of
green trees which brush the terrace and the unruffled blue. It is
like a white cloud, luminous, intangible, translucent.

With the first sight of the Taj Mahal there comes only a sense
of indefinable pleasure. It is no mere feeling of admiration, still
less of amazement, no mere delight in a splendid building, because
it does not impress one as a building. There is a sudden vision,
and with it a sudden sense of ineffable satisfaction, as if in the
place of a marble dome the garden had been filled with divine
music. All intended criticism is forgotten. There is nothing that
appeals to the judgment, or that suggests the weighing of opinion.
There is merely a something that touches the finest sense of what
is tender, beautiful, and lovable, and brings with it a feeling of in-
expressible delight.

The building is pale and unsubstantial, and its walls appear so
thin that the fabric is like a shell. One would imagine that a blast
of coarse wind would carry it away, or that it would melt before a
vicious rain. There is no background for it but the sky, and in the
sky are only wheeling kites.

THE TAJ MAHAL. , 81

The four sturdy towers which stand guard over the Taj, like
men-at-arms, look defiant and rough, while the pale palace they
watch is so fragile, so feminine, and so queenly.

The great dome is white, and the great arch below it is filled
with a bay of shade and of soft yellow light. The windows are
like lace-work, and there is everywhere a suggestion of elaborate
decoration, which can be no more detailed than can be the separate
tints in a meadow of flowers when seen from afar. There is no
impression that the building is large, for its size is lost in its
daintiness, and no one could speak of it rightly as imposing or
commanding. It rises modestly from among the belt of trees, and
shrinks against the sapphire sky.

The secret of the beauty of the Taj Mahal lies in the great
arched recesses or vaulted alcoves which burrow deep into the body
of the building. These are throbbing with sensitive shadows, and
they give the impression that the onlooker can see into the very
heart of this gentle palace as one would gaze into the heart of a
yellow rose, where, leaf by leaf, the tints become deeper, warmer,
and more living. There is ever a sense of something half hidden
and half revealed, of a tenderness which has deeper depths, of a
beauty which is but partly shown, of a bosom shadowed by white
lace. It is this abiding suggestion which makes the peculiar glory
of the Taj, a glory which is beyond the reach of any model or any
picture. To many the Taj Mahal will ever be the most beautiful
building in the world, while there must be few who will not acknow-
ledge that it is the most lovable monument that has ever been
erected over the dead.

Beneath the great dome lies the little lady of the Taj, and if
the man who loved her could come to the riverside once more he
would feel that her memory had not faded. In the passion of his
youth he longed that she should never die, and she lives for ever ;
he wished to make her the greatest lady of his empire, and she
has become famous for all time.

It is advised that the Taj Mahal should be seen by moonlight,
but under the light of the moon the most subtle elements of its
charm entirely vanish. It appears of colossal size, but it looks
dead and cold It is a flower with its petals closed It needs the

82 c INDIA.

warm light of the sun to make it live, to illumine those deep
recesses which lead into its very heart, and to make the onlooker
feel that there are tender secrets in its depths which are only
just hidden by its translucent walls.

Those who are interested to know to what level the brutality
of vandalism may sink, or in what fashion the solemn and saintly
beauty of this great monument is regarded by some, should read
accounts of certain festas, when the arches of the tomb have been
lit by rows of lamps like a gin-palace, and when coloured lights
have been thrown upon the white walls as upon a mountebank's
folly in a circus.

Within the mausoleum itself a high screen of marble trellis
work encloses the monumental cenotaphs of Arjumand Banu and
her King. The lady's tomb is very small, and it lies under the
very centre of the dome. It is so little that it is almost lost
beneath the colossal vault. On her right side her husband lies,
and his tomb is as great as hers is small. Everywhere — on the
screen, on the walls, and on the cenotaphs — there is exquisite
carving, together with fastidious work in inlaid stone of many
colours. Both the carvings and the tinted designs show flowers,
and flowers only.

A cream-coloured light steals through the windows, while
through the open door can be seen palms waving in the sun.

The actual bodies of the dead lie in a low vault in the founda-
tions of the building. The chamber is of white marble, its walls
are absolutely plain, and it is approached by a long, narrow
staircase. The tombs themselves, which stand within this humble
vault, are of the utmost simplicity.

As is the custom with Mohammedan graves, there is carved
upon the man's tomb a pen box, and upon the woman's a slate.
The pen is active ; the slate is passive. It is the pen that fashions
the writing ; it is the slate that bares its surface to be written oa

A ray of light comes down the narrow stone way, but it falls
only upon the small marble slab beneath which sleeps the lady
of the Taj.

IX.

THE TOMB OF A SCHEMER.

Over against Agra, on the other side of the river, by the
Bridge of Boats, is a peculiarly squalid suburb. A little beyond
the smells and dirt of this quarter is a mean enclosure, within
which is a princely garden. In the centre of the garden is a
little square building, wonderful to see. It is built wholly of
white marble, crowned at each corner by a dazzling tower. In
the centre of the flat roof is a raised pavilion, with broad sloping
eaves and sides filled with marble tracery. Round the roof is
a low balustrade of the same frail work. The walls of the main
building are wondrously carved, being everywhere decorated
with inlaid stone in many patterns, but mostly in the semblance
of flowers. All the windows are filled with stone lattice work ; all
the doors are rich with sculpture. Within the house are beauti-
fully painted walls and roofs, while on every panel that lines its
chambers has been lavished most costly decoration.

The little pavilion is as exquisite as anything within the
palace precincts at Agra. At a distance it looks like a casket,
and seems as fragile as if its walls were fashioned from fine
porcelain. Indeed, it would be easy to believe that it was built
wholly of china which had been painted delicately.

As to the purpose of the little house, it may be in reality a
kiosque built of costly ware and placed in this gracious garden
as a prince's freak. It may be a lady's summer house, where her
singing birds were kept, or where she played at gardening when
tired with the bustle of the Court. It may be a tomb, but if it be,
then this toy palace in porcelain must cover the limbs of some
dancing girl who died in the zenith of her beauty, or hide the
grave of a toddling princess who was the joy of her father's life
and who made this garden her playground,

84 INDIA.

Curious it is to be told that this exquisite pavilion, which is
so feminine as to be almost feeble in its prettiness, is the tomb
of a crafty old man.

Here, indeed, in this quiet pleasaunce lies buried Itmad-ud-
Daulah, a Persian adventurer who found his way to the Court at
Agra, where he prospered exceedingly. His daughter became
the Empress Nur Jahan, and his grand-daughter, Arjumand Banu,
was the lady of the Taj.

It is a strange mausoleum for an old schemer, for a man of
plots and plans, who was familiar with treachery and assassination,
who knew the art of bribes and the possibilities of women's
cunning. He lived in stirring and bloody times, and the
dangerous part he elected to play he played well. His body might
have rotted in a dungeon or in a castle moat, but here at peace lie
the crafty head and the shuffling hands, under a chaste canopy
of white marble, made beautiful by lace- work and flowers.

THE CITY OF UNTRODDEN STREETS.

Twenty-two miles from Agra, a road, shaded by an avenue of
trees, leads through cotton fields and by dusty villages to the
wondrous city of Fatehpur-Sikri. Wondrous it is, for there is no
city like it in the world It was built by the great Emperor
Akbar in 1570, and after a few years of occupation the palace and
the township that had grown around it were deserted. No
calamity fell upon the place, no earthquake rent its walls, no
volcano buried its streets in ashes. All that is known is that it
was mysteriously abandoned, and the Court quietly moved to
Agra.

For three hundred years its streets, its market place, and its
palaces have been empty. It remains, as it was left, in a state of
astounding preservation. Those who walk along its empty
terraces or through its deserted halls see it as it was when it
bustled with men and women three centuries ago. It is unin-
habited now, save by the leopard, the jackal, and the porcupine.
They haunt its kingly passages, and crawl in the shadows of its
haughty walls. Some who have visited the Queen's terrace at
night have been terrified by two yellow eyes gleaming over the
doorstep that led to her room.

The town stands upon an isolated hill, which rises from the
centre of a wandering plain. Around it is a wall, seven miles in
circumference, with many a gap and many a crumbling breach.
The city is approached by a steep road, which leads from the wall
to the palace court. On the way it passes under a brave gateway,
crowned by a musicians' gallery, where music was made when the
King passed up the road to the city.

The city is built of red sandstone, which stone is everywhere

86 INDIA.

carved with the most profuse decoration, with strange geometric
fancies or figures of birds and flowers. Its chambers were at one
time gay with coloured designs, traces of which still exist. The
cobbled streets are unchanged since the time when the last
cavalcade climbed up into the town.

The hand of ruin has spared the colonnades where the nobles
loitered, the galleries whence the ladies looked down upon the
crowd, and the chambers in which the Emperor slept, or dined,
or idled in conversation with his friends. Near one gate is a
great caravanserai, near another a market place. There are
barracks for soldiers, quarters for serving-men, and stables for an
army of horses and elephants. There are Turkish baths which
are still in a perfect state, a swimming bath, kiosques in which to
sit when the sun went down, and underground chambers with
vaulted halls to loiter in during the summer heat

There is the Great Audience Hall of the King, with its paved
quadrangle, its throne-room, its little anteroom where courtiers
trembled, and its rows of seats for the great.

There is, too, the Queen's palace, with its stone stairs creeping
up to balconies, quiet alcoves, and shy passages.

There are buildings innumerable, of which no history exists,
but which ring with the enchantment of irresponsible legend.
Among these are the treasury house, with its strong rooms and
stone coffers, the mysterious Diwan-i-Khas, and a still more curious
building of many storeys and more columns called the Panch
MahaL

This very lofty structure may have been the Eiffel Tower of
the period It would seem to have been as little sane in purpose
as is the futile monstrosity at Paris, but it is infinitely less unsightly
to look upon.

One dainty house, without a stone in it disturbed, is called
Miriam's House. Another is the Turkish Sultana's palace, and a
third called Birbal's House might have been lived in no longer
ago than yesterday. This latter is a little mansion of two storeys,
with walls most quaintly carved. It has, leading to the roof, a
narrow stair, the steps of which have been made smooth by the
patter of many naked feet

FATEHPUR-SIKRI. 8;

In a quiet quarter stand, side by side, the houses of two brothers
who were said to have been life-long friends, both of one another
and of the King.

There are arid terraces and damp wells, squat gates and haughty
towers, guard-rooms and gardens, and even a hospital, a doctor's
house, and an office for the astrologer.

More than that, there is in the city a mosque standing in a
many-acred square. In the square is the astounding tomb of the
saint who, according to the legend, founded this city.

Above all, it is to be noted that the quadrangle of the mosque
is overshadowed by the mighty Gate of Victory, and in all India
there is no gate that can compare with this. There is none so lofty
— for it rises to the height of one hundred and thirty feet — none so
commanding, for when the sky is clear it can be seen for twenty
miles across the plain.

It is at moonlight that this dead city on the hill is most wonder-
ful to see. Its utter loneliness and the sense that it is forgotten
are to be most fully understood when night has fallen upon the
silent streets.

In the moonlight the harsh red stone looks beautiful, slinking
shadows fill the gateways, and a wan light inundates the great
courts ; the moonbeams cover the roofs with silver, slant in through
windows and illumine empty rooms, and make such silhouettes at
the corners of the streets and in the sepulchral corridors that one
expects to see a townsman of three hundred years ago step out into
the startled light

XI.

THE MAUSOLEUM AT SIKANDRA.

The body of the great Emperor Akbar, the grandson of Babar
the Lion and the direct descendant of Tamerlane, lies at Sikandra.

Sikandra is some five miles from Agra to the north-west The
Emperor's tomb is in a luxuriant garden. The gate that leads to
the enclosure is imposing both from its great size and its gaudi-
ness. It is built of red sandstone, ornamented with inlaid designs
in white and coloured marbles. There is a memorable view to be
obtained from the summit of this gateway. It extends over a
green, well-tended plain, on the confines of which may be seen the
Taj Mahal and the fort of Agra, the Jumna, and, when the sky is
clear, the great Gate of Victory at Fatehpur-Sikri.

The mausoleum is a pyramidal building of four storeys, each
storey being less in size than the one below it. The three lower
sections are of red sandstone, the crowning storey is low and
fashioned wholly of white marble. Within, the vestibule of the
mausoleum is radiant with blue and gold. The immense build-
ing, however, is not impressive. Its bald terraces, its wearisome
pillars and arches, and its profuse array of kiosques suggest rather
some eccentric place of amusement than the tomb of one of the
greatest of kings.

It is impossible to resist the profane expectation of finding a
row of round tables and a French waiter upon one of the spacious
platforms, or a seller of trinkets and postcards in one of the
kiosques.

The storey on the summit of the building is, however, very
beautiful It is open to the air, while around its sides is an ex-
quisite pale cloister, with outside walls of marble trellis work. In
the centre of the open space is the magnificent cenotaph of the

THE MAUSOLEUM AT SIKANDRA. 89

king. It is white, and is carved all over with delicate designs of
flowers. Upon it fall both the sun and the rain.

Akbar, it is well known, was a man with liberal conceptions of
religion. He would fain have brought together the many con-
flicting faiths of his day, and to effect this end he founded a creed
of his own. His followers were few, but they persisted in ex-
alting him to the dignity of a being to be worshipped. Now, upon
one side of his monument will be found, carved among the flowers,
the words, " Allahu Akbar," " God is Greatest."

All his doubts, his aspirations, and his rebuke to his disciples
would seem to be buried in these words.

Close to the cenotaph is a little purposeless pillar, with hand-
some chisel work upon it. It is said that it was at one time covered
with gold, and that among the precious stones which decorated it
was the Koh-i-noor diamond.

The most impressive feature of this royal monument belongs to
an unpretending doorway in the lowest story of the mausoleum.
The entrance leads to a pinched passage which, sloping under-
ground, ends in a simple undecorated vault. Here, beneath a
plain slab of white marble, upon which there is neither carving
nor inscription, lies the body of the greatest of the Moghul em-
perors.

XII.
DELHI.

Probably there is no town in India that the traveller
approaches with more expectancy than Delhi — the one-time
capital of the country, the sacred city of India, the Rome of Asia,
and the scene of the most critical episode of the Indian mutiny.

I reached Delhi by train, late at night, and the first glimpses
of the romantic city were not particularly stirring. The train
entered a new and bumptious railway station, which might have
been at Bournemouth for any characteristics it displayed The
platforms were numbered I, 2, and 3, and were lit by arc electric
lights. My luggage was taken away in a bullock cart, while I
entered the hallowed town in a wheezing carriage, which had
probably commenced life at respectable livery stables in
Camberwell.

The vehicle limped and reeled along a deserted road, by
closed, hutch-like shops, and finally passed through a narrow way
into open country which, in the moonlight, looked like an English
park.

This was commonplace enough, and it was not until the n(
morning that I found that I had driven through the walls of
Delhi, that the narrow way was the famous Mori gate, that what
I had taken to be a ruined factory was the Mori Bastion, and that
I had crossed the very flat between the walls and the ridge where
the fighting had been the most desperate during the siege.

The city of Delhi lies on a plain by the banks of the Jumna.
It is a city of great size, for the walls that surround it make a
circuit of seven miles, and the people who live within these walls
number nearly 200,000.

It is a city of small streets, so huddled together that they

DELHI. 91

form a tangle of thoroughfares. There is one broad street, lined
by an avenue of fine trees, which runs across the city from east to
west. It is called the Chandni Chauk, and it has figured tragically
in the history of the town.

About the centre of the city is the gigantic mosque, the Jumma
Musjid, the white domes of which can be seen far away for miles
upon miles. By the banks of the river, and within the city con-
fines, is a ruddy fort, very like to the fort at Agra, and on the river
wall of this fort is the famous marble palace built by Shah JahaiL
The fort has two lofty gates, the Lahore gate and the Delhi gate,
and these, like the domes of the mosque, can be seen from afar.

There are certain temples in the city belonging to ancient
days, and some formal gardens, suited for nursemaids and children,
appertaining to recent times.

The Delhi that now stands is not a place of remarkable
antiquity, for it was founded by the Emperor Shah Jahan in 1638.
It was he who built the Fort and the Palace, and also the great
mosque.

The site upon which the city is built, however, is ancient
beyond words. History has no record of the time when there
was not a commanding town upon this bank of the Jumna. It
tells, indeed, of no less than seven fortified places which were
raised upon this spot by divers kings, and which were in turn
pillaged, sacked, and brought to ruin.

Traces of the remains of these cities still exist. They do not
cover a few bare acres ; they cover the astounding area of no less
than forty-five square miles. This great desert of ruin is without
a parallel in the world. It is the most startling of the many re-
markable features which are associated with this tragic place.
Delhi itself is wonderful, but its wonder fades by the side of the
awful country which lies to the south of its walls. Here, over a
space of more than forty miles, there lies a land of stones and
mounds, of crumbling walls, of dropping forts, of hillocks of earth
which were palaces, and gullies of mud which were streets. Here
is the most appalling picture of desolation that the mind could
conceive, and the readiest realisation of the plains of Sodom and
Gomorrah.

92 t INDIA.

Two high roads lead to the south through this pitiable waste.
One starts from the A j mere gate of the city, the other from the
Delhi gate. Along these roads the relics of centuries of destruc-
tion are to be seen, and the forts, as being the strong places, have
best survived the hand of ruin.

On one of the roads — not far from the Delhi gate — is the fort
of Firozabad. So strong was this savage old fortress, that,
although it was built just five hundred and fifty years ago, there
are still enough of the ancient stones left to show how sturdy it
was. Two miles along this highway there is another fort. It
stands upon the site of the long demolished city of Indrapat It
is called the Purana Killa, or old fort, and it is still a haughty
and defiant stronghold Its walls, its gates, and its huge bastions
still stand, so that men could even now fight from its ramparts.
Although within its circuit there is now little but a cluster of
squalid huts, which have grown there like a mean fungus, and
although there are many breaches in its battlements, the old fort
still holds itself royally, an obstinate monument of grey and grim
old age.

Far on the road that leads from the Ajmere gate are the
ruins of yet another fort, as wonderful as any — the fort of Lalkot,
built, it is said, in 1060. Its walls make a circuit of two miles, and
its ramparts are some thirty feet in thickness. Its bastions are
enormous, and besides these bastions there are many small towers.
Around it, as far as the eye can stretch, there is nothing but ruin.

To make the desolation of these devastated sites more com-
plete, and to accentuate the dismal roads that stretch across them,
are many hundreds of tombs, which have been built along these
Appian ways in less ancient times, and which have already them-
selves fallen into various stages of decay.

XIII.

TWO MOSQUES IN DELHI.

The city of Delhi, viewed from afar off, looks like a dingy
swamp in an open plain. This morass of human habitations is
level, brown, and misty. It is precisely circumscribed, while the
lands around its margins are green. From the centre of the
great dead-looking enclosure rise delicately into the air three
immense white domes. They stand high, and when the sun
illumines them they are by contrast as brilliant as three lilies
springing from a waste of mud. These are the domes of the
great mosque of Delhi, the Jumma Musjid.

The mosque, which has no equal in size in India, is more
pleasant to look upon, when seen from a distance, than from near
at hand. Indeed, it appears most splendid when viewed from a
point so far away that the details of the town are lost, and there
are only the three white domes to be seen rising over the city
like three clouds of sacred smoke.

The Jumma Musjid was built by Shah Jahan. It stands upon
a huge platform of red sandstone. Its court is approached on
three sides by flights of stairs so wide that a thousand worshippers
could mount by each entry at once. On the summit of these
stone stairs are fine gateways, surmounted by galleries for
spectators.

That gate which stands to the east is particularly magnificent,
for, when the mosque was built, it was intended that no one
should enter by it but the Emperor himself. These gates lead
into an immense square open to the sky, and here the crowd of
worshippers stands.

On three sides of the square is a colonnade with a balcony
above it. On the fourth side is the mosque, fashioned of red

INDIA.

stone and white marble blended in varying degree, and decorated
with some inlaid work in black. As the sky is approached the
deeper colours are less employed, so that the crowning part of
each cupola and minaret is white.

The whole structure, therefore, is pure white where it reaches
the sky, dull red where it touches the ground ; while between
the foundation and the pinnacle, red, white, and black are blended
The facade is of pale marble, toned with red and black. On each
side of the mosque are two lofty minarets of red sandstone, slashed
vertically with white. The three domes over the mosque are of
exceptional magnitude. They are of white marble, faintly striped
with vertical lines of black, and on their summits are gilt spires.

When the mosque is seen from the open space that extends
to the east of it, or from the quadrangle within its walls, it does
not convey the impression of being either a beautiful or a dignified
house of prayer. It is of great size, but its proportions are by
no means commanding, since there is little beauty in mere large-
ness. Its lines of colour are laid on heavily, and in harsh,
angular patterns. The fabric is gaudy, bald, and aggressive.
Its contrasts in colour are extreme. It is large without being
really great, and its huge dimensions serve only to magnify the
sourness of its features. It cannot for one moment be compared
with the Pearl Mosque at Agra, nor can it be believed that the
two mosques belong to the same period or were built by the
same King.

The Jumma Musjid is strong, but it is blatant. It may be
magnificent, but it has not the magnificence of holiness. It is a
place where one would expect to find, not a quiet congregation,
but a brass band of strident proportions. Indeed, the square
structure which surrounds the archway under the central dome
suggests the stage front of a theatre. It is a place which the
casual visitor would associate with orchestral demonstrations of a
Gargantuan type, or with noisy gatherings of the people hot with
revolt Its platform would seem better suited for the hoarse, red-
faced demagogue who yelled sedition than for the priest breath-
ing prayers to Heaven.

There is another mosque in Delhi which is in strong contrast

TWO MOSQUES IN DELHI. , 95

to the Jumma Musjid, and is possessed of fine and honest features
of its own. This is the Kalan Musjid or Black Mosque. It is
half hidden in a slum of the town near by to the Turkuman gate.
It was built as long ago as 1386. It is a small stone building,
severe and quite pathetically plain. It scorns all ornament, for it
is built like a fortress. It stands high upon a mass of stout
masonry, and consists of a single room roofed by many small domes
held up by rows of pillars.

This mosque belongs to a stern period when bloodshed and
rapine filled men's minds, and when any place of assembly must
needs be strong and safe from sudden attack. Men in those days
must have worshipped with their arms by their side, and with
sentinels posted to shout alarm.

There is a plain court in front of the mosque from which the
door of the temple is approached by a straight flight of steps.
They are narrow, so that a trespasser could be hurled headlong
down them with some ease. The door, which passes through walls
of great thickness, has all the features of a door in a fort, and those
who entered could feel that they stepped into a strong place.

The most striking feature of the building depends upon two
pillars which are placed one on either side of the portal and the
steep stairs. These pillars are crude, are wide at the bottom, but
taper towards the top. They are placed slantingly, like buttresses
against the building, and it would seem as if their peculiar form
had been suggested by a stack of spears piled upright on either
side of the doorway.

It is a sturdy little mosque, black and stolid, with no pretension
to be more than a place where men might pray in safety. It is easy
to picture them standing in the gloomy aisles, savage and restless,
with their loins girded, and with alert ears turned towards the plain
to catch the first sound of alarm. There is little doubt that the
voice of the priest ceased now and then so that all might listen.

There is a bluff honesty about this grimy place of worship, and
a pathos in the tale it tells. It cannot — like the Jumma Musjid
— pretend to " great variety and elegance," but it is a monument to
the tender qualities of violent men, and a suitable shrine for the
not mean figure of the kneeling buccaneer.

XIV,

AN INDIAN EDEN.

Shah Jahan's white palace at Delhi is built within the fort,
and that part of it which is the most perfect stands upon the
river wall. The fort is a little like the fort at Agra, in so
far that its walls are of red stone and are surmounted by the
same truculent battlements, but the stronghold at Delhi lacks
those swaggering features which make the Agra fortress so very
mighty and domineering. In the sacred city the fort is little more
than a monotonous wall, which can only boast that it is high, and
that it has two most stately gates — the Lahore gate and the Delhi
gate — to make up for the much that the would-be strong place
lacks. The greater part of the palace has been destroyed, while
what remains is made inglorious by association with barrack
buildings and sheds for stores.

There is the Diwan-i-Am or Hall of Public Audience, a fine
pavilion, open on three sides, and filled with rows of sandstone
pillars supporting graceful arches. On the fourth side is a wall,
in the centre of which (and raised some way from the ground) is
an alcove in which the Emperor sat. A staircase leads up to the
place of the throne, and many a trembling wretch and many an
elated favourite must have stumbled up its steps.

In the wall behind the throne is a little doorway which led
from the Emperor's apartments. The wall is covered with pictures
of beasts and birds, of flowers and fruit, worked cunningly in
coloured marbles and precious stones. The tints are vivid and
generously bestowed, so that this kingly wall looks a little as if
it had been pasted over with the coloured pictures from a child's
nursery book. The artist who wrought these gorgeous birds was
one Austin de Bordeaux. He seems to have been a rogue of

AN INDIAN EDEN. 97

great parts, for he fled hither from Europe to escape the penalty
of his sins in connection with the making of false gems. He
might have died in the obscurity of a Paris jail, but he lives for
ever as the deft craftsman who fashioned "Austin's Wall." He
must have been cheery in his exile, for the fruits that grow upon
" Austin's Wall " are exceedingly ripe and ruddy, while the birds
that gather there are all of radiant plumage and blushing with
song.

The Diwan-i-Khas, or Hall of Private Audience, is on the river
wall. It is a white marble pavilion open on all sides, and it is the
most glorious and most royal hall in India.

The massive columns are lavishly ornamented with gilt, and
with unrestrained designs of flowers in inlaid stone. The arches
they support are elegant, and the colonnades they form make a
wonderful vista in white and gold. Beneath the floor of the hall
there runs a wide stream of water in an alabaster bed to cool the
terrace when the King gave audience. That side of the pavilion
which faces the river is filled with lattice work in marble. In
front of the four windows is still to be seen the platform on which
stood the famous Peacock Throne. According to Beresford*
this throne was of solid gold, and was so called from " having the
figures of two peacocks standing behind it, their tails being ex-
panded, and the whole so inlaid with sapphires, rubies, emeralds,
pearls, and other precious stones of appropriate colours as to
represent life." This remarkable monument of vanity, perverted
art, and selfish extravagance was plundered and broken up by
Nadir Shah in 1739.

A view of the Diwan-i-Khas enables one to realise that the
Court of the Moghul Emperor at Delhi was not only the most
sumptuous Court of its time, but that it was probably without an
equal at any period of the world's history.

The stream of water flowing from beneath the Diwan-i-Khas
follows an open channel across a court which surrounds the
pavilion, and then passing under a rounded arch, makes a river
through the centre of the Ladies' Apartments. The archway is
filled in by a screen of nervous trellis work in marble decorated

* Beresford's " Delhi."
H

98 INDIA.

with gilt. In the centre of the screen is a small window, where
there should be a silk curtain and a peeping face, and above the
window is a pair of scales carved in the stone. The interpretation
of this emblem on the wall is open to any invention of the in-
genious.

The ladies' apartments are exquisite, but they fail to touch
the superb refinement which belongs to the zenana at Agra. The
walls are bright with frescoes in mosaic, and, as at Agra, there is
a pavilion built on a bastion of the fortress which is called the
Jasmine Tower. It is crowned by a dome, and its windows are
shaded by tracery in marble.

The view from the Jasmine Tower is across the river, and it
forms a sordid contrast to the luxurious splendour within the
tower walls. The lady who leaned her jewelled arms against the
pillar to look over the stream would see in the winter time a
coarse, dry river bed of dull stones, with here and there a starving
bush, and here and there a shrivelled gulley, while in the summer
her eyes would fall upon a turbid torrent which eddied savagely
under the ramparts.

Indeed, life in the palace and life without it were little alike in
the days when Shah Jahan was King. Smooth marble and
gushing wealth within the walls, and without a harsh people,
struggling to live, and a horde of ruthless men who bore down
upon them like a flood. The princess, who to please a whim
would drop a pearl into the stream, might see, when she looked
from the balcony to watch it fall, the corpse of a murdered woman
drifting by. The Peacock Throne faced a spectacle of unequalled
splendour, effulgent with colour and the dazzle of rare gems, but
those who looked through the wicket behind the throne saw only
the pauper river bed, monotonous and desolate.

There are in this imperial pleasure house two writings on the
wall which serve to tell some part of the story of the place. On
the arches of the Diwan-i-Khas there is written in Persian letters

the distich —

"If on earth be an Eden of bliss,
It is this, it is this, it is this."

Such was the expression of the belief of him who built the palace;

AN INDIAN EDEN. 99

it was the outcome of his hope, the object of his dearest endeavour.
But beyond the Eden of bliss there were the shouts of war, the
smouldering revolt, the muffled room filled with conspirators, and
the assassin ready with his knife. If the Emperor looked over the
wall of the palace at night it was not to see how the moon fell upon
his Eden ; it was to search for the stealthy creeping figure he had
seen in his dreams.

It happens, then, that there is in this fair pile a second writing
on the wall. It takes the shape of a small door at the very foot of
the Jasmine Tower, where the ladies idled the day. The door
opens through the fortress wall upon the sharp stones of the river
bed, and leading to it is a secret passage from the royal apartments.

Some dark night the King might need this door to creep out of,
and might be glad to change his Eden for the homeless waste.

The Royal Baths, which are close to the Diwan-i-Khas, afford
perhaps a better conception of the luxury of the time than do any
other buildings in the palace. They consist of a series of low
rooms floored with white marble, and furnished with a dado
generously decorated. One room is lit by windows which look
over the river, the rest are lit from the roof. A stream, in a channel
of alabaster, runs round the queen's bath, and on the floor of this
water-way are ribs of black stone which alternate with raised ribs
of silver. The silver has gone, but it is easy to see that when the
water flowed these ridges of black and white would have thrown
it into ripples.

Adjacent to the baths is the Pearl Mosque. It stands within
a plain enclosure of four very high red walls, which are so common-
place that they might surround a racket court. The mosque is
approached through a small gateway made glorious by a bronze
door. The portal leads into a simple white court, on one side of
which is the mosque surmounted by three domes. Built wholly of
white and grey marble, it is a chaste, dignified temple. Those who
pass into the little courtyard must feel that they pass into a place
of peace. In construction it differs in no essential from the Pearl
Mosque at Agra, but it cannot pretend to attain to the quite perfect
beauty of the southern shrine. Those who have never seen the
mosque at Agra will find this hard to believe, but so it is.

XV.

THE RIDGE AT DELHI.

A very living interest, and all that pathos and romance which
belong to a deed of great heroism, are associated with the Ridge at
Delhi.

The outline of the story of the Ridge can be told in a very few
lines.

The first scene of the great Indian Mutiny opened at Meerut,
a large military station some forty miles from Delhi. On one
Sunday evening, just as the English soldiers were on their way
to church, the Sepoys mutinied, set fire to as many bungalows as
they passed, killed such Europeans as they met, and started for
Delhi.

The actual date of this rising was May loth, 1857. It was
natural that the mutineers should make for Delhi, for it was to
them the capital city of India and the heart of their country.
There were a few English officers at Delhi, but no European
troops.

The mutineers reached the sacred city on May 1 1 th, and set to
work to murder all the Europeans they could find. They were at
once joined by the native regiments stationed at Delhi, and the
men of these regiments, upon the arrival of the insurgents, turned
upon their English officers and shot them down. Certain of the
women and children in the city managed to escape to the Ridge,
where they took refuge in a tower called the Flag-staff Tower.

" There, huddled together in a room smaller than the Black
Hole of Calcutta, was collected a great company of every age and
class, frightened children crying and clinging to their not less
frightened ayahs, women bewailing the deaths of their husbands
or brothers, others bravely bearing up against heat, and discomfort,

THE RIDGE AT DELHI. j 101

and anxiety, and busily unfastening cartridges for the men." In
due course these poor folk had to flee from the tower. " Then be-
gan that piteous flight, the first of many such incidents which
hardened the hearts of the British to inflict a terrible revenge.
Driven to hide in jungles or morasses from despicable vagrants,
robbed and scourged and mocked by villagers who had entrapped
them with promises of help, scorched by the blazing sun, blistered
by burning winds, half-drowned in rivers which they had to ford or
swim across, naked, weary, and starving, they wandered on ; while
some fell dead by the wayside, and others, unable to move further,
were abandoned by their sorrowing friends to die on the road."*

There was in Delhi an important magazine under the charge of
a certain Lieutenant Willoughby. " Warned of the approach of
the mutineers, he had lost no time in sending to the Brigadier for
help. He could not trust his native guards, and he had only eight
Europeans to support him ; but he could depend upon these for any
sacrifice, and he could depend upon himself. No help came in
answer to his appeal ; the suffering and the glory of that day were
for him and his gallant eight alone. His dispositions were soon
made. Barricading the outer gates of the magazine, he placed
guns inside them, and assigned to each man his post. But what if
defence should fail ? He had another plan in reserve. A train
was laid from the powder store to a tree standing in the yard of
the magazine. Here stood Conductor Scully, who had volunteered
to fire the train whenever his chief should give the signal. If the
enemy broke into the stronghold, they would find death, not
plunder, within. For a time, however, the enemy seemed to
hesitate. It was because they and their king feared the vengeance
of the white troops from Meerut But at last the king's scouts
told him that no white troops were coming. Then he gathered con-
fidence to demand the surrender of the magazine. The garrison
did not even answer the summons ; and, when the multitude no
longer hesitated to advance, opened fire upon them from every
gun. The most daring of the assailants planted ladders against
the walls and came swarming in ; but the guns, served with in-
credible swiftness, though the gunners were exposed to a fearful
* " A History of the Indian Mutiny," by T. R Holmes. London, 1898. pp. 107, no.

102 INDIA.

musketry fire, poured round after round of grape into their midst.
Yet so great were their numbers that the survivors, strengthened
by the native guards, who had treacherously joined them, must
have overpowered the little band of Englishmen. Still Willoughby
hoped on. He had defended the magazine for three hours, and he
would still defend it against any odds if only reinforcements were
coming. Running to the river Castion, he bent over for a last look
towards Meerut. No English were to be seen. Then, resolving
that, though his countrymen had failed him, he would be true to
himself, he gave the fatal order to Conductor Buckley : Buckley
raised his hat as a signal, and Scully fired the train. In a moment
some hundreds of rebels were destroyed, while many more without
were struck down by flying splinters of shot and shell. Lieutenants
Forrest and Raynor, Conductors Buckley and Shaw, and Sergeant
Steward lived to wear the Victoria Cross ; but Scully died where
he fell, too cruelly wounded to escape ; and Willoughby only sur-
vived to be murdered on his way to Meerut." *

Of the arsenal, which was the scene of this heroic deed, little
now remains. There is no trace of " the tree standing in the
yard." Post and telegraph offices stretch across the site, but the
gateways of the place still stand to keep green the memory of this
act of valour, and of the men who died " facing fearful odds."

Thus it came about that the great city of Delhi, with its
powerful ramparts and its great fort, passed into the possession
of the rebels. It was a matter of necessity to the English that
the city should be retaken at any cost. A column of British
troops was at once collected at Kurnal, a place some way to the
north, and with as much despatch as was possible the march to
Delhi was commenced. On the 5th of June the column reached
Alipur, where it was joined by the British regiments from Meerut,
and on the next day the whole force advanced towards Delhi.
Six miles to the north-west of the city is a village called Badli-ki-
Serai, where the rebels had posted a very formidable force to
oppose the advance of the English. The English, however, con-
tinued to advance. On June 8th the battle of Badli-ki-Serai was
fought ; the mutineers were utterly defeated ; the British column,

* Ibid., p. 108.

THE RIDGE AT DELHI. 103

continuing their march, attacked and seized the Ridge before
Delhi, and here they camped on the evening of June 8th.

The English general took up his position at four outposts.
The outpost nearest to the city and the one most exposed to
attack was a large, rambling country house called Hindu Rao's
house. The next station was an old stone observatory in a state
of partial ruin, but still a very solid building. The third outpost
was in an ancient mosque, which also formed no mean place of
shelter. The fourth post was the Flag-staff Tower, of which
mention has been already made. These four positions were in
a line on the Ridge — Hindu Rao's house at one end, the Flag-staff
Tower at the other. The troops encamped on the flat below the
far side of the Ridge. All four of the outposts could readily be
seen from the city, but the camp was out of sight.

The British came to lay siege to Delhi, but soon found that
they were themselves besieged They had taken the Ridge, but
now they had to hold it in the face of terrific difficulties. They
were opposed " by full 40,000 soldiers," wrote Archdale Wilson at
the time of the siege, " armed and disciplined by ourselves with
114 heavy pieces of artillery mounted on the walls, and the largest
magazine of shot, shell, and ammunition in the Upper Provinces,
beside some sixty pieces of field artillery all of our own manufac-
ture, and manned by artillery men drilled and taught by our-
selves." The force, on the other hand, that had the audacity to
plant themselves before Delhi with the intention of taking it con-
sisted at first of some three thousand British troops, one Goorka
battalion, remnants of certain loyal native regiments, and twenty-
two guns.

This daring body of men were in time reinforced, but at no
period did the effective strength of all ranks reach to 10,000
men. They were attacked day after day and week after week.
Between the 3Oth May, when the fighting about Delhi began,
and the 2Oth September, when it ended, this undaunted column
fought some twenty-four battles. Three times alone in June did
the mutineers make a desperate onslaught upon Hindu Rao's
house, but on these occasions and on every other, they failed to
dislodge these stubborn men from the Ridge. They made attacks

104 INDIA.

upon the Ridge in front and in the rear, but they never gained an
inch of ground. The odds were so extreme as to be ridiculous,
the weather was that of the height of the Indian summer, the
heat was intense, there was no shelter on the barren face of the
hillock, the supplies were poor, and the column had no help to
look to.

In spite of the heat, the incessant fighting, and the incessant
watching, these men clung to their Ridge. More than that, they
were never beaten, although there were 40,000 against them.
On the other hand, they crept gradually up to the city.

There was a little suburb called Subzi-mundi, gay with walled
gardens, on the flat below Hindu Rao's house. It was on a con-
venient way to the town, so the gaunt men from the Ridge
swooped down upon it. Better still, they held it.

There was near the Jumna a country house on high ground
called Metcalfe House. It was on another way to the town, and
so sinister men with uniforms in rags crept up to it one day and
seized it. They clung to that place also, and no force could drive
them out of it.

Near by the city wall was the Commissioner's house, called
Ludlow Castle. The Commissioner had been murdered, and the
house was empty. The spot was desirable, and the tireless men
from the mound came down upon it, and took it, and this also they
clung to till the end.

Above all, they held to their Ridge until it appeared as if
no force belonging to the earth could drive them from it. Cer-
tainly 40,000 men were no company for such an enterprise. Sortie
after sortie was made, but the British clung to their position, and
to every other point of ground they had grasped.

They lost nothing that they had gained. They lost nothing
but the lives of men. By the middle of July two generals had
died, a third was prostrated by illness, while the Adjutant- General
and the Quartermaster-General lay wounded. Worse befel them
than that, for in time they had lost in killed and wounded 3,854
men, including forty-six British officers dead and 140 wounded.
In spite of all this, they held to their heap of stones.

On September I4th they stormed the great city, and captured

THE RIDGE AT DELHI. j 105

it, and by September 2Oth they had done with Delhi. From June
8th to September 2Oth is a period of 104 days — 104 days of an
Indian summer, 104 days of continued watching, scheming, and
fighting, and 104 days on every one of which some man died.

Nothing has altered the face of the Ridge. As it was in the
summer of 1857, so it is now, and the Englishman who mounts to
its summit must needs go reverently, and bare his head in memory
of the gallant men who died there and of the valiant deeds that
added such glory to the British name.

This famous piece of ground is a quite low, narrow hill — a mere
long mound — which lies to the north of the city, in front of the
Kashmir Gate, and is nearly " end on " to the town walls. It is
about a mile from the city, while between it and the fortifications
is a pleasant wooded flat, occupied by bungalows and gardens.
The Ridge is of such trifling dimensions that it is only about a
mile from Hindu Rao's house at one end to the Flag-staff Tower
at the other.

It is a lonely place, deserted and quiet, and the native of
Delhi has even now no love for it. It is a mound of rough
boulders and stones, covered sparsely with bushes, and on the
top is a modern road. In places the rocks are large, so that the
face of the position looks like a rampart. Elsewhere it is green
and no longer rugged, and children run up and down it. Here
and there are pits and hollows with small dells among the stones.
The prickly pear grows upon the face of the mound, and the
mimosa trees and struggling bushes which cling there seem to
find it hard to live. Boulders of a greyish blue make a pleasant
contrast with the olive green undergrowth. They are smooth
like the boulders on a beach. There can be few of these quiet-
looking rocks on the face of the Ridge towards Delhi beneath
which a British soldier has not sought shelter from the sun and the
sepoys' bullets, and against many of these smooth, comfortable
stones he must have leaned his head when he died.

The four outpost buildings on the Ridge are little altered since
our soldiers held them. Hindu Rao's house is a fine, white,
rambling house, with a commanding presence. Its many wounds
have been healed, and it is now a convalescent home for sick

io6 ^ INDIA.

soldiers. The observatory and the mosque are sturdy old ruins
with thick walls and shady passages. Although they are in no
way imposing they sheltered for many weary weeks the in-
domitable men who held the hill. In front of the observatory,
on that side of it which faces Delhi, are still to be seen the earth
entrenchments that these men made. The Flag-staff Tower
remains unchanged, save for a coat or two of red paint. No one
can stand before it without thinking of the haggard women and
children who huddled there and watched the burning of their homes,
and when the daylight came looked ever along the Meerut road
for the cloud of dust that would mark the British troops that never
came.

As the Ridge is the only high ground in the environs of Delhi,
the view from the top of it stretches far.

The whole of the vast city lies spread out on the plain, a
mysterious expanse of housetops and patches of wall. Struggling
through this dense human stubble field is a line of trees which
marks the Chandni Chauk. To the left a gleam of silver curving
along the city wall is the river Jumna, while to the right is the
dull flat. So level is the land that the entire circuit of the town
can be seen, and beyond its farthest wall the eye can travel over the
country that sweeps away to the south. Standing up against the
sky in this dim distance is the white dome of Humayun's tomb,
where the wretched King of Delhi sought shelter when the British
entered the town. Far away beyond this dome, some thirteen
miles from the Ridge, is the lonely column of the Kutab Minar,
the great tower of victory, which first rose up in sight of these
heights nearly seven hundred years ago.

Away to the east, across the river, is the poor, mean plain
that leads to Meerut, and the picture of that flat must have been
burnt into the brains of the many who watched from the Ridge
in the hope of some sign of a relief column making for the city.

Within the brown walls of Delhi itself certain domes and
minarets stand out above the housetops. On the left, near to
the Kashmir Gate, is the dome of the English church. On that
dome was an orb of copper surmounted by a cross. Both the orb
and the cross are riddled with bullet holes, and they stand to this

THE RIDGE AT DELHI. f 107

day in the church garden to bear record of the summer of '57. It
was on the Kashmir Gate that the main onslaught of the British
fell when they stormed the city, and by that gate and the breach
near by it they entered the town.

It is a little curious that the guide to the Kashmir Gate was
the cross on the English church.

To the right of this church there can be seen from the Ridge
the high gates of the Fort, and farther away still the three white,
nun-like domes of the Great Mosque. Beyond these domes there
is nothing but a rabble of shabby houses crouching behind the
walls.

Between the tumbled stones of the Ridge and the city wall is
a pleasant expanse green with trees and dotted with bungalows,
not unlike such a stretch of rambling green as may lie outside an
English town. There, by the river, is the Metcalfe House as it
stood in '57, a square white building, which, in the language of
house agents, is still a desirable residence. Nearer to the moat is
Ludlow Castle, also little changed, only that it is now a com-
fortable club house, while in the place of the battery that fired
from its garden there is merely a memorial to mark its site, and the
dining-room is no longer loopholed for muskets. Trees have
grown with careless impudence over this deadly flat since the
year of the Mutiny, so that the walls of Delhi are now less easily
to be seen from the Ridge. But there, untouched since the siege,
is the hideous rampart showing up between gaps in the trees like
the sides of a great brown, watching snake.

There are the Mori Gate and the Mori Bastion that the British
battered to pieces straight ahead, and a little to the left, the
Kashmir Gate, with the Kashmir breach by which they rushed
into the city.

Forty-seven years have passed by since this place was
blackened and laid waste by the hot blast of war. Now the Ridge
is deserted and as quiet as a convent garden.

There is little to be heard but the caw of crows, the chatter
of the minas, and the whistle of the circling kites, for the place is
much haunted by birds. A hare may now and then dart out
among the bushes, or a couple of partridges may start up and

io8 INDIA.

flutter away, but otherwise there is little stirring1, and the old
sepoy who is the custodian of the Memorial on the mound has
gone to sleep in its shadow. Some English children are playing
at soldiers among the big rocks at the foot of the Ridge, and they
are calling to one another in shrill trebles, and sometimes there
comes the order " Fire " and often the order " Charge," but the
city remains silent and makes no response, and none issue from the
Kashmir Gate but a mincing regiment of brown goats.

XVI.

THE KASHMIR GATE.

They say — those who describe the siege of Delhi — that the
city walls were seven miles round, that they were twenty-four
feet high, and that the ditch in front of them was twenty-five
feet wide and nearly twenty feet deep. As the walls were then,
so are they now, for they have been left untouched. The Mori Gate
and other gates on the north of the town have been removed,
while at the bottom of the ditch is an unsavoury drain.

The wall that the British gazed upon so long stretches in
a stiff line on that side of the defences which faces the Ridge, a
cruel brown wall with tooth-like battlements. It was to many
the dull thing their last gaze rested on, as, stumbling towards the
breach, they fell headlong, dead, within a few feet of the goal.
For many weary days eyes had been fixed upon these walls of
Delhi as if they were the walls of Paradise, but the look was the
look of hate, and if hate could destroy, then the battlements would
long have crumbled into dust There was no Peri at the gate,
there was no river of peace beyond, but there was not a man on the
Ridge who was not ready to sacrifice his life if only he could find
his way to the shot-swept alleys within this accursed circle of stone.
Here and there in the long stretch of the wall great gaps have been
bitten out of the battlements by eager shells, and holes and gashes
have been cut in the curtain by hissing shot The great bastion by
the Mori Gate is little more than a heap of stones, and goats graze
on the grass which has crept over the ruin.

There is no need to tell again the story of the assault upon the
city. It took place at daybreak on the 1 4th of September, and,
according to the record, the morning was " fine and still." It will
suffice to say that the attacking party was divided into five columns,

109

i io INDIA.

and that the chief points of attack were the Kashmir Gate and the
breach which the British had made in the wall to the left of the
Kashmir bastion. The column told off to storm the Kashmir breach
was led by that heroic soldier General Nicholson, while the column
whose lot it was to make for the Kashmir Gate was under the
leadership of Colonel Campbell. On the night of the 1 3th,
Lieutenants Medley and Lang had explored the breach, and had
declared it " practicable."

The story of Nicholson's dash upon the Kashmir breach is told
in Holmes' " History of the Mutiny " after this fashion : —

" The columns fell in on the road leading from cantonements
to the city. There were some four thousand five hundred men,
British soldiers with bronzed war-worn faces, wearing uniforms
which had been dyed dust-colour, Sikhs with their long hair
twisted up behind, and tall, muscular Pathans with faces as fair as
those of Englishmen. Eager as they were to move on, they were
depressed and wearied by delay ; for the enemy had filled up the
breaches in the night ; and it was necessary for the batteries to re-
open. But at length the signal was given ; and, while the heavy
guns still thundered at the breaches, answered by the heavy guns
from the city, and shells burst, and rockets, flashing along the dark
sky, hissed above their heads, the columns tramped silently and
steadily down. Near Ludlow Castle they halted and took up their
respective stations. The engineer officers with their ladder-men
moved on in front. Then Nicholson went to Brigadier Jones, who
commanded the second column, and asked whether he was ready.
The brigadier replied that he was. Nicholson put his arm round
his comrade's shoulder and then hurried off to join his own column.
The guns ceased firing ; the Rifles, in skirmishing order, dashed to
the front with a loud cheer and opened fire ; and the columns
streamed after to the assault of Delhi. The ladder-men
moved quickly on: but the enemy, crowding in the breach,
received the men of the first column with a terrible musketry
fire, and, catching up the loosened stones, hurled them down
upon their heads, yelling, cursing, and daring them to enter. For a
moment it seemed as if the avalanche would overwhelm them : man
after man was struck down: but in another moment two ladders

THE KASHMIR GATE. in

were thrown into the ditch : the stormers closed up behind ;
Nicholson, as ever in the front, slid down and mounted the scarp :
and the rest followed : the enemy, feeling that the breach was lost,
fled ; and the victorious column poured into the city and took up its
position in the main-guard." *

The breach is as it was when the siege was over. Time has
smoothed its ragged surface, and the native with a hut to build
has gathered up the loose stones that littered its base. Grass has
healed over the gaping wound, but it is still a hideous scar.
Children like no playground better than the crumbling rampart
or the deserted fort, so the little people who play upon this haunted
slope have worn a waving path upon its side, by endless running
up and down ; and any, who wish, can enter the city by the
children's path, and can follow the steps of Nicholson and his
gallant men on their way into the town. The children's path is a
sorry one, but it is very glorious to tread.

The breach leads to the open space near by the Kashmir Gate,
and here, in the great wall and the still more solid bastion, are
some cavern-like barracks which belonged to the main-guard. This
main-guard was associated with an episode which may be mentioned
here by the way.

When the mutineers from Meerut entered Delhi on May nth,
the main-guard of the city was composed of Sepoys, for, as al-
ready stated, there were no British soldiers stationed in the town
at this critical moment.

As soon as the wholesale murder of the Europeans in the city
commenced some few of those who fled from their houses sought
refuge in the main-guard by the Kashmir Gate, and even sheltered
themselves in the guard-room. They trusted that the Sepoys who
composed the guard would be faithful and would protect them.
Suddenly, however, the men of one of these regiments fired a
volley at their officers. " Three fell dead. Two of the survivors
rushed up to the bastion of the main-guard and jumped down
thirty feet into the ditch below. The rest were following, when,
hearing the shrieks of the women in the guard-room, they ran
back, under a storm of bullets, to rescue them. The women were

* Ibid., p. 374.

112 INDIA.

shuddering as they looked down the steep bank, and asking each
other whether it would be possible to descend, when a round shot,
whizzing over their heads, warned them not to hesitate. Fasten-
ing their belts and handkerchiefs together, the officers let them-
selves down, and then, having helped the women to follow, carried
them with desperate struggles up the opposite side." *

Every detail of this moving episode can be followed by any who
take the trouble to mount the wall, for nothing has changed since
the memorable year when the horrors of war fell upon the city.

Here is the open space where the fluttering women gathered
and huddled together in panic while the line of black Sepoys, that
formed the main-guard, stood sullenly by the wall leaning upon
their arms and talking in tragic whispers: the women in their
bright summer dresses, a little knot of white muslin and gay
ribbons, of white staring faces and clasped hands ; the Sepoys
in their English uniforms, restless and muttering — the cluster of
sheep and the line of wolves. In the brains of the one the creep-
ing numbness of terror ; in the eyes of the other the red fever of
murder and lust Here is the very slope the tottering feet followed
when the first cowardly volley was fired, and it has changed but
little since its stones were stained with blood, and since among the
dead who lay there were such strange things as a child's sash, a
little shoe, and fragments of finery from " home." Here are the
wall they dropped over and the ditch they crossed, and it is fitting
that near by to this very spot is the Kashmir breach, where the
deed was wiped out, and where, many months later, the hapless
women were revenged.

To return to the events of the siege, the men who followed
Nicholson over the Kashmir breach followed him along the narrow
ways, that rattled with death, within the shadow of the city wall ;
until they had cleared the Mori and the Kabul gates, and were
brought to a stand by musket firing that few could face. Nichol-
son could face it, and he did ; for, rushing ahead of his men with
his sword above his head, he fell before he had advanced many
yards, shot through the chest It was in a sordid lane that he fell,
a lane that skirts the wall of Delhi between the Kabul and the

* Ibid., p. no.

THE KASHMIR GATE. 113

Lahore gates, and a small tablet on the wall tells where he met
his end. He was taken back on a litter, and Lord Roberts, then
an ensign, tells how he fared :

"While riding through the Kashmir Gate I observed by the
side of the road a doolie, without bearers, and with evidently a
wounded man inside. I dismounted to see if I could be of any use
to the occupant, when I found to my grief and consternation that
it was John Nicholson, with death written on his face. He told me
that the bearers had put the doolie down and gone off to plunder ;
that he was in great pain, and wished to be taken to the hospital.
He was lying on his back, no wound was visible, and but for the
pallor of his face, always colourless, there was no sign of the agony
he must have been enduring. On my expressing a hope that he
was not seriously wounded, he said, ' I am dying ; there is no
chance for me.' ... I searched about for the doolie bearers
who, with other camp followers, were busy ransacking the houses
and shops in the neighbourhood and carrying off everything of
the slightest value they could lay their hands on. Having with
difficulty collected four men, I put them in charge of a sergeant
of the 6 ist Foot I told him who the wounded man was, and
ordered him to go direct to the field hospital. This was the last I
saw of Nicholson." *

The gallant soldier was in this fashion taken back to the Ridge,
the Ridge that he made so famous, and there he died.

His grave is in the little English cemetery just outside the
Kashmir Gate, near by to the Kudsiya gardens.

The column which, under Colonel Campbell, was to attempt an
entry by the Kashmir Gate could effect little until the gate was
blown open. This desperate enterprise was undertaken by a com-
pany of six men, and the deed they did has few parallels in the
annals of the British Army.

" Lieutenants Home and Salkeld of the Engineers, Bugler Haw-
thorne of the 52nd, and Sergeants Carmichael, Smith, and Burgess
of the Bengal Sappers, started in advance of the column to blow up
the Kashmir Gate. Outside the gate the ditch was spanned by a
wooden bridge, the planks of which had been removed, leaving
* "Forty-one Years in India." London, 1897. Vol. I., p. 235.
I

ii4 L INDIA.

only the sleepers intact. Passing through the outer gateway,
Home, who was in front, crossed one of the sleepers with the
bugler under a sharp musketry fire, planted his bag of powder,
and leaped into the ditch. Carmichael followed, but, before he
could lay his bag, was shot dead. Then Smith, who was just be-
hind, planted his own and his comrade's bag, and arranged the
fuses ; while Salkeld, holding a slow match in his hand, stood by,
waiting to fire the charge. Just as he was going to do so he was
struck down by two bullets. As he fell he held out the match, tell-
ing Smith to take it and fire. Burgess, who was nearer to the
wounded man, took it instead, but presently cried that it had gone
out, and just as Smith was handing him a box of matches, fell over
into the ditch, mortally wounded. Smith, now, as he thought, left
alone, ran close up to the powder bags to avoid the enemy's fire,
struck a light, and was in the act of applying it when the port-fire
in the fuse went off in his face. As he was plunging through a
cloud of smoke into the ditch he heard the thunder of the explosion,
and barely escaped being dashed to pieces (by the masses of
masonry falling from above) by clinging fast to the wall."*

Photographs of the Kashmir Gate, taken in 1857, after the siege
was over, t show that the gate as it stands now is altered in no
particular from what it was when Home and Salkeld crept up to it
with their bags of powder on the morning of September I4th. It
is a lowering portal with two gateways, and it was upon the right
door that the desperate attack was made.

The parapet of the gate has been much battered by shell, and
its outer walls are pitted in a hundred places by shot from the
English guns. The place is haggard with grim memories. The
ditch is spanned by just such a bridge as spanned it in '57, but the
depth of the fosse is diminished, while its sides are less rugged
than they were.

There is one feature, due to the exigencies of modern traffic,
which would be new to the column who descended from the Ridge ;
for over one gateway is the inscription " In," and over the other the
inscription " Out."

* Holmes' " History of the Indian Mutiny," page 379.

f See Fanshawe's "Delhi, Past and Present." London, 1902.

XVII.
THE GARDEN OF THE UNFORQOTTEN.

There lies, to the south of Delhi — as has been already said —
a desolate plain covered with the ruin and wreckage of many
cities. For miles it wanders, telling ever the one woful story of
the hand of the destroyer. This country of things-that-were has
been swept by a hundred armies, has heard the roar of a thousand
battles, and none can tell the number of the dead who have lain
stark among its stones, since the first human settlement sprang
up on what was once green and gracious land

For centuries the annals of this Golgotha have varied not —
the prospering town ; the rumbling of a savage storm ; a curling,
howling wave of rapine, murder, and outrage ; and after the wave,
a piteous swamp of ruin and dead things.

From the Delhi Gate a road starts across this desert and
reaches to a kindly and wholesome land beyond. The road is
straight, and it leads through a country of stones and dust. Its
margins are marked by trees and deserted houses, and but for the
shabby bushes it would be hard to say where the roadside ended
and the plain began. The whole district has the look of a
common of worn earth from which a million feet have scuffed
whatever living thing has grown upon it, and upon which has been
piled the debris of a score of Babylons.

Those who follow this melancholy track will pass by miles of
ruins, by walls with breaches, shreds of turrets and relics of gates,
by crumbling domes rent with cracks from spire to arch, by
tottering pillars and half-seen vaults, and by prostrate blocks of
matted stone which were bastions or buttresses. Around these
ruins are acres of loose stones and clearings of drifted dust, with
here and there a quarry-like hole, as if some fearful beast had
scraped for dead among the bricks and tumbled masonry.

ii6 c INDIA.

In a cranny or two, in coves and bays among the stone heaps,
there are unexpected oases of cultivation, but the crops that
shrivel there are grey with dust. Dust covers the weeds, the
brambles, and the half-starved cactus, which slink like outcasts
about this amphitheatre of death.

To add to the weariness of it all, many hundreds of tombs
have been built in times gone by along the road, and these also
are leprous with the all-pervading decay. Blinking vultures
perch among these ruins, as if the very stones were carrion, and
as if some fascination still drew them to the shambles where
thousands of their kind have been glutted.

There are a few wells by the roadside, and a few goats that
patter about, searching the ground as if for relics of the past.
But for the wells, the goats, and the people on the highway, the
whole land might have been deserted by the living many ages ago.

As far as the eye can stretch, the scene is the same — dust and
crumbling stone, forgotten cities and forgotten dead. If there be
a spot on the earth upon which all the woes uttered by the
prophet Jeremiah can have fallen, it is assuredly upon this tract of
land which lies to the south of Delhi.

Some three miles along the road there is a faint dust track
not readily to be found A mere trail of dirt, it stumbles over
mounds and pits of refuse, and ends abruptly before a wall a
little less forlorn than the disconsolate masonry around

There is nothing to show that there is beyond the wall other
than the same wandering waste. But there is a narrow white
gateway in the wall, under the stone arch of which is a little paved
road

Any who enter this door pass at once into a new and
unexpected demesne. The causeway leads, by a sudden turn, to a
deep pool enclosed within four walls. A flight of wide steps
slopes down to the water, and round the parapet of the pool is a
trench-like path ending in a gallery with a balustrade of pierced
stone. The arches of the balcony look down upon the cold
surface of the spring. This is a strange thing to come upon in a
desert of desolation, but the white gateway is the portal to a
strange country.

THE GARDEN OF THE UNFORGOTTEN. 11;

In many a story told to children, the adventurer has passed
through a mysterious doorway in a wall and has found himself in
an unfamiliar land ; and here, it would seem, is a realisation of
the tale.

The wayfarer, turning- his back upon the pond, passes into a
narrow lane between high walls. This hushed passage is quite
in the spirit of the story book, for it leads him to a white gate,
and through the gate he steps into a silent court of dazzling
marble, with snow-white walls and a polished floor, and with only
the sapphire sky to be seen above it. There is no glimpse of the
desert ; there is no trace of desolation ; there is no drift of dust.

The square is cool, gentle, and quiet, and motherly green trees
overshadow it, so that only here and there does a splash of sun
fall upon the spotless walls. There is no sound in this convent-
like courtyard but the crooning of contented pigeons.

In the centre of the square is a shrine of marble, within a
verandah of white pillars, and through the lattice screens that
make its walls can be seen the outline of a tomb, covered with a
cloth of green. In the white courtyard, before the tomb, a man in
a red turban is kneeling on the stones in prayer, while others are
sitting near him.

The cloister is old, and the trees that throw their shadows
over it have shaded it for a hundred years, but the trees are as
green as when they first bent to the wind, and the gleam on the
marble is as bright as it was when the chisel of the mason touched
it last.

The shrine is the tomb of Nizam-ud-din. He was the greatest
of all the Chisti saints, and he died more than two hundred and
fifty years ago. Yet his memory has never faded, and this most
exquisite haven in the waste is tended and preserved by his
descendants, who live still among the ruins near the shrine.

Assuredly this love in the wilderness, which has kept green so
long a pious memory, is beyond all wonder. The bier is like a
bed covered with a faded coverlet. Fresh flowers are strewn
around it every day, and it is hard not to think that the good man's
body lies just beneath the gilded cloth, that his features are still
as they were in life, and that he died, indeed, but a day or so ago.

n8 INDIA.

Within the courtyard are many other memorials to the quiet
dead, as well as a solemn mosque where men still worship.

The tombs are enclosed within walls of marble fret-work,
and they are but little less brilliant than the shrine within whose
shadow they cluster.

In one of these enclosures lies buried the Princess Jahanara.
She was a daughter of the Emperor Shah Jahan, and her mother
was the lady of the Taj. When her father was deposed and made
a prisoner at Agra she followed him into his captivity, and re-
mained with him till he died. She would seem to have survived
him fifteen years, and to have passed those years in absolute
seclusion. On her tomb is this inscription in Persian characters:

" Save the green herb, place naught above my head,
Such pall alone befits the lowly dead."

The cenotaph is of white marble, the upper part of which is
filled for its whole extent with earth in which there grows some
weedy, melancholy grass. So her wish has been fulfilled.

There is another tomb within this delectable haven, which is
perhaps, the most pathetic of all It stands in a quiet corner out-
side the courtyard, and almost hidden in the shade of trees. The
mausoleum is a little, low square building, with a verandah of rough
stone. Compared with the dazzling monuments in the cloister, it
is very simple, and it appears to shrink from view into the corner
of the narrow court it occupies. Here, in peace, rests the body of
Amir Khusrau, the poet, the "peerless singer" whose songs are
still sung by the people of his country. Yet he died as long ago as

1324-

Nearly six hundred years have gone by, and still his memory is
unforgotten. His tomb is covered by a decorated cloth, which is
always spotless, and on one occasion when I visited the place the
bier was buried beneath red rose leaves. Can there be any honour
in the gift of man that can reach beyond the graciousness of this—-
to be still unforgotten after a stretch of years so long? It may
be that when other centuries have passed there will still be one
day in the year when the smell of roses will fill the poet's quiet
resting-place, and when red petals will hide the feet of the pillars
around the little stone verandah.

THE GARDEN OF THE UNFORGOTTEN. 119

Without the wall of this garden of memories is only a desert
of violence and oblivion ; yet within there would seem to have
fallen upon the white cloister and its mosque that Peace of God
which passeth all understanding.

Strangest of all is this, that when once the white gateway in
the wall is passed, and when once the dusty road is reached, not a
trace can be discovered, in the famished waste, of this fair Garden
of the Unforgotten,

XVIII.
THE PILLARS OF GOLIATH AND DAVID.

To the south of Delhi, some eleven miles from the Ajmere Gate,
there stands near the outskirts of the great desert of ruined cities
the Kutab Minar — a Tower of Victory. It has been described as
one of the wonders of India, and as " the glory of Delhi as the Taj
is of Agra." It stands alone, and rises to the height of 240 feet, so
that it can be seen from the walls of the city itself.

It is a monument to the memory of one Kutab-ud-din, who
began life as a Turki slave and rose to be King of India, He be-
came famous in that he founded a dynasty which lasted for nearly
ninety years — a long period as dynasties fared in those days. He
died in 1210, and the king who reigned in his stead built the tower.
It thus happens that this monument to the slave who became king
has reared its shaft above the level of the plain for more than six
hundred and fifty years.

Strange and terrible things it must have seen within this stretch
of time. It has watched the rise of city after city, it has seen them
prosper, reach to dignity and haughtiness, and then be laid waste
and left lying mere skeletons of stone among the ashes. It has
watched this desert of ruin spread northward century by century,
with always a new town rising upon its farthest border ; until at last
came the Delhi of to-day — the city of Shah Jahan.

Beyond this city is the Ridge that the British held, and here
the creeping plague of destruction would appear to have been
stayed.

At the foot of the tower are some fragments of the Hindu city
of Delhi, the city which was first swept away by the Mohammedan
invaders ; and at the farthest point, to be seen readily from the
tower, is the town from which fled in the year 1857 the last

120

THE PILLARS OF GOLIATH AND DAVID. 121

Mohammedan King of India. So in this flat, which extends far
and wide for forty square miles, the tower of the slave who be-
came king marks where the devastating fire began, and the famous
Ridge of Delhi denotes where it ended.

Those who travel from the city come upon the great pillar
suddenly, for it is long hidden by the trees which grow by the
roadside. It stands in no garden, and in no well-tended enclosure,
but springs up to the sky out of a rubbish heap of drab ruins and
brown earth.

The marvellous feature of the tower is not its height, but its
astonishing appearance of newness. It rises from the faded dust,
a strong, jovial, fresh-coloured column of stone. It looks what it
is, a tower of victory, and in spite of its six centuries it is the only
young and hearty thing that starts out of the plain. The plain is
dead, dismal, and hopeless, but the column is alert, living, and
jubilant. It is built mainly of red sandstone, which has become
beautiful in tone by age, so that the tower now is a rose-coloured
tower with a glow of amber about it where the sun falls, and with
shadows of red and brown in the depths of its massive mouldings.

It is made up of five storeys, and each storey is marked by a
corbelled balcony. All up its sides are rounded flutings, vigorously
cut out of the stone. The pillar is very wide at its base, and
gradually tapers off to its summit, so that it looks like a gigantic
stack of bamboos piled closely together; while the balconies are
like bands fastened round the clump to keep the great shafts to-
gether. It tapers to the sky, and its evident message is to point
skyward. The brackets beneath the balconies are honeycombed
with carving, like buttresses of rock which have been delicately
fretted by the sea. The mighty column is girdled by exquisite
scroll work, made up of verses from the Koran in Arabic characters.
These fillets are light and feminine-looking, and make such a con-
trast as would a ribbon of lace on a cuirass of steel.

There is nothing about this column which could compare with
the Taj Mahal ; but it is a virile Tower of Victory, radiant with
majesty and triumph. It bursts forth from the plain as the blast
of a clarion would ring out in a mist of silence, and it proclaims
itself to be the token of a king who conquered.

122 INDIA.

By the side of it other towers of victory, such as the Vendome
column at Paris, are lisping and insignificant

From its summit is a view of the great drift of wreckage left by
centuries of war. To the north is Delhi, with its white mosque,
and to the east is the titanic rock fortress of Tughlakabad, upon
whose colossal walls neither war nor time have wrought destruction.

At the foot of the tower is a mosque, a shrinking cloister, and
a plain pillar of wrought iron. This pillar is very small, and is, in-
deed, only twenty feet in height. It is as free from decoration as
an engine shaft in a factory. It is said to be the only unaltered
relic of the Hindu city which stood in this place before the
Mohammedan invaders swept down to the Jumna. It has no
name, and is known only as " the iron pillar." It may have been
a monument of victory itself, but so old is it that its history has long
since faded into nothingness. For some hundreds of years the
plain iron shaft and the resplendent tower have stood side by side,
and the tower has looked down upon the pillar as Goliath looked
down upon David. The rose-tinted column was the standard of the
conquering people, and the dull little iron shaft was the flag
of the conquered.

The giant tower, valiant in its great girth, no doubt frowned
contemptuously upon the stripling pillar, and left it to cringe in
the shadow of its ridicule. But the little iron shaft had, like
David, a " smooth stone out of the brook " in a shepherd's pouch,
and a sling; so that after many years of humiliation the pillar
brought death to the column, as it were by a stone from a sling,
and as David slew Goliath. For the oppressed people of the pillar
became victors in the end, and the power that boasted of the
column as its standard faded out of the land.

Thus it has come to pass that the real Tower of Victory on the
plain is not the ruddy giant of stone, but the bare shaft of iron
which stands so meekly by its side.

XIX.

THE SURPRISING CITY OF JEYPORE.

Jeypore is a very surprising city. It is written of it that it is
" the pleasant, healthy capital of one of the most prosperous in-
dependent states of Rajputana, and is a very busy and important
commercial town, with large banks and other trading establish-
ments." But it is not on account of its commercial importance,
nor even of its large banks, that Jeypore is surprising.

The capital of this independent state of Rajputana was once
at Amber — a wizened old city hidden among the hills at the end
of a lonely gorge. So very ancient is this town that Ptolemy
knew of it and wrote of it ; while a century or more before the
Norman Conquest of England Amber was already great and
prosperous. Here many Maharajas reigned in splendour, and here
in 1600 was built the great palace which still stands defiantly at
the blind gorge's end with its back to the hills.

At last there came to the throne one Jey Sing. He was a
Prince of unexpected talents and of original mind In his hours
of leisure he was an astronomer ; he built observatories at Benares,
Delhi, and other places, where they stand to this day, while the
curious and mystic instruments that he made are preserved in
museums, and fill the ignorant with awe. What Jey Sing the
Maharaja learnt from the stars is not known, what portents he
saw in the night have been revealed to none, and how the spirit
of unrest fell upon him the wandering moon alone can tell.
Although his palace was one of the stateliest in India, although
centuries of romance and the memory of great deeds hung about
the old city and its huddled streets, he determined to abandon
Amber, and to rebuild a capital in the plains that opened at his
feet.

124 INDIA.

Thus it was that he founded the surprising city, and called it
Jeypore after his own name. He built it so that it was complete
in every particular as if he were constructing an educational model.
There was a high, embattled wall around it, with mathematically
placed gates, a palace for affairs of State, and a palace for pleasure,
suitable gardens, appropriate temples, schools and markets, and
indeed all the appurtenances and belongings of a capital city.
This he did in and about the year 1728. What was strangest about
his building was this — that he anticipated by a century and more
the aggressively modern town : the gridiron-plan town that springs
up on a prairie in America in the course of a few feverish months.
The new city is on a level and open plain. " It is remarkable,"
so the guide-book says, "for the width and regularity of its
streets. It is laid out in rectangular blocks, and is divided by cross
streets into six equal portions. The main streets are a hundred
and eleven feet wide, and are paved, and the city is lighted by
gas."»

The old city, on the other hand, clings to the hillside at the
blind end of the ravine, a medley of winding ways, of steep cause-
ways, and of houses built up on steps of rock, crowned by a palace.
In Amber there is no street that could be called " straight."

Here, then, in a remote part of the continent of India, is a large
city, " laid out on the American plan," but built by an astronomer
Prince in the early days of the eighteenth century. It would not
be unfitting, therefore, to describe Chicago as an American city
laid out on the lines of Jeypore in Rajputana.

I am not aware that any record exists of the precise circum-
stances in which the populace of Amber removed to Jeypore.
Certain it is that they left the old city just as it was, and as they
left it so it remains to this day, save for such ruin as must needs
fall upon a deserted town after a lapse of a hundred and seventy
years. So radical and unconventional were the methods of Jey
Sing that it is probable enough that he moved his entire capital
from the glen to the plain in a single day.

One can imagine the deliberate building of the mathematical
city of Jeypore, and can picture the people of Amber walking
* Murray's " Handbook of India," 1901, p. 127.

THE SURPRISING CITY OF JEYPORE. 125

down furtively in twos or threes to watch how their new town was
progressing. They would no doubt go down in chattering com-
panies on high days and holidays, would gape about the torrent-
wide avenues, and wonder at the amusing spectacle of houses in
"rectangular blocks." The narrowest of these geometric streets
was wider than the Great Palace courtyard at Amber, and there
must have been much speculation among the gapers as to which
trim-cut section of buildings would prove to be their home.

One could imagine how they would trudge back to Amber, to
the twisting alleys and shut-in lanes, and fill the minds of the old
and infirm with fearful pictures of a city which had no hills, no
dark and cramped causeways, no places to hide in, and no steep
stairs to climb.

They can hardly have thought comfortably of Jeypore. As
well might a rabbit from a hillside warren contemplate with com-
posure the marble courtyard of a temple as a future home.

Modern advertisements dealing with the subject of " Families
Removing " enlarge upon the ease with which even extensive estab-
lishments can be transported " by Road or Rail." There can,
however, be nothing in the records of families removing which can
be compared with the great " move " from Amber to Jeypore.

There can be little doubt, I imagine, that the Maharaja went
first — he and his wives and his ministers, his men servants, and
his maid servants, his elephants, his oxen, and his asses, and all
that was his. The procession would wind slowly down the hill
from the palace yard. Slowly, because so narrow is the way in
Amber that only one elephant can pass at a time. The people
would be so engrossed in their own "packing" that they would
barely look up to see the great retinue go by. The procession
would squeeze through the gate, and creep along the gorge to the
flat, and then follow the empty streets of Jeypore to the new
palace. The streets of the town being a hundred and eleven feet
wide, well swept, and paved, would look unkindly bare.

After the great personages would follow the lesser folk, with
their goods heaped up on bullock waggons, or laid astride of the
backs of donkeys — a struggling, unsteady company, shuffling along
with much noise, under a canopy of dust, eager, pushing, and

126 INDIA.

hurried. There would be with them a rabble of bare-legged
children, of dogs and goats, of swinging baskets and bulging
bundles, the baggage train of a camp which had been pitched on
one hillside for some 2,000 years, and had now " struck camp "
for good.

Last of all would be the people of mean degree, the parasites
of the city, the homeless, the men and women whose sole earthly
possessions would be tied up in a loin-cloth or a scarf, and carried
on a bewildered head.

When night fell the good old town would be empty for ever.
It may be that none even were left to lock the gates after the
halting man, who, by reason of his age, or his lameness, was the
very last to limp through the archway into the trampled road.
The walled streets of Amber must have seemed strange that night,
all silent and all dark. The hush that, after centuries, had fallen
upon this abode of men would have been terrible in its utterness.
No doubt the jackal crawled in, when all was still, and was dazed
to find that he had the city to himself, and that neither dog nor
watchman challenged him as he crept up, step by step, the listen-
ing, suspicious stairway that led to the citadel. There must have
been a guard left in the palace, and the light that shone from the
slits in the wall would have intensified the sense of desertion.

It may be that the jackal and the moonlight had not the city
all to themselves, but that here and there in the shadows was a
nimble figure who had hidden until the last went by, and who was
curious about many things, and above all, about his neighbour's
house. There may, too, have been the dying, and those who stayed
behind to be with them till they started on a journey longer than
that to the new city of the Prince.

When the guard in the palace had fallen asleep, when the
gorged jackal had crept back to his lair, when the crouching thief
had slunk along the road through the glen, it would have been
fitting if the silence of Amber had been broken for the last time
by the moaning of a lonely woman over her dead.

There are other things about Jeypore which are surprising,
besides its strange origin and its Chicago -like outlines. The
whole of the city — its walls, its palaces, and its houses — are all

THE SURPRISING CITY OF JEYPORE. 12;

painted in the same colours, and these colours are pink and white.
Passing through a pink and white gate, in a pink and white wall,
the traveller comes into a straight pink and white street, as wide
as a parade ground.

This street is admirably paved, and sleepy bullocks from the
country, who have waddled all their lives among either thick dust
or thick mud, wake up with a start when they tread for the first time
the smooth pavements of Jeypore. More than that, they stagger as
do animals who walk upon ice.

There is no dust, for the streets are well watered. There is no
mud, for the roads are well swept. The offal, rags, and dirt, to
which the poorer native of India clings with such affection, are in
Jeypore snatched from him, and are borne away by small trucks
on rails, to a place beyond the city walls. The streets, therefore,
are clean. They are also well lit ; not, however, by mean oil, but
by gas, which burns on a European lamp-post. It thus comes to
pass that this pink and white city is strangely trim. The houses
are made smooth outside by plaster, while the colour everywhere is
uniform, as has been said

Pink and white is not a usual tint for a metropolis. It would
appear to exceed the bounds of frivolity, for example, if the Bank
of England, the Mansion House, the Tower of London, and the
House of Commons, as well as every street in London, from the
north to the south, were to be painted uniformly in pink and white.

Indeed, it is impossible to take Jeypore, as a city, seriously.
There is ever the idea that the place is unreal, that it is a card-
board town, or that it is made up of the shifting scenery from a
lyrical opera. The pink and white plaster with which the houses
are covered is precisely like the pink and white sugar which coats
a child's birthday cake. Moreover, these baby-like colours are
disposed of according to the art canons of the nursery. The houses
of the Jeypore Regent Street, for instance, are gay with patterns
which might have been designed and executed by a fanciful child.
Above a row of sober shops will be painted garlands of flowers
of gigantic growth, and of the school treat type, with always the
same pink and white bloom on both the blossom and the leaf.
There will be wall paintings of pink elephants fighting with pink

128 INDIA.

tigers, and pink and white kings issuing from pink palaces. A
favourite form of fresco deals with scenes from English life, illus-
trative of the domestic habits of the race. A pink Englishman
in a helmet is sitting on a sofa with his arm round the waist of a
gratified pink lady, while on the next house is another Englishman
— or it may be the same — still in a helmet, receiving a pink baby
from a grinning pink-faced ayah.

Throughout the length and breadth of this birthday-cake city,
and through all its ways, the same tone of rural decoration is ob-
served. The great palace is pink and white, and so are the Public
Library, the School of Art, and the local Downing Street

The windows of the houses form another curious feature in
this surprising capital. They are the shape of the windows of a
ticket office, and are very small; so small that when a shock-
headed child looks out into the street, the whole of the window is
filled. The window is void of glass, but it has a wooden door
which opens outwards, and this feature of the house has just the
appearance of the window in a cuckoo clock from which the
punctual but hurried bird pops out to announce the hour.

Such is the effect of the American streets, of the birthday-cake
houses, and of the cuckoo clock windows, that the traveller who
has visited many cities in a hasty journey, may be excused if he
doubts in time if he has ever seen Jeypore in the flesh, or if the
city he dreams about is a city made by hands. Many as are the
wonders of Jey Sing's capital, its greatest wonder is certainly this,
that it has acquired with startling realism the properties and
attributes of unreality.

Jeypore would have pleased the heart of Hans Andersen, for
here must have been the house of his little tin soldier; and the
dancing girl, who inflamed the heart of that faithful warrior, must
have first caught his gaze from a cuckoo-clock window in one of
the birthday-cake streets.

The present Maharaja — like the founder of the city — is a Prince
of great ability, and the results of his enlightened government
are felt in every corner of this prosperous State. Thanks to the
Maharaja, Jeypore has an excellent water supply — a blessing of
some rarity in India — a flourishing college, and a hospital, the

THE SURPRISING CITY OF JEYPORE. 129

equipment of which is not surpassed by any institution of its size
in England

The public gardens in Jeypore are, moreover, among the finest
in the country. In these gardens is an educational museum, con-
structed on the lines of the museum at South Kensington. It is
maintained in a state of alert efficiency. The building is called the
Albert Hall, and the foundation stone of it was laid by King
Edward VII. in 1876. Here are graphically illustrated all the
arts and industries which are peculiar to the district. Here can be
seen the best work in gold and enamel that Jeypore has produced,
and wonderful it is.

In the educational section, the casual visitor will probably be
most interested in the departments respectively of Botany and
Crime.

In the Botany division are papier mdche models — obtained
from Paris — to show the intimate construction of flowers and fruits.
For ease of demonstration these models are very large. The
flowers have petals the size of shields, and pistils that look like war
clubs. The individual parts are as gaudily painted as the outside
of a circus car, and it is probable that the less intelligent natives
who saunter round the galleries may leave with inaccurate im-
pressions as to the flora of Europe, and with the belief that the
flowers and fruits of France are as monstrous in size as they are
prodigal in colour.

In the department of Crime the lesson to be taught is con-
veyed by groups of figures, small, but life-like, and elaborately
coloured. These little puppets are engaged in every crime
capable of being demonstrated by means of models, and the series
soars from mere drunkenness to murder.

In the department of murder the collection is very rich, there
being no accepted method of committing homicide which is not
represented. As in other parts of the museum, so in this,
thoroughness of execution is prominent. One model, for example,
shows a murdered lady from whose wrists the miscreant is re-
moving gold bangles. The wound in the deceased is of such
length that it extends from the chin to the extremity of the trunk.
It could not be longer unless made in a spiral manner.
J

130 INDIA.

»v

Another group of little figures shows a Thug at work. He is
strangling a British soldier, and so swollen, shiny, and purple is
the soldier's face that it has the aspect of a bursting plum. Other
models demonstrate how best to dispose of the body of a mur-
dered person. The methods in favour in the department are by
burial on the one hand, and by division of the remains into small
pieces on the other. One little plaster criminal is evidently about
to make use of the parcels post as a means of ridding himself of
a body with which he has become encumbered.

Another group in the glass case is of some encouragement to
ladies travelling alone. The drama depicted is this. A native
lady, travelling in a palanquin, has been attacked by three men,
apparently her two bearers and another. The ruffians have
evidently not informed themselves beforehand of the lady's charac-
ter, for she has leapt from the palanquin in light attire, and has
slain the three would-be assassins with the edge of the sword. In
justice to the lady's powers it is to be noted that the wounds on
the three are exceedingly large and red

There is a very stately courtyard to this museum, and on the
walls of it are inscriptions which embody the sayings of great
men of India. The words are graven in both the original tongue
and in English, and there is not one of these " writings on the
wall " which is not admirable and memorable.

Among them is a saying of Akbar's — he who lies buried at
Sikandra — and the message of the great Emperor might well face
a man every day of his life. It runs in this wise : " I never saw
anyone lost on a straight road."

XX.

AMBER

Amber lies some five miles from Jeypore. After leaving one
of the pink and white gates of the city, the road extends across
a plain, and on both sides of the way are ruins. These ruins are
widespread, and are the wrecks of comparatively modern buildings.
There are the remains of gardens, temples, and palaces, and of the
many houses, great and small, which hang about palaces. It is a
matter of some surprise to see structures of so great a degree and of
such recent growth abandoned to decay. But this is India, and in
India can be seen outside many a city wall what desolation may
be wrought by the whim of kings.

Along this road of mistakes the traveller drives for three and a
half miles until he comes to a range of low hills, in the heart of
which lies Amber. At the foot of the hills he changes a carriage
for an elephant, both being provided by the princely hospitality of
the Maharaja.

The elephant I travelled by was covered, as to his trunk and
head, with primitive paintings in red, blue, and yellow. He knelt
and on his back was a square seat covered by a white counterpane.
As there was a low rail at either end of the seat it had the appear-
ance of a bed prepared for two children. This bed is reached by
means of a ladder, and on this bed the rider sits, while his feet rest
on a thing of rope and wood such as men dangle from who paint
the outsides of ships.

The driver of the elephant was more wonderful than his ante-
diluvian beast. He was a little brown man, with a turban of
scarlet and gold. He wore a dark green velvet jacket, trimmed
with emerald green, and his forearms were enveloped in white

132 INDIA.

linen sleeves. By a mere touch he made the ton of flesh move
with the precision and delicacy of a hydraulic crane.

In the course of time the traveller will come from Jeypore to
the foot of the hills in a motor car, and then, in the matter of travel,
the very ancient and the very new will meet; but the turbaned
mahout will always be more marvellous and more to be admired
than the chauffeur with his goggles.

As the elephant moves he appears to be extraordinarily full of
joints, and his tread is spongy as is that of an old butler. He
stalks up a sloping road on the hillside and through a gateway in a
wall. This wall marks the outer confines of Amber. It is cracked
and rent, and presents many and grievous breaches, but it is for all
that a fierce wall. It has tooth-shaped battlements, and it follows
its course with savage determination. Nothing daunts it. It has
to make a circuit of the city, and the circuit is made. This per-
sistent wall can be followed for miles. It dives down into a ravine ;
it crosses the trench at the bottom ; it climbs up the cliff on the
other side. It winds over a stony down. It follows the sharp crest
of a long ridge, so that the ridge looks like the body of a colossal
lizard, and the battlements like spines along the back-bone of the
beast. No obstacle stands in the way of this conscientious wall,
and it turns aside for neither crag nor gully.

Beyond the gate the road enters a gorge between bare hills,
ragged with stiff bushes or prickly pear, and with many loose
stones. At the end of the gorge is a valley shut in by hills and by
the still determined wall. On the summit of the highest hill is a
deserted fort, while on a low ridge in the valley is the deserted
place.

The town of Amber covers each slope of this ridge together with
all that part of the valley which gives access to it.

The palace stands well — a fine, solid, square mass of masonry
with white walls, stout buttresses, many cupolas, and domes. Its
monotony is broken by arcades and passages with columns, by an
occasional verandah, or the trellised walls of hidden courts. There
are very few windows in the palace that look across the valley, so
that the great bastion-sided edifice has rather the bearing of a
fortress than of an abode of kings.

AMBER. 133

At the foot of the palace hill is a lake, with an island of gardens.
The island has around it an embankment, in which are steps lead-
ing down to the water. Its gardens are in terraces, traversed by
paved paths and covered walks, with here and there a summer
house or cool court. Upon the island and its gardens a woful ruin
has fallen. A wild undergrowth has spread over it, so that there
is now reflected on the surface of the lake little more than a lonely
arch, a crumbling balustrade, or a heap of stones covered with a
cobweb of briars and brambles. So utterly desolate is this once
laughter-haunted spot that the poor pleasaunce may be a garden of
Babylon, and the little stairs may be hiding their broken steps in
the waters of Babylon.

The way to the palace is by a long pinched street, paved with
cobble stones, which winds up hill through narrow gateways and by
old walls until it reaches the royal courtyard.

Of the palace itself there is little to be said. It is maintained
in perfect state, and its halls and corridors are endless. It inclines
to gaudiness, and serves to show how little is the step between what
would be grand and what may be tawdry.

Near the entrance to the palace is a small temple dedicated to
Kali. That Kali should be the goddess of the dead city is possibly
not unfitting. Kali is the most terrible of all Hindu deities. She
is the personification of whatever is horrible. Her breast is decked
with human heads, and her girdle is made of human hands. Her
raiment is stained with blood. Her lips breathe only murder and
destruction. Venom fills her veins, and her tenderest mercies are
cruel. Her shrine is the only one left at Amber where men still
worship.

The temple is vault-like and gloomy, and the flaring red image
of the goddess grins from the depths of a threatening cavern. At
the feet of this Diva of the shambles is a heap of thick, unwhole-
some sand, upon which a live goat is sacrificed every morning, and
the hideous iron knives with which the deed is done stand by the
sand heap. Much red paint, much gilt and faded tinsel make
hideous this place of execution, while a clammy shadow laden with
the smell of incense and the odour of blood clings to all who enter
from the sunlight which streams without upon the temple steps.

134 INDIA.

Such is Our Lady of Amber.

The whole city can be viewed from a balcony which juts out
from the palace wall. It is a city of ruins, utterly silent, empty,
and forlorn. It is " the woman who has been forgotten." The
streets are narrow and tortuous ; some are mere tracks between
piles of stones, some are blocked by the debris of fallen buildings.
There are houses which have survived the hand of ruin, but they
are, for the most part, roofless, and pigeons roost in the upper
chambers. Gates stand open: gardens are a tangle of weeds and
cactus: windows have become shapeless holes, and verandahs are
festooned by aggressive creepers.

Here one side of a house has fallen away, revealing bare rooms
with doors that lead into space, and ragged stairs that climb up
blindly to the sky, and stand above the crumbling wall like frag-
ments of a turret.

From the palace heights one can look down into courtyards
with still, on one side, a great gateway, and, on the other, steps
leading to a barren hall. Trees are growing in the court. Their
roots have lifted up the flags and have made of the fountain a
jumble of marble.

The once walled-in zenana — the holy of holies — is now open to
every breeze that blows ; the sun pours into the ladies' inner
chamber, and the rain beats upon its marble floor. Here and there
is a temple with nothing of its dignity left but half a dome, a few
broken arches, or a row of pillars held together by the twining
branches of a sacrilegious creeper.

Peacocks strut among the ruins and haunt the untidy jungle
that once was a market place or a noble's garden.

A tribe of monkeys who have taken possession of this
skeleton of a capital, play about the housetops and such parapets
as still lean over the streets. They are grey-headed, wrinkled
beasts, and they look so like little chattering old men that, to
those who believe in the transmigration of souls, they may be the
restless spirits of people who once busied themselves in the old
town.

A few peasants live among the unkempt ruins, with as little
comfort as a tribe of cave-dwellers on a hillside. Their pretence

AMBER. 135

of finding a home in the melancholy stone heap makes but a last
mockery of the once arrogant and kingly town.

Amber is dead! The silence of eternity has fallen upon its
dumb streets, its sightless windows, its altars that hear not ; and
those who still strive to dwell within its walls are as scampering
rats in a mortuary.

XXI.

UDAIPUR BY THE LAKE.

In my small experience of the great Peninsula, Udaipur ap-
peared to be the most beautiful place in India. It is the capital
city of the native State of Meywar, and its name can be spelt in
English in seventy-two different ways. The compliment thus paid
to the elasticity of the English tongue would be of more practical
value if seventy-two adjectives would exhaust the charms of this
romantic town.

Udaipur lies on a branch line, sixty-nine miles from the junc-
tion, which distance the Meywar train accomplishes in five and a
half hours. For this reason, among others, Udaipur is not well
suited for the traveller who is in a hurry.

The way to the city is across a monotonous plain, sparsely cul-
tivated, and much afflicted by famine when that trouble falls upon
Rajputana. At the end of this plain is a circle of hills, within
which the land is again level but for a solitary low mound upon
which Udaipur stands. The girdle of hills is so complete as to
form an immense encircling rampart, through which a passage has
been cut for the railway, and the gap thus made is defended by
walls and forts. If this natural amphitheatre could be viewed
from an airship it would resemble one of those crater-like rings
which are conspicuous in photographs of the moon, and Udaipur
would appear to occupy the spot in the centre. The city and the
land that lies around it are thus shut off from the rest of the
world. Its fields are green and prosperous-looking, for they are
well irrigated.

As the town is approached from the railway there is no indica-
tion that it stands upon the shores of a lake. The sheet of water
lies hidden, so that there is only to be seen a pale city upon a hill,

136

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UDAIPUR BY THE LAKE. 137

with a great white palace on the summit of it. The mass of white
is broken here and there by a brown roof or a clump of trees, and
were it not for the domes of Hindu temples or an occasional
minaret, Udaipur might be in Italy.

The city is surrounded by an ancient wall with many gate-
ways— Bible story gateways common to all old Indian towns —
where now and then a grave man with a staff walks through,
followed by a woman with a baby, riding on a donkey.

Inside the walls the place is picturesque. It is picturesque
without being evil-smelling, which is uncommon in the East. The
streets are irregular, and they all lead in time either up to the
palace or down to the lake. Every building throughout the city
is white. Many of the houses are faced with fine carved stone,
and it is evident that they were built for no mean folk. In the
main street is a colonnade of pillars with a row of shops along the
far wall — a shady walk lit by the vivid splashes of colour which
are never wanting in an Indian bazaar.

There are many wells in the streets with dripping steps coming
up from the water, and about them is always a chattering company
of women and children with bright water pots.

There are many Hindu temples also, chief among them being
the magnificent shrine of Jagannath, which can be seen from afar.
These temples have that squat, bulbous spire, like an inverted urn,
which is characteristic of the Hindu holy place.

The great god Jagannath is the bete noir of the weaker-
minded missionary, and both the god and his car have been the
subjects of melodramatic and child-frightening libels. At Udaipur,
however, Jagannath would seem to dwell in peace with all men.

The glory of the capital of Meywar is the lake and the
palace-covered islands which rest upon its surface. From what-
ever point it may be seen, the first glimpse of the lake is glorious
beyond words, and the comfort of the sight is not lessened when
it comes after weeks of travelling through a dried-up country,
husky with dust. The lake is two and a quarter miles long, and
one and a quarter miles in width. It is deep and blue, and in the
time of the cool weather there is seldom a ripple to ruffle its
surface. On one side of the lake is the white city; on the other

138 INDIA,

are green flats, with forests of dark trees, while beyond, in the haze,
are the purple hills.

Dominant over the lake stands the palace — a dazzling colossus
of white stone. Its smooth walls rise sheer from the water, like a
chalk cliff; the pinnacles and domes upon its heights tower far
into the sky above the city. The city crouches comfortably at the
foot of this majestic crag, while reflected in the mirror of the lake
are every buttress and parapet of the palace, every terraced garden,
every battlement of the city wall, its gates, the white houses, and
the clusters of palms.

The pak.ce, with its piled-up buildings, is over against the
widest part of the pool. To the north the lake becomes so narrow
that its waters lie under the city wall. Here, where it is little wider
than a moat, it is crossed by a white bridge, which mounts to a
point in the centre, and in some faint way suggests the Rialto
Bridge at Venice. The bridge leads to a small peninsula, a suburb
of the city, covered with mansions whose bright walls hang over
the pool, and where are to be seen kiosques of marble among
banana groves and flower gardens.

Between the ghost of the Rialto Bridge and the palace lies the
town. Close to the lake's edge are a row of humble temples half
hidden by trees, and steps where women in red and blue come to
fill water pots of dazzling brass. Here also an elephant will now
and then lounge down to drink with great display of leisure.

On this bank is a lofty water gate with three arches. It is
built, with much nicety, of marble, but the patiently carved stone
has been sullied by modern whitewash. There are rooms with
screened windows and fine grilles above the gateway, and it is a
matter of wonder who dwells therein, for common mats hide the
sun from verandahs fit for princesses.

A steep road drops down from the city to the water gate, and
it is probable that the traveller will have his first glimpse of the
lake through the three archways, and catch the glamour of the
water over the brass urns on the women's heads, or over the
brown backs of the cattle who have come down to the ghat to
drink, and who, with the women, form a constant band of loiterers
in the shadow of the gateway.

UDAIPUR BY THE LAKE. 139

There are two islands in the lake, each of which is covered
from shore to shore with a summer palace. The islands are small,
and the buildings are old, for one was erected in 1628, and the
other in 1734. Both are of pure white, and the older is fashioned
wholly of marble.

The water of the lake is the blue of the iris ; the cloudless sky
has the tint of the forget-me-not, and the ivory-like walls which
crown each island are overshadowed by palms and heavy masses
of green trees. There is no lack, then, in Udaipur of contrasts
and colours.

The palaces, as viewed from the land, are made up of a broken
line of buildings of little height. White walls capped by fragile
parapets or open towers rise out of the lake. Balconies hang over
the water. Across a colonnade can be seen the blaze of the sun
in a paved courtyard, while through the arches of an arcade is
the soft foliage of an orange garden. From every column a clean
shadow falls on the snow-white causeway. There is, moreover, a
landing place of marble flags, where, on many a day, will be a man
in a red robe watching by the prow of a boat.

Every detail of each palace is mirrored in the lake — the lat-
ticed window, the loggia by the landing steps, the towering palms,
the drowsy man in the red robe.

Here, in the centre of a country of monotony and dreariness,
are two of the gardens of the Hesperides shut away from the
world by a circle of jealous hills.

There are lakes in Italy with wooded islands, but there are
none so exquisite as these. This is Italy on the borders of the
tropics, where the palm takes the place of the oleander, where
spotless marble replaces painted stucco, and where a palace reigns
over a lake in the place of a gaudy villa or a self-asserting hotel.
Only the sky is the sky of Italy, and the water has the blue of
the Mediterranean.

These palaces are not inhabited, but they are tended with
pious care, and, by the hospitality of the Maharana, they can be
visited.

They may be visited, but they cannot be fitly described, least
of all by an uninspired tourist. The surveyor and the house agent

140 INDIA,

would, no doubt, give an account of the isles of Udaipur in just
such manner and with just such fluency as they would describe
an Elysian isle should one of those " desirable properties " come
into the market. This Indian paradise, however, can never be
reduced to mere "premises and messuages." It would need a
Tennyson to tell the idylls of the islands, and an Alma-Tadema
to show what imagination fashioned their marble courts. They
remain only in the memory as a lustrous vision of such Palaces of
Delight as the dreamer has fashioned.

Step from the boat into a marble square dazzled with the sun !
Pass across a piazza that overshadowing mango trees and palms
fill with eternal twilight, and then a doorway in a wall will lead
into an unsuspected garden, brilliant with blossoms and musical
with the dripping of a fountain. Here is a bathing pool hidden
among flowers, and a cloister fit for nothing harsher than trailing
silk. Look up, and there is a white balcony with slender columns
— it may be Juliet's balcony — hanging over a clump of orange
trees. In one corner of the garden a stairway of marble leads to
a perfume-haunted room ablaze with patterns in inlaid stone.
Beneath the chamber window is the lake ; across the water is a
thicket of bamboos, while beyond the nodcung brake are the
ever-encircling hills.

These islands are the realisation of the landscape of romance.
Here may be the scene of the love story of all love stories, for
this is the land of the lotus eater where there is no last day to
the month. These, too, are assuredly the palaces of the fairy tale
where the prince and princess came after they were married, and
where they " lived happily ever after."

XXII.
A PALACE GATEWAY.

The palace at Udaipur may, I imagine, be considered to be
typical of the Indian palace of to-day, of the imperious edifice
which dominates the capital of a native state. The building is,
as has been already observed — colossal in size. Compared with it
the ordinary native house is as a cottage by the side of Ailsa
Crag. Those who dwell within its confines are to be numbered
by thousands rather than by hundreds, so that in the matter of
population it is a little town within unusual walls.

In a guide-book to Meywar, written by a native gentleman,*
it is stated that " the city has little or no trade of its own, and is
maintained by the expenditure of the court." The palace is not
merely the residence of the reigning prince. It is a fatherly and
comprehensive establishment which includes government depart-
ments, the treasury, certain barracks, the board of works, a
potential county council, the Indian equivalent of a soup kitchen
in famine times, a royal co-operative store, and an arena for
elephant fights and other sports.

The buildings being of all ages, furnish a demonstration of
the domestic architecture of the country as practised during the
last few centuries. About the centre of this immense pile is the
zenana, a great inscrutable, impenetrable block-house, into which
none enter from the common world. A part of the new palace is
devoted to magnificent apartments prepared for royal and distin-
guished guests with that profuse hospitality which is characteristic
of the native prince. In the older wings of the edifice are Halls
of Audience, with many suites of rooms, which are astounding in
the brilliancy of their decoration, and which can be seen nowhere
but in the East.

* "Handbook of Meywar," by Fateh Lai Metha. Bombay, 1902, p. 8.

141

142 INDIA.

There is within the palace a warren of corridors and courts,
and of almost interminable passages. The visitor mounts up stair
after stair until he expects to come to the palace attics — if such
exist — but he finds himself in a garden full of shrubs and orange
trees. A further flight of stone steps takes him to the palace roof,
whence he can look over the whole town, the lake, and the
hill-begirt plain. This view of the white city is only equalled by
the view of Cairo from the citadel, or by that of Florence from
the Torre al Gallo.

In passing from one hall to another the confused visitor comes
upon a number of squatting men engaged in the making of
embroidery, or upon a company of quiet jewellers or a noisy group
of workers in brass. Incidentally there is within the palace a
Museum of Arms. There are also a courtyard full of fodder, and
a stable for elephants, which come within the minor details of a
tour of the building. •

Possibly the most interesting spot in this remarkable structure
is the Main Gateway. It is a dingy and awful entry, to which a
paved road leads from the palace court. This court serves the
part of a general lounge or club enclosure for the unemployed of
Udaipur. It is never without its company of loafers. It forms
also a recreation ground for the boys and girls of the city. Mon
than that, it is much frequented by cattle of leisure, for there ai
always a few cows strolling about among the loungers with ai
affected air of ennui and boredom. Pigeons sweep round this
square in wheeling flocks, and somewhat disturb the torpid call
of the place. But for the pigeons and the children this rubbish-
littered terrace might be part of the palace of the Sleeping Beauty,
just before deep sleep fell upon its inmates and upon the cattl<
within its gates.

The main portal that looks down on this square is like the
entrance to a stronghold. At the gate the road passes under
the cliff side of the palace as through a tunnel. In the dark way
a sentinel stands. On one side of the path is a great barred door,
knobbed with iron, while on the other side is a narrow stair built
in the thickness of the wall. This winding stair is, in all essential*
the stair of the historical romance. It seems to have been built

A PALACE GATEWAY. 143

to be defended by the fierce man with a rapier, or to provide an
escape for the fluttering woman with a cloak drawn across her
face. It opens upon a dark entry. It is well placed for a sudden
attack upon the sentinel, since beyond are freedom and a wall
to drop over.

A many-coloured multitude passes in and out of this gate
during the day. Servants and retainers of all degrees stroll
through, and now and then a company of untidy soldiers lurch up
the road, not a little like hastily trained " supers " coming on a
stage. Women carrying bales upon their heads pass by, and often
there come men or boys with letters. Now and then a pompous
man in a velvet jacket and a much-gilded turban swings into the
palace yard followed by a grinning servant, and then all the
loungers about the gate become alive and bow to the ground.
Clerks, workers in silk, and workers in metals, jewellers, mer-
chants, officials, and parties of indefinite status make up the items
of the broken procession that winds through the gate.

Here can be seen to pass, in the course of a day, robes and
turbans of every colour of the rainbow, and every one of the
seven stages of man, from the half-naked urchin who clings to
his father's cloak to the aged councillor, bowed down with cares
of state, who hobbles through on the arm of his grandson.

Under the wall of the terrace that stretches beyond the arch
there are generally men asleep in the shade. They are those — -
numerous enough in India — who spend their days waiting for
somebody. A few are lying at full length, and others are sitting
up with their backs to the wall and their heads on their knees.

XXIII.

CHITOR AND THE POOL IN THE CLIFF.

Chitor — like Fatehpur-Sikri and Amber — is another of the
many dead cities of India. It was at one time the capital of
Meywar, and a well-nigh impregnable fortress to boot. It is now
deserted utterly. A few half-starving folk are its only inhabitants,
and the least valiant tourist can enter its gates and picnic under its
frowning fortifications.

Chitor has an unquiet past, for its annals are annals of violence
and of heroic deeds. The story of the fort and of the men who held
it can only compare with the legends of King Arthur and his
Round Table. From its first days to its last the doom of war hung
over the city like a thunder-cloud. The tale of the years of
Chitor tells only of sieges, of night attacks, of fire and murder, of
mad rushes from the sally port, of treachery and the crawling spy.
To one thing only was Chitor a stranger, and that was the sleep
of peace.

This strong city crowns the crest of a long lean hill, a solitary
ridge in a homely fiat, with nothing to end it but the horizon. The
precipices which make up the sides of the hill are 500 feet high.
The summit is a narrow strip of fairly level land three miles long.
About the foot of the hill winds a bewildered river.

A steep road zigzags up the rock from the plain to the hill top.
It is hidden from view by a heavy wall, and defended by no less
than seven strong gates. Looking up from this road, the brow
of the ridge is seen to be guarded by another mighty wall, sup-
ported by flanking defences, bastions, and towers. The hillside
shows nothing but bare rock and adventurous jungle. Trees cling
to every ledge, and bushes hold on to every cranny, but green and
gentle as they are they fail to make the steep road hospitable.

144

CHITOR AND THE POOL IN THE CLIFF. 145

On the way up there are, between the " Broken Gate " and
the " Hanuman Gate," two chattries which mark the spot where the
valiant Jaimall of Bednor and his clansman Putta of Kailwa were
killed during Akbar's siege, in 1568. The latter was only sixteen
years of age. When all hope was lost of saving the city these
two rushed forth at the head of their followers and died fighting
in the stubborn roadway. It was their last sally, and from the
gallant venture none returned.

As the road nears the upper gate, the wall on the brow is seen
to be old and very strong, and to rise straight from the cliff's edge.
There are little windows with homely balconies in its blank
masonry. They are like nest-holes on the face of a precipice, and
many must have leaned from these look-outs to watch, with hope
or terror, the wandering road below. So gently has time dealt
with this veteran wall that a pot of flowers placed on the balcony
ledge would complete the impression that someone still lived in the
room within the window.

Beyond the last gate is the flat summit of the hill, and here are
the ruins of an entire city, with its palaces, its temples, and its
long streets. Chitor might claim to be the Pompeii of India, and
those who find interest in the Italian town will find no less curiosity
in this ancient citadel which has been buried so long beneath the
ashes of neglect. Here are the bazaars and the line of little
shops, the ruins of the guard-room, of the treasury, of the minister's
house, and of countless tombs and shrines.

There are in Chitor clear pools enclosed by embankments, as
solid as a quay, where birds have made a settlement with as much
assurance as if the pond were in the depths of a forest.

Here is a pompous gateway that once led to a noble's mansion,
but within the enclosure is only a heap of stones. A narrow paved
alley, that winds through a shady thicket, was once a lane between
two garden walls. Among a clump of shrubs can be seen an
arcade of stone columns, or the arch of a gateway, and buried in
green is a fragment of a temple rustling with birds. There, among
the waving leaves, are the niche, the altar, the grey step.

Mud huts, steamy with squalid people, are built in streets
which once rang with the clatter of princely arms. Within a
K

146 INDIA.

cowshed that leans against a wall are fastidious carvings on the
stone, for the wall once enclosed a fountain court Goats wander
in palace yards, or patter along terraces where kings paced in
frowning meditation. There is no lane nor green walk in Chitor
that the inquisitive may follow which does not open upon some
surprising ruin, or reveal some fossil-like relic of the life of the old
town.

There still stands, in the city's midst, the great temple of Vriji,
with its colossal tower. It has stood there for over 450 years, and
those who built it built well, for the ruin that has fallen upon
Chitor has left the shrine well-nigh untouched. Trees grow within
the sacred enclosure, and gaps in the masonry allow unusual lights
to trespass among the solemn shadows of the sanctuary.

There are many palaces also in this hoary fortress. Their
arrogant walls are yet erect, although on ledge and cornice vulgar
weeds flaunt themselves unchecked. Through coarse breaches
in the stone can be seen bare rooms and passages that hang
over a chasm of ruin, fragments of stairs that lead no whither,
and doorways that none can ever enter again. There is a
hideous gash in the crowning dome of one palace, like to
the wound in a skull that laid the living creature low. Some
of the windows are still perfect, or have lost little of the
feminine tracery that filled them. Centuries ago besieged
men looked out of these windows across the plain and saw
in every dust-cloud a column marching to their aid. Later
they looked down upon the bloodshed in the streets and
upon the clashing eddies of fighting men. Now crows fly in and
out of the casement with some hauteur, and the street is like a
green way in a wood. The desolation that has swept over the
royal place is as a howling wind on a night in winter.

Two towers stand on the summit of Chitor — the Tower of
Fame and the Tower of Victory. The former was, at the time of
my visit, in process of repair, and was hidden by bamboo scaffold-
ing. The building of the Tower of Victory was commenced in
1548, just 356 years ago. It rises to a height of 122 feet, and its
whole surface is covered with tediously elaborate carving. The
colour of the stone is a rich yellow brown, and the column is

CHITOR AND THE POOL IN THE CLIFF. 14;

made up of nine storeys with appropriate windows and balconies.
Every foot of every wall is covered with sculptor's work fretted by
a thousand shadows.

It is as rich and gorgeous as a laboured piece of carved ivory,
but, as a tower, it is somewhat more curious than imposing. The
extravagant and restless decoration of its surface seems as little
fitting as would be filigree silver work on the shaft of a spear.
Compared with that other column of Victory — the Kutab Minar
at Delhi — it is merely a clever and lavishly wrought erection of
stone, interesting by reason of its age.

There is one spot in Chitor which will probably be the best
remembered of all. It is the spring of Gaumakh, or the Cow's
Mouth. Cut out of one side of the cliff is a rude, deep chasm in
the rock, and at the bottom of this quarry-like hollow is a pool
Steep zigzag steps lead down to the water from the rim of the
hill. The walls that shut in this place are precipices of rock, and
from the many clefts in the stone lusty bushes are growing
wantonly. Motherly trees lean over the edge of the chasm and
fill it with shade. Here, indeed, there is always shade, for so deep
down is the breathless pond that the sun can but rarely emblazon
its surface. On the summits of the high walls which shut in this
well of Gaumakh are the chattries of dead queens among the ruins
of forgotten shrines.

The water below is blue and deep. So quiet, so cool, so green
is the place, that to come upon it on a hot, dry day, when the
shrivelled land is tormented with dust, is to step down into the
Pool of Siloam. The inviting stairs lead to a place where there
are healing waters, and where the weary day, the glaring sun, the
heat and the thirst, can all be forgotten.

The pool itself has around it an enclosure of masonry with
many steps cut into its sides. On one quay, by the water's edge,
is a little low stone cloister. Its pillars, grey and simply carved,
support a plain roof. The cloister is built along a ledge at the
foot of the cliff, and is very narrow. Above it towers the preci-
pice. That side which looks towards the water is enclosed by
panels of pierced stonework, so the little colonnade is dark within.

Two springs of water gush from the rock wall of this quiet

148 INDIA,

cell, and, streaming in channels across the floor, drop over the steps
into the pool.

What is the history of this shrinking chancel in the cliff I
know not. It may have been a humble chapel to the goddess
of cool springs, an altar to Our Lady of the Well. It may have
been merely a bathing place for royal folk, or a retreat from the
heat of the summer's day and the turmoil of war.

Whatever its purpose, this spring of Gaumakh is the only living
thing and the only gentle thing among the ruins of the dead and
savage city. Its waters still splash into the pool, as in centuries
gone by, and the shadow that shuts it in is " the shadow of a rock
in a weary land."

XXIV.

SIMLA.

India is a country of oppressive extremes. Its description
requires a geography of exaggeration, and its physical features are
to be expressed in capital letters which need to be immense and
sensational. It is becoming, therefore, that the plain which makes
a dead flat of the Peninsula for many thousand leagues should be
shut in on the north by mountains which are the mightiest and
loftiest in the world. That point on the earth which is in nearest
touch with space is a peak of the Himalayas.

Among these mountains Simla is a comfortable outpost. On
the road to this hill station the plain ends at Kalka, and where
the flat dies out the hills begin. There is no hesitating
country. When the man who travels on foot reaches the border
of the plain he finds the mountains like a wall before him, so
he must needs at once ascend or come to a stand.

Kalka certainly is 2,000 feet above the sea level, but the rise
is spread over a continent, and is too gradual to be noticed. Simla
is 7,000 feet in height, while the loftiest peak, Mount Everest,
attains to the dignity of 29,000 feet.

The cart or tonga road from Kalka to Simla is sixty miles
long, but by reason of its steepness, its many windings, and its
dustiness, it would seem to be six hundred. A railway now takes
the place of the purgatorial road. It is a fine tribute to the
engineering skill of Mr. Harrington, and it follows the old track for
much of the way.

From Kalka the hills mount up step by step, ridge by ridge,
peak by peak, an appalling staircase. In the time of the cool
weather these hills are brown and bare, and the gigantic lines
of cowled heads rising one above the other make the place solemn.

149

150 INDIA.

The cart road winds along mountain sides and in and out of
a hundred valleys, ever plodding higher and higher. Shrivelled
grass, scanty trees, slopes of stones and barren cactus all make
for monotony, and the most appropriate figure to find upon the
way would be the Wandering Jew. A solitary man on the road
is, however, not common. Most of those who are bound for the
heights travel in companies. Here will be a squadron of dejected
donkeys followed by silent, funereal men, and in another place
a line of camels bearing miscellaneous burdens. The donkeys,
the camels, and the men are all of one tint from a covering of dust.
Indeed, a column of dust hangs over them all day long, like the
pillar of cloud which led the Israelites.

Now and then there is the sound upon the road as of a rushing
mighty wind, and something tears down hill, riding on a dust-
cloud, and through the spinning mist may be a glimpse of a
revolving wheel, a medley of hoofs, and possibly the head of a
mud-faced man. This is a tonga making for the plains, and there
is, perhaps, a satisfied Englishman within who is making for home.

Half-way up the road from the plains one learns how it hap-
pened that Simla — one hill among a host — was sought out and
peopled. There can be seen, standing up against the sky line,
and from among the ever-brown hill tops, one solitary peak which
alone is green. It is very green. There is none other like it, and
it seems to lord it over the sad-coloured mountains about its feet.
It must have been when the uplands were brown that Simla was
sighted by the first English settlers. To them it would appear
as a green oasis, and they would climb to it as voyagers at sea
would make for the one fair island in sight After the rains the
lower Himalayas are green with grass, but even then the peak of
Simla stands out alone, for it is green with trees.

This peak, called Jako, lifts its summit more than 8,000 feet
above the sea level. A portion of the town lies about its base, but
on one side only, for Jako is steep. Round that part of the hill
where Simla is not, there is a road called "The Ladies' Mile,"
made famous by the tales of Rudyard Kipling, and precious in the
memories of many by reason of events beyond the emptiness of
mere tales.

SIMLA. 151

>
A town cannot well be built about a steep hill top, but it

chances that ridges trail from the side of these heights, like the
limbs of a starfish, and upon the crest of one such ridge the town
of Simla is balanced. The ridge runs unsteadily from east to
west, in the form of a crescent, and from one end to the other is
about five miles.

Simla, therefore, like Humpty Dumpty of the nursery rhyme, sits
on the top of a wall. The wall is narrow, and its sides are steep.

There is a drop of 1,000 feet on either side, with, in places, a
declivity that varies from a wooded slope to a bare precipice.
This cliff of many aspects is called the Khud, and horses and
carriages, horsemen and men, have from time to time disappeared
for ever over its evil edge. A runaway horse, therefore, is un-
suited for Simla, nor is the position of the place convenient for
the inebriated man after sundown.

When once the wall-capping town of Simla is reached there
is little inducement to leave it voluntarily, and the inhabitants
only descend to visit Annandale — a plain in a valley 1,200 feet
below the ridge where are a race course, a cricket ground, and a
wooded place called " the glen." From the main ridge run a
few secondary ribs, upon the knife edge of which suburban Simla
extends, until a precipice brings the bungalow builders' intentions
to an end.

One such groin stretches north to the hill of Elysium, which
name will show that Simla is not lacking in either invention or
hope.

This Humpty Dumpty town is a holiday place, a city of for-
getfulness. Here it is that the memory of the sunburnt plain, of
the stifling office, of the sickly barrack square, will be blotted
out There are Government buildings in Simla, but they are as
little like as possible to the official head-quarters in Calcutta.
There are no straight, formal roads to recall the routine-ridden
cantonment. There is no " Mall." Tumbling down the hillside,
like a rubbish heap, and fairly well hidden from sight, is the native
bazaar. There is no need to go there, nor any occasion to be
reminded of India and its reeking cities. Those who come here
come to forget. Simla — the make-believe — would have itself to

152 INDIA.

be a little piece of the islands of Britain hidden away among
foreign hills. Here are the Highlands of Scotland and the pine
woods along the Portsmouth road. Here is that keen, fresh
breeze which recalls the rustling north-east wind as it romps
across the Sussex downs. Here are shops which will pass for
those of Tunbridge Wells, and bungalows with suggestions of
Ascot. Here are a Town Hall with a library, a concert hall and
a ball-room which must have been transported from some ambitious
county town in England, while in the hospitable United Service
Club can be breathed the very atmosphere of Pall Mail

The places in Simla have no unsavoury Indian names, suggest-
ing exile and the hard-earned rupee, but, as befits a homely frag-
ment of Great Britain, which has dropped here like a magic carpet,
every house and villa boasts an English name. Here are " Snow-
don " and " Windermere," " Kensington Hall " and " Landsdown
House," " Stirling Castle " and " Erin Villa," " Wildflower Hall,"
" Rose Cottage," and even " Windsor Castle."

Simla, in addition to such charm as depends upon agreeable
suggestion, is a singularly beautiful town. Its position, on a height
among immense mountains, would alone make it superb. Beyond
this it is covered with trees from the summit of Jako to the
valleys below. Some of these are natural to the place, but others
have been planted by a tree-loving people. There are forests of
firs and slopes covered with ilex, glades full of rhododendrons and
pine trees, and hill-tops green with the solemn deodar, the cedar of
the Himalayas. There are roads cut ledgewise along the moun-
tain's face with only a bald peak above and a slippery grass pre-
cipice below, and shy lanes that dive into woods never to come
out into the light again until the hillside ends on a sudden breezy
bluff that hangs over space as it were over the edge of the world.
There are paths that wind among gardens or hang about white-
walled villas or lead to green-shuttered bungalows buried in shrubs
and flowers.

There is nothing formal about the land of Simla, no highway
that holds to the level long, few roads that do not twist round a
rock buttress at one moment, drop into a glen at another, and bolt
incontinently up a hill at the end The rickshaw, which is the

SIMLA. 153

vehicle of the place, is either labouring up or sliding down, is
either lost in the dark of a copse or is skirting a rim on a cliff
slope white with the sun.

It was nearing the middle of December when I chanced to
be at Simla. There was an honest black frost after sundown. The
sky was blue and absolutely cloudless. No breath of wind was
stirring, and so clear was the air that the peak the town clung to
might have reached into the ether beyond the earth's atmosphere.
So far as the eye can stretch there is nothing but hills, hills to the
north, to the south, to the east, to the west, height after height,
until they can be counted in hundreds and imagined in thousands.

Here from the scant plateau of Simla is the spectacle of an
appalling multitude, of a rriotionless army of Armageddon, where
the heads of men are mountain tops and their shoulders hummocks
of rounded rock. The hills are bare, dun-coloured, and steep — so
steep that the valleys are mere purple troughs, with an inch wide
pass at the bottom. The hills seem to bear down upon Simla like
lines of terrific smooth waves, so that this one green spot might be
an island in a dull frozen sea. There is a sense of helplessness in
the seeming isolation of the place and in the utter solitude of the
encompassing waste.

Far away, where the earth ends and the sky begins, is a
crescent of snow-covered peaks,

" Ranged in white ranks against the blue — untrod,
Infinite, wonderful — whose uplands vast,
And lifted universe of crest and crag,
Shoulder and shelf, green slope, and icy horn,
Riven ravine, and splintered precipice
Lead climbing thought higher and higher, until
It seems to stand in heaven and speak with gods."

The peaks to the north look over Kashmir, and those to the east
throw their shadows on Thibet. Among them can be seen the
great snow mountains, from one side of which the river Gangee
starts on its journey of 1,557 miles to the ocean, while on the other
slope is the source of the Sutlej. This great stream passes by
Simla on its way to the Arabian Sea, and the channel it has cut
through the mountain barrier can be followed for many a league.

i54 INDIA,

From the hills near at hand sharp-edged ridges push their way
into every valley. Very sheer are these steep walls, while so
scored are their sides by torrent tracks that they may be Titanic
entrenchments, the deserted earthworks of the battling gods. They
stand, row behind row, like ditch and wall, like scarp and counter-
scarp, great battlements thrown up by unearthly spades, and hacked
out of the startled earth by ghostly picks — a rampart to shield the
sacred snows which touch the blue heaven.

The view is solemn, grand, despairing, and but for a single
vulture poised in the air the awful solitude may be lifeless.

XXV.
THE MEN WITH THE PLANKS.

In Simla — as in other hill stations — are to be met natives of a
very different type from those who people the plains. Here are
dignified men from the hills, wild and tattered, but with a carriage
which denotes freedom, manliness, and independence, and which
contrasts vividly with the abject bearing of the dismal creature of
the lowlands. Many of these men would be regarded as handsome
by any European standard. It is possible to imagine that they may
belong to mediaeval Italy, and may have fought with the Guelphs
or the Ghibellines. In spite of their rags and their uncouth bundles,
they walk with no little stateliness and assurance.

Here also are squat people, who are not of Aryan descent, who
are in no way dignified, and who, no doubt, must seek an ancestry
among the aboriginal tribes of the country. Here are Mongolians
also, and cheery, dirty-looking folk from Thibet, who have come
from some lost place across the hills, who speak of their homes as
" thirty days' journey " distant, and who have tramped every foot
of the way.

Whatever their origin, they look, as they stalk through the
English streets of Simla, as people from another world. They
might have walked from the mountains of the moon, and have
never been free all the way from the dust-cloud that still entangles
their feet. Well might they stare at the trim Town Hall and at
the mystic things to be seen through the telegraph office window.
Between these men and the clerk who toys with a telephone there
is a great gulf fixed. A Life Guardsman strolling through the High
Street of a town in Mars would probably afford no more acute ob-
ject for contrast than do some of these men who find their way intcf
Simla from beyond the snows.

156 INDIA,

Something more about them can be learnt from a bluff a few
miles to the east of Simla. Indeed, a strange thing is to be seen
from there. The point commands an unbroken view across wide
miles of hills right up to the wall of snow-clad peaks which look
over into Thibet.

Along the sides of these hills, and not far below their summits
is a horizontal mark — like a high-water mark — which can be fol-
lowed for leagues. It turns into every cleft between the many
peaks, and winds around every bluff. It is lost to view a score of
times, but it emerges again, always keeping to about one level,
and, in spite of all obstacles, ever moving patiently towards the
east It is but a faint grey scratch upon the mountain side. It
begins at Simla, and a telescope will show that it ends, only where
all things end, at the horizon.

This old grey line is one of the great primeval highways of the
world. It is a way from Asia into India. It is a road which has
taken part in the peopling of the earth, in the formation of nations,
in the primitive migrations of man. It is a solemn, fate-deter-
mining path, which has controlled destiny. Compared with it a
Roman way in Britain is a thing of a year ago, for men were
toiling along this road before Rome was built. This track can
only compare with the road in an allegory, with such a path as
Bunyan saw in his dreams.

The actual highway is poor enough. It is very narrow, and
only men on foot can travel along it, together with their donkeys,
mules, and goats. Whoever would follow it to the end on horse-
back must needs ride well and have a trusty beast.

It was on this road that I met the men with the planks.

They are hillmen of the poorer sort who carry planks of sawn
wood into Simla. Each beam is from twelve to fourteen feet in
length, and two to three make up a load. The men are ill clad,
and the sun and rain have tanned them and their rags to the colour
of brown earth. They bear the planks across their bent backs, and
the burden is grievous. They come from a place some days'
journey towards the snows. They plod along from the dawn to the
twilight. They seem crushed down by the weight of the beams,
and their gait is more the gait of a stumbling beast than the walk

THE MEN WITH THE PLANKS. 157

of a man. They move slowly. Their long black hair is white
with dust as it hangs by each side of their bowed down faces.
The sweat among the wrinkles on their brows is hardened into
lamentable clay. They walk in single file, and when the path is
narrow they needs must move sideways.

In one day I met no less than fifty creeping wretches in this
inhuman procession. Each dull eye is fixed upon the scuffled
road or upon the plank on the stooping back that crawls in front.
To the beams are strapped their sorry possessions — a cooking pot,
sticks for a fire, a water gourd, and a sheep's skin to cover them
from the frost at night. If there were but a transverse beam to
the plank, each one of these bent men might be carrying his own
cross to a far-off place of crucifixion.

No funeral procession of silent, hooded figures could be more
horrible than this. The path is in a solitude among bare and
pitiless hills : the road is as old as the world, and in the weary dust
of it many hundreds have dropped and died.

There along it steals this patient line of groaning men, bending
under the burden of the planks upon their backs. Behind them a
rose-tinted light is falling upon the spotless snows, and it needs
only the pointing figure of Dante, on one of the barren peaks, to
complete the picture of a circle in Purgatory.

XXVI.

THE CITY OF TRAMPLED FLOWERS.

Benares, on the banks of the Ganges, has a population of
223,000 people. It can claim a sere antiquity, for " it was a most
flourishing and important place six centuries before the Christian
era."* It is the sacred city of India, and it has been the religious
capital of the country from beyond historical times.

The temples and shrines in Benares number many hundreds,
for there is not a Hindu deity who lacks a place in the holy city.
Within its walls are idols of stone, of wood, of brass ; idols daubed
with red ochre or black paint, or smeared with a dubious white ;
idols with four arms ; idols with three eyes ; idols with faces of
silver and bodies of stone. It may be that even among them all is
the god with " feet of clay." Besides the temples there are holy
tanks and wells, and sacred ghats or steps by the river.

There is to be found in Benares a refuge from every sorrow, a
shelter from every calamity, a promise for every hope. There are
a well in the city which can ward off fever, a shrine which will
protect from snake bites, a goddess who can cure swelled hands and
feet, a ghat which is all potent against small-pox, and a temple
where plain women can pray for handsome sons.

In Benares one can buy peace. For there are charms for sale
which will shield the purchaser from harm, and will ever encompass
him with kindly wings. Caveat emptor! In Benares one can
purchase comfort. By payment to the priest of quite small coin
the haunted woman can be relieved of her secret sorrow, and the
starving man can be recompensed for the failure of his rice patch.
Caveat emptor!

There is nothing worth praying for in this world or in the next

* Murray's " Handbook of India," p. 39.
158

THE CITY OF TRAMPLED FLOWERS. 159

that cannot be prayed for in Benares at an altar mindful of the
particular supplication. People are praying in public in Benares
in many thousands the whole day through, from the gold-bedecked
man of wealth who is anxious about his money bags, to the poor
little ugly woman who kneels in a corner praying for a handsome
son.

Along one bank of the Ganges are the sacred ghats, the sweep-
ing line of stone steps which lead down to the stream. They
extend through the entire length of the city, and here, every day,
a countless host of the faithful come to bathe. The ghats of
Benares, as seen in the early morning, can claim to be one of the
sights of the world.

Benares is the Mecca of the pious Hindu, and an eager multi-
tude of pilgrims pours into the city year after year. They come
from all quarters of the Peninsula ; as well from the mountains in
the north as from the tableland in the south. Many of them come
with infinite labour and pitiful patience by long and tedious ways.
Day after day they tramp along, hugging the gifts they are to
place upon the shrine, and the money they are to pay to the priest.
They come filled with the one great longing to tread the streets of
Benares, to throw themselves before the god they worship, to see
the sacred river and be blessed by its divine waters. Every year
there are hundreds upon the road in whose heart there is but one
cry, " To Benares ! To Benares ! "

Little does it matter that the cost will mean pinching poverty
for months. Little does it matter if the strength fail, if the blistered
feet totter, if the brain reel from want of food. A few leagues
ahead is the city of Paradise, with its Golden Temple, its Well of
Knowledge, and its Sacred Stairs.

The pilgrim, when he reaches Benares, finds himself in a some-
what sordid Paradise, in a city indeed of slums and unholy smells.
The " Golden Temple " is on no commanding height, and the " Well
of Knowledge " sparkles in no echoing square.

Both these holy spots are hidden away in a stifling tangle of
narrow lanes, lanes so pinched that here and there it is hard for two
to walk abreast, alleys so full of bends and turns that the stranger
is happy who does not at once lose his way. So shut in is the

160 INDIA.

Golden Temple that to see the gilt dome which gives it its name
the visitor must mount to the upper storey of a flower-seller's shop
near by. There, from a window, the dome stands but a yard or
two away. From the walled-in street itself the great cupola is
invisible. Those who look up see nothing but a bar of blue sky.
The Golden Temple is one among a score of shrines which struggle
to reach the light from out of this slough of crowding houses and
hustling streets.

The Well of Knowledge is in a wet and stinking quadrangle,
and yet it is precious beyond common words, for in it the great god
Siva lives. The devout come here to drop their offerings into
the well, offerings for the most part of water and flowers. But
the throng about the well is great and eager, and savage with
religious hunger. The square is small. Many can never reach the
well, and these have to be content to throw their flowers and their
gifts of water over the heads of the more fortunate. Their own
scanty clothes are already wet by reason of the jolting of their
water pots as they pushed their way up from the river, and the
water they fling towards the well as often as not falls upon the
heads and the robes of those who are nearer to the sacred brink

Flowers fare no less uncertainly. The garland woven with
such pious care is already torn apart by the struggle through the
press. Flowers everywhere cover the ground. White blossoms
lie upon the dirty flags, as leaves lie in an autumn glen, and with
them are fragments of garlands scuffed into ropes of dirt. Flower
petals have dropped into the hollows of unconscious turbans, or
have stuck to wet patches on naked backs and on damp robes.

The sacred well must contain the dead flowers of ten centuries
in one putrid pulp, and, in spite of attempts in latter years to
prevent these gentle sacrifices, the great god has never yet lacked
for victims. The stench is terrible. It rises to Heaven like an
acrid column of invisible smoke — the incense of dead things from
the censer of putrefaction.

The lanes about the well are filled to suffocation with the same
jostling, serious crowd. They press along by walls once white, now
brown and shiny from the rubbing of many shoulders, by great
gates bound with brass, by cavern-like temples full of sickly shade

THE CITY OF TRAMPLED FLOWERS. 161

and the dull flicker of stifled lamps. They struggle by courtyards
packed with kneeling men bowed down before a fatuous red idol,
who leers from a shrine of tinsel and coloured glass, and by the
tiny shops of the flower-sellers and of those who deal in sacred
emblems.

The narrow lanes are wet They are slippery with mud and
with a paste of trampled flowers, and here too are fragments of
white garlands rolled by slipping feet into spindles of mud.

The crowd is wet. They jostle and push. Some still carry
flowers or jars of water half emptied by repeated splashings.
There is a roar of voices. The pilgrim has reached his goal at
last. A fever-like eagerness burns in his face, and he calls out as a
sick man babbles in his dreams.

Here among the rocking crowd will pass a fakir with tangled
hair and glaring eyes, from whose foaming mouth come sounds like
those from the throat of an animal. Here are half -crazy ascetics
— men with whitened faces, who have smeared themselves with
ashes and filled their hair with dust, or who have daubed their
bare bodies with slashes of red paint. Here are vacant-looking
priests, deaf to all sounds, blind to all sights. They move passively
with the mob, but the lamp of their religious ardour has long since
burnt out.

Now and then the road is blocked by a sacred cow, sleek and
fat, who fares well while men starve, and who takes up the narrow
way with an insolent, indolent unconcern.

Wherever there is a gap in the wall there will be beggars to
fill it, the blind, the lame, the leprous. They hold up their
mutilated limbs to the light, and bare their ulcerated breasts to
the fetid wind

Above the babble of those who talk, above the cries of the
entranced fanatic, above the gasped-out prayer of the sick at heart,
above the mumbled formula of the Pharisee, above the whine of
the leper for alms, are heard the occasional tolling of a bell and
the beating of a dismal gong.

The day is hot and the air stagnates. The close lane is filled
with the stench of man, with the musty smell from damp rags,
with the odour of incense, and the fetor of rotting leaves.
L

1 62 INDIA.

L
Now and then there comes through this murk, like an iced

breeze, a waft of exquisite perfume from still living flowers.

The road to Heaven in Benares is dank and dirty. It is neither
a path of pleasantness nor a way of peace. It is a road strewn
with dead flowers.

When night falls and the bye-ways are deserted there is
nothing left to mark the path of the worshippers but the wreckage
of white flowers trampled to death in the lane.

XXVII.
THE GHATS AT BENARES.

The bank upon which Benares stands is high, and the whole of
the declivity, from one end of the city to the other, is lined with the
stone stairways of the celebrated ghats. On the crest of the bank
are temples and palaces, lofty houses with white walls, immense
caravanserais for travellers, and steeples visible to the pilgrim
from afar. Each ghat has its particular claim to sanctity, and
there are nearly fifty of these holy stairways leading down to
the stream. In one place the foundations of a wall and of a
ponderous temple have sunk into the mud, so that the line of the
ghats is interrupted by cracked masonry and helpless ruin.

The steps are wet, for they are thronged by a crowd of bathers
to the number of many thousands. Devout men, gazing with rapt
affection upon the river, are walking down to the water's edge,
while those who have bathed are lounging contentedly home.

The steps are covered with booths and shelters, with little stone
huts where the sick can be lodged, and die with their gaze fixed
upon the sacred stream. Above each booth will be a flag on a,
bamboo pole, while many hundreds of flat grass umbrellas of
immense circumference make a shade in favoured spots.

Children are playing on the steps. The pariah dog is every-
where, nosing among the rabble. Cows are wandering about
wearily, or are slumbering, tethered to their owners' booths.
Women are constantly toiling up and down the long stair, with
water pots of earthenware or of dazzling brass upon their heads.

Now and then a woman will emerge from a dark gateway on
the crest of the ghat, will empty water from a dish upon the steps
as an offering to the God of the Ganges, will murmur a prayer and
return through the gateway into the town again.

163

164 INDIA.

In one shadow on the stone a man is squatting while his head
is shaved ; and on a flat step wider than the rest another man is
being rubbed and massaged. Everywhere is the figure of the
devout offering his stumbling prayer to the divinity of the stream.

When the morning sun pours upon the ghats the display of
colour is wonderful beyond words. The wet stair ; the glistening
brown bodies of naked men ; the moving figures in white, in blue,
in yellow, in red ; the many-coloured flags ; the primrose-tinted
umbrellas and their round shadows ; the glittering brass water
pots ; the green pipal trees ; and, high above the restless crowd,
the broken line of ancient and solemn buildings.

It is at the water's edge that the multitude is greatest, for
here the bathers are congregated. They bathe either from the
actual steps or from one of the many frail stages built out into the
tide. There will be a Brahmin in charge of each little jetty, and
it is evident that he has regular customers. The bather steps
slowly and gravely into the river, dips his head in the water, drinks
of it, and rubs his limbs noiselessly with the divine stream.

The strangest thing in this enormous crowd is the silence which
hangs over it. Bathing in the Ganges is a religious observance, a
sacrament, and not a matter of mere pleasure. In contrast to this,
one can only imagine the din, the yelling, and the splashing, if
there were a line of ghats on the Thames from which ten thousand
men and boys could bathe at a time.

There are some anomalies in the sacrament of bathing in the
Ganges. At one point along the row of the ghats the main sewer
of Benares pours the filth of the city into the stream near by
steps of great sanctity. Moreover, the bodies of the dead are
cremated by the river's edge, close to the spot where the bathers
are most numerous. The ashes are thrown into the stream, and
human remains, which have escaped destruction by fire, are often
to be seen floating seawards.

Thus it is that the bather may find a human bone left on the
steps as the water subsides. Ever by the river's edge, too, are
chains of dead flowers, either moving sadly down with the tide or
cast up on the mud, at the foot of the stair.

Precious as is a pilgrimage to Benares in the eyes of the devout

THE GHATS, BENARES.

THE GHATS AT BENARES. 165

Hindu, there is still a dearer object in his heart, and that is to
die in Benares, to die by the brink of the sacred river, so that his
eyes may close their last upon the shining stream, and his failing
sense feel the divine water ripple over his withering limbs.

So it is that the sick are brought to the ghat to await the end.
The waiting is often long. But whether they die upon the open
bank or in the shelter of home, their bodies are brought to the
Burning Ghat, where they are consumed, and where the ashes are
cast into the holy Ganges.

The Burning Ghat at Benares is of special holiness. It is a
mere gap in the long embankment of steep stairs. In this gap the
river bank is bare and black with the trodden ashes of centuries of
pyres. Here is the mother bank of the old river, the one strip of
untouched earth in the long array of temples, palaces, and steps.
On each side of it are huge square blocks of masonry belonging
to the river wall. The line of bricks and stones breaks suddenly
at the Burning Ghat as if in awe of the place.

Upon the summit of these wide blocks stand the friends of the
dead to watch the burning of the pile.

This shabby patch of earth is shut off from the city by a wall
crowned with domed cupolas. Beyond the wall is a thicket of
kindly trees which hide a temple. There are gates in the wall,
and here is apt to be a group of clinging women who shudder and
moan as they see the smoke rise up and hear the crackle of the
flame.

Where the river sweeps by the dreadful slope there is an inky
streak carried off into the stream which can be followed seawards
like a stain of blood. There are always white flowers by the
margin of the ghat They are rocked to and fro among the cinders
and the mud by the tiny wavelets which break upon this woful
shore. By the side of the ghat are immense stacks of timber for the
burning of the dead, and boats are busy here unloading wood the
whole day through.

The bodies are wrapped in meagre cloth, the men in white, the
women in red. The covering is scant, so scant that it fails to hide
the sharp outlines of those who are brought, in this poor guise, to
the Ganges for the last time.

1 66 INDIA.

On the occasion of my visit there were three bodies waiting to
be burnt — one of a woman, two of men.

The wrapped-up corpse — looking strangely flat and thin — was
carried to the water's edge and was placed upon the black beach
so that the lower limbs were in the stream. The sooty water
lapped over the senseless feet, and the rotting flowers that tumbled
in the tide became entangled in their coverings. Over the body
itself fresh white blossoms had been already scattered.

The pile of wood was built up, and upon it the corpse was laid.
The chief mourner — distinguished by his white dress — set fire to
the four corners of the stack. Then came

"the red flame which crept
And licked, and flickered, finding out his flesh
And feeding on it with swift hissing tongues,
And crackle of parched skin, and snap of joint ;
Till the fat smoke thinned and the ashes sank
Scarlet and grey, with here and there a bone
White 'midst the grey — the total of the man."

When the body was consumed the ashes were thrown into the
Ganges.

The amount of wood employed in this ghastly ceremony de-
pends upon the wealth of the surviving relatives. It happens,
therefore, that so little wood is often used for the very poor that
the body is only partly consumed, and what is thrown into the river
is more than ash.

Poverty is always piteous. In India it is most piteous when
the heart-broken man is unable to buy wood enough for the burn-
ing of his dead.

XXVIII.
CAWNPORE.

Cawnpore is a dull town near the Ganges which can boast of no
attraction beyond that of being " a great emporium for harness,
shoes, and other leather work."

At the time of my stay the city was bowed down by a disastrous
epidemic of plague, and had in consequence become a place of un-
desirable importance. Those who could flee from the stricken town
had apparently fled. The bazaars were strangely deserted, the
hushed streets were empty, and there was an unwholesome languor
about the inhabitants.

They must have looked at one another, as they walked on
opposite sides of the road, with some such interest as would stir a
company of condemned men who wondered who was the next to be
named for execution and who was to be reprieved. It may be
supposed that each regarded each with a sour suspicion, and no
man dare boast in his timid heart that he was alive.

The interest of this city, however, is bound up neither in
harness-making nor in the plague, but in certain vile episodes con-
nected with the Indian Mutiny which must ever make the name of
Cawnpore abhorred and accursed.

Here, in the summer of 1857 was played a tragedy which made
the world shudder, a drama in which the dramatis personae were
mostly women and children, and the villain a more diabolical wretch
than any tragedy writer has ever had the boldness to conceive.
What can be endured by patient heroism, and what can be
wrought by treachery, cowardice, and hate, the story of Cawnpore
can tell.

There are three acts in this sickening drama, the scenes of
which were laid at Cawnpore, viz., the defence of Wheeler's en-
trenchment, the massacre at the ghat, and the massacre at the well.

168 INDIA.

The following brief account of these episodes is derived from
Holmes' " History of the Indian Mutiny " : —

" In the spring of 1857 the English residents at Cawnpore were
leading the ordinary life of an Anglo-Indian community. Morning
rides, work in cutcherry or on parade, novel reading, racquets,
dinners, balls filled up the time. Pretty women laughed and flirted,
as they listened to the music of the band in the cool of the even-
ing, and talked, perhaps, of the delightful balls which the Nana had
given in his palace up the river. Suddenly the news of the great
disasters at Meerut and Delhi arrived; and the life of the little
society was violently wrenched into a new channel."

This same Nana Sahib was the great man of the district. He
was the adopted son of the ex-Peshwa of the Mahrattas. He had
some little grievance against the Government with respect to a
pension, but nevertheless professed great friendliness to the
English.

The commander at Cawnpore was General Sir Hugh Wheeler.
Although an old man, he had lost neither his bodily vigour nor his
activity of mind. He was not beguiled by the pleasing fancy that
his sepoys would remain faithful though all around them should
prove traitors, so he lost no time in securing a place of refuge for
those under his charge.

Believing that the native regiments, when they mutinied, would
hurry off to Delhi, and that he would only have to defend himself
against the attacks of an undisciplined mob, Wheeler contented
himself with throwing up a weak entrenchment close to the native
lines.

" He asked the Nana to lend a body of his retainers for the pro-
tection of the treasury. He had been led to believe that it would
be possible to win the cordial support of the Nana by offering to
procure for him that pension which had been so long withheld.
Besides, had not the Nana always lived on the most friendly terms
with the English residents at Cawnpore? Had he not invited
British officers to his table, played billiards with them, chatted wi1
them, smoked with them? Might it not even be judicious to
entrust the women of the garrison to his care ? This last idea was
not carried out, but the treasury was placed under his protection/

CAWNPORE. 169

*
On May 22nd there was a general migration of non-combatants

from the English quarter to the entrenchment

On the night of the 4th June the mutiny among the troops
broke out, and the Nana placed himself at the head of the rebels.

The treasury was at once seized and rifled, and on June 6th the
attack upon Wheeler's entrenchment commenced. The siege of
these poor defences became a memorable one. It was, writes
Kaye, " a siege, the miseries of which to the besieged have never
been exceeded in the history of the world."*

" The besieging army numbered some 3,000 trained soldiers, well
fed, well lodged, well armed, and supplied with all munitions of
war, aided by the retainers of their newly elected chief, and suppor-
ted by the sympathies of a large portion of the civil population.
The besieged were few in number, and had to contend against
almost every disadvantage that could conceivably have been
arrayed against them. Besides a few civilians and a small band of
faithful sepoys, they could only muster about four hundred English
fighting men, more than seventy of whom were invalids." There
were within the entrenchment no less than three hundred and
seventy six women and children. These poor creatures were
huddled together, without the most ordinary comforts, in two
stifling barracks, which offered the only shelter to be found within
the precincts of the entrenchment.

The entrenchment itself was merely a weak mud wall, about
four feet in height, constructed of earth so dry and friable as to be
unable to resist the shock even of a bullet The sky was a canopy
of fire: the summer breeze the blast of a furnace.

" Day and night the enemy hurled a continuous shower of shot,
shell, and bullets into the entrenchment: day and night the de-
fenders, with ever lessened numbers, sent back a feebler discharge.
. . . Within the first week fifty-nine artillerymen, all that the
garrison could muster, were killed or wounded at their posts.
On June I ith a red hot shot struck the thatched roof of
one of the barracks, within which the women and children, the
sick and wounded, were lying ; and in a few minutes the entire
building was enveloped in flames."

* Kaye's "History of the Sepoy War," Vol. II., p. 316.

1 70 INDIA.

It is characteristic of the British soldier that when the flames
had subsided, the men of the 32nd, regardless of the fire which their
enemies continued to direct against them, began diligently to rake
the ashes in search of their lost medals.

" The most trying period of the siege had now begun. There
was so little food left that the daily ration of each person had to be
reduced to a handful of flour and a handful of split peas. If the
enemy were afraid to assault, their firing was as incessant as ever.
Round shot plumped and bounded over the open ground, hurled
down masses of timber from the remaining barrack, and sent bricks
flying in all directions ; bullets pattered like hail against the walls,
and broke the windows to atoms. On June I4th a chosen band
sallied forth, spiked several guns, and inflicted heavy loss upon their
astonished persecutors: but more guns were soon brought to bear
upon the devoted garrison.

" They were far less able to reply than they had been at the
beginning ; for one of their guns had lost its muzzle, two had their
sides battered in, and a fourth had been knocked off its carriage.
While fresh hosts of rebels and mutineers were daily swarming up
to swell the ranks of their enemies, their own numbers were greatly
diminished. Some were struck down by the sun, or wasted by
fever; others pined away from exposure, from hunger, or from
thirst ; others went mad under the burden of their sufferings. More
wretched still was the fate of the wounded ; for the fire had
destroyed the surgical instruments and the medical stores ; and
death, which came too slowly, was their only healer.

" But most to be pitied of all were those women who still sur-
vived. The destruction of the barrack had robbed them even of
the wretched shelter which they had had before; and now their
only resting place was the hard earth, their only protection the
crumbling mud wall beneath which they lay. They were begrimed
with dirt ; their dresses were in rags ; their cheeks were pinched
and haggard, and their brows ploughed with furrows. There were
some even, who, while stunned by horrid sounds and sickened by
foul and ghastly sights, had to suffer the pains of labour, and gave
birth to infants for whose future they could not dare to hope. A
skilful pen might describe the acuteness of their bodily sufferings :

CAWNPORE. 171

but who can imagine the intensity of their mental tortures? Yet
they never despaired. They gave the artillerymen their stockings
for grape cases ; they handed round ammunition to the infantry ;
and they cheered all alike by their uncomplaining spirit and their
tender, gracious kindness."*

The Nana was in a hurry. His thousands of well-armed men
could not beat down the spirit of the hundred or two starved
Englishmen who stood gripping their hot muskets within the en-
trenchment. In spite of his many and fine guns he could not make
a breach in this poor rampart of mud, from behind which the hollow-
cheeked men ever watched him. He therefore resorted to
treachery. On June 25th a woman came into the entrenchment
with a letter from the Nana offering a safe passage to Allahabad
to the dwindling company under General Wheeler's command.

After some discussion it was agreed that the garrison should be
allowed to march out with their arms and a certain proportion of
ammunition, and the Nana offered to provide boats and provisions
for the voyage to Allahabad.

Early on the morning of June 2/th, the little band of British
soldiers marched out of the entrenchment they had held so
gallantly for three long weeks. With them went the women and
children who had survived the fearful ordeal of these interminable
twenty-one days, and the large company of the sick and wounded.
The rest of the story is told by Holmes in the following words :

" About three-quarters of a mile from the entrenchment, a
ravine, spanned by a wooden bridge, ran towards the river.
Arriving at the bridge the procession turned aside, and began to
thread its way down the ravine. And now the banks of the Ganges
were close at hand. The unwieldy boats, with their thatched roofs,
were drawn up close to the water's edge ; and a great crowd of
natives of every class was waiting to look on at the embarkation.
There were some, too, who had not come merely to look on.
More than a thousand infantry sepoys and several squadrons of
cavalry were posted behind cover on the banks ; and Tantia Topi,
a favoured counsellor of the Nana, was there to execute his master's
orders for the management of the embarkation.

* Holmes' "History of the Indian Mutiny." London, 1898, pp. 224 to 234.

i;2 INDIA.

" What those orders were, presently appeared. Those troops
had not come to serve as a guard of honour. They had come to be
the instruments for executing that plan which the Nana and his
counsellors had devised. No mud wall separated them now from
the men and women who had defied them. Their numbers and
their artillery must surely be irresistible now. Now, therefore, was
the moment to take the time-honoured vengeance of a besieging
army upon an obstinate garrison.

" Hardly had the embarkation begun, when a bugle sounded.
Immediately a host of sepoys, leaping up from behind the bushes
and the houses on either bank, lifted their muskets to their
shoulders ; and a hail of bullets fell upon the dense crowd of
passengers as they were clambering on board. Cannon roared
out, and grape-shot raked the boats from stem to stern. Almost at
the same instant the thatched roofs, which had been purposely
strewn beforehand with glowing cinders, burst into flame. Then
the sick and the wounded who had survived the destruction of the
barrack and the horrors of the siege, were suffocated or burned to
death. The able-bodied men sprang overboard, and strove with
might and main to push off the boats into deep water : but all, save
three, stuck fast. Women and children bent down under the sides
of the bo?ts, trying to escape the bullets. Some ten or twelve men
swam for dear life after the nearest boat, but one soon sank ex-
hausted: others, struck by grape or bullets, gasped and beat the
bloody surf, and turned over dead ; and three only reached the boat.
Now the troopers rode with drawn sabres into the river, and slashed
the cowering women to death. Little infants were dragged from
their mothers' arms and torn to pieces. Suddenly, however, a
messenger came from the Nana, saying that no more women 01
children were to be put to death. The slaughter therefore ceased
and the trembling survivors, a hundred and twenty-five in number,
their clothes drenched and torn, mud-stained, and dripping with
blood, were dragged back to Cawnpore."*

Wheeler's famous entrenchment is in the cantonement about a
mile from the city towards the east Its limits are now marked
out by stone posts, but of the actual line of trenches little trace

* Ibid., p. 237.

CAWNPORE. 173

remains. The encircling rampart was wofully scanty. The earth-
works were only about four feet high, for the ground was so hard
that it was almost impossible to dig it. Moreover, the earth thrown
up was so dry that it formed in many places a rampart little better
than a bank of sand.

It is not to be wondered that the rains of over forty years have
nearly blotted out this frail, despairing defence. The entrench-
ment stands in a bare plain as level as an open common in England,
without one single natural advantage. The buildings enclosed by
the defences have long since vanished. The position, however,
of the burnt barrack which served as a hospital is still indicated
by its foundations. It was near the centre of the enclosure, where
it was exposed, from first to last, to a deadly fire.

There is a well outside the entrenchment into which the dead
were let down at night Every evening, when darkness and some
lull of peace fell upon the tormented camp, the dead were brought
out by men who talked in whispers, and were lowered into the well
one after the other — the war-tanned sergeant and the fever-wasted
child, whose tiny body made so little strain upon the rope. The
darkness was kindly, for it hid the tears that stood in the eyes of
fearless men, and it hid the wretched mother who clung to the rope
as they lowered her one baby into the heartless abyss. The well
is now closed, and over it is built a fair memorial. Here were
buried, within the space of twenty-one days, no less than two
hundred and fifty of the little garrison, ladies and children, officers
and private soldiers. They who shared a common trouble now lie
together in a common grave.

There is this inscription on the memorial :

" In a well under this Cross were laid, by the hands of their fellows
in suffering, the bodies of men, women, and children who died hard by
during the heroic defence of Wheeler's Entrenchment when beleaguered
by the rebel Nana. June 6th to 27th, 1857."

The most noteworthy feature in this entrenchment is the very
little space it covers. It is terrible to think that within this feeble
circle of earth about nine hundred people were huddled together,
and that nearly one half of this number were women and children.

1/4 INDIA.

*,
They entered this miserable shelter on May 22nd, as has been

already said. Those who survived marched out of it on June
27th, but only to march to the Massacre Ghat.

The heat was intense, water was hard to get, sleep was well-
nigh impossible, and the poor garrison was dying at the rate of
twelve a day. The defences were scarcely more formidable than
those a boy would dig on the sands with a toy spade, yet there
was a force inside the feeble ring of earth which enabled a few
hundred British soldiers, hampered by every disadvantage, to keep
three thousand well-armed and well-fed men at bay.

Those outside the circle dared nothing ; there was nothing that
those within it would not dare.

There was only one well within the line of the entrenchment
It still exists, little if at all changed. It is no more than the com-
mon well which is to be found everywhere in this part of the
country. In just such a well the dead of Wheeler's garrison were
buried, and into such a well the living and the dead were cast after
the massacre of July 1 5th.

This one within the circle of trenches was in so very exposed
a position that to approach it in the daylight was to court death.
Yet the heat was great and thirst terrible. Many a man trying
to draw water for a dying woman or a wounded comrade was shot
down by the side of this tragic well ; while even at night time the
merciless enemy kept up a fire upon the spot.

It was, indeed, as Kaye puts it, " a service of death " to go to
and fro to this well with the buckets and bags which brought water
to the shrivelled lips of the famished garrison.* Yet one brave-
hearted civilian, John MacKillop by name, appointed himself
" Captain of the Well." He only held this desperate commission
for seven days, when he was shot down at his post.

As he lay dying his sole thought was for those in whose service
he had yielded up his life. With his last breath the faithful captain
of the well begged a by-stander to take water to a lady to whom he
had promised some, because he was troubled to think she might
be disappointed.

There are many memorials of the Mutiny in Cawnpore, but this
* Kaye's "History of the Sepoy War," Vol. II., p. 332.

CAWNPORE. 175

*
poor well — although no tablet adorns it — stands in its homely

simplicity as a monument to a man who " laid down his life for his
friend."

The Massacre Ghat — known in old days as the Sati Chaura
Ghat — is about a mile and a half from Wheeler's Entrenchment
The road is across an undulating country, pretty and daintily
wooded, which calls to mind many a spot in England. The actual
ghat is approached by a winding ravine or glen, at the bottom of
which is a nullah or dry water-course. There are many trees on
the banks of this quiet grass-covered way, and it makes a shady
path to the river.

As the approach was in '57 so it is now, and every step that
the desperate defenders of the entrenchment took on their way to
the river can be followed.

After twenty-one days of ceaseless fighting and of torturing
suspense they were free at last. The hideous throb of guns was
changed for silence. They were on their way to the boats. The
deadly entrenchment, with all its horrors, was behind them. The
Nana had promised them a safe conduct to Allahabad, and a
leader's promise is good. After the long imprisonment there was
liberty ; after the stinking, fly-ridden enclosure there was the open
country and green banks. After the thirst and the sickening
heat there was ahead the swinging tide of a cool stream. The
journey was to be by no dusty road, but they were to drift down
the river by boat, and there is born in the English a love of boats.

The Nana Sahib was keener and more subtle in his cruelty
than he himself knew.

The company that wound down the glen was a sorry one to
look at — worn-out soldiers, ragged and lean ; pallid women ; terror-
stricken, wondering children, clinging to their mothers' gowns and
ever looking backwards ; rocking litters with the wounded and
the sick ; together with much untidy luggage and hastily packed
bundles. The march must have been slow and painful, and eager
eyes must have kept a watch for the first sight of the river that
was to bear them to safety. It is easy to picture it all.

A dazed woman walks by the litter that carries her wounded
husband. He turns his throbbing head to look at the green slope

i;6 INDIA.

of the gully, and she talks of a combe in Devonshire they both
know well. She tells how the journey on the river will make him
strong, and how there is no need any more to measure his water in
a wine glass.

A soldier, with a bullet in his foot, limps along with his hand on
a comrade's shoulder. They are wild, unshaven men, burnt by the
sun to the colour of a lava stream. They go over the tale of the
trenches and of the sepoys they have shot, and when something
about the path to the river reminds them of home they lapse into
rhapsodies upon beer.

A small, toddling child pulls at his mother's hand to show her
two squirrels who are playing in a tree, but she hears nothing, and
her gaze is far away. Her husband and two children are lying in
the well outside the entrenchment, and she and the small boy are
now on their way to the river alone. Poor soul, she might have
turned to look at the squirrels, for in an hour she was lying dead in
the river, with a bullet in her worried brain, and eighteen days later
the toddling boy was thrown alive into the well at Bibi-garh.

The ghat to which the refugees came is on the river's bank
some way below the town. It stands alone. It is merely a wide,
stone stairway, with walls on all sides, except on that which opens
to the stream. In the enclosing walls is a shady colonnade with a
flight of steps in each corner leading from the road to the ghat. At
the head of the stairway is an ancient temple to Siva — empty,
ruinous, and hollow. Over this shrine to the " blessed " God are
two friendly, garrulous old pipal trees. They must have been
already advanced in years in 1857, and under their shadow many
would have rested on this particular morning in June.

The ghat is now severely deserted. There are no houses
within sight of the accursed spot. No natives come near it: no
children play upon its steps: no women come here for water. It
is shunned as a haunted place. It lies stretched out on the river's
bank like a dead leper. This outcast stair is shabby and miser-
able to look at. The plaster is falling away from its walls, laying
bare the poor bricks. The steps are covered with dry mud left by
the last high Ganges, and in this drift there is not a single foot-
print to be seen.

CAWNPORE. 177

The grass-covered banks on either side of the ghat are wooded
and pleasant. It was among the genial bushes near by that the
murderers hid

The Ganges at this place is broad, and, in the time of the cold
weather, its surface is a dazzling grey, as if the stream were made
of mercury. In places sand-banks rise out of the wide flood, while
across the water there is to be seen a flat land swept by a mist of
dust.

This is probably the very bitterest spot on the earth, this
murderer's stair, this devil's trap, this traitor's gate ! The very
stones are tainted and festered with mean hate, and, until it rots,
the mud-covered colonnade will be foul with the sneaking shadows
of cowardice.

The hundred and twenty-five women and children whose lives
had been spared at the Massacre Ghat were imprisoned in a small
house in Cawnpore called the Bibi-garh. It had been the home
of a poor Eurasian clerk. The number of the prisoners was
augmented by the few women and children who had drifted away
from the scene of the massacre in one of the boats, and who had
been captured and brought back. There were also some unfor-
tunate fugitives from the fort of Fatehgarh, who had come to seek
an asylum at Cawnpore of all places in the world. They were
promptly seized and lodged with the rest in the Bibi-garh. The
prison at last contained two hundred and six women and children
and five men.

" Save that they were no longer exposed to the fire of the enemy,
these poor captives," writes Holmes, " were worse off now than
they had been in the entrenchment of Cawnpore, or the fort of
Fatehgarh. English ladies, the wives of the defenders and the
rulers of British India, were forced, like slaves, to grind corn for
the murderer of their husbands. They themselves were fed on a
scanty allowance of the coarsest food Those were happiest among
them who perished from the diseases which this food engendered.
All this time the Nana himself, in a sumptuous building, which
overlooked their prison, was living in a round of feasts, revels, and
debaucheries. But on the 1 5th July, in the midst of his unholy
mirth, an alarming announcement came upon him. That avenging
M

i;8 INDIA.

army, of whose coming he had heard, was within a day's march of

the city ; and the force which he had sent out to check its advance
had suffered a crushing defeat.

" Then ensued the last act of the tragedy of Cawnpore. . . .
First of all the five men who had been suffered to live thus far were
brought out and killed in the Nana's presence. Then a number of
sepoys were selected, and told to go and shoot the women and
children through the windows of the house. They went ; but they
could not harden their hearts to obey the rest of their instructions.
They contented themselves, therefore, with firing at the ceiling
instead. But such effeminate sensibility was disgusting to the
Nana. At his bidding, then, two Mahomedan butchers, an Afghan,
and two Hindus, armed with long knives, went into the house and
hacked their victims to pieces.

" All through the night the bodies lay neglected in the room ;
and moans were distinctly heard proceeding from it by those with-
out. Next morning a heap of corpses, a heap of wounded, and a
number of children who had escaped the knives of the assassins,
were dragged out, and thrown, the living and the dead together,
into a well hard by."*

Of this awful massacre of July I5th all evidences have been
wisely obliterated. Photographs taken in the year of the Mutiny
show that the well was situated in bare and open country, and that
the house — the Bibi-garh — in which the massacre took place, was
a common building of one storey, with the aspect of a stable.

The place is now changed into a beautiful garden, very quiet
and full of peace. The horrors of the spot have thus been blotted
out, the ghastly house of one storey has been swept away, and the
heartless earth has been covered with flowers and homely shrubs.

The site of the massacre house is marked by a small plain cross.
In the lawns about the well are many mounds in which severed
limbs and fragments of the dead, found about the well's brink, were
buried by the avenging troops.

In the centre of the garden is the well. It is built over, so that
no sign of it remains. Above the site is a memorial, made more
familiar to the people of England by means of photographs and
* Holmes " History of the Indian Mutiny," p 241.

CAWNPORE. 179

pictures than is any other spot in the whole of India. There must
be few who do not know the octagonal Gothic screen of grey stone
and the angel standing within with folded wings.

As a work of art the monument may be of no great merit, but
the finest statuary in the world could not make this spot more
lamentable than it is, nor invoke a sympathy more unutterable.

Poor dead women ! Their bones are enfolded in those of their
children, the garden in which they sleep is like a garden in England,
and hardly a day passes but someone from the old country stands
over their grave with bowed head and throbbing heart.

There are many wells which are famous in history, many which
fill the scene of old legends, many which the poet has made
memorable by song, but these three pitiable wells in Cawnpore will
be, with many, the best- remembered of all.

XXIX.

THE RESIDENCY AT LUCKNOW.

The story of the siege of Lucknow will be humming in the
traveller's mind as he nears the capital of Oudh — the state which
has for its strange symbol two fish. Although Lucknow is the
fourth largest city in India and covers an area of thirty-six square
miles, there is but one spot within its wide limits which is of
supremest interest, and this is the old Residency. Although the
cantonment occupies what the estate agent would call "an ex-
tensive park-like expanse," and although it can claim to be one
of the most charming places of residence in India, the visitor will
discard fine bungalows and parks for certain poor ruins, for an old
house with ragged walls, and for tumbled stones which still speak
of the famous and tragic siege.

There are delightful public gardens in Lucknow, there are the
Goomti River to row upon, and the regal club of Chatar Manzil to
idle in, but overshadowing them all are memories of the deeds of
Henry Lawrence, Havelock, Outram, and Colin Campbell. These
memories are inseparable from Lucknow. Even the lounger at the
club will now and then recall that the rebels fired upon Havelock
from the club-house walls, and that they were in those days the
walls of a hostile palace.

The siege lasted from June 3Oth to September 25th, during
which time a mere handful of men held a weak position against a
host. The fire of mutiny among the native troops showed itself in
the city early in May, 1857, and by the end of the month it had
burst into flame.

Sir Henry Lawrence, the chief commissioner, had already
caused large quantities of provisions to be brought into the
Residency, and had prepared that place for a siege which he es-
timated would last fourteen or fifteen days. Here in due course

1 80

THE RESIDENCY AT LUCKNOW. 181

gathered the English inhabitants of the town, the British troops,
and the small number of Indian soldiers who had remained faith-
ful. When the circle of muskets closed in around them and shut
them off from the world, the number within the lines of defence
was about 1,826 — excluding servants and camp followers — and was
made up of 927 Europeans, 765 natives, 68 women, and 66 children.

At the first sign of bloodshed the coolies, who had been engaged
in the making of the fortifications, fled to a man, and with them went
most of the domestic servants. The Residency and the buildings
which were included within the beleaguered area occupied a low
mound close to the Goomti. It was nearly in the centre of the river
face of the city. The space enclosed by such hasty fortifications
as could be thrown up was remarkably small and measured, indeed,
only 2,150 feet in one direction by 1,200 feet in the other.

The Londoner can form some idea of the dimensions of this
haphazard stronghold by the fact that the whole of the place to be
defended could be put within the wall of Buckingham Palace and
its garden, and that the greatest width of the compound was about
equal to the distance from the Horse Guards to Westminster
Abbey.

Within this very limited field were included the Residency and
its garden, a banqueting hall which was turned into a hospital, a
prominent house occupied by Dr. Fayrer, the surgeon to the Resi-
dency, an old mosque, a palace called the Begam Kothi, the English
church and its cemetery, and a large number of small houses and
out-buildings.

It contained also two or three little squares, with what may be
termed one main street and numerous short lanes. There was a
gateway leading into the enclosure. It was situated in the so-
called Baillie Guard, which stood between Fayrer's house and the
hospital.

The only steep part of the mound was on that side which faced
the river, and here was placed the " Redan " battery, which proved
to be the strongest post the besieged could boast of. Elsewhere,
the mound fell away to a mere insignificant slope ; while on that
side farthest from the river the ground occupied by the garrison was
level with that held by the enemy.

1 82 INDIA.

The fortifications consisted of walls, stockades, palisades,

fascines, and earthworks, with loopholes made by sandbags.
Crowding all around the English position were the houses of the
native city, densely placed, and held in great force by the enemy.
The spot to be defended was nothing more than a small corner in
a populous city. Indeed, in one position there was only the width
of a street — a few paltry feet — between the fortifications of the two
forces. Native soldiers within the English lines would exchange
banter — coarse enough probably — with the rebel sepoys in the
houses just across the road.

The Residency was, at the time of the siege, the finest building
in Lucknow. It consisted of a ground floor and two storeys, sur-
mounted by a tower fifty feet high. It was a substantial structure,
with wide verandahs and lofty rooms. It accommodated nearly a
thousand people — men, women, and children. In its cellars women
made for themselves a home, for in those days a cellar was the only
" desirable residence " in the settlement.

The old palace, the Begam Kothi, another large and solid
structure, occupied the centre of the enclosure, and here most of the
ladies of the garrison were located. It was of all the houses in the
place the one most removed from the enemy's fire.

The Banqueting Hall was an imposing hall of two storeys. It
came to be used not only as a hospital but as a barracks, a store,
and a place for charging fuses and cartridges. It was, unfor-
tunately, in an exposed position, and sick men were shot as they
were lying in bed. Fayrer's house was a picturesque house, built
on English lines, typical of the residence of a prominent official.

The story of this siege differs little from that of other
beleaguered places. There were the intolerable watching and wait-
ing, the torment of unrest, the horror of alarm ; by day the longing
for the night, at night the longing for the day, the numbing
monotony, the daily deaths.

A never-ceasing drip of shell and bullet fell upon the little
settlement from dawn to sundown. No one moved from his shelter
but felt a bullet whistle by. What the enemy lacked in valour they
made up in persistency. Many times they hammered the earth-
works with cannon until a breach was made, then came the boom

THE RESIDENCY AT LUCKNOW. 183

of a bursting- mine, and after that a mad rush of yelling men towards
the smoking gap. But they never carried an assault, and never,
from the first day of the siege to the last, did a hostile foot find a
place within the English lines.

" Hold it for fifteen days ? We have held it for eighty-seven ! "

There were night attacks which kept every heart in a turmoil
and every limb alert. There were sorties, when men crept out
silently with stern faces, and came back shouting with the tale of a
gun spiked or of a house blown up. All the buildings within the
Residency lines were battered and chipped. Some were hacked to
pieces. Many were made roofless and ruinous. After the siege,
from one house alone — the Brigade Mess — no less than four
hundred and thirty-five cannon balls were removed.

On the 2nd July Sir Henry Lawrence was struck by a shell
while lying on his couch in the Residency. He was removed to
Dr. Fayrer's house, and there on July 4th he died.

On July 25th a spy brought in a letter from General Havelock
to say that he was coming to the relief. A month passed, but he
never came. On August 2Qth another letter was smuggled in with
the glorious news that the garrison — now forlorn enough — might
expect to be succoured in three weeks.

On September 22nd came the assurance that relief was near.
All the next day the people in the Residency could hear the firing
of guns outside the city. Those who had looked so long, so often,
and so hopelessly towards the Cawnpore road, could now see puffs
of smoke and signs of an advancing column.

On September 25th there was fighting in the streets ; the noise
came nearer and nearer, and in the evening of that day Outram and
Havelock marched in through the Baillie Gate.

The relief of the worn-out garrison had, however, not yet
come. Outram, Havelock, and their men were in turn beleaguered.
They were able to improve and extend the fortifications of the
Residency, and to make the position of the garrison less deplorable.
The fighting, indeed, never ceased until November i/th, and on
the afternoon of that day Sir Colin Campbell entered the Resi-
dency, and Lucknow was finally relieved.

1 84 INDIA.

On November 22nd the women and children, together with the
sick, were removed to Dilkusha — a stately house in a rich garden.
Here, on November 24th, the brave, patient, much-enduring
Havelock died. He was fated to see the end.

The Residency and its puny ring of crowded outposts have
altered much since November, 1857. The buildings are more or
less ruinous, and of some of the batteries there is now no trace to
be found The spot has been transformed into a garden, with fair
lawns and flower beds ; and trees, new to the place, have made of
it almost a thicket. On every wall that stands are marks of shot
and shell, and everywhere are there ragged holes in the masonry.

But for this the ruins might be those of a pleasant country settle-
ment. All the native houses for a considerable distance around
the entrenchments have been swept away, so that now the mound
with its curious medley of ruins stands isolated and alone. The little
hillock is very green, and its gardens are tended with reverent care.
An inscribed stone marks the situation of every post and battery,
so that the line of the defences can be exactly followed.

The massive gate at the Baillie Guard stands up as defiantly as
ever. It is pitted in fifty places with the basin-like marks that a
cannon ball makes, and much of its stubborn brick has been blown
away.

On the right of the road that leads up from the gate is the
Hospital. It is now roofless and floorless, and there is little left of
it but its long walls. Its square windows, which were once barri-
caded so that scant light came in except through shot holes, are now
open enough to the heavens. Creepers have hidden many of the
wounds on its surface, and the dignified pillars with which it was
ornamented still proclaim it to have been a Banqueting Hall. There
are long corridors and passages on the ground floor, and here many
a time the dying — dragged hastily into shelter — heard the faint
firing of the last shot.

On the left of the road is Fayrer's house, one of the best pre-
served in the compound. It is built like the rest — of brick and
stucco — and it must have been a smart little place in its time. It
is just such a house as is found in the most select outskirts of an
English country town. The outer plaster is everywhere dotted

THE RESIDENCY, LUCKNOW.

THE RESIDENCY AT LUCKNOW. 185

*
with shot marks, as if there had fallen upon it some unearthly rain.

There are orthodox steps to the entrance, and a cluster of columns
to make a colonnade. Over each doorway is a quite English
" fan " decoration. In the front an iron support of the verandah
still projects from the wall. In one of the rooms Sir Henry
Lawrence died, as a tablet on the wall records. Dr. Fayrer — now
Sir Joseph Fayrer — is happily still alive, and no episode in his
adventurous and most distinguished career can stand out more
vividly in his memory than does that which has this little house for
its background.

Between the doctor's house and the Hospital is one of the many
wells to be found on the mound. One can imagine the longing
look that was kept upon this well by any patient who could catch a
glimpse of it through a crack in the shutter, and who — peevish with
fever — moaned for the night to come when it would be safe to
fetch water again.

Beyond the Hospital, and a short way along the road, is the
Residency, towering high above every other building in the place.
It is a fine old country house, spacious and lordly. The top storey
has crumbled away, but the ground floor of the mansion is in good
condition. The walls, it is needless to say, have been hammered
with shot from every side. The tower still stands, in spite of its
gaping wounds, and worn stone stairs still mount to the top of it.
From that summit flies the British flag. It hung there through all
the terrible months of 1857, and it hangs there still. The Resi-
dency at Lucknow was reduced to ruins, but the flag which waved
over it was never hauled down.

" And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew."

The stairs have winding steps, and those who walk up them
now can picture with what stumbling haste they were traversed
by the eager man who, for the hundredth time, climbed to the top
to look over the country towards Cawnpore, towards the road along
which the relief column would surely some day come. There is a
narrow hall at the foot of the stair, where, no doubt, would always
gather a few — also for the hundredth time — in weary hope of
possible news. If the watcher stayed long at the top they would

1 86 INDIA.

feel sure that some sign of the column was to be seen, and they
would call up to him as soon as they heard his returning footsteps
on the stairs. Only once in the long stretch of days did he bring
good news.

Whoever looks from the Residency Tower towards Cawnpore
has before him one of the most pathetic and most stirring views
that the eye can rest upon. The view is across the narrowest
part of the city — over an isthmus of houses, trees, and mosques —
while beyond is the open country and the Cawnpore road. Was
ever a stretch of country more eagerly, more desperately scanned ?
It was stared at until its details were branded into the brain.
What looks of hope were shot over the unheeding way! What
clamorous prayers were poured across the never-answering flat !

Think of the tower on the evening of September 22nd ! The
watcher would climb up to the look-out, slowly, languidly, mechanic-
ally, with little faith, with less hope. Those who waited dully at
the bottom — more out of habit than with an expectancy — would
hear suddenly the sound of a man dashing headlong down the stair,
and the gasping cry, " My God, they are coming ! "

The Mosque and the Begam Kothi have passed through the
siege with slighter damage than has fallen upon less important
structures. There is little sanctity, however, left to the mosque,
and nothing palatial remains to the palace. Its walls are covered
with gaudy paint, with scarcely more art than is bestowed upon
the daubs of colour on the face of a North American Indian. In
the Begam Kothi and the buildings around it most of the ladies of
the garrison were lodged. They must have wearied of the sorry
rooms and of the painted doggerel on the walls ; but they had some
measure of peace as they were well removed from the rabble about
the firing line.

Many of the other buildings, such as Ommaney's House, the
Brigade Mess, the Martiniere Post, have fallen into such utter
ruin that they are indicated only by the foundations of their walls.

To the south a pillar within the enemy's lines marks the site of
Johannes' house. This building was very near to the English
position, and it was occupied by an African whose aim was so
deadly that he was complimented by the name of " Bob the

THE RESIDENCY AT LUCKNOW. 187

*
Nailer." On one happy sortie Johannes' house was blown up. In

another rush of the English from beyond their ramparts the
unerring Bob came to his death through a bayonet wound.

The famous Redan is now merely a grassy mound The church
is a ruin ; and the cemetery — crowded with its tale of two thousand
dead — is so like a burial ground in England that it needs only a
hawthorn hedge and a lych gate to make it a piece of the old
country.

The most impressive hour to visit the Residency is just after
sundown, when the light is failing, and when the place is deserted
Let any who will walk once or twice round the line of the ever-
silent outposts, and there comes back the scene as it was at a like
hour of the day forty-seven years ago.

The tortured little place of refuge becomes peopled again. The
beleaguering ring of walls, houses and pointing guns closes about
it once more. The sun has gone down, and much of the sickening
heat is over. There are still the stench of the camp and the ever-
persisting host of ravenous flies.

The place has become quiet, for the firing has ceased with the
light Two or three pallid women have crawled out of cellars into
the still air, holding their ragged clothing about their necks. They
ask of the first passer-by the old monotonous question : " Any
news ? Any signs of their coming ? "

There is a wine-coloured stain on the road, with rounded edges.
It is plain enough to the women in spite of the dust which has
been scraped over it. It was where a man, shot through the chest,
died in the morning.

A slow-moving child has dragged her doll out with her, and a
boy, made stupid by mere dreariness, is aimlessly scraping the earth
out of a shell hole. There is a path to the well which has become
piteously distinct during these sore months, and many are going to
and fro along it.

A shuttered window in the Hospital has been thrown open, and
white-faced men, who have gasped in the hot, foul gloom all day,
are looking out. They look down upon piles of stores, casual
rubbish, stacks of arms, heap of accoutrements, upon some com-
rades cooking under the shelter of a wall, and upon others who are

1 88 INDIA.

playing cards by the light of the small fire. In what may be called
the street men are already forming up for a night attack.

Within the darkened rooms of the Residency there is a kind of
gipsy camp, with all its miscellaneous untidiness of dishes and
clothes, beds, and cooking pots, mixed up with the sofas and chairs
and delicate decorations of a drawing room.

Between the Residency and the Hospital is a bare waste of
trodden earth, with here and there the stump of a leafless shrub.
This brown waste was once the green, well-mowed lawn of the
Residency garden. Across it now they are carrying a dead soldier
in a blanket, on the way to the cemetery.

In front of the house a grey-headed man is pacing to and fro.
No one disturbs his reverie. General Havelock is alone with his
own thoughts.

XXX.

ON THE WAY TO BURMAH.

Calcutta — the last place I visited in India — is a city with no
prominent individuality. Those parts which the traveller is apt to
see are parts of a European town struggling with certain natural
disadvantages — particularly with heat. It is evidently hard to
assume the dignity and promiscuous bustle of a great capital under
a sun which settles upon the brain like a weight. Calcutta is con-
tent to be busy languidly. There are wide, well-kept streets, ad-
mirable European shops, tram lines, and " fine public buildings "
of all degrees.

The Hooghly is very like to the lower Thames. Its waters are
quite as opaque and as brown, while up or down with the tide drift
barges, floating crab-fashion, after the manner of Wapping.
Hectic steam launches hurry about with great fuss and much
whistling. By the quay side bloated liners slumber in the sun,
with just a wreath of lazy smoke dawdling from the funnel to
show that they still live. Compared with the small and active
craft on the river they might be red-bellied hippopotami dozing on
a mudbank.

Hanging over Calcutta, at this particular season, was a cloud of
smoke, worthy of London. It was pleasant to see, not only as
recalling a memory of the Great City, but as a relief from the ever-
empty Indian sky.

The thing which of all others first strikes and impresses the
visitor to Calcutta is the deadly smell which fills the place. A
blind man could tell a street in Calcutta from any he had ever
visited. Of this furious smell, Rudyard Kipling speaks in the
following fashion :

" For diffused, soul-sickening expansiveness, the reek of
Calcutta beats both Benares and Peshawar. Bombay cloaks her
stenches with a veneer of assafcetida and tobacco ; Calcutta is
above pretence. There is no tracing back the Calcutta plague to

189

INDIA.

any one source. It is faint, it is sickly, and it is indescribable. It
is certainly not an Indian smell. It resembles the essence of
corruption that has rotted for the second time — the clammy odour
of blue slime. And there is no escape from it."*

If there be appalling slums in the capital there are also, about
its borders, a circle of comely bungalows and delightful gardens,
which are hardly to be equalled anywhere in India.

Government House, Calcutta, fulfils precisely the conception of
what such a building should be — a large, white, dignified mansion,
standing in a formal garden. It is the old English country house,
haunted by the ghosts of tragic association, and, were it not for the
statuesque native soldiers who stand as sentries on the wide steps,
it might be a nobleman's demesne in a leisurely county.

The most admirable possession of the city is the Maidan, a
wild, open common which extends from the garden end of Govern-
ment House far away into the plains. On one side of it can be
seen the masts and funnels of the ships in the Hooghly. They give
to the place the semblance of a rollicking green about a seaport
town. Even when the heavens are as brass, and the dull air is
stagnant and sticky, the sight of the topmast yards of a barque is
almost as good as a breeze from the sea. To perfect the illusion,
there is, in the middle of the Maidan, a tall, white column, which
every new arrival to the city believes to be a lighthouse. It is, as
a matter of accuracy, a monument to a political resident, but it
ever encourages the belief that from its summit might be viewed
the dancing sea, and, possibly, white rollers on a pebbly beach.

If there were only a flag-staff or two in sight, a white-walled
boat house, a capstan and a few rusty anchors, no one could come
to believe that Calcutta lies (by river) ninety miles from the ocean.

Now and then, on an afternoon, a gentleman may be seen
driving in a dog cart across this heath, attended by two native
lancers. This is Lord Curzon, one of the most able viceroys India
has ever possessed.

The voyage from Calcutta to Rangoon occupies about three and
a half days, and not less than twelve hours of this time will prob-
ably be spent in the Hooghly. Although the river is suggestive
* "From Sea to Sea," Vol. II., p. 203.

ON THE WAY TO BURMAH. 191

of the Thames by reason of muddy waters, huddled shipping,
and coal-stained banks, it differs from the English waterway in
this — that as the lower reaches are passed, the river becomes
greener and younger, instead of drearier and more senile.

Some way below Calcutta the steamer is stemming a delightful
river, with banks lined by rushes and palms, among which are
thatched cottages, or villages with the tints of autumn leaves, or
sloping beaches with hauled-up boats. This is little to be expected.
As well might a liner from Tilbury pass through the luxuriant
reaches of Henley on its way to the sea.

There are curious boats on the Hooghly, craft with haughty
poops, like a Spanish galleon, yet with thatched deck-houses as
shabby as a cowshed They are manned by men who are little
like mariners, who are wrapped up in poor clothes which blow about
in the wind. When the mornings are cold they tie up their heads
with miscellaneous rags, as if troubled with toothache.

In due course the banks of the Hooghly become flatter, fainter,
and more bare ; until they fade, as if from mere weariness, into
the void.

On the morning after leaving Calcutta there is a pleasant sight
to greet the eye — the round disc of sparkling sea, cold, clean, and
sapphire blue, which is framed by the porthole of the cabin. The
sun makes it radiant with life, the wind makes it bubble with fresh-
ness. After the dust of India, after the dead roads, after the dismal
view from rattling trains, this crisp circle of bonnie water is a vision
of delight.

Long before the land of Burmah is sighted the sea becomes as
thick with mud as the Tyne at its worst. This is due to deposits
brought down by the Irrawaddy and other great streams which
slide into the sea near about Rangoon.

So very flat are the banks of the lower Irrawaddy that they are
at first mere sketchy lines on the drab horizon, and it is hard to say
when the river is entered. In a little while, however, the steamer
finds itself in a low country, green and pleasant, while, by some
magic, river banks draw near until they are seen to be fringed by
shock-headed palms and luxuriant trees, which are broken in upon,
now and then, by brown hamlets or a row of black boats.

1 92 INDIA.

Now, too, are seen, for the first time, pagodas. They that are
met with here are of little pretence, for they wait upon the pious of
mere villages. For all that there is no structure with more grade
than the slender, tapering spire which rises out of the bamboo
thicket, or above the russet line of straw roofs, to point to Heaven.

As the river narrows, with many and pleasant windings, there
is a Something to be seen afar off which inevitably attracts all eyes.
The eager traveller is awed by the first sight of it, and the laziest
sailor looks up from his work to gaze on it for the hundredth time.
From the mutterings of those who gather on the deck it would
appear that this object, which so strangely fascinates, stands above
the invisible city of Rangoon. It is a wondrous spectacle. Not
even Venice, when approached by sea from the west at the time of
sunrise, is heralded by such a vision as this.

Beyond the glittering river, beyond the little beach of French
grey, beyond the green, unbroken flat which sweeps inland for
miles, there stands up against the sky a brilliant pinnacle of
astounding height. It looks like a pink, snow-covered mountain
peak as seen in the dawn. It rises up ghostlike against the blue,
infinitely delicate, unsubstantial, marvellous. It is the Great
Golden Pagoda of Rangoon — a wonder of the world.

As the steamer draws nearer there is some sign of the town.
At first, all that is seen of it is a green hillock, about which cluster
a medley of brown roofs and chubby trees. On the summit of the
mound is the Great Pagoda. It has now become a dazzling spire
of polished metal, a column of pure yellow gold, from its base
among the trees to the spear-like pinnacle which trembles in the
heavens. Just below its highest point hangs a canopy of tangled
gilt and precious stones, and here are swinging mirrors which catch
the light and sparkle in the sun like a circle of immense diamonds.

The Pagoda dominates the whole country. Nothing dares to
rise above the awed horizon in the presence of this superb erection,
this giant sword Excalibur which is lifted out of the lake-like level
of the plain. Rangoon is nothing ; the Pagoda is all.

Thus it comes about that Burmah — from this side of the sea —
is to be known by the blaze of gold which shoots up into the sky
over its city as if it were the beam of a divine pharos.

part m.

BURMAH AND CEYLON.

RANGOON AND THE BURMAN.

As the steamer nears the quay at Rangoon, the city, which was
so ethereal and so delicately hinted at, when viewed from a far-
away reach of the river, becomes every moment grosser and more
commonplace. The marvellous Pagoda is dwarfed and almost
hidden from sight Its glory is sullied by unworthy surroundings,
by sheds and warehouses which flaunt themselves in the vain
company of tall chimneys. Corrugated iron supplants the nut-
brown thatch, and in place of solemn woods, ugly, dejected houses
straggle stupidly about a crazy waste. There are oil-tanks where
there should be clusters of palms, and the hiss of saw-mills is
changed for the contented mumble of the river.

But for the low hill upon which the Pagoda stands, Rangoon
lies on a flat. It is a prosperous and pushing town, modern to a
fault, alive with new industries, alert with new ambitions. Every
year its boundaries are extending ; for out of the meek fishing
village has come the arrogant metropolis. The structures in its
amazed streets are passing rapidly from the state of shantyism to
the dignity of " fine public buildings," from the stage of flannel-
shirt-sleeves to the black coat and white collar. The town is still
just a little weedy and wild, as are many young things during the
stages of rapid growth.

The intelligent stranger dropped suddenly into Rangoon would
know that he was in some active British settlement in the East,
N 193

194 BURMAH AND CEYLON.

but there would be little to tell him that the place was in Burmah.
The European shops might belong to Singapore, the last new
streets to Penang, the tram-lines to Calcutta, and the drinking
saloons to Port Said. He would be disappointed if he expected to
find a distinctive populace. The Burmese, as a people, are slowly
disappearing. They are becoming absorbed by alien races on the
one hand, and are being pushed into the quiet country on the other.
The reason for this will be explained later. Suffice it for the
present to say that the Burman is little in evidence at Rangoon,
especially in parts where work is being done. The apparent popu-
lation of the place is made up of Chinamen, Malays, natives of
India, and other less distinct Eastern folk. The native of the
country is to be found in the delightful hinterland, away from
wharves and unquiet quay sides.

The suburbs of Rangoon are supremely pleasant, especially to
those who have made sojourn in India, The roads are red, the
bungalows are of homely wood, the gardens are green and
luxuriant. There is everywhere an atmosphere of content and
comfortable prosperity. The dust, the glare, the barrenness of
India are missing, and even the Hindu woman who comes here
loses her love for grubbing in the dirt.

In these genial suburbs is Government House — a building little
short of a palace — where lives the Lieutenant- Governor, Sir Hugh
Barnes, whose admirable administration is doing so much for the
progress of the country, and whose charming wife maintains a
popularity as hearty as his own.

The Burmese are a people of Mongolian descent, who are in
every particular distinct from the native of India. In stature they
are short, their complexion is a faint brown, their faces are a little
flat, with a tendency to high cheek bones. The men, on the whole,
may be described as handsome — often as distinguished-looking —
certainly as bright, intelligent, and good humoured. They are
always clean, always tidy. They are, for the most part, slight, so
that there will seldom, if ever, be found among these pleasant
people any who would recall the inflated, greasy, half-strangled
looking " baboo " of Calcutta. The men have long, sleek, black-
hair, which is twisted into a knob on the top or side of the head

RANGOON AND THE BURMAN. 195

Around the forehead is a prettily arranged handkerchief of silk,

usually of pale pink.

Their dress consists of a simple short jacket, most commonly
made of linen, with a long skirt of silk in some bright tint. This
is almost identical with the costume affected by the women, and —
save for the handkerchief round the head and a possible moustache
— it is at first not easy to tell the two sexes apart.

Although the Burmese man may look effeminate, he has not
that character with those who know him. He is described as
inanly, as possessed of a great love for sport, and as generous and
hearty. His habitual cheeriness is in strong contrast with the
melancholy of the native of India. The Burman is, by nature, idle
and a lover of pleasure. He is improvident and easy-going. He
takes life lightly, while his view of the future is that of the Lotus
Eater. As he does not like work, and as Burmah under English
rule is a strenuous country, it is no matter of surprise that he is
becoming replaced in all centres of activity by men who will work.

As for Rangoon, it is far too serious, too full of purpose, too
absurdly in earnest, for the lover of ease. Progress bores him, and
the strenuous man he views with dislike. He inclines to the park
and the race course, but he finds no joy in quay sides or in wharves.
He will watch men carrying weights or digging in the streets with
picks and shovels, but his interest in these occupations ends with
the watching. The Burman is adapted for an idyllic life. He
would find congenial company among the polite and frivolous folk
who people the glades of Watteau's pictures, but not among those
who frequent tram-cars and factories. The river bank at Rangoon
is no place for Strephon and Amaryllis, and Watteau himself would
be ill at ease among scenery in the foreground of which a row of
oil-tanks was prominent.

The Burman, therefore, must go inland. The gloriously wooded
hinterland is beautiful, living is easy, and there is never the lack of
a rollicking companion, who is as ready to gamble as to drowse in
the sun.

II.

THE LADIES OF CREATION.

It is to be regretted that the traveller's first acquaintance with
the fascinating Burmese woman will probably be made in Rangoon,
as she is looking at French hats in a European shop, or as she is
waiting for a train at a distasteful railway station.

The first glimpse of her should be on an old road, in a Burmese
town — such a town as has remained unsullied by the West — where
she would be found among surroundings which have known no
change for centuries, and which are, above all, her own. The
Burmese woman belongs to Burmah of the old world, over which
the wind of change has not yet blown.

I can recall one such vision of the lady of the land in the
country as it was. There was inland a grey, still road, shaded by
trees and hushed by many palms, which made of the way a sleepy
aisle. Small pools and splashes of sunshine lay in the road as if
it had rained gold. Among the columns of the palms, low houses
with walls of mat and roofs of velvet were dozing in the shadows.
An inquisitive creeper had climbed to a verandah, and had tumbled
over the slender handrail into the passage. Around each house
was a yellow palisade of bamboo lattice-work, and against such a
fence two naked children were leaning. The road itself was
deserted. At one end of it a far-off pagoda of gilt shone in a
jagged gap of blue sky.

From out of the cloister of the wood a girl came, who halted
for a moment in the road, hesitating which way she should turn.
She stood erect, like a queen. Her eyes were dark and expressive,
and there was a smiling mouth with white teeth. Glossy black
hair, with a red rose in it, made the covering of her head A simple
jacket of white linen hung from her shapely shoulders, and from
her waist to her naked feet was a skirt of glistening pink silk that

196

THE LADIES OF CREATION. 197

>
sketched in simplest lines her perfect form. Two plain gold

bangles on her wrist complete the account of her — a delicate, cool
little figure, with a splash of sunshine at her feet, and the vision of
the pagoda at the road's end. Such is the lady of the land.

That her face is Mongolian in type is evident enough. She
may hardly be pretty if judged by a European standard, but by
no standard can it be declared that she is other than most
fascinating. Her eyes, at least, are absolutely beautiful. Her ex-
pression is alert, vivacious, cheerful, so that she looks the embodi-
ment of good temper. She is as neat as a nun, and as quaint as a
Puritan maiden, but there is too much coquettishness about her to
allow of these comparisons being made complete. She is a
brilliant little personage, graceful in her slightest movement, in-
finitely feminine, full to her lips with the sparkle of life, yet digni-
fied and even stately. She walks with a swing of her arms and a
roll of her shoulders which mark her as one who thinks well of
herself, and intends that all others should hold to the same belief.

She has excuse for some dignity of bearing, for it is the Burmese
woman, and not the Burmese man, who is at the head of affairs.
What business is to be done she does. She is ever astir in the
market, buying and selling, since it is the woman who sits at the
receipt of custom. Her husband or her brother may carry bales of
silk for her, may unpack her cases of silver, may bring vegetables
in from the country to her stall, but it is she who guides the enter-
prise and who manages the trading. She does it because she does
it well, and because " he " is so indolent and uncertain.

She sits on a low, yellow mat in her stall, and holds up to you
a piece of silk. Her hands are pretty, and there are many gold
bangles on her wrists. A sleek head and smiling eyes are visible
above the rim of the silk. She holds it up as a child would hold
up its last new toy for admiration. You ask the price of this trifle
of amber and rose, and she shyly suggests a quite fantastic sum, as
if she were playing at " keeping shop."

You propose to give her half the amount she has ventured upon.
This amuses her beyond words. She is filled with laughter, for
the jest is evidently much to her liking. Smiling, moreover,
becomes her, as her teeth are exquisite. There is more movement

198 BURMAH AND CEYLON.

of shapely fingers and of supple wrists ; the silk is dropped, and
another piece is held up with mute questioning. You renew the
offer of half the price named for the piece first shown. She again
becomes radiant with laughter, and hides her mouth behind the
edge of the outstretched stuff. With infinite shyness she suggests
a less extreme mutilation of her original price. She half whispers
the sum, as if it were a possible answer to some absurd conundrum.
You finally take the silk for exactly one half of the sum originally
discussed. She is perfectly delighted, and appears to regard the
long bargaining as the best of fun.

It is all excellent fooling, this playing at " keeping shop " by a
picturesque woman instead of by a child, but the woman — like the
child — is never a loser at the simple game.

The ever-courteous little silk mercer is, without doubt, an alert
woman of business, and yet matter-of-fact people who know her
say she is careless, pleasure-loving, and hopelessly improvident. It
would seem, then, that she is still a child, even when she is not
playing at " keeping shop."

The blue-stocking lecturer on woman's rights should have one
of these light-hearted, stockingless little people on the platform
with her as an example. Harsh critics are apt to describe such a lec-
turer as sour of aspect, and also as lean, spectacled, and moustached.
If there be any truth in this, the contrast between the advocate of
women's rights and the possessor of them might be vivid The
association of the two may, however, arouse the suggestion that
violent and perspiring speech, a creaking voice, and a bony and
mittened fist are less strong aids to argument than an amiable
capacity and a readiness to undertake loyally whatever the par-
ticular hand may find to do.

There is in the world one matter of taste upon which unanimity
of opinion can never be obtained, and that is on the subject of
woman's dress. It may as well, therefore, be stated — without the
least hope of carrying conviction — that the dress of the Burmese
woman is as nearly perfect as any female costume can be.

Its chief claim to perfection is that it is exquisitely, divinely
simple. This will not appeal to the Western lady, who may hold
that strict simplicity is only becoming to the workhouse inmate.

THE LADIES OF CREATION. 199

The dress of the Burmese woman consists of a white linen jacket of
the plainest possible type, without collars, ties, or cuffs, and a skirt
of unstudied silk wrapped closely round the body down to the feet.
This robe is marred by neither flounce nor frill, and, so far as the un-
initiated can tell, it has escaped even the touch of needle or thread.
Sandals to the feet and gold bangles to the wrist complete the
costume. Whatever may be the artistic value of this attire, it can
at least claim to be perfect from the standpoint of health.

The Burmese woman " does " her hair also with equal simplicity,
in a neat coil severely fastened by the turning of the same upon
itself. It displays the outline of her head with perfection, and no
hair arrangement of the ancient Greeks could be more " classical."
A fresh flower, or, possibly, a comb is the sole ornament. There is
no attempt to contort the human hair into puffs or rolls, or to make
of it a grotesque, meaningless structure, held up by pins and cords
and undermined by frowsy pads.

The dress of this picturesque people never varies. The
Burmese woman knows nothing about " trimmings," nothing about
" style," and her mind is not kept in a state of unrest by the con-
templation of the anxious problems which centre about hats.

Here is a country of intelligent women where there is no such
thing as fashion, and, therefore, none of the hopes, the petty
strivings, and the sorrows which depend upon the blind pursuit of
what is fashionable. Women reputed to be more civilised have to
dress as the gospel of the fashion-plate dictates. A mysterious
being, with the wand of the " latest style," drives them across the
common of their little world, as a bumpkin drives a company of
stiff-necked, cackling geese. No matter what the style may be so
long as it is late. There is no option, no need of judgment ; the
fashion seekers will all go as they are driven so long as the goose-
herd's stick embodies the last new thing.

The Burmese woman allows herself some latitude only in the
matter of colour. Her silks incline to tints of pink and rose, of
saffron and pale green. In the choice of these each follows her
own taste. These dainty, delicate colours come as an agreeable
relief to the unvarying blues and reds which seem to encompass
the invention of the woman of India,

200 BURMAH AND CEYLON,

There are two other matters to be noted in connection with the
woman of the country. She seems to be endowed with the
privilege of preserving the youthfulness of her figure into advanced
age. Indeed, it is hard to say with what lapse of years she will
lose the quite girlish outline, the well-modelled shoulders and the
slender hips.

Finally, she has at least one weakness, to wit, the smoking of
Brobdingnagian cigars as large as wax candles from an altar.
Some are white, some are green. They are compounded of tobacco
and vague herbs, but however pleasant they may be to smoke, they
spoil the pretty curves of a much pleasanter mouth.

III.

THE GOLDEN PAGODA.

The Golden Pagoda at Rangoon — rightly known as the Shwc
Dagon Pagoda — is one of the most impressive of the works of
man. It stands, as has already been said, on a low hill about the
outskirts of the town. The whole summit of the sacred mound
is occupied by a vast paved platform from the centre of which
the pagoda rises.

This monument to the memory of Buddha has its foot upon
an octagonal plinth of colossal size. From this base it springs
upwards, a terrific spire, a solid pyramidal cone, plain and smooth,
becoming as it rises less and less, until the far point that touches
the clouds is a mere dizzy trembling rod. The girth of this
wondrous column, as it rests upon its plinth, is no less than 1,355
feet ; its summit a child could grasp in its hand

The whole of the Pagoda is gilded from its foundations to
its pinnacle, and it is to the eye a thing of absolute and refulgent
gold. Its surface is polished as a surface of ice. At no level is
it broken in upon by flaunting ornament or unquiet decoration.
It is entirely plain, and it is this profound elemental simplicity
which makes it so majestic A Gothic spire as high as this would
have its sides overladen with adornment, and would seem to be
built up of arches and columns, of cornices and angles, of pro-
jecting ledges and masses of contorted stone. Here is a bare
tapering column, loftier than the Cathedral of St. Paul's, in London,
which from base to point is a smooth height of unsullied gold.*

This utter simplicity makes it sublime, endows it with primeval
magnificence, bestows on it the grandeur of a fundamental truth.

The Golden Pagoda appeared to me, as it may possibly appear

* The height of the pagoda is given as 370 feet.

202 BURMAH AND CEYLON.

to many, as more imposing and more marvellous than the great
pyramids of Egypt.

On the summit of the Pagoda is the Ti, or "umbrella spire,"
which is common to all erections of this kind. The ti is made
up of concentric belts of beaten iron, hung with silver and gold
bells which ring in the wind, and with mirrors, which flash all
day in the light of the sun.

The Shwe Dagon Pagoda, while it is the finest in the world,
is also the most venerable. All Buddhists hold it in supreme
regard, and the ground upon which it stands is holy above all.
Pilgrimages are made to its foot from afar, so that people from
almost every country of the East may be found kneeling in its
shadow.

The Pagoda is said to have been built in 588 B.C., and to
have been originally only twenty-seven feet high. It was gradually
added to from time to time, but has remained substantially un-
changed since 1564.

This enormous spire of glowing gold must needs be a remark-
able element in the landscape. The first sight of it, as viewed
from the estuary of the Irrawaddy, has been already commented
upon. The term " golden " is commonly enough employed in the
description of scenery. Here, however, is a Titanic mass of plain
gold introduced as an actual feature of the landscape. Such a
feature would be impressive anywhere, but it could scarcely be
more gloriously placed than here, in the tropics, on a soft stretch
of land, luxuriant with trees, greener than any trees that grow,
and with a ringing background of the bluest sky.

The platform of the Shwe Dagon Pagoda is approached on
four sides by flights of stairs. The principal approach is on the
southern aspect, and a most unusual ascent it is. The stairway
is primitive and very old — as old, it may be, as the Pagoda itself.
Its steps are of rude stone or of still ruder sun-dried bricks. They
are very steep and much worn by centuries of eager feet. Where
there is stone it has become burnished like glass ; where there
are bricks they have been scuffed into bays and gullies.

This tottering stair is covered by a roof of heavy teak, held
up on either side of the way by immense bare wooden pillars.

THE GOLDEN PAGODA. 203

The ponderous beams of the roof, as well as the architraves of
the columns, are lavishly carved. The way to the sacred platform
is dark except where some gap in the wall makes a panel of sun-
shine on the flags.

Between the pillars on each side of this long approach are
stalls full of bright things, tended by brighter women. Here the
loitering worshipper may buy flowers, rice, or cake for offerings,
candles for the altar, sweetmeats for the children, as well as combs,
gongs, jewellery, and tooth-brushes. He can also purchase play-
things, mostly in the form of gruesome beasts. For here are articu-
lated elephants which twine like snakes, and yellow tigers,
jointed in sections like a toy train, with red open mouths, hot as
ovens, and with horrible bristles bursting forth from their nostrils.
The approach is not quite appropriate to a holy place. It would
need but the overturned tables of money changers to recall the
environs of another temple in the East. The busy, covered-in
passage, the display of garish trifles on either side of the walk,
and the sauntering crowd, suggest an oriental Burlington Arcade
standing on end on a hillside, rather than the path to the great
cathedral of Buddhism.

On a feast day the staircase is alive with moving figures, clad
in gleaming silks of many hues, ever ascending and descending,
a glorious throng, only a little less radiant than the company that
Jacob saw upon the ladder of his dreams.

It is appropriate that the way to the great platform should be
in shadow, for it makes the first glimpse of the paved terrace
absolutely dazzling. As the visitor plods up the endless stair, he
becomes a little weary of the dim light, of the monotonous pillars,
of the ever-repeated stalls. At the end he steps suddenly out
of this dark colonnade on to a stone plaza, white with the sun,
shut in all round by a thousand little spires and roofs, a-glitter
with gilt and silver and coloured stones, while moving every way
about the flagged square is a crowd of people so brilliant and so
strange that the whole picture is utterly unreal. Towering in
front of him, far above the fluttering, chattering multitude, is the
great majestic column of dumb gold.

The platform is occupied by a disordered litter of sacred stmc-

204 BURMAH AND CEYLON.

tures. 1'hey close it in, as with a palisade, so that nothing can be
seen, except through a casual gap, of the comfortable country
which lies around the foot of the hill. Between these many build-
ings and the plinth of the pagoda is space enough, on the paved
terrace, for the worshippers, the curious, and the idle.

The erections on the platform are of every shape and size.
There are rows of little pagodas in white, in gilt, in silver, in red
lacquer, each with its ti of dangling bells. There are temples
and shrines with many roofs which mount up one above the other
in diminishing tiers. Some of these holy places are of stone, some
of wood, some have pillars blazing with coloured glass, while others
are made marvellous by carving or deft chisel work. There are
altars of brick, black with the smoke of legions of nodding candles,
and heaped over with grease which has guttered into sooty stalac-
tites. There are altars dripping with sacrificial water or loaded
with rice, among the soft piles of which glutted crows are clawing
mawkishly.

There are figures of monsters, half lion and half man, with
curling lips and crab-like eyes. There are image houses without
end, in which are sheltered a host of Buddhas. They are graven
in alabaster, in silver, in brass, in teak. There are Buddhas who
sit, Buddhas who stand, Buddhas who have shrunk to mere manni-
kins or who have swelled to elephant-chested giants. There are
tall posts from which hang cylindrical streamers of bamboo pasted
over with sacred paper. There are bells by thousands, shining
on every spire, swinging from every roof, guarding every altar.
They are infinite in shape and size, from the tiny gong that tinkles
on the humblest tiy to the great forty-ton monster of green bronze
that mumbles from under a mighty beam like a sullen thunder-
cloud.

These many buildings are huddled together after the manner
of monuments in an over-crowded cemetery, but there is none
sombre in colour, none squat in design. They all mount up to the
sky with lance-like pinnacles and are as lustrous as gold leaf or
bright lacquer can make them. There is ever, over this army of
spires, the sense that the colours move, and that there is a restless
life in the myriad-flashing glint of metal.

THE GOLDEN PAGODA. 205

As for the platform walk, it is astir with a pretty throng in
robes of such colours as are seen upon butterflies or flower petals.
The people are, for the most part, the pleasant folk of Burmah in
holiday attire. Among them slouch smug priests in dull yellow
cassocks, who hold up a fan to keep the sun from their shaven
heads. Kneeling here and there are dismal beggars, often blind
from leprosy, who strike monotonously upon gongs to attract
mercy from the passer by. Here are also peasants from the
country, gaping as if they saw visions, and wild men and women
from the hills, whose costumes are coarse and unkempt, but who
carry the sturdy breath of crag and pine through the perfumed
atmosphere.

So far as mere colour is concerned the crowd which jostle one
another at the pagoda's foot on high days and holidays must be
one of the brightest in the world. The colours are all in rustling
silks — shell-pink and apple-green, turquoise and garnet.

What of the worshippers? It is the many, not the few, who
come to pray, and among the devout there are always more women
than men. They come in twos and threes — two sisters, two friends,
a mother and her girls. These cheery little women, who are
merry enough in the market place, are solemn enough now. They
bring flowers in their hands and offerings of cake or rice. Wherever
there is a quiet place to kneel, they kneel, on the bare stones, with
bowed heads, and with the flowers between their clasped palms.
They may pray on the terrace edge, in full view of the great
pagoda, or at the column's foot. They may kneel at some altar
where their ancestors for generations have knelt, or before a
shrine, beloved above all by reason of old memories. Every niche
and spire on this familiar terrace must have precious associations
for one or another, and the landmarks of many lives must have a
place about the feet of this venerable monument.

The majority of those who come to pray seek out one of the
numerous large temples to Buddha which are to be found upon
the platform. These buildings are exceedingly resplendent,
radiant with colour, bewildering with the flash of metal and
mirrors, and weighed down with much ornamentation.

In the far shadow of such a temple will sit, on a large pedestal,

206 BURMAH AND CEYLON.

a golden Buddha, obtuse, solemn, and well satisfied. The blinking
lanterns, the swaying bells, the flowers, the dazzling ornaments of
gilt and silver almost hide him from the view. The sparkle from
every column and every panel makes him dim to the eye, while
the smoke of incense shrouds him with a cloud

Under the canopy, before the altar, the women kneel on the
stones. Very dainty they look in their white jackets and soft
silks. From out of the hushed shadow the great heavy-eyed
Buddha watches them. So dead is he, so huge, so sullen, so
tingling with life are they, that one may wonder which is the
worshipper and which the worshipped. The sodden, toad-like
god squatting in the gloom may well adore the " gay-sashed
butterfly " kneeling in the sun.

The Golden Pagoda is an emblem of a great faith, of a
religion which can claim to number more disciples than does any
other belief in the world. Buddhism, as formulated by him who
founded it, is a religion of singular simplicity. It teaches that
life is sad, but that its sadness depends upon the man, and not
upon his surroundings. He, and he alone, can work out his own
happiness. By denial, and by persistent striving towards a blame-
less life, he can attain to Nirvana, where he will find peace — peace
from the trouble of insistent desires, peace from those weaknesses
which make the feet stumble and the road long.

It is a religion of kindliness, of compassion, and of self-sacrifice
— a tender, womanly faith. It is a religion which encourages
meditation and a searching of self — a quiet, cloister-haunting faith.
It is a religion which recognises neither rites nor ordinances, but
which holds that a man's future hangs upon his own deeds — a faith
for the faint of heart.

As with many beliefs, the grand simplicity of Buddhism has
been contorted by priestcraft and an extravagant idolatry.

To conceive of Buddhism as Gautama conceived of it, there
must vanish from the great platform at Rangoon the whole crazy
horde of spires and shrines, of graven images and tinsel-bedecked
temples. The paved terrace then lies swept and silent. The green
country opens up around it once more, for at the edge of the
stone platform is only the drop of the hill.

THE GOLDEN PAGODA. 20;

In the centre of the white space, unapproached by any meaner
symbol, is the august pagoda, as immense, as inspiring, and as
simple as the truth it would teach — the silent emblem of the
Great Peace.

Solitary at the foot of the column, the worshipping woman
kneels, with an offering of flowers in her hands. The platform
is deserted. These two are alone — the solemn pyramid so tre-
mendous, the worshipper so little, the truth so imperial, the
aspirant so lowly.

The hum of the distant town has died away. The silence on
the terrace is broken only by the murmur of her lips, and by the
tinkle of the bells among the clouds high up on the pagoda's
summit And here, in the golden shadow there falls upon her
troubled heart

" The secret of the wordless calm."

IV.

THE FOREST OF YOUTH.

The journeying from Rangoon to Mandalay is over a green
and bountiful country, infinitely pleasant to see. On all sides is
the gorgeous vegetation of the tropics, while much of the passage
is through a virgin forest innocent of roads and of the ways of
men. Growth everywhere is luxuriant. So thick are the leaves
upon the trees that the humble trunks and branches that bear them
are hidden from view; so prodigal is the undergrowth that the
mother earth is covered over and forgotten. There is everywhere
a hurry to live, a passion to expand, a struggle to burst from the
cramped crowd and reach to the limitless heaven beyond.

The land is the land of youth, where the pathless woods are
astir with the rustle of growing things. In the exulting outbreak
of verdure, all the forest over, is the parable of the extravagance
and recklessness of youth. In the crush to gain the sky is the
boisterous energy of the lad; his dreaminess is in the drift of
lotus leaves upon the moody pool ; his heedless ambition is in the
towering palm, while in the close-set bamboo thicket is the tale
of his effusive comradeship. On all sides are open-handedness and
generous waste, thoughtlessness, and a forgetfulness of death.

This tropical jungle mimics every characteristic of the stripling.
There are aspiring bushes, ablaze with blossoms, which are build-
ing his castles in the air ; there are fanning leaves spread over the
moss, which are types of his tenderness. Round a shrinking tree
a creeper has twined until it has covered it to the topmost bough,
has hung over it, and buried it in fervent embraces. Here is the
fable of precipitate love. The creeper is quick of growth, but in
time it dies and the tree lives on, covered with a cobweb of
shrivelled stems and a cramping network of gripless tendrils. It

208

THE FOREST OF YOUTH. 209

stands in the forest an emblem of the dead heart and the still
outstretched arms.

Moreover, in the dark places of the forest, in aisles and vaults
full of shadow, there are crawling stalks that wind about the under-
growth like snakes, and long slender trailers that hang in festoons
from the arms of trees, like loops of rope pendent from a gallows.
These are reminiscent of the morbid fancies of youth and of the
sickly projects which grope about in the dark of an unwholesome
mind.

Such crops as are seen on the journey up country appear to
grow in as easy a fashion as the weeds of the jungle. There is
little evidence of a laborious husbandry. A very happy-go-lucky
air hangs about the Burmese farm, while the tiller of the ground
seems to have realised a quite fine conception of the " gentleman
farmer." Many paddy fields are passed, all dabbling in sludge.
Some are stippled over with the stumps of the last cut harvest.
These stalks are in regular bristle-like bundles, so that they give
to the field the aspect of a worn-out brush. In other places the
faint green of the new crops is spreading mysteriously over the
mud. There would seem to be no uprising of individual plants,
only the colour of the surface is changing from brown to green.
The earth, indeed, is in the very act of giving forth life, and this
budding tint rises from it like an exhalation.

Many banana groves are in sight, and many spinneys full of
cocoa-nut palms. Here and there is a rabble of rugged cactus
bushes — the wild men of the wood. Now and then an eddying
river is crossed, so edged with rushes and overhanging trees that
no brink is in view; or a polished pool is passed in which is
mirrored a flock of white birds flying overhead.

So far as can be seen from the track the land is level, but
wherever there is a clearing in the wood misty hills stand up in
the distance.

At intervals a village is come upon, a small, comfortable settle-
ment of russet houses. They are, for the most part, raised from
the ground on piles. The high-pitched roofs are of bronze-coloured
thatch or fine tiles, and have wide picturesque eaves. The walls,
on one side or more, are replaced by swinging mats. There is
O

210 BURMAH AND CEYLON.

<.
always some pretence to a balcony or a verandah, and the place

looks cool. Thus there is ever a shelter from the sun, and as for
the wind, it can blow through the fragile tenement as through a
patch of pines. The houses are simple. Their architecture is that of
the buildings in a toy box, and are as artless as the productions
of a kindergarten class. About these nut-brown huts and ch&lets
is some sort of a garden, very green and wild, surrounded by a
bamboo palisade of so sketchy a kind that, if it be intended as
a line of defence, it would not thwart even an inquisitive kitten.

There is no formality about the village. The houses, scattered
among palm trees and banana fields, are shaded by the margin of
the great forest, out of which, indeed, they seem to be creeping.
Rising above the green will be a pagoda or two, the humbler of
dull wood, the more pretentious of gleaming gilt. If there be a
hill at the back of the village it is likely to boast a pagoda on its
summit. The elements of the Burmese village are, indeed, very
primitive, for they consist of little more than a thatched roof in
sepia, standing up above a plantain patch, with behind it a clump
of forest trees, a few tall palms, and the spire of a pagoda.

There are signs everywhere of cleanliness and comfort, and
over all a wide sense of most liberal leisure. To the occasional
passer-by the native of Burmah appears to be occupied in a
perpetual picnic, and his houses suggest that he and his friends
are camping out in the woods while the weather is pleasant.
Virgil might have placed the scenes of his Bucolics in Burmah,
for the local swain lacks no opportunity for tuning his pipe, or for
engaging in those dialogues which occupied the days of the Vir-
gilian peasant.

Although there appear to be no poor in Burmah, the wealth
of the country is not bound up in the efforts of the village agri-
culturist. The riches of Burmah depend neither upon flocks nor
herds, but rather upon rice and rubies, teak and paraffin.

THE PALACE OF THE KING OF KINGS.

Mandalay is 386 miles from Rangoon, to the north. It was,
until 1885, the capital of Burmah and the residence of the king.
Even now it contains some 1 80,000 inhabitants, mostly Burmese ;
and, as the guide-book says, " the traveller will find that he can
spend several days very pleasantly " in the place. The city lies
on a plain, not far from the Irrawaddy, and within sight of a range
of low hills. A great part of the town is new, straggling and un-
interesting, with shops boasting of glass windows, and streets with
tram lines and telegraph poles.

There is a large native quarter, however, which is still green,
quiet, and beautiful, and which is to the modern town as a sheep-
fold to an engine shed.

But the iron has entered into the soul of Burmah. It has come
in the form of corrugated iron. A roof of metallic corduroy is
slowly supplanting the silken thatch of leaves. The blatant drab
on the new house top is in bitter contrast with the soft covering
on the old, with its tint of the thrush's wing. It is very hard,
however, to mar the beauty of the tropics. Even the new Birming-
ham roof may be chastened when a cluster of areca nut palms
hangs over it ; and window frames, destined to grace an artisan's
dwelling in West Ham, are robbed of much of their unseemliness
when the house they mutilate is festooned with such a creeper as
the tropical Bougainvillea. Even tram lines are more tolerable
when the road they traverse is of red earth and is laid through a
coppice of bamboo. A kerosene oil-tin with a loop of string is a
wicked substitute for the native water jar ; but when both lie

2i2 BURMAH AND CEYLON.

side by side, all but buried by the reeds and flowers on the margin
of the pool, there is a less cruel contrast in the companionship.

So far as the actual town of streets is concerned, the pleasure
of a visit to Mandalay is largely bound up with the Great Bazaar,
which is full of never-wearying interest " Grain and vegetable
vendors, silversmiths, toy, umbrella, and lacquer makers, silk
merchants, and numerous other traders occupy streets of stalls.
Burmese ladies, in the usual tight-fitting petticoat of gay silk and
white jacket, attended by a maid, may be seen making their daily
household purchases ; groups of girls with flowers in their hair
and huge cigars in their mouths, price the silks of which all
Burmans are so fond Many strangers to the city come on business
or pleasure, wander about, deeply interested in the display on the
stalls. Nowhere else can be seen gathered together representa-
tives of so many widely-separated and little-known tribes, differing
in dress, and forming a Babel of languages. Chins from the
western mountains, Shans from the east, Kachins from the north,
and Chinese from the little-known inland borders of the empire,
all meet here ; and Sikhs, Goorkhas, Madrassis, with many other
tribes from India, are amongst the motley throng.""*

The feature in Mandalay which is likely to prove of greatest
interest to the visitor is the royal palace. The building is in the
centre of an immense square fort, each side of which is a mile
and a quarter long. The enclosing wall of the stronghold is of
brick, machicolated at the top to serve the purpose of loopholes.
The outer face of the wall drops sheer for twenty-six feet. The
inner face has against it a slope of earth, so that the defenders
could gain access to the battlements. Sentries and armed men,
however, no longer look over the top of the wall, but on the mound
of earth hospitable trees and palms have grown, and these alone
keep watch upon the world. The wall, although it is a fortress
wall, is not too severe, for there is little that is truculent about it.
Compared with the stern rampart of the great red fort at Agra,
this line of modest brick may enclose a mere garden.

There are many watch towers on the summit of the wall, but
about them also there is nothing sinister. They are, indeed, dainty
* Murray's " Handbook of India, Burmah and Ceylon," London, 1901, p. 429.

THE PALACE OF THE KING OF KINGS. 213

and elegant, and each is rather more like a summei-house than
the place for the spying eye of a man with murder in his mind.
They are built of teak, and are surmounted by a tapering roof
with as many spires on it as on the back of a spider crab. The
roof is really compounded of six roofs placed in diminishing tiers
one above the other. It would appear that dignity of position is
indicated in Burmah, not by the number of quarterings on a
shield, but by the number of roofs on a building. The chief spire
over the palace, for example, has seven roofs — a climax of hauteur.
The six roofs on the fort show magnificence enough, and are quite
worthy insignia of the Burmese War Office. Some of these tiny
turrets are much ornamented with gold, which makes them look
still more frivolous.

There are many gates in the fort wall, all of which are massive,
simple, and white. In front of every gate stands erect an enormous
post of plain teak painted a maroon colour. There is an inscription
on each giving the sign of the portal and the date of its making.
" It is under or near these posts that the bodies of the unfortunate
victims rest who are said to have been buried alive in order that
their spirits might watch over the gates."*

Outside the wall, and surrounding the fort, is a broad moat,
which gives to the stronghold a remarkable fascination. Now
the conception of a castle moat is that of a stiff -walled ditch, filled
with dull and venomous water, in which men are intended to
drown. Ponderous bastions would rise out of the pool, and in the
stone wall would be horrible slits, from which, in time of need, could
pour arrows or bullets to make drowning easier. There should
be, on the side away from the fort — a bank of surly masonry with
an edge like a quay. On the water would be reflected a draw-
bridge and a portcullis.

The moat at Mandalay is as little like this as a moat could be.
The water is as wide and clear and as gentle-looking as the
Thames at Iffley. Its banks are of grass and rushes, while their
verdant slopes are shaded by trees. The surface of the pool is
covered with lotus leaves, and in due season with lotus flowers.
Where there is a space of clear water between the lily fans are

* Murray's Handbook, p. 427.

214 BURMAH AND CEYLON.

mirrored the make-believe wall, the idle-apprentice watch-towers,
and many palms.

The palace, as has been already said, occupies the centre of
the fortified enclosure. There were at one time formidable stock-
ades of timber around it, but these have been removed except in
one place.

The last sovereign who dwelt in the palace was King Thebaw,
who also was the last King of Burmah. He came to the throne in
1878, and commenced his regal life by murdering his brothers, his
sisters, and other of his relatives. He proved himself to be a paltry
and ignominious monarch. He treated the English with contumely,
and on November 7th, 1885, he called upon his people to join
him in driving them into the sea. His subjects responded to his
call, and so did the English, with the result that on November 28th
the Burmese troops laid down their arms ; Mandalay, the capital
city, with its palace, its arsenal, and its fort, was surrendered to
the British ; while King Thebaw was taken prisoner and trans-
ported to India, where he still lives.

This miserable monarch, in spite of his murders and other
iniquities, was the possessor of many titles, and in his heaven-born
body were collected distinctions that lacked not the quality of
exclusiveness. He was " the Descendant of the Sun," " the King
of Righteousness," " the King of Kings," and " the Arbiter of Life."

The palace of this demigod is a rambling, incoherent structure
of one storey and many appendages, built wholly of wood. The
buildings are of no great antiquity, as they are little more, it is
said, than fifty years old They form a disorderly collection of
apartments and outhouses, which include throne rooms for the
King and Queen, audience chambers, quarters for the Ministers and
the regal retinue, a treasury, a watch tower, stables, and miscella-
neous " offices."

The palace within is ablaze with gilt and red paint, and with
decorations made from fragments of mirrors and tesserae of
coloured glass. The King's throne is called the " Lion Throne,"
and the dais of the Queen "the Throne of the Lily." They are
designed to be imperial and impressive, but they would not im-
press a child of six. These seats of the mighty are covered

216 BURMAH AND CEYLON.

bare. Its walls are whitewashed, and it is windowless. Being
narrow and exceptionally lofty, the high walls and wood pillars
give it the appearance of a giraffe stable rather than that of
the sanctum of a queen.

A cosmopolitan interest must needs attach to a prominent
steeple, rich with spires and gables, which rises over the place of
the Lion Throne. This pinnacle indicates " the centre of the
universe." It has seven roofs, superimposed the one above the
other, a little like the pile of hats which was worn by the Jew
pedlar who tramped the streets in search of old clothes in days
gone by. The seven royal roofs are of corrugated iron, and this
all-important landmark, in spite of much gilt and gawdy colour,
is supported by wires on either side. The chain of reasoning which
determined its position as the centre of the planet was as follows.
The modest Burman maintained that the steeple was in the centre
of Mandalay. This premise being allowed, the rest was simple.
For Mandalay, he further stated, was in the centre of Burmah, and
consequently the seven-roofed spire was in the centre of the world.

What architects call the " elevation of the building " is not
easy to appreciate, owing to the chaotic massing together of the
parts of the palace. A picturesque little wing, however, projects
towards the open land around the royal demesne, and is shown
in the accompanying picture. It is a cheerful pavilion of wood
with a laudable verandah, a steeple of seven roofs, and the usual
covering of spires, gables, and stalagmite-like points which mark
a self-respecting Burmese dwelling of high degree.

There is a small garden at the back of the palace with a
memorable summer-house in it. The place is hardly a kingly
pleasaunce, yet it was a favourite haunt of the monarch. Any
who base their conceptions of what a regal garden should be upon
the terrace at Versailles will be disappointed with this imperial
retreat. It might be a tea-garden in the environs of Margate ; for
there are little oval flower beds in it, a little artificial pond, a
little rockery, a little wooden bridge over an arm of the pond, and,
indeed, all the scenic effects and appurtenances of a place where
holiday folk expect to find round, white tables with shrimps and
tea. The summer-house is, by comparison, quite august, for it has

A CORNER OF THE PALACE
AT MANDALAY.

THE PALACE OF THE KING OF KINGS. 21;

a beautiful tiled roof and a handsome verandah with a royal
spaciousness about it. This house in the garden is noteworthy,
because it was on its balcony that King Thebaw was discovered
when the English entered the place in November, 1885, and it
was here that he surrendered himself as a prisoner to General
Prendergast and Colonel Sladen. A brass tablet by the balustrade
callously records this fact.

A BURMESE PUBLIC LIBRARY.

Among the sights in Mandalay which " will well repay a visit "
are " the 450 Pagodas " and the Queen's Monastery. " The 450
Pagodas " are outside the town. They have always been as-
sociated with the figure 450, although the actual number of
buildings assembled together is said to be 730. They are ar-
ranged in a precise square, shut in by a high wall and by crumbling
guest houses which were intended to provide comfort for those
who came to see this surprising spectacle. The attractiveness of
the spot is evidently on the wane, for the place is wofully deserted,
and grass has spread over the floors of the roofless caravanserai.

The 730 pagodas stand in a bare, paved yard, in long lines
disposed with mathematical accuracy. The structures themselves
are small, are built of brick covered over by plaster which once was
white ; they are now uniformly shabby.

The one terrible feature about this army of pagodas is that
they are all exactly alike — height for height, dome for dome,
niche for niche. They produce an impression which could only
be equalled by finding in a silent square a great company of men
standing in formal rows, and each man the very counterpart of
the other. The alley ways of the square are in multiples, the
path up and down them is without end, while the haunting same-
ness of the place is well-nigh appalling. The long passing by
of one unchanging object may drowse some people into a mesmeric
state, and those who roam along these never-varying streets lined
with never-varying monuments may feel creeping over them a list-
less hypnotic influence.

This drear picture of monotony, this dismal realisation of un-
variableness is as numbing as an ever-repeated "no," or as a

218

A BURMESE PUBLIC LIBRARY. 219

chant droned over a thousand times. If the shut-in court were to
reach for miles, and if a man were to lose his way among these
interminable dumb lanes, he would have forced upon him some
conception of eternity before he gained the outer air.

The loneliness and stillness of the place give it the aspect of
a cemetery where everyone of the dead bore the same name, had
reached the same age, and possessed the same countenance. To
the trivial minded the place might be the yard of a pagoda-making
company who had overstocked themselves with pagodas of one
pattern and had then failed.

The enclosure, however, is neither a burial ground nor an archi-
tectural folly, nor a Golgotha for pagodas. It is a public library.
King Thebaw's uncle — a Carnegie of the time — thought that cer-
tain holy books should be made accessible to the public, and should
be preserved where neither moth nor rust could corrupt. He there-
fore caused the Buddhist commandments to be engraven upon
slabs of stone. Every stone tablet is made upon the same pattern,
and over each a pagoda is built which shows also no shadow of
variableness.

If he intended to express the unchangeability of a command-
ment he has effected his end. If he hoped to show that each pre-
cept was alike in value he has taught the lesson.

Here are the sacred books so that all who run may read. Here,
too, are endless avenues of stone where no unusual object can
distract the mind of the contemplative reader. Those who pass
through the deserted gateway which leads out of this sanctuary
may thank heaven that

" The great world spins for ever down the ringing grooves of change."

The Queen's Golden Monastery is an edifice of such magni-
ficence that it is said to be the handsomest structure of its kind
in Burmah. It is built of teak. Old it is, and wonderful, but little
like a monastery to the European eye. From the lowest step to
the topmost spire it is covered with faded gilt, as if a yellow hoar
frost had settled upon it. Where the gilt is happily lacking there
is wholesome wood ; where the gilt is worn there is the eternal red
paint In the Western world the monastery roof is sober and plain,

220 BURMAH AND CEYLON.

a homely slope of grey tiles tempered by moss and lichen, where
pigeons can settle and watch the world in the cloister. Here the
covering of the monastery is a restless erection of eaves upon eaves,
of gables laden with ornament, and of steeples sprouting with a
myriad gold spires. Such has been the builder's passion for points
and pinnacles that the bramble-like roof is positively prickly with
brazen thorns, while from every edge gilt seems to drip. The
wandering dove would never find here a rest for the sole of her
foot. Indeed, the only winged thing who could fitly perch upon
this roof would be a heraldic griffin.

The building itself looks uneasy, for every wall, panel, and post
is tortured by fretful and exuberant carving. The figures depicted
by the carver illustrate tales of fairies and genii. Doors are casual
and windows are lacking, but nowhere is there any respite from
the all-pervading yellow glare. Around the monastery is a spacious
wooden verandah raised upon pillars and approached by steep
stairs. Encircling this balcony is a very magnificently carved
balustrade of teak. There is a neglected garden, beyond the green
of which is a rest from the blaze of perpetual gold leaf.

The Queen's Golden Monastery is very marvellous, and it may
be fitting for the glaring sun of the tropics, but, as a contrast and
an agreeable relief, there comes to the mind the picture of a like

retreat where

" Deep on the convent roof the snows
Are sparkling to the moon."

Prowling about this uncomfortable monastery are the monks,
clad in robes of dirty yellow. Their heads are shaven and un-
covered, and they are for the most part of unpleasant countenance.
A few of them look so dull and brutish that they seem to affect
that aspect of sodden smugness which characterises the old images
of Buddha. It is possible that they are not so slovenly as they
look, and it is affirmed that their lives are by no means squandered
in loutish idleness. To the casual onlooker they appear to be the
licensed loafers of the country, so that if their days have a moral
effect upon the youth around them, it escapes the superficial eye.

They toil not, neither do they spin. They do not pretend to
work for their food, nor do they even buy it. They beg it, and

THE QUEEN'S MONASTERY. 221

that, too, with an air of haughty patronage. In the morning they
slouch from house to house with bowls to be filled by the pious.
They are a distinguished order of beggars in that they have suc-
ceeded in substituting condescension for cringing, and arrogance
for hypocrisy. Their numbers are legion. They pervade the whole
country, and in Mandalay alone there are said to be 7,000 of them.
They are engaged in the teaching of youth, and nearly every
Burman has been at one time or another a monk. Although they
are likely to impress the hurried visitor unfavourably, they are
much honoured and beloved by the people. Those who know most
of the monastic system in Burmah speak of it in terms of the
highest praise. No tribute, for example, is more critical or more
generous than that furnished by Mr. Fielding in his most fas-
cinating book, " The Soul of a People.'""

* London, 1898.

VII.

THE IRRAWADDY.

The most pleasant route from Mandalay to Rangoon is by
river. It is usual to take the steamer from Mandalay to Prome, a
distance of 397 miles, and thence proceed to Rangoon by train.

The Irrawaddy is a mighty and glorious tide. It comes from
the unknown, for it arises among the hills of an untravelled coun-
try somewhere in the highlands of Tibet. From the point where
the geographer has a knowledge of it to the sea is some 1,500
miles, and of this distance no less than 900 are navigable.

It is a deep, majestic stream. In places it widens out into a
lazy lake, two or three miles across, while elsewhere it narrows to
a crazy rapid, hurrying through a fierce defile like a frightened
thing. After this breathless passage it idles again — a leisurely
current, dawdling through a languid jungle or by curving, coaxing
bays, or drifting under the eaves of sleep-suggesting rocks. There
is always a fine dignity about the river. It moves as moves a great
determined multitude filled with such a blind solemn instinct as
leads a migratory herd. It is as portentous as the river of an
allegory.

The colour of the water is brown, and this, when the sun shines
upon it, becomes steel-grey, so that the surface looks metallic.
Here and there are bubbling sand shoals, and here and there, rising
out of the stream, are sand islands dotted with birds. Around these
straw-coloured eyots the tide eddies as if it mimicked the circles
of a dance.

The banks change with every bend in the river. Sometimes
they are covered with chubby, rounded trees that look, at the
distance, as if made of pieces of green cauliflower ; sometimes the
bank is of brown rocks, which call to mind a moss-grown rampart

222

THE IRRAWADDY. 223

rising from a moat Sometimes there are fawn-colourud stretches
of sandy beach, edged with cactus, or there will be an ash-grey
cliff of sand topped by a line of palms. The banks are most
beautiful when there are smooth dove-coloured boulders by the
edge of the stream with a yellow sand bank behind, on the summit
of which are dark green bushes or creepers, which drop over the
little yellow cliff in still cascades.

Many an untidy village of thatched huts will be passed, and
many a well trodden gully where oxen come down to the river
to drink. About the villages are women carrying up water in
brass water pots which gleam on their heads like beads of gold,
women washing on the beach, and children bathing. Here will be
a rolling line of maize-tinted dunes with tufts of green rushes
among the sand, and there, cut through a bank of bushes, is a
white road leading from the water's edge to a village in a wood.
Every few miles pagodas are to be seen, sometimes alone, some-
times struggling out of a cluster of banana leaves, or standing
guardian over a little hamlet of seal-brown roofs.

Upon the drift of the stream there are strange birds and
stranger boats. There are canoes and " dug-outs " which barely
rise above the water, and great boats like gondolas, but with
uncommon sails. There are house boats, timber rafts with mat
huts on them and numerous wet men ; also piratical-looking vessels
with high poops — ghosts of the old Spanish caravel. On the poop
is a throne where the helmsman stands shaded by a canopy. The
vessel is marvellously carved, but the canopy is of corrugated iron.
Dotted about everywhere are silent men and motionless birds,
equally absorbed in fishing.

The steamers that trade upon the river are stalwart vessels,
burning petroleum in place of coal. They are larger and more com-
fortable than any steamer on the Nile, so that the voyager will be
hard to please who fails to find this river journey a delight.

By the wheel there stands a native pilot He is usually a
wrinkled old man with shrewd puckered eyes and bent shoulders.
He stands with his hands behind his back and gazes ever on the
stream. The monotonous drone of the man with the lead falls
upon his ear, but he seems best to understand the chant of the river.

224 BURMAH AND CEYLON.

He lifts a^hand, and the wheel is moved to the right. He nods,
the wheel is still. He turns his eyes towards the helmsman, and the
wheel circles to the left.

He is as placid as the river. The movements of his hand which
guide the ship are as mystic as the river language, as the eddies,
the line of ripples, the mirror-like ring, and all the other picture
writings on her surface. He signs to the ship in this water
language, in this wondrous dumb alphabet that so few can read,
and the ship understands. He has spent his life on the whispering
stream. In his little brown body is a great love for the river. He
would tell you the stream is his mother. In his heart of hearts he
would own she was his goddess, and he her prophet. He is the
priest of the river. He passes his days in watching her face. He
listens in his hut at night for any change in the chanting of her
voice. He knows her as a mother knows a child — her wayward-
ness, her petulance, her little outbreaks of rebellion, her dreaminess,
her infinite lovableness.

The little brown pilot is part of the brown river, and one day
his love, the river, will carry him away with her to the sea.

VIII.

THE CAPITAL CITY OF CEYLON.

Some six days are occupied in the journey by steamer from
Calcutta to Colombo. There is the Hooghly to be traversed, a
part of the voyage that is apt to be varied, for the Hooghly is a
river of incidents. On one day there comes a wayward tide, and
on another a sinister movement of a sand bank. Between the sand
drifts and the pilot there is a perpetual feud. They play against
one another as two play at the game of chess. The stakes are
the lives of men. The river makes a move, and the pilot meets
it. In the depths of the night the wily tide will glide a shoal across
the fairway, as a player furtively pushes a piece across the board
Muddy as the waters are, the pilot's eye is not blind to the stealthy
movement, and the ship goes safe. Sometimes the man at the
wheel is checkmated, the good ship plunges on to the shallow and
the greedy sand takes it.

How many wrecks this river has seen no record can tell. Th"
most villainous shoal of all in the evil stream bears the unsuspicious
name of " James and Mary." The very demon of the river must
lie coiled here in the eddying mud. As long ago as 1694 he seized
hold of a gallant craft, the James and Mary, and dragged her
down to her death, whereby the bank came by its name.

By reason of some underhand operation of the river the steamer
we sailed in was compelled to anchor all night in the centre of
the stream. As soon as the sun had set, hordes of mosquitoes
put off from the land and boarded the vessel like pirates. They
came for blood, and they were probably satisfied, for the havoc
they wrought was great

It was a pleasant relief to most when the steamer was clear of
the land, and was throwing from either side of her bows a curling
P 225

226 BURMAH AND CEYLON.

wave of the bluest sea. It was pleasant to all who were homeward
bound, for this was the same blue sea that bellowed into Plymouth
Sound, and that swept the green slopes of Southampton Water. It
was pleasant to those who were tired of India, of its heat, its
smells, its flies, and its melancholy. As they looked back towards
the " Land of Regrets " they could not fail to notice that the
dust of India followed still, for miles out to sea, in the guise of
the Hooghly mud.

The approach to Ceylon was heralded by a token in the sky,
by a baldachino of white clouds. These were the first clouds which
had been visible in the heavens for many months of this journey.
In India the sky had been ever the same — a windless desert of
turquoise blue, glaring, hot, and empty. This fathomless void
faded upwards into space. There were no means of gauging its
heights except by the poised hawk or the swinging speck of a
vulture, watching for something to die. Such are the heavens,
which, when filled with the yellow heat of the sun, are " as brass."

Now that we had come upon clouds the world had changed.
The sky was kindly, and nearer at hand. It had stooped down to
the hill-top, and had crept into the valley, while over the town it
could be touched by the children's kites.

To the passengers on the steamer the clouds over the island
recalled memories of England. One of the homeward bound, who
through years of exile had ever cherished London as his earthly
Paradise, declared that his present happiness would be complete
if only the ship could glide into a cold November fog.

For many hours before Colombo is sighted the steamer skirts
the coast of the island The first impression of Ceylon is of a
land of intense green. The shore is lined by cocoa-nut palms, not
standing in twos or threes, as in India, but in dense forests, many
miles long and some furlongs deep. Far inland the palms give
way to other trees, for the cocoa-nut, they say, is only happy when
within sound of the sea. All the far hills are covered so closely
and so evenly with trees that, at a distance, the uplands look
like grass downs ; and it would seem as if one could walk smoothly
over the dells and hillocks made by the topmost boughs.

As the vessel steams along close in shore, it is evident that we

THE CAPITAL CITY OF CEYLON. 227

had come at last to the island of the story book, rtere is the
very beach which has figured so vividly in many a " tale for boys."
Here is a coral reef where the indigo-coloured sea breaks up into
roaring lines of foam, while within the reef the leisurely swell
tumbles upon a yellow beach. This is the " adventurer's island,"
for here is a red headland, with a grassy knoll, and a clump of palms
upon its summit which must have been a pirates' look-out. There
is even a dark cave filled with the sea, and there can be little
doubt that at its tunnel end is a small, dim beach where a boat
could land with treasure to be buried. The cocoa-nut trees come
down to the water's edge. They make a background of deep
shadows, among which can be seen a forest of bare trunks, stand-
ing erect like a crowd of masts in a harbour. There is a rock
between the forest and the beach, and from its shelter rises
upwards a curling line of smoke — a wreath of Gobelin-blue against
the purple aisles of the wood. By this fire a buccaneer must be
sitting, counting his " pieces of eight," with his flint gun by his
side, his faithful dog, his parrot, and his comic bo'sun. Though
seen for the first time, the brilliant shore was familiar, and if
Robinson Crusoe and Friday were searching in the sand for
turtles' eggs it would seem more familiar still.

Colombo lies upon a level plain about the circle of its harbour.
It looks bright and comfortable from the sea, and, like the rest of
Ceylon, it is very green. Half the houses are lost among trees.
A grey lighthouse dominates the town with no little dignity. On
the sea face are the remains of an old fort which goes back to
the days of the Dutch and the Portuguese. There is an ancient
Dutch belfry also in the city, with other relics of the time when
the sea-going peoples of Europe were struggling for possession
of the favoured island. Many bungalows are to be seen, with
chocolate-coloured roofs and creeper-covered walls, always in the
shadow of palms. Very prominent from the sea is a long stiff
building, with an interminable facade of drab arches. It is
laboriously ugly and prim, and as little in keeping with the
generous carelessness of the scenery of the tropics as would be a
gasometer in the Elysian Fields. It is a barracks for English
soldiers which would be a disfigurement even to Hounslow Heath.

228 BURMAH AND CEYLON.

The town is just an Eastern town which has been settled from
the West There are tram lines, of course, and along the metals
of this modern road will be coming a creaking cart, with wheels of
solid wood and a hood of mats, drawn by two dreamy, wavering
bullocks. This is the cart of a thousand years ago. There are
shops where anything can be purchased from patent medicines or
flannel shirts to Paris hats or a gramophone. On the causeway
outside the shop is a man, nude but for a loin cloth, crouching over
a native basket filled with strange fruits. He is the merchant of
a thousand years ago. There is a new colonnade, with the smart
houses of shipping companies and banking firms, and in sight of
it is a bee-hive hut made of bamboo fibre, palm-leaves, and mud—
the house of a thousand years ago.

This mixture of the restless inventive European and the un-
changing native is a striking feature of the settlement. If a motor
launch broke down outside the harbour it would probably be towed
ashore by a long narrow canoe propelled by paddles and steadied
by an outrigger fashioned from a log of wood. Such a boat should
be able to trace its pedigree to the days of Noah. At Colombo
also can be seen by the side of great ocean liners, the catamaran —
a scooped-out baulk of timber which was possibly familiar to
prehistoric men.

Just outside Colombo is a delightful marine drive called the
"" Galle Face Esplanade." It is a fine red road, with a sandy beach
on one side and a lawn on the other, bordered by bungalows and
palms, and tempered by a blue-water lake. Along this road will
be smart rickshaws, each drawn by a damp, never-tiring coolie,
while now and then a trim governess car will go by, to which is
harnessed a pair of trotting bullocks. Well-dressed ladies, half-
naked Cingalese, wholly-naked children, Indians in gorgeous
turbans and brilliant robes, and a couple of British soldiers, each
with a cane under his arm, will be among the loiterers along the
road Everything is so strange, so unusual in colour, so anomalous,
that it is a matter almost of surprise to note that the waves break
upon the beach with just the same sounds as echo along the
Marine Parade at Brighton.

All around Colombo is a country of glorious gardens. No other

THE CAPITAL CITY OF CEYLON. 229

j
capital in the world has such suburbs. There are avenues of palms

with just a glimpse of the white sea between their crowded trunks,
hedges ablaze with the scarlet hybiscus, thickets of rustling bam-
boo, lanes that lead through banana groves, the apple-green fans
of which shut out everything but the sky.

Such gardens, too, there are about the bungalows as can be
seen nowhere but in the tropics ! Such glens full of wildest under-
growth! For fields of wheat there are fields of cinnamon, for
meadows there are rice swamps, for cherry orchards are copses of
mango and bread fruit trees, for the hop garden is the brake of
sugar cane. Here, too, as in Burmah, the cattle look well fed and
comfortable, and in striking contrast to the half-starved ragged
ghosts of animals who prowl sullenly about the wastes of India,

IX.

THE CINGALESE AND THEIR DEALINGS WITH DEVILS.

This beautiful country is peopled by pleasant-looking people.
The Cingalese are evidently of Aryan descent, and there is little
doubt but that they have come from the continent of India. They
are a cheerful and amiable folk, who have shaken off the melan-
choly of India, and as the majority of them are Buddhists, they
are not made gloomy by their religioa In the native bazaar the
standard of comfort is evidently higher than on the mainland. The
houses are trim and well-kept, and there is lacking that street of
rags and ruins, filled with dust and the odour of goats and cooking
oil, which recalls a memory of the native quarter in India.

The women are vivacious and comely. Such prettiness as they
possess is that of the Hindu woman, but they want the weary,
down-cast eye and the look of eternal nausea which is so common
on the Peninsula. There is comparatively little squalor in Ceylon ;
life is easier, food is plentiful, while the women are not enslaved
by the ignoble work which drags them to the dirt in India.

The Cingalese woman appears to be content. There is usually
a smile on her cinnamon-brown face. Her head is bare, her black
locks are arranged in a simple coil. Her costume consists of a
skirt of coloured silk or cotton with a white linen bodice. This
bodice is so scanty that, viewed by European eyes, it would seem
to belong to the category of underclothing. Thus the native
woman appears to have never completed her toilet. There is a
suggestion that she has omitted to put on a jacket or some such
upper garment. Between the white bodice and the gaudy skirt is
a gap showing the brown skin of the waist, as if the wearer wished
to place beyond doubt the fact that she is not tight-laced. The
European affects a bare neck and shoulders, the Cingalese a bare
waist. It is de rigueur to carry an umbrella. The jewellery worn

230

THE CINGALESE. 231

is plain and unostentatious. The toe-rings, nose-rings^ and other
extravagances of the belle of India are lacking.

The clothing of the children is merely symbolic, while the men
of the working classes have succeeded in reaching that limit in
raiment beyond which any further reduction is impossible. Men
of a less humble class wear a white linen jacket and a petticoat.
They are peculiar about their hair in that they apparently decline
to have it cut. It is drawn back from the forehead to be twisted
into a prim knob at the back of the head This knob is small, but
is always decorously placed. It is very unlike the rakish knot of
glossy hair which the Burman cultivates, and which is sometimes
tossed on one side of the head, and sometimes allowed to droop
on the nape of the neck. As age advances with the Cingalese man
the effort to obtain enough hair to make a knob is evidently ex-
treme. The enterprise, however, is never abandoned, for an old
man will patiently scrape together the few remaining hairs of his
head to form a button no larger than a Spanish nut. The average
size of this boss of hair is that of an orange. Every man, whether
well supplied with hair or bald, dons a semicircular tortoiseshell
comb precisely like that worn by little English girls to keep their
tresses from their foreheads. The man, however, wears his comb
upside down, and at the back of his head. Its intention is not
evident.

The feminine dressing jacket, the scanty, spinster-like skirt,
the little girl's comb, and the hair " done " in a knob make the
Cingalese man look very like a woman — and, it may be added, like
a comic woman. This demure knot at the back of the head is a
feature of the mother-in-law of the farce and of the aunt of the
caricaturist. The typical " aunt " is thin and prim, has a sharp nose,
and an almost bald head, the hair of which is collected into a frigid
bulb behind. She has mittens, spectacles, and a faint moustache.
The man of Ceylon does not wear mittens, but he often presents
a feminine moustache ; thus his near resemblance to the lean
woman with a reticule over her arm is often remarkable. These
men have agreeable, gentle faces, are often handsome, often
pathetic-looking, while those who know them best are full of
their praises.

232 BURMAH AND CEYLON

Many of the educated natives of Ceylon have taken a high
position in certain professions, notably in law and medicine. Apart
from their specific learning they are as a rule gentlemen of cul-
ture and refinement, who have in addition to their attainments,
the dignity of Eastern manners.

Through the kindness of a Cingalese gentleman and my friend
Sir Allan Perry, I was able to see something of the native methods
of treating disease — notably by " devil dancing."

The therapeutics of this measure is apparently based upon the
theory that the sick person is possessed of a devil, that the disorder
is due to that particular devil, and that the intruding spirit can
be driven out of the body by appropriate means. The theory is
old, and is as worthy of respect as are many less ancient theories
as to the fons et origo mali. It may be considered to represent
in an allegorical form the bacterial basis of disease, which is a
leading feature of modern pathology.

In Ceylon the medical practitioner endeavours to drive the un-
substantial parasite out of the man's body by means of " devil
dancing." This method of treatment is a little noisy and confus-
ing, while it is as full of mystery as a physician's prescriptions.

I was taken into a room by the doctor and shown a man lying
upon a bed. He was in perfect health, but he was playing the part
of the invalid, and was for the moment the corpus vile. For the
purpose of the demonstration he was assumed to be afflicted with
typhoid fever, and the treatment was such as was applicable
to that disorder. In front of the sick man was a board upon which
was painted a gigantic demon or devil, in what may be presumed
to be natural colours. He was very red, and his teeth and eyes
were fearful beyond words.

He was so contorted by fury that the frown upon his brow was
terrible to see. About him were many mystic signs, which would
convey to the uninitiated some of the horrors of the unknown.
The make-believe invalid held in his hand a string the other end
of which entered the body of the demon about the region of the
heart.

The quiet of the sick-room was now broken in upon by two
grotesquely dressed men, one of whom beat hysterically upon a

DEVIL DANCING. 233

drum, while the other went through a series of contortions which
included all the muscular possibilities of epileptic fits, mania, and
demoniacal possession. I gathered from the native physician that
his desire was to cast the devil of typhoid fever out of the man,
and to make it enter the blood-curdling figure on the board. I
was led to assume that this transmigration would be effected along
the piece of string after the manner of a telephone message. As
a method of procedure this driving out of devils appeared to differ
little from that employed in driving an unquiet cow from a field,
namely, by noise and the waving of arms.

Typhoid fever is an obstinate complaint, and the demon of
it seemed to be but little influenced by noises which had already
numbed us into deafness, or by movements which had rendered the
sympathisers by the bedside giddy.

There came, however, a sudden crisis. The man who beat upon
the drum now smote it like hail from a hurricane, so as to fill the
bed-chamber with a crashing and chaotic din. His colleague at
the same time fell into a series of the most fearful fits I have ever
witnessed. Dreadful convulsions shook him as a terrier shakes a
rat, he seemed to have as many revolving arms as a Hindu god,
while the perspiration, streaming from his brow, washed the paint
on his face into his foaming mouth. The contortions of hydro-
phobia, lock-jaw, and strychnia-poisoning combined would be
languid and leisurely in comparison with the alarming movements
of this healer of the sick.

The invalid trembled gently on his couch, like a kinematograph
figure. The string twitched. Then in a moment the drum ceased,
the convulsed man fell under the bed, the physician smiled proudly
and bowed. He had triumphed The demon of the fever had gone
out of the man and had entered into the board. The struggle had
been severe, but the art of healing had prevailed. Damp beads
stood upon the foreheads of everyone — for Ceylon is hot — but all
was well.

This treatment of typhoid fever differs in many essentials from
that observed in this country. To those who hold that quiet in
the sick-room is desirable, and who advocate " straw in the street,"
this method could not commend itself. The carrying out of the

234 BURMAH AND CEYLON.

treatment, moreover, would harass the mind of the budding doctor
who had heard much of what is called " a restful, bedside manner."
In the case of an already delirious patient the cure might give
point and individuality to his dreams, or it might serve to temper
the tedium of a long illness in the case of a deaf child.

This one display had, however, by no means exhausted the
resources of the native physician. It had served to do no more
than demonstrate one procedure in treatment. There are, it
appears, other means of healing which can be carried out beyond
the confines of the sick-room, and are, indeed, quite effective if
applied in the garden, or in the high road or jungle, in front of
the patient's house.

The treatment consists in the dancing of one who is disguised
to represent the particular demon causing the disease. The dancing
is carried out amid a phenomenal beating of drums. Each
disease has its own special devil, and these evil spirits vary con-
siderably in feature, in complexion, and in the costume they affect.
They are all very unattractive. Some have the heads of monkeys,
some of tigers, some are as hairy as the wild goat, some glisten like
fish. All are very rich in teeth, in tinsel, in vermilion and blue
paint, and in jingling appendages.

I was fortunate enough to meet, among others, the demons of
ague, of fever, of small-pox, and of cholera. The medical practi-
tioner, to show that he was abreast of the times, introduced me,
with special formality, to the demon of appendicitis. I was glad
and interested to meet him, although he was unreasonably noisy,
and had the look of a child's " jack-in-the-box."

The method in which the treatment is applied by this par-
ticular school of physic is as follows. A poor man lies ill, let
us say, of the small-pox. The doctor is sent for. He identifies
the disease. More than that, he knows the particular devil that
caused it. A representative of this demon then comes upon the
scene and, to the sound of drums, executes before the sufferer's hut
a series of extraordinary convulsions, which for want of an appro-
priate term, are described as dances.

These contortions are of a high order, for they represent the
struggle between man and the devil. Here the representative of

DEVIL DANCING. 235

human art — in the person of the physician's assistant — is, as it
were, inside the devil, and the efforts he puts forth to rid him of the
dire presence are exceptionally violent and heating. The dancing
may last for hours or even for a night. The duration, so far as I
know, may depend upon the severity of the disease, or even upon
the physician's fee. At the end of the awful and Homeric contest,
the champion of human genius, as a rule, conquers. Theoretically
the patient should then recover, but in the East, as in the West,
the destiny of a sick man does not always follow the dictates of
theory.

I was assured that " devil dancing " was attended with con-
siderable success in the relief of suffering in the island. It is as
popular with certain classes as is physic drinking with some of the
inhabitants of Europe. If a Cingalese child has measles its mother
will long for a " devil dance " in order that the demon of measles
might be cast out of the child. If an English child has measles
many a mother will wish to give it medicine, not directly because
the medicine may do it good, but because it has the measles.

Physic drinking has this advantage over " devil dancing " — it
is quieter.

THE WILD GARDEN.

The railway from Colombo to Kandy is probably the most
beautiful that any train has ever traversed. The distance is
seventy-five miles, during which the line rises to 1, 680 feet above
the sea level. The road winds up among hills covered to their
summits with the glorious vegetation of the tropics, until it reaches
the face of a commanding precipice at whose base lie stretched
the domains of the evergreen island.

From this height one looks down upon the Wild Garden of the
World, upon upland and dell, thorpe and towering crag, smooth
slope and jagged ravine, all massed with romantic imagery, all
budding with eager life.

Miles below is a river winding through a plain. By its banks
are many palms, while beyond the palms lie yellow-green meadows
of growing rice fringed by a village of brown huts. Out of the
plain rise hills, one above the other, ever mounting skyward until
they are lost in the range of damask peaks on the horizon. On to
the plain valleys open, which wind away among the hills to end
in a purple haze. These are Valleys of Sleep, any one of which
may lead to the Palace of the Sleeping Beauty. They are nearly
choked by rustling leaves of every shape and size, and every tint
of green. Out of the tangle a few areca-nut palms struggle into
the air to breathe, or a lofty clump of feathery bamboos burst
heavenwards like a flight of rockets.

Scattered over every dome of green are blossoms of white or
blue, tassels of primrose, or sprays laden with crimson leaves.
Where the open plain ends the jungle begins. The jungle in the
wild garden is a real jungle ; not a starving moorland as in India,
but a forest through which a way can only be made with a hatchet,

236

A POND IN THE TROPICS.

THE WILD GARDEN. 237

and where in the first clearing reached one would fear to find,
dangling against a gap of hazy sky, a writhing python.

There are terraces in this wild garden, but they are hewn
from the face of precipices, while from their margins creepers hang
into the void like drooping banners. There are alcoves and arbours
whose roofs are groined with green, but they are as lofty as a
cathedral nave. There are lawns that stretch away for miles, with
hidden nooks banked round with moss that need only the moon-
light and Titania with her court.

A scented and voluptuous wind blows through these silent
glades, while in every still valley and breezeless bay among the
woods a warm haze lingers like a cloud of incense.

As to the things that grow in this wild garden, it would need
the acumen of the Swiss Family Robinson to discover and name
but a few of them. Everywhere are there plants with strange
pods, fabulous fruits, or unexpected blossoms. This tree crowned
with a cluster of green melons is the papaw, and this bush hung
with claret-coloured nuts is the cocoa plant. The nutmeg tree is
tall and straight with a dark green trunk and dark green leaves.
The tree that bears the clove mimics it in less sombre foliage.
On the hillside is a tea plantation ; in the plain is a field of ragged
cinnamon bushes hemmed in by sago palms. There are many
rubber trees, and it is some shock to the ill-informed observer to
find that they bear no resemblance to the india-rubber plant of the
Brixton parlour window. It would need one learned in plants to
name the cactus and the ferns, to recognise the pimento and the
pepper tree, or to tell which among the many unruly creepers bore
the vanilla bean.

This great tree, with unwieldy fruit budding out of its trunk
and branches, is the bread fruit, and this little weed by the road-
side with its grey-blue blossom is the sensitive plant. In the
English greenhouse it is a pampered fondling, in the wild garden
it is as sturdy and plebeian as the school-children's buttercup.

XI.

KANDY, AND THE TEMPLE OF FRANQIPANN1 BLOSSOMS.

Kandy is a little brown town in the hollow of a sumptuous
tropical valley, where it lies on the margin of a quiet mere. Much
of the romance in the history of Ceylon clings about this drowsy
old city by the lake. It was at one time the capital of the island,
and it has seen much of war and faction fights, as well as of the
rise and fall of petty kingdoms. So many times has it been laid
waste by fire that scarcely any of its ancient buildings, with the
exception of the Temple of the Tooth, remain.

A wing of the palace still stands. It was built in 1600 by
Portuguese prisoners, in the days of massive walls, small windows,
and ponderous gates. There is a vivid suggestion of the fort
and the prison about it still, of the strong place which wras meant
to defy both men and angels, both cyclones and earthquakes.

Now it is in the occupation of the chief civil officer of the
province, who has made it worthy of its picturesque surroundings.
The anomalous building is a curious meeting place of the old
power and the new.

A frowning and savage portal, plain as a granite block, leads
into a dainty drawing-room filled with nicknacks from Bond Street
and the Rue de la Paix. It is a parlour in a donjon keep. The
walls are prettily decorated, while in every nook and corner are
traces of the hand of the English gentlewoman. The roof is a
dome of solid masonry toned down with white distemper, but
still grim enough to compel the impression of a boudoir in a
vault. The window is a deep embrasure suited for cannon and
heavy gun tackle, but it i's occupied now only by a pot of violets
and a lady's work-basket. The delicateness of the contents of
the room is intensified by the surrounding of rough stone walls,
thick as a castle rampart.

The lake of Kandy must needs be beautiful, as is every pool

238

KANDY. 239

and pond in the tropics. About that part of the laka which is
nearest to the town is a quaint wall, green with moss, and much
shadowed by trees. Around the margin of the mere are avenues
of palms. There are palms on every headland and every cape,
and on the shore of every verdant bay. There is a little round
island in the lake, and that also is shaded by a nodding palm.
The lake is shut in all round by hills covered to their summits
by a luxuriant growth of trees, the vanguard of a wild forest which
sweeps down from the sky line to the grass-covered margin of
the pool.

The hills guard the lake and hide it as if it were a sacred thing.
A breeze can scarcely find its way through the jungle to trouble
the surface of the pond, which lies bare like a mirror, so that on
it are reflected the avenue of palms by the foot-path and the leafy
hills beyond.

Roads wind up the sides of these slopes, but they are hidden
by the crowding trees which sigh ever over the lake. On the
wooded heights are houses with chocolate-coloured roofs and white
walls, but they also are masked by the jealous thicket. Among
them is a modest bungalow in which for many years lived Arabi
Pasha, dreaming of the sand dunes of Egypt, of the great brown
Nile, and of the sunset that changes the plains of Thebes into a
mirage of coral pink. In the cottage garden is now a notice that
" the house is to let."

There grow around Kandy certain trees which are, I think, the
most beautiful in the world. They have tall, dignified heights,
shapely and compact, which are crowned by masses of dark
green leaves. Among this sombre foliage are scattered flowers so
brilliant in hue as to dot it with a thousand splashes of vermilion.
I am told that the tree is called the spathodia campanula. The
name is pretty enough, but the growing thing itself might have
been the glory of the Garden of Eden.

The most interesting building in Kandy is the Temple of the
Tooth. The " sacred tooth " was no other than the tooth of
Buddha. It was brought to the island of Ceylon, after many adven-
tures, by a princess who hid it among the sleek folds of her hair.
This was near upon 1,600 years ago. It was seized by the Malabars

240 BURMAH AND CEYLON.

in 1315, arid carried away to India, In due course, and after infinite
persistence, it was recovered and secreted with pious caution. But
the heedless Portuguese unearthed the tooth, and took it with
them to India once more, to their settlement at Goa. Here the
relic which the princess had wrapped in her hair was burned.
It was burned by the blind unbelievers with boastful ceremony,
for it was an archbishop who wrought the wicked deed, and the
tooth was reduced to ashes " in the presence of the Viceroy and
his court." There was no fond princess there to save it, and it
was as long ago as 1560 that it came to this evil end.

" Wikrama Bahu manufactured another tooth, which is a piece
of discoloured ivory two inches long and less than one inch in
diameter, resembling the tooth of a crocodile rather than that of
a man. It now reposes on a lotus flower of pure gold, hidden under
seven concentric bell-shaped metal shrines, increasing in richness
as they diminish in size, and containing jewels of much beauty."*

The tooth of Wikrama Bahu is, therefore, but an emblem and
a shadow, only an Atavar of a tooth ; but it lies under its seven
bells at Kandy, one of the most cherished relics in the great realm
of Buddhism.

Around the Temple of the Tooth is a curious and ancient wall,
as old, it may be, as the little knoll it encompasses. It is fantas-
tically machicolated, and is pierced by symmetrical holes, like the
holes in a dovecote. Within the wall, for the greater safety of the
tooth, there is a moat. Bloated fish and bored turtles move oilily
in its waters, for they are fed by the devout as well as by the
imitative tourist who casts food blindly to them as he casts coppers
to a crowd of boys.

Over the moat is a bridge leading to old stairs which climb
between older walls to a terrace. Here, for the further safety of
the tooth, and the discouragement of the evildoer, are mural
paintings showing the terrors of the Buddhist hell, with special
reference to the punishment of the violators of shrines. Much
scarlet paint has been lavished upon these terrifying pictures.
They are rich in flames, in forks, in blood, and in the gnashing of
teeth. The grinning face of the director of the tortures is so
* Murray's " Handbook of India, Burmah, and Ceylon." London, 1901, page 445.

THE TEMPLE OF THE TOOTH. 241

occupied by teeth as to sacrifice his other features ; '6ut he has
very dreadful hair on his head. His fell bidding is carried out by
green devils, who differ in no important essentials from the demons
of a Christmas pantomime.

The pilgrim who in his progress has passed the wall, the moat,
the steep stair, and the writings on the wall, will find himself at
last in the precincts of the temple. The building is in an en-
closure. It is a simple house with a tiled roof, and barn-like walls
covered by crude paintings. But the pilgrim is not yet within
reach of its arcana.

From the terrace he is led along a whitewashed passage, where
there are beggars on the floor, and heaps of rice deposited as offer-
ings by the unostentatiously devout. He comes at last to the
foot of a narrow wooden stair, like the stair to a cottage attic or
a stable loft. When the summit of this ladder is reached he has
lost all knowledge of the situation of the shrine, and is as a man
in the turnings of a maze. He comes upon narrow rooms and
passages, empty, swept, and garnished, with about them the look
of by-ways in a prison. As he goes on he passes through many
doors, which are covered with silver and brass and gilded metal.
It seems that each must lead, door by door, into some nearer depth
of the mystery, and that the last portal will open into the Presence
itself. But they lead only through barren chambers.

In time he comes to a narrow vestibule. Is it the end ? he
thinks. Will he now know all? No. This is not the end. The
anteroom is small and low, with bare walls poorly whitewashed.
It is filled, however, with a heavy perfume which creeps upon the
senses like t'he vapour of an anaesthetic. The space is so confined
that the drugged air is stifling. This odour, so overwhelming in
its fragrance, comes from masses of white frangipanni flowers,
which have been brought here as offerings until they fill the little
room knee-deep. Beyond this vestibule is another door, more
gorgeous than any, with rich bestowal of silver and gilded plates,
of studs and ornamented panels. It opens into a cramped cell
within which no more than six persons could stand at once. The
poor walls are windowless, the place is dark, the atmosphere
oppressive, and the few who gather within talk in whispers.
Q

242 BURMAH AND CEYLON.

Here isf then, the end of the quest. In this rude cell, as simple
as a niche in a cellar, is the shrine of the Sacred Tooth. At one
end of the recess is a cage of iron bars very crudely gilded. The
door of the cage is fastened with enormous padlocks of archaic
pattern. On the lower of the iron bars a few fragments of candle
have been stuck, and the drowsy light from these tapers is the
sole light of the cell.

Within the heavily-barred cage is the shrine, the outer of the
seven bell-shaped coverings of the relic. It stands about four feet
in height, is wrought apparently of gold, and is covered with crude
jewels. In the gloom it looks old and unsubstantial, faded and a
little tawdry. On either side of the cage, in the narrow space
between the bars and the walls, is a half -naked priest. He stands
in the steamy shadow, and the light falls fitfully upon his face,
his brown skin, and his yellow robe. On a table in front of the
bars is a silver dish, large and brilliant, on which is piled a soft
pyramid of white frangipanni blossoms.

Beyond the imprisoned dome of gilt the vulgar eye does not
penetrate. Far in the heart of it is the golden lotus flower, holding
in its cup the carving of Wikrama Bahu, the imago of the precious
thing the princess brought to the island hidden in her hair.

A suffocating heat fills the tiny chamber as if it were buried
a mile deep in the earth. It is glutted with the smell of smoking
candles and of dripping grease blended with the luxuriant sensuous
perfume of the frangipanni. It is at best a meagre shrine, a village
sanctuary, a peasant's treasure house, an Ark of the Covenant in
a garret.

The one worshipful object in the cell is the dish with its
burden of bright blossoms. They lie piled up before the barred
shrine, an exquisite virginal offering, a divine sacrificial fleece.
Neither the guttering candles, the gaudy jewels, nor the smoke-
stained walls can sully the graciousness of these frangipanni
flowers, nor can the vulgar air drown the queenly perfume that
rises from their dying petals.

XII.
PENANQ AND SINGAPORE.

It was while in Ceylon that the news arrived of the outbreak
of war between Russia and Japan. The announcement had a dis-
turbing effect upon the miscellaneous company of people who were
travelling to seek pleasure or to escape boredom. Many of the
latter, having decided that " war was a bore," returned home
sulkily by way of the Red Sea, blessed with another grievance.
Others fled westwards with some suggestion of alarm. A few
elected to go to New Zealand instead of to Japan, feeling that in
the former place they would be farther away from the sound of
cannon and the tramp of troops.

A considerable number elected to continue on their way with
much increased interest.

The next stage of the journey was through the Straits of
Malacca to Hongkong, with Penang and Singapore as ports of
call.

As our steamer sailed out of the harbour of Colombo it passed
between a Russian vessel on the right and a Japanese on the left.
They were both passenger ships. Each flew the flag of its nation,
and it may be supposed that the two crews contemplated one
another, across the strip of peaceful water, with a newly aroused
curiosity. During the voyage the subject of war was a more unfail-
ing topic of conversation than the weather. Certain of the pas-
sengers were English residents in Japan on the way to their homes.
Others were naval officers hastening to join the British fleet at
Hongkong, with minds full of conjectures. Among the company
was a genial war correspondent who was going " direct to the
front," or rather believed that he was so destined. Some months
later I met him at Tokyo. He had approached no nearer than
that to the fighting line, but he was full of that hope which
" maketh the heart sick."

243

244 THE MALAY PENINSULA.

Colombo is situated in the parallel of 6° 56' N. To pass
through the Straits and reach the Yellow Sea beyond, it is needful
to sail south to the edge of the equator. Singapore indeed is but
a few hours from that magic belt.

The first part of the journey was very hot. The sea was as
glass, the atmosphere sticky and enervating. In spite of wind-
scoops, punkahs, and white clothes, the company on the ship was
invertebrate and damp, while the discussion of impending events
completed their feebleness. The men in the smoking-room played
cards in their shirt sleeves, with handkerchiefs stuffed down their
necks to prevent their collars from becoming as limp as their
bodies. It was a voyage in a hot-house, and the crumpled man
dozing flabbily in a chair would dream of a keen December wind
sweeping over golf links and white cliffs by the English Channel.

On the morning of the fourth day some faint cliffs were sighted
on the horizon, with above them a hazy shell-pink height. The
coast was that of the island of Sumatra, and the peak was the
Golden Mountain.

On the morning of the fifth day we came upon Penang, an
island some fifteen miles in length, near to the mainland of the
Malay Peninsula. The course of the steamer lies close along the
shore, round a considerable part of the settlement. Viewed from
the sea Penang is a very beautiful country, brilliant with every tint
of green — an island of a thousand hills. The hills are small, but
they make up in multitude what they may lack in height. They
rise up, one behind the other, on the great slope which sweeps from
the margin of the sea to the sky line, until the whole island is a
mass of peaks and ridges, downs and knolls. So crowded together
are they that the spot seems to have been the rallying place for a
colony of exiled hills. Hard is it to imagine that there can be any
level ground in the place, any wide plain, any staid stretch of
fields.

Every height in this great array of hillocks is covered with
foliage from foot to peak, with such vegetation as belongs to a
land of eternal summer, to such a sun as rides over the equator,
and to such warm winds as haunt the girdle of the world

Between the sea base of these hills and the beach are a few

PENANG. 245

russet houses with mat roofs dotted among groves cJ cocoa-nut
palms. The beach of pigeon-blue rocks serves to divide the green
bank from the restless streak of breakers. Here and there is a
dark inlet of rock, cut deep into the plinth of a hill, where there is
no sound but the ripple of the rising tide, and the frou-frou of
overhanging plumes of bamboo.

The town lies upon a great flat which runs out to sea for a
distance of four miles. So low and level is this stretch of land that
when seen from a distance it looks but a strip of verdant sedge
afloat on the ocean. It is a mere line in the seascape, and every-
thing upon it, the palms, the villas, the sheds about the quay, stand
up clearly cut, like silhouettes against the white water beyond.
Where the spit fades into the sea are some anchored liners which,
from afar, are as tiny black toy ships on a silver mirror, with about
them a cluster of masts, like a submerged tuft of dry grass.

As this streak of land is approached it is seen to be very green,
and to hide among its woods an unaspiring town. There are
splashes of bright colour about the spit. Here is a white block
of Government buildings, and there a pile of offices faced by gaudy
blinds. This canary-coloured house is a hotel, and this blue bunga-
low is a club, while between them an old drab fort sits brooding
over the tide.

In the harbour are seen, for the first time, the sampan and the
Chinese junk, with its high, box-like poop and battened sails.
The sampan is a small boat, low and broad, with a double stern
and pointed bow, which is propelled and steered by one long
oar, rocked from behind. It is the boat of the Far East, to be
met with everywhere in China and Japan, and not to be lost sight of
until the homeward-bound passenger is well astride of the Pacific.

There was the usual bustle on the quay, the indiscriminate
shouting, the aimless pushing to and fro, the evidences of that
nervous fervour which fans the riot in a disturbed ant heap. The
natives are more miscellaneous than are those even who crowd the
landing stages of Rangoon — Malays, Klings, Cingalese, East
Indians, and Chinamen. One of the most distinctive marks of a
people is to be found in their hats, and here appeared a novel
type of headgear in the form of the limpet-shell hat, which gives

246 THE MALAY PENINSULA.

a character to the Malay Peninsula, as well as to the lands beyond
The Chinese form an apparent majority of the population, while
the town itself is essentially a Chinese town, straightened by
Western ideas of house building and of sanitation.

It is a busy, cheery place with formal streets in rectangular
lines, whose original stiffness has been atoned for by many shanties,
by an informal people, and the pleasant untidiness of the East.
When the steamer touched at the colony it happened to be cele-
brating the Chinese New Year, and was, in consequence, exception-
ally gay. Red lanterns waved everywhere, while lettered strips in
black, red, or gold, hung from a hundred houses like tatters on a
mountebank's back. The Chinaman had adopted, as the raiment
of rejoicing, shiny black linen clothes, but his children were
resplendent with tinsel head dresses and whitened faces.

At Penang, as at other ports, there was great pretence of pro-
viding news from the seat of war. The " news," however, in spite
of large capitals and heavy print, never rose above the level of
hysterical fiction.

After leaving Penang the steamer still moved south. It headed
for the equator, for that fanciful band round the world where there
is neither winter nor spring, but only autumn and summer, and
where, between times of solemn and mysterious calm, the mon-
soons start on their wild flight towards the poles. So firmly is
the conception of the equator branded upon the mind by early
geography lessons, as well as by the familiar markings on maps
and globes, that it is half imagined its site will be shown by some
line on the sea, or that, as the ship nears the very outermost rim
of the spinning world — there will be heard some hum in the air as
the great circle turns in space.

In perfect silence, broken only by the mumbling of the screw,
the ship glides, under a canopy of eternal sunshine, into a sea of
islands. There is not a ripple on the blue-green water, and only
a junk or two, or a party of idle sea birds, occupy the clear straits
between the clusters of islands. The islands are small, but they
are as beautiful as the imagination could devise. One is a mere
crag, brick-red where the sun falls on it, bronze-green where the
rock is covered by trees. Another island is but a curved streak

SINGAPORE. 247

of yellow beach with three palms on it. A third is a tome-shaped
clump of soft bushes resting on the sea. The lower boughs seem
to touch the water, and so buried is this beehive-shaped hillock
with foliage that neither shore nor bank is to be seen. A fourth
is a wonder of white cliffs and woods with a bay in it, where a
smooth lawn slopes down to the surf, and a crown of cropped green
on its summit looks like a little breezy down.

The largest of the islands is Singapore. It is long and low,
infinitely undulating, and intensely green. From one end to the
other it measures twenty-seven miles. Its sea cliffs are marvellous
in colour. Some are white, or of a dull yellow ; others are salmon
coloured, or even mauve-pink. They are crested everywhere with
trees. Masses of green fill many chines or clefts in their heights,
or cling to terraces halfway between the rippled beach and the
summit. One entrance to the harbour is through a narrow strait,
between steep headlands hung with green. It is the mouth of
Dartmouth haven transported from Devonshire to the tropics.

The harbour itself is one of the largest and most picturesque
in the world. It is a land-locked sea, a harbour in a garden of
many leagues, a wide salt lake surrounded by the woods and groves
of the far south. On a curving bay in this great harbour is the town.
It appears as a low and broken line by the water's edge, made up
of rows of masts, the hulls of ships, tall chimneys, banks of quays,
long rows of sheds, and a spire or two. The far-stretching range
is very hazy with smoke, while through the smoke can be seen
the background of hills. Singapore, as first seen, might have been
fashioned from a bank of the Mersey, about the busiest shipping
quarter of Liverpool, spread along the bay of a South Sea Island.
Cranes, jetties, and coal heaps seem out of place on this gorgeous
shore, where the hot wind breathes only of eternal idleness. Yet
Singapore is one of the greatest ports in the world, and the popu-
lation of its city is more than 160,000.

The quay the steamer makes fast to might be in the midst of
a botanical garden, for just beyond the coaling shed is a bank of
ferns on which is waving the beautiful traveller's palm, with its
great leaves spread out like a fan.

Ashore there is a long, unsteady town, with that liberal air

248 THE MALAY PENINSULA.

about it wLich belongs to places which have been able to spread
themselves out over a virgin soil. A fine esplanade runs along
the sweep of the bay, with ambitious public buildings and fine
villas on one side, and on the other a polo ground by the edge of
the sea. The Java sparrow, who in England is a pampered
curiosity in a cage, takes here the place of the London sparrow, and
haunts the roads and the house tops in quite a vulgar way. Singa-
pore is prosperous. Its streets are alive with rickshaws, gharries,
bullock carts, and a never-ending concourse of people. The chief
business of the town would appear to be in the hands of Germans.
Here, as in other generously-governed British settlements, is a
certain sequence of events. The English do the colonising, the
Germans follow after and do the trade.

The majority of the inhabitants are Chinese, and they give the
colour to the colony. They form three-fourths of the population,
do all the work, and fill the quay sides and busy ways with cheer-
ful, half-naked men, grinning under limpet-shaped hats.

XIII.

A PRIMITIVE VENICE.

The native Malay is of Aryan descent. He does not affect
the strenuous life. Work bores him. The laziness of eternal
summer has entered into his veins. He is content to enjoy the
sunshine and the quiet of the creeks. When he finds such lotus-
eating monotonous he goes a-fishing. He has already built himself
a house of mats. He has his cocoanut tree, which supplies him with
many things. What very few clothes he needs his wife can weave
All he has occasion to buy is rice. It is a simple, idyllic life with
simple wants. He is happy and contented, and if work tries him,
or makes him unhappy, why should he mar his life by carrying coal ?
Unlike the Western man, he has not the incentive to work which
is provided by prospects of occasional intoxication. When the
Malay needs excitement he indulges in cock-fighting.

The formal Malay village is a kind of rustic Venice. The grey
and brown houses are built upon piles in the water, and are ap-
proached by slender causeways of wood. There was a time, per-
haps, when the Queen of the Adriatic was as simple a settlement
as this. Narrow bridges lead from hut to hut, and plank lanes
separate one cluster from another. Bright rags hanging out to
dry, fishing nets on a rail, a bunch of bananas, some naked children,
and a few vacant-looking fowls occupy the queer streets of this
Boeotian Venice. Each hut is covered by a sloping mat roof as
if it followed the mode of the limpet-shaped hat. From one window
is a view over the great sea creek, while another turns towards a
thicket of palms.

Beneath the huts and lanes of the little township the tide ever
rises and falls. The Malay baby is lulled to sleep by the lapping
of the sea against the piles, and the naked boy finds the water
and the canoe beneath the house a better play-ground than the
dusty land.

249

XIV.
THE MANGROVE SWAMP.

The suburbs of Singapore are pleasant and beautiful, and, in
the eyes of many, are more delectable than the outskirts of
Colombo. Here, after following many yellow roads through many
glades of green, by a score of gay bungalows and of exquisite
gardens, the curious may, for the first time, come upon a mangrove
swamp. The mangrove swamp is the slum of the tropical jungle,
the squalid quarter of the imperial forest. It is dismal and dark,
cramped, stifling, and ruinous. So thick are the boughs overhead
that no light of the sun can ever pierce the dark, mildewed tangle
of the place. So dense are the trunks below that none but a
small, mean beast or a creeping thing could find a way through
the network.

Dead creepers hang into the gloom of this forest morgue ;
dead boughs block every gap and path as with the debris of some
grim disaster; about the ground are dead trunks, with shrunken
and contorted arms, and bare roots, in worm-like bundles, that seem
to be writhing out of the ooze.

In the undergrowth of this swamp of despair are horrible fungi,
bloated and sodden. Some are scarlet, some are spotted like
snakes, some have the pallor of a corpse. All seem swollen with
venom. There are ghastly weeds, too, lank, colourless, and sap-
less— the seedlings of a devil's garden. Their sickly petals point
skywards in a kind of hopeless mockery. Out of the slime come
crawling things, and among them loathsome land crabs whose legs
scratch among the black pulp of rotten leaves.

The air is heavy with the fumes of decay, and any ocean
breeze which may wander into this thicket of desolation will be-
come drugged by the vapour which bubbles up from the festering
bog.

250

THE MANGROVE SWAMP. 251

By silent and devious passages the soiled sea creeps into the
swamp. It crawls in like a thief seeking to hide. When the tide
is full the floor of the outcast wood is buried in fetid water ;
when the tide slinks out it leaves behind a reeking and evil mud,
which is smeared over every bank and root like a poisonous
ointment.

To make complete the picture of this Slough of Despond one
might fancy a hunted man in its most putrid hollow brushing the
vermin from his wet rags and listening with terror to the tramp
of eager feet about the margin of the mere.

part fill)

CHINA
I.

THE ISLAND OF THE MIST.

AFTER leaving Singapore the steamer turned northwards into
cooler weather, for we ran in the face of the north-east monsoon.
On the third day out from Singapore the temperature had dropped
to 70° F., whereupon the critics of the atmosphere decided that
it was cold. Punkahs and wind scoops were removed, tropical cloth-
ing vanished, and cloaks, and even great coats, appeared. With
them came the odour of camphor and naphthaline, for the last cold
weather was long ago. Draughts, lately so much sought after,
were now complained of, and the Germans on board put cotton-
wool in their ears.

The colony of Hongkong lies just within the circle of the
tropics, nearly 10,000 miles from London. The little island is
separated from the mainland by a narrow sound, which constitutes
the magnificent harbour of the place.

The mainland of China is represented by a much indented
coast at the foot of a line of bare granite hills. The hills are a
pink brown in colour, with lighter, almost yellow, patches about
their sides where the barren rock shows through its thin covering.
So smooth are these waving heights that they might be clothed
with velvet which has become so thread-bare in patches as to
show the faded woof. It is a featureless landscape of uninviting
simplicity and an air of emptiness. It is as primitive as the coast-
line of an archaic tapestry or of a water-colour drawing in its early

252

THE ISLAND OF THE MIST. 253

stages. There is no hint that this deserted-looking pla£e is China.
There are none of those towers with curved roofs, none of those
strange trees, bearing fruit after their kind, and none of those very
round bridges which figure on packets of tea. Yet this is the
country of the Willow Pattern plate.

Hongkong itself is a cluster of steep and lofty hills arranged
with graceful irregularity. The one town, Victoria, is at the foot
of " The Peak." The town has a population of 1 82,000 souls, and
the peak a height of 1,800 feet. There is but little space between
the steep hill and the sea, but along the low ledge the capital city
of Victoria has perched itself with some sprightliness.

Viewed from the harbour, Hongkong appears as if compounded
of different geographical strata. About the sky line is the bare
summit of the peak, with fir trees and a few habitations clinging
to its face. This is a part, surely, of the highlands of Derbyshire.
Lower down the hill is well wooded. There are terraces, fine
gardens, palm trees, and brightly-coloured houses. This reproduces
the hillside at Monte Carlo. At the foot of the slope is the town,
which is a strip taken from Hull or any other prosperous shipping
centre. Even if it be made up of Hull, Monte Carlo, and a Derby-
shire hill, Hongkong is still picturesque enough, and its crowning
height makes it imposing. From the town to the top of the hil)
is a very steep funicular railway, which Rudyard Kipling found as
a " tramway that stood on its head and waved its feet in the mist."

Hongkong can boast of at least one other astonishing thing
besides the cable railway, and that is its weather. From about
November to March the climate is charming — fine, bright, and brisk,
like a June day in England. From April to October the whole
island, peak and town, harbour and hillside, is liable to be buried
in a mist. Any who want to know what a damp climate can do
should visit Hongkong during the season of the mist In the early
morning they may amuse themselves by wringing the water out of
the mosquito curtains, or by noting how much green mould has
collected on boots during the night. In the daytime they must
learn to breathe steam, to see the world through the atmosphere
of a laundry, to write on damp paper, to keep their gloves in
bottles, and to sit still and drip. In the evening they must send

254 CHINA.

what clothej they wear in the day to the " drying room " with
which every house is provided, and must feel, while they sit at
dinner, the once stiff collar changing into a tie. Yet the residents
in this Island of the Mist look well. The climate certainly fails
to depress them, for they seem to have solved the problem " How
to be happy though damp."

The view from the Peak before the coming of the mist is
well to be remembered. On one side is the harbour — a blue sound
full of ships of every kind, men-of-war, junks, passenger vessels,
colliers, ocean tramps, and a myriad of sampans. On the other
side is the Pacific and the silent side of the island — a place of
valleys and slopes, of creeks and inlets, of mysterious channels and
forgotten harbours.

Here, hidden away, is a small cove with a sandy beach. It is
called Deep Water Bay. It is at a point, among the brown hills,
where a valley descends, with a great rabble of trees and wild
bushes, to the sea. Here, between the shore and the gorge, are
golf links, constructed by the exiled British. Never has the ancient
game of golf been played in a more romantic amphitheatre.

The caddie, who carries the player's clubs, is a Chinese boy
with a face the colour of a new potato. He wears a trim blue jacket
and black linen trousers, and there is a neat bow at the end of
his pigtail. If the player makes a good stroke he expands into
an approving smile. If the ball is missed he mutters " damn " with
infinite sympathy. His store of English does not extend beyond
the simple, primitive sentences, " All right," " God damn," " Gimme
a penny." These phrases are evidently not learned at a mother's
knee, but they are of practical service nevertheless.

He is a little versed in pidgin English, for when he is asked
by appropriate signs if he plays golf, he answers, " No belong my
pidgin," which is to say, " That is not my business."

He views the English player with an ever-delighted interest.
He anticipates amusement from his every act, as if the white man
were a clown with many humorous resources. If the man from
the West takes anything from his pocket, the potato-faced boy
runs forward to see it with rapturous curiosity. Possibly if a gor-
geously dressed Chinaman were to essay to play golf on the links

THE ISLAND OF THE MIST. 255

of St. Andrews, in Scotland, the attendant caddie w^uld be as
curious, even if a little less simple-mannered. At Deep Water
Bay the Chinese boy finds as much enjoyment in an afternoon as
does the Englishman he watches. What are the thoughts that flow
so cheerfully through his subtle brain none can tell. If he could
be asked himself he would probably reply in pidgin English, " Top-
side savvy," which is by interpretation, " God knows."

There are many who think that Hong Kong, both its harbour
and its town, are best to see at night time a little after sundown.
There is a never-to-be-forgotten view from a certain garden on
the hill.

In the foreground are an old stone balustrade on the edge of
a terrace, and a single tree which stands out black in every leaf
and twig against the pale sky. Beyond the balustrade is the moon-
light, and an infinite depth of blue, as if, below the terrace, lay
some misty pool. This great blue void is dotted with a thousand
lights, some yellow, some white, some large and brilliant, and some
the merest specks. They belong to ships in the harbour — the great
sparks of light to men-of-war, and the tiniest dots to sampans
huddled together by the shore in hundreds. The moon is too faint
to show the ships, but sometimes a light will fall upon the blunt
grey bow of a battleship, or illumine a wreath of steam from a red
funnel, or touch the hanging topsail of a barque. The opposite
coast of the sound is outlined by points of light, which follow each
curve and quay of the little peninsula of Kowloon as it puts out
into the harbour. Every light which is large enough is reflected
on the water. There is in the Strait an island, called Stonecutter's
Island, and the lamps on this little place also make a ring of bright
dots. It is as if there were designs in stars on a shadowy surface
of slate blue. In the haze, beyond the lights, are the silver-grey
hills of the mainland

Just below the balcony of the garden is the town, a mass of
black roofs with glimpses of glowing channels here and there, which
are streets. There is just one block of buildings in view, every
window of which is a square of warm yellow light in the black wall.

There is no sound stirring in this pool of blue, except the
tinkle of a ship bell or the rhythmical creak of rowlocks as a

256 CHINA.

man-of-wai;'s galley is rowed ashore. From the town float up the
striking of the church clock and the occasional sound of singing
in the street.

The town itself, as seen in the evening, is bustling with life.
The streets are wide and admirably kept. The offices and public
buildings can put to shame many a town of equal size in the old
country. Hongkong is flourishing. The actual trade of the colony
is represented by twenty million pounds sterling per annum.

The inhabitants are Chinese, and they seem to live in the
streets. Rickshaws pass by in never-ending lines, and with them
are many sedan chairs, each swung by a pole from the shoulders
of two coolies. The rickshaw and the chair represent the public
conveyances of the island. Of horses and carts the busy colony
knows nothing. One motor-car I saw driven by a Chinese gentle-
man in the brilliant raiment of his country. He had neither
goggles over his almond-shaped eyes, nor had he tucked his queue
into a motor cap.

The streets in those parts of the town which are more exclu-
sively Chinese are exceedingly lively and bright. The Chinaman
is a cheerful individual with a love of shining things, and a gre-
garious instinct which makes him seek the company of his fellow
men. The street is his club, his Stock Exchange, his lounge ; it
does duty for the park of the city and the esplanade of the seaside
town. It is a play-ground for his children and a drawing-room for
his women folk. After sundown, when the lights are lit and the
air is heavy with the steam of tea and the reek of cooking oil, the
road is the scene of one continuous informal conversazione.

The shops are brilliant with lamps and coloured lanterns, and
are fantastic with unfamiliar wares. They are open to the street,
for they boast of neither windows nor doors, and are hung with
vertical wooden signs on which the name and trade of the mer-
chant are inscribed in letters of gold or scarlet on a background
of brilliant lacquer.

On a sudden there may be a hush in the lane, while all eyes are
turned towards an advancing procession headed by immense Sikh
policemen in red turbans — bearded and sombre men. The pro-
cession consists of a number of sedan chairs with white canopies.

THE ISLAND OF THE MIST. 257

They are swung from long poles, which rest on thej shoulders
of four bearers, two in front and two behind The leading chair
is borne aloft by no less than eight men walking in solemn pairs.
These bearers are Chinamen in brilliant attire. They wear scarlet
tunics, and as they walk they swing their arms with considerable
pomp and circumstance. On the head of each is a black silk hat
shaped like a pie and decorated by a swinging red tassel. The
costume is completed by white breeches, white leggings, and white
shoes. On the arm of each scarlet tunic is the Tudor crown.
The cortege, which moves through the gaping streets with such a
dignified tramp of feet, is that of the party from Government House
on their way to the Chinese theatre. In the chair with eight
bearers is Mr. Francis May, the Acting Governor, with whose
admirable work in the colony the tale of its progress will always
be associated. In the second chair is his wife, who can claim to
be the most popular lady in the island.

II.

A THEATRE AND A HOSPITAL.

There is in Hongkong a substantial native theatre in the form
of a permanent building. As a rule the Chinese theatre is a tem-
porary structure of bamboo and matting — a mere shanty put
together when occasion needs. The theatre in Hongkong is an
immense square building, as bare as a goods shed and as ugly.
The auditorium is one vast pit, stuffed to suffocation with a chatter-
ing blue and black crowd The theatre opens at 1 1 a.m. and closes
at 1 1 p.m. ; but those who may find these hours too short are
consoled by the knowledge that a play will usually extend over
many days.

The stage is a rough platform occupying one end of the hall.
It possesses neither footlights, scenery, nor curtain. The orchestra
sits on the stage itself, on dilapidated chairs or boxes. They are
in the shabby working dress of the ordinary coolie of the quay.
They smoke and talk a good deal, while their friends drop in
casually during the performance to discuss at leisure current events.

The musicians beat upon things of iron and things of wood,
they clash enormous cymbals, they blow upon horns and flageolets
until their yellow faces become blue. The noise they produce is
astounding and extremely violent. It comes forth in deafening
bursts. The gentler tones are those of an iron foundry where many
anvils are at work. To the accompaniment of such dulcet notes
the Chinese Romeo pours the tale of his love into Juliet's ear.
It may be that the sound of the riveting of boiler plates would be
to the humbler Chinaman the melody of love.

The less soothing notes of the orchestra convey a sense of some
fearful structural disaster. Should the hero be especially magnani-
mous, or the villain particularly vile, there comes a deafening crash,
as of the collapse of a resounding building, with infinite smashing
of glass and shrill shrieks. The human brain is not constructed on

258

A THEATRE AND A HOSPITAL. 259

invariable lines, so it may be that mere noise can arouse in the
Mongolian cerebrum emotions and raptures which the Western
sense fails to appreciate.

The actors enter by two doors in the rough brick wall on either
side of the stage. Boys and hangers-on stroll on to the boards
during the performance, and when their number or their noisiness
exceeds a liberal limit the Sikh policeman, who stands on duty on
the platform, drives them through the doors.

The play I saw was not intelligible. It dealt with mediaeval
times, with princes, and generals, and mildly distressed women.
The costumes were gorgeous. Each of the more esteemed folk
wore on his head an ornament like an electric fan, while meaner
people paraded a thing of fur, like a lamp-cleaning brush. Beards
— most obviously false — were common to the men, while the
women's parts were taken by boys, who dissembled well. When
a lady was spoken to she gave a little high-pitched squeak and
twirled round on her tiny feet like a top. This rotatory movement
seemed capable of expressing a variety of emotions. The villain
is easily identified because he has a white nose, which, among the
Chinese, is a recognised mark of vice.

The principal dramatis persona were always surrounded by
banners, painted staves, umbrellas, and strange emblems on poles
which followed them about like an obsequious toy-shop.

The actors spoke in a shrill, staccato voice, which was apt to
|be raised until it faded into a thin shriek. There was much bowing
and bending of the knee, much stroking of beards, much aimless

ituring and waving of hands. These movements, I was in-
formed, were accepted as evidences of acting, and conveyed a

.matic sense.

Those, however, who are in search of sentiment, are not likely
:o find it on a Chinese stage. As a contrast to the din and unreality
>f the native theatre I would commend the English hospital.

At the time of my visit to the island many Russian sailors, who
lad been wounded at the disastrous engagement of Chemulpo,

re brought to Hongkong. They had been rescued from drown-
by H.M.S. T allot y by a French vessel, and the Italian cruiser
\lba.

26o CHINA.

Their injuries were mostly due to shell wounds. As soon as
possible after their arrival, they were taken ashore and housed in
the excellent hospital of Victoria Town, under the charge of Dr.
Atkinson, whose name is famous among colonial medical officers.

These Russians were all fine, stalwart men. Some of them
were giants. They were evidently well content to find themselves
between the spotless sheets of a hospital bed and under the British
flag. They were cared for by English nurses, but neither nurses nor
patients could understand a single word that the other spoke.
Still they managed well. The men needed no language to show
their gratitude, nor the nurses any to demonstrate their eagerness
to make them well.

In one bed was a great burly sailor with a beard like a bush.
He had been badly injured by a splinter, and was likely to lose a
limb. But a few days since he was aflame with the passion of
murder, on a sinking ship, amid bursting shells and dying comrades.
There was a good deal of the savage in him no doubt, and when
he was ashore and well aroused by gin he was probably little better
than a wild beast. He was the sort of man who would wreck a
grog-shop with his fist and empty the little street of a seaport
town by the bellowing of strange oaths.

By his bedside sat a pale English nurse stitching with a needle
at something white. The huge fighting man gazed at her as he
would at a sacred ikon. Although they spoke no language her
least touch controlled him, her least service comforted him, her
presence gave him peace.

A strangely assorted couple these two, as strange as Una
and her lion.

III.

THE PEARL RIVER.

A pleasant journey over smooth waters will take the traveller
from Hongkong to Canton in about seven hours. Such a steamer
as the Kinshan lacks nothing in the matter of comfort.

Moreover the passenger can use the ship as a hotel during his
sojourn at the great Chinese capital. The part of the vessel de-
voted to Europeans is luxuriant, the part given over to the native
is bare, but it will accommodate him to the number of a thousand
or so. These two sections of the ship are separated from one
another by very substantial iron bars suggestive of a prison grating.
There is a reason for this penal settlement barrier. It is no mere
rail to indicate the separation of one class from another, no com-
monplace wicket to restrain the curious third-class from wandering
into the habitations of the first, but it is concerned with nothing
less than the stirring possibility of piracy.

With a sight of these iron bars comes a moment of a lifetime !
To be afloat on a ship with contingencies, no matter how remote,
which are involved with living pirates !

The Chinese passengers lie about between decks in astounding
numbers — a crowd, motley in colour, surrounded by their worldly
possessions — boxes, packages, and baskets — unlike any other lug-
gage in the universe, together with cages, kettles, umbrellas, and
items of a fabulous wardrobe. Some sit in cane chairs, some lie on
mats on the floor with their heads on peculiar bundles ; others
squat and smoke, play cards, or chat, or fan themselves in a bland
reverie. The passengers of the better class are on one deck, and
are disposed of as just described. The lower deck is given up to
coolies. These form a dense thicket of human beings whose in-
dividuality is no better marked than that of a flock of live quails

261

262 CHINA.

in a basket. The massed blue and black of their raiment is relieved
by yellow faces, bald heads, pig-tails, and bright handkerchiefs.

The atmosphere of the hold is thick, partly with tobacco smoke,
partly with a mixture of human fumes, which are as horrible to
the sense of smell as an ulcerated limb is to the sense of sight

The steamer makes its way between islands, through narrow
channels filled with the eddies of a hustling tide, by bare capes and
blue water fiords. The scenery is very like that of the west coast
of Scotland, save that the land is a little barer and, in the season
before the coming of the mist, a little less green.

One island, called Lintin, was a great place in its time. It is
deserted now. Its period of glory belonged to the 'thirties, to
the " good old days " before the opening of Canton to foreign
trade. British merchantmen came here, sometimes empty, some-
times full to the hatch combings ; and many an ocean tramp, with
the swagger of rascality, brought up under the lea of the smooth
downs. Fat junks would creep up to the island after sunset, while
now and then a white-winged clipper, laden with tea, would flutter
around the anchorage. There was much business in the place of
a kind, but it was hardly a port where the industrious apprentice
would come to learn commercial integrity. There was a little of
the freebooters' haven about the island, and a good deal of the
smugglers' rendezvous. While over all was ever spread a liberal
air of lawlessness.

Some day the story of the romance of this island will be told,
for the surroundings were picturesque. The sailors of that time
wore pigtails. The poop of the ship was raised aloft, and was
marked off from the main deck by a carved wooden rail and a flight
of steps. It made a fitting stage for nautical drama. There would
be a great deal of cursing hurled down from the balustrade at times,
and the dropping of the Chinese trader over the schooner's side
would be hastened now and then by a pistol shot from a deck house.

Some miles beyond Lintin the vessel enters the Pearl River,
the river on which Canton stands.

The waters of this dull stream are thick and muddy, and that
it should be compared to a jewel is only to be explained by the
recklessness of Oriental flattery.

THE PEARL RIVER. 263

The way into the river is through a narrow strait xralled the
Tiger's Mouth. Here, on the side of a bare but valiant hill, is a
Chinese fort. It defends Canton. It is very rich in walls and
aggressive battlements, but the whole place seems to have fallen
upon sleep. There are many sentry boxes, but no sentries. There
is a stone terrace, but not a sign of a man to parade thereon.
There are numerous guns, but they are covered over with frag-
ments of packing-cases to keep them from the rain. There is so
little evidence of life in the place that it might be merely a corral
for savage catt]e. Yet over the topmost rampart is a flagstaff from
which is flying proudly the Chinese flag.

There is a little quay by the water's edge with a crane for the
unloading of the munitions of war. Here, on the stone, a solitary
man is fishing. There can be little doubt but that he it is who
hoists the flag in the morning and lowers it at night, and that he
devotes the intervening hours to the art of Izaak Walton. He
must be the soul of the fortress, and incorporate in his person the
commandant, the constable of the tower, the armourer, and the
faithful garrison.

On second thoughts, I am disposed to think that this solitary
holder of the fort, this gentle fisher who alone keeps the flag
flying over the stronghold, is a woman.

This same Tiger's Mouth has been the scene of stirring events
concerned with battle, murder, and sudden death. In 1841 England
and China were at war, and then the mouth of the Pearl River
saw much of fighting, of conflicts between junks and gunboats, of
cutting-out expeditions, of the deeds of boarding parties, and of
such scenes as belong to the most romantic periods of the British
Navy.

As the river narrowed, junks of all shapes and sizes were come
upon. They are venerable-looking craft, with no little dignity
about them. They move through the water with all the lofty pride
of a company of village geese. Some were crowded with mer-
chandise, and others with people. No matter what the cargo was,
they had this common feature — they all carried cannon. The
number of guns varied from two to eight, according to the size
of the ship. They were very ancient weapons, such as are seen

264 CHINA.

in the vestibule of a county town museum, or about the bandstand
on a marine parade. Some were of brass, but most were of
baser metal. It is hard to say who would suffer the more from
the firing of these pieces of ordnance — the gunner or the object
fired at.

It is with some degree of emotion that the traveller learns that
these guns are carried as a protection against pirates. More than
that, he is told that the steam launches which ply between Canton
and up-country villages are not only armed, but have often around
them a netting of wire to prevent pirates from boarding their decks.
This is, in fact, a pirates' country, and the estuaries, creeks, and
rivers of the coast have been pirates' haunts.

If there be an English schoolboy on board he will be thrilled
with delight. Since the age of five it has been the ambition of his
life to be either an engine-driver or a pirate. He has played at
pirates in the chalk caves at Margate, he has terrified his sister with
a toy pistol and the most lurid homicidal threats. It has been upon
the pirate, his ideal, that he has lavished the fondest hero worship,
and when he has been lying ill in bed with chicken pox, stories
of piracy and rapine read from a book by gentle lips have brought
to him the utmost consolation and peace.

Such a lad will fancy strange things in the Pearl River. He
sees sailing down upon the steamer a vessel with a dark hull and
an indistinct pennon at her masthead: that flag must be black,
and upon it there must be wrought in ghastly white a skivll and
crossbones. He sees ashore a bamboo tied to an upright rock ;
that is a pirates' signal. It is either a guide to hidden treasure or
a token to meet at night, in a certain cave, to plot the spoiling of
a merchantman. He sees a riverside village with a great crowd of
junks in the little harbour. These have fled here to escape the
pirates. They are huddled together with fear, and none has the
heart to put to sea.

One thing, however, he will observe that is apparent to all, and
that is an island which forms a most perfect background to any
scenes of violence that the most fertile writer of books for boys
could conceive.

A league or so above the narrows of the Tiger's Mouth is Tigei

THE PEARL RIVER. 265

Island. It is beyond doubt the deadliest, cruellest, anfl most vile-
looking island that rises out of any sea. If ever there was a
pirate's lair framed for every kind of infamy and crime it is this.
It is an island of black-domed rock, so rounded and smooth as to
scarcely give footing to a goat. At the sides are fearsome cliffs,
so sheer that those who slipped upon the summit must glide to
their destruction, however frantically they clutched at the stone.
The outline of the mass is such that it looks like some maleficent
monster lying dead on the sea and half submerged. There is the
ugly black bone of his occiput covered with a little withered grass,
as if there were thin grey hairs on his skull. There is his rounded
snout, a quarter of a mile long, smooth and black, stretching out
to be lost in the tide. One can see the tips of huge black ears
and the bony points of his elbows thrust upwards, as if his claws
rested on the bed of the strait. Beyond are his heavy shoulders
and the line of vertebrae on his back.

Just at one spot is a sullen beach under the dark cliff, where
there is a strip of green and a few bare trees. Here shrink some
drab wooden huts. They look sinister, and must have the tale of
some tragedy to tell. This little beach is a perfect realisation of
the villains' meeting place ; and if there is a duel to the death to
be fought by two inhuman men let it be fought on the strip of
green between the sand and the black cliff.

The affable captain of the steamer had tales to tell of pirates,
which he related with much vividness. The most recent encounter
with these desperadoes within his personal knowledge was after this
wise — if Mr. Barlow were telling the story in the pages of " Sand-
ford and Merton " he would call it " The Story of the Pirate and
the Ticket Collector": — Just before one Chinese New Year a
steamer, proceeding from Hongkong to Canton, was laden with
many passengers. They were mostly Chinamen returning home to
celebrate the great festival, bringing with them copious presents
and their earnings of the year. Certain pirates, suitably disguised,
took passage in this ship, and located themselves as near as pos-
sible to the wheel. At a certain lonely spot in the estuary they
were to rise, kill the helmsman, and run the steamer ashore. At
this point less unconventional pirates were to be lying in wait, who

266 CHINA.

were to boaivd the helpless ship and despoil their fellow countrymen
in approved fashion. It so happened that the ticket collector on
the steamer noticed a pistol projecting from a passenger's pocket
He promptly had him seized The other passengers were there-
upon examined The pirates stood revealed They confessed all,
and in due course an appropriate number of executions brought
the episode to a happy close.

This incident serves to illustrate the decadence of real romance
in modern times. In the good old days the proceedings of pirates
were always conducted on dramatic and picturesque lines. The
man who foiled the pirate had black ringlets, and a bright belt full
of weapons. He stood with a pistol in each hand, his legs wide
apart, a dagger between his teeth, so that none could withstand
him. In the twentieth century this saviour of men has come to be
represented by a ticket collector, earning a pound a week and his
board, who is armed with no more deadly weapon than a ticket
punch.

IV.

A FLOATING SUBURB.

From Tiger Island to Canton is a distance of thirty miles. The
river gradually narrows, the country it passes through becomes
flat, and with each mile of the way the stream is more and more
crowded by boats. Canton stretches away across a bend of the
river, a level sweep of dingy roofs, low-lying as if crouching in a
swamp. Over the monotonous flat of housetops there rise up
against the sky three curiously assorted structures, viz. the grace-
ful white spire of the French cathedral in the European quarter,
the fantastic column of the Flowery Pagoda, and certain square
lofty stone buildings like blockhouses. The last-named have the
look of a Norman keep, for they are almost windowless. So strong
are they that they might be towers of refuge, or strongholds for
the defence of the city. They are, however, neither of these : they
are pawnshops. Their massive strength is intended to withstand
not only flood, fire, and the sneaking burglar, but also the attacks
of mobs, bent upon looting whenever there is a rising in the city.

Such is then the first glimpse of one of the most amazing human
settlements in the world. A muddy river winding through a flat,
some square miles of level housetops, out of which arise the spire
of a French cathedral, a many-roofed pagoda, and a company of
pawnshops.

By the time the strange place is reached the river is alive with
boats, not in hundreds merely, but in many thousands. In Canton
400,000 people spend their lives in boats. They are born on the
water, live their days on the water, and finally die in the cabin of
a junk, or under the awning of a sampan.

Prominent in this river of boats are the great sea-going junks.
Curious, unwieldy vessels they are, with high, square sterns, and
nothing particular for a bow. Their decks are covered by unin-

267

268 CHINA.

telligible lumber, among which a more or less definite house is
pitched The battened sails of bamboo matting arise aloft like
enormous wings. The " lines " of a junk are like the lines of a
packing case. They are at least so unusual that it is a little diffi-
cult to tell whether the craft is sailing stern first, or bow first, or is
gliding sideways.

The entire family lives on board, and the wife is the chief
mariner. She stands at the tiller with a baby strapped to her back,
and has a real nautical manner. Towards evening the fire is lit on
the poop, and here the woman with the baby does the cooking
while she guides the ship. She stops her dallying with a saucepan
to put the helm " hard a lee." As the ship comes about she
attends to the mainsheet, and then returns to her cooking. Chil-
dren lean out of the portholes, and the family cat prowls about the
cabin roof. Some clothes are hanging out to dry as if the deck
were a back garden. Things dangle from the vessel's stern as did
weapons from the knight in "Through the Looking-Glass." Among
them are nets full of vegetables, a live chow chow in a cage, many
noisy fowls in a wicker basket, certain boxes, spare oars, and a
few china pots with flowers. The passenger junks carry hundreds
of people, while the junks which take in lodgers and boarders will
accommodate as many as a modern hotel.

Among the crowd of vessels are trim steamers from over the
seas, as well as nondescript craft with a single paddle-wheel at
the stern, worked by the feet of a score of coolies hopping on a
treadmill, Thames barges, out-of-date steam launches, and a species
of " dug out " belonging to the days of prehistoric maa Moored
by the bank are the famous Flowery Boats, gaudy as a line of circus
cars. Each is a kind of floating cafe chant ant, where the lighter
vices flourish exceedingly to the sounds of vile music, and under
the glare of many scarlet lanterns.

The boat of the river is the sampan, which is here a wherry
with a rounded bottom, a wide stern, and a narrow, low, flat prow.
The middle part of it is usually shut in by a mat canopy or awning,
which makes a little tunnel of its waist. In the sampan, small as
it is, the -whole family lives — the husband, his wife or wives, his
children, and possibly his friend. With them are the domestic cat

A FLOATING SUBURB. 269

and dog, a few live fowls, a litter of mats, bowls/ old relatives,
and other impedimenta of a home. Some of these little vessels are
poor enough, but others are exceedingly smart. The boat is pro-
pelled by a long single oar projecting from the stern and worked
by a woman.

This woman of the sampan is a remarkable being. She directs
the boat and all that is within it. If she is not rowing, she is
cooking, or washing the deck, or re-dressing the baby. She is a
mixture of the man at the wheel and the woman at the hearth.
She is the gondolier of the Pearl River. She wears a jacket of
blue, black, or brown, and loose trousers of the same colours. Her
feet are bare, and her peculiarly sleek, black hair is ornamented
with bright pins, red worsted, or artificial jade. As she rocks the
oar to and fro she stands on a springy plank. Her movements are
graceful, especially the coquettish swing of one bare foot. She is
very lithe, very alert, so that her sampan darts about the river like
a wild bird Sometimes her mother, her daughter, or possibly an
aunt will help her at the sweep, and then they all swing to and
fro together. She often has a baby strapped to her back. Indeed,
the woman of the sampan wears a baby much as a graduate of
a university wears an academic hood.

When the rain comes on, she dons a large circular hat with a
steeple top like the roof of a kiosk, and a yellow cloak made of
bamboo leaves. This garment is a kind of Inverness cape of straw.
The ends of the dry leaves that form the cape stream loose like
untidy feathers. As she rocks her wherry through the rain in this
wild costume the lissome woman of the sampan looks most be-
witching.

The sampan family earn a living by ferrying passengers or
goods, and, incidentally, by taking in lodgers at night. The cargo
may be composed of live pigs in wicker baskets, of piled-up vege-
tables, or of boxes of tea. One boat I watched took across the
river a horde of noisy ducks, and returned with a Mandarin in a
blue sedan chair, poles, bearers and all. Within the chair, which
had a roof and little side-blinds, sat the great man with fan in his
hand.

The scene on the Pearl River is not only curious and most

2;o CHINA.

wonderful, But it is unique. It provides a panorama of river life
as it was in primitive times. Take away the steamers, the paddle
boats, and the telegraph wires, and the scene goes back to ten
centuries ago. As the river was then, so is it now, for the banks,
the boats, and the people can have change'd but little.

The houses by the riverside are of wood, and, creeping out into
the mud on piles, they hang unsteadily over the brown tide. They
form a medley of uneven roofs, verandahs, loft-like rooms, stages
on poles, and steps to the stream. The lake dwellers' houses could
scarcely have been more simple.

In the channel are junks at anchor as old-world-looking as the
archaic craft painted on Grecian vases or Egyptian tombs. By the
banks at sundown is a fleet of sampans, twenty deep, huddled
together until they look like a pile of timber wreckage, of spars,
of bamboo mats and shipyard rubbish cast up on the shore of the
river. Under the covering of mats, however, is a swarming, restless
hive of human folk.

It is at night time that the sampan looks its best, as it lies
drawn up in the shadows by the bend of the river or the side
of the canal. Five hundred boats will crowd together in a single
bight of the stream. The arch of each mat cabin is then a cave
of light. On the floor is a small round table laden with the bowls
and saucers of the evening meal. About it the family of the
sampan are clustered, kneeling or squatting. In the centre of the
table is a lamp which fills the little place with a furnace-like glow.
Its light falls upon a circle of yellow faces bent eagerly over the
common mess of rice. Everyone is chattering. The lamp casts
long distorted shadows of shaven heads and coiled-up pigtails upon
the roof of the cabin, while an occasional ray touches a piece of
china on a shelf or a shining thing of brass in the distant gloom.

Moving in this shadow, outside the circle, is the woman of the
sampan. She has been busy all day as a ferryman, and now she
is the housewife, the cook, the waiting-maid. As she leans over
her husband's shoulder to reach the table, the light of the lamp
illumines her face as with a glow from a sacred fire. For a moment
the gleam transfigures her, and makes her beautiful, for by the
light of day the face of the sampan woman is pathetically plain.

THE NIGHTMARE CITY OF CANTON.

Canton is a city, with two million inhabitants, shut in on three
sides by an old fortified wall, and on one side by the river. It is
a strange and terribie town, for there can scarcely be a walled city
on the earth where so huge a multitude of human beings is herded
and hustled together in a space so cramped.

In this fearsome city there is no way which could be called a
street, no open square, no gap free to the breath of heaven. There
is, moreover, within its confines, no still spot where the weary could
rest or the leisurely stroll. From wall to wall every alley in the
place is swarming with life, bustling with restlessness. Such peace
as is to be found in Canton lies only on the green hillside with-
out the walls, where the dead are sleeping.

The city is intersected by a myriad of narrow passages from
six to seven feet wide. They are the sole streets of the town.
These alleys push in among the swarm for miles, tunneling in every
direction. Shops and houses of blue-grey brick close them in on
either side. The sky is almost shut out by high verandahs and pro-
jecting eaves. The narrow space between the roofs and the cause-
way is filled by signboards hanging vertically. These narrow strips
of wood are covered with Chinese letters in gold or red, on a back-
ground of black or green lacquer. With them are many swinging
paper lanterns. They would sway in a breeze if ever a breeze could
find its way into these choking passages. The lanes, therefore, are
sunless and dim, and are filled by an unearthly and rueful twilight.

The alley is paved with narrow blocks of granite placed trans-
versely. The stones are wet with water jerked from a thousand
buckets, are slimy with a fetid sludge, and are so loose and ill-
fitting as to rock under the foot and throw up an occasional spurt

271

272 CHINA.

of putrid mVtd. Dotting the stones everywhere are fragments of red
paper. They look like soiled rose petals, but they are torn shreds
of the crimson wrapping in which every bundle of joss sticks is
tied. When a temple is neared the mud in the lane is entirely red
because of them.

No cart, no vehicle with wheels, is to be found in the cuttings
of Canton, nor will there be seen there a mule or a donkey. A
few ducks and fowls, with an occasional rat, are the only animals to
be met with in this city of footpaths. The rickshaw has no place
here. The only conveyance is the sedan chair swinging from a
pole and carried on the shoulders of two coolies. So narrow are
the alleys that when a chair is swaying along there is only room
for one foot-passenger on either side of it. Still less space is there
for two chairs to pass. When such a meeting does occur, one
chair has to be put down, or to be partially backed into a shop
while the other goes by.

The shops give some kind of brilliancy to these twilight lanes.
They are gaudy with much gilding, with much red paint and hand-
some lacquer, with cryptic hieroglyphics and fantastic carvings.
They are open to the causeway, for they possess neither windows
nor doors, while at night they are closed in by double-leaved gates
of planks heavily bolted. On the ground by each shop is a gaily
painted recess wherein is a porcelain cup full of sand for the joss
stick. This is the little altar of the house from which incense arises
to the comfort of departed spirits. The shops are for the most
part tidy and bright, the proprietor alert and dignified He sits
within with his dish of Indian ink and paint brush before him
in place of a pen, and uses an abacus or counting frame in place
of arithmetic.

As the sedan chair swings along the coolies never cease to yell,
in order that those who crowd the narrow passages may keep out
of the way. As it is, many have barely time to dodge the chair,
and so get bumped by its corners. Its sides rub against the meat
hanging at the butchers' stalls, and it will now and then knock over
a chest of tea or a faggot of charcoal. It once happened that the
hood of my chair was torn off by coming into contact with
some coffin planks in an undertaker's shop. And on another

THE NIGHTMARE CITY OF CANTON. 273

occasion the coolies and the chair were brought to the ground owing
to the slipping of the leader's foot upon a dead rat. Some of the
swinging signboards and the paper lanterns hang so low that they
catch the roof of the conveyance, or its projecting canopy may
sweep a dried fish from a hook or set a cluster of brass utensils
jingling.

Everybody in every lane is busy. Some are gambling or drink-
ing tea, or are having their heads shaved Others are making
bracelets or embroidery, are fashioning red lamps out of paper, or
are mixing the incense for joss sticks. The chair passes actually
over the heads of men on low stools who bend over jewellery work,
or the cutting of printing blocks, or who are graving designs in
brass or in sandal wood. They sit out in the path to catch what
little light comes down from the slit of sky.

Here is a lane with a quarter of a mile of shoe shops. Here a
warehouse for pictures on rice paper, and there a depot for black-
wood cabinets. Here are piles of fresh green vegetables by the
side of an emporium of stinking fish and of shark fins, which in the
matter of smell have a monopoly of nastiness. There are shops
where they sell boxes and baskets, articles in lacquer, fans and
screens, silks and unique embroidery. There are shops full of
idols, full of rare teas, full of fancies in tinsel, full of wonders
in carved jade.

Every alley is swarming with people. They are all Chinese,
all of sallow countenance, all clad in dull colours, in blue or black,
brown or grey. Most of the coolies are naked but for a loin-cloth.
They crush and hurry through every by-way in the city, a crowd
of many thousands of bare, sweating backs and yellow, panting
chests.

There are two million people in Canton, and it will appear
to a visitor who has spent a day in its crowded trenches that he
has met every one of them.

In India all things, from street rubbish to a piano, are carried
upon the head. In Canton everything is slung from the shoulder.
A single coolie will rest a bamboo pole upon his shoulder, from the
two ends of which his burdens are suspended like the scales of a
balance. Heavier things are carried on a pole between two men
s

274 CHINA.

No matter ^whether the weight be great or little, these half -naked
men of burden trot along with a kind of rocking movement and a
low, guttural chant.

Among the crowd are coolies carrying rice, sugar-cane, stones
for building, water in buckets, charcoal, street garbage, live fish in
tubs, furniture, and endless baskets. Now and then a mandarin
will pass, in a sumptuous sedan chair, with considerable fuss. There
are women marketing, and children gaping at the shops, while once
in a way a cheery funeral jogs along at a great pace, with much
noise of music, and a man in front scattering joss paper.

Possibly the most unpleasant objects exposed to view in the
shops of Canton are articles of food At the present day, when
every second civilised person is " on a diet," and when the intro-
duction of any new thing in a dietary is an act of merit, some
interest may attach to the food shops of China, The Cantonese
live mainly upon rice, fish (fresh or dried), pork, fowls, and ducks.
Everything but the rice is very unpleasantly exhibited. Hanging
from a hundred hooks in one shop will be hideous brown strips of
cooked bacon. They might have been torn from the flitch by
dogs' teeth.

There are cooked ducks, oily and sticky, which seem to have
died in convulsions, or to have been rudely crushed to death. They
have, in fact, been flattened out during the process of " preparation
for the table " until they look like greasy lumps of compressed
rag. There are disgusting fowls, so cooked as to be white and
shiny, like blanc mange. There are cooked dogs hanging up in
select restaurants. They are equally white and glazed, and seem
to have been blown out to make them appear round and fat.

There are shops where they sell nasty fragments of meat sucl
as might be hooked, half masticated, from under a tiger's paw, an<
white broths in basins which might have come from an operatii
theatre, with loathsome lumps of food of an unknown kind,
was shown a depot where I could purchase rats, either dried
fresh, or prepared for cooking. I could also obtain them read}
boiled.

A conspicuous restaurant in one squalid lane was little moi
than a witches' kitchen. It was full of a sickening steam hanging

THE NIGHTMARE CITY OF CANTON. 275

over cauldrons bubbling with loathsome stews, or filled Vith dead-
looking soup in which floated awful fragments of bird or beast.

The eating of fish in Canton would appear to be made as
revolting as an unwholesome ingenuity could devise. The fish
are carried about alive in tubs, or lie gasping in buckets in the
fish sellers' shops. Some are scaly and green and vilely spotted
like lizards, others have gargoyle heads on bodies yellow with
leprous marks. They look as poisonous as tropical fungi. They
are sliced up alive in such a way as to make the cut surface as
bloody as possible. In these reptile shambles, festoons of fish
entrails are hanging up for sale to tempt the appetite of the
less fastidious. As for the dried fish shops, they resemble depots
for discarded museum specimens, while the stench that arises from
them is beyond all words.

As Mr. Dyer Ball observes : " It is not every foreign stomach
that can stand the sight of hundreds of greenish-brown worms,
fresh from the rice fields, hawked about the streets for sale ; nor
do salted and pickled eggs, getting discoloured by age, and eggs
high from long keeping, prove agreeable to our palate, though why
we should take our game high, and turn with disgust from an egg
in a similar condition, is a mystery to a Chinese. Silkworm grubs
do not sound very tempting to a foreign ear, yet the Chinese are
very fond of them."*

So many " cash " go to a penny that very small purchases are
possible in Canton. The economically minded can buy three
monkey nuts, or six matches, a quarter of an orange, a slice of
pomelo, or half a cooked fowl's leg. Whatever the purchase may
be, the article is secured by a thin string of fibre, which the happy
buyer dangles from his finger's end. Thus I have seen a man re-
turning from marketing with a single raw kidney at the end of a
thread. Another, who was evidently something of a gourmet, had,
swinging from his string, half a green fish, some fowl entrails, and
two onions. He was no doubt the envy of many.

One of the most dreadful things in Canton is the stench which
fills the cramped streets. It is a charnel-house smell, a smell
suggestive of mawkish disease, of rottenness of bones. It is no
* " Things Chinese," Hong Kong, 1903, p. 288.

276 CHINA.

mere compound of open drains and the reek of perspiring men,
streaked by the odour of cooking oil, of incense, and of putrid fish.
It is an aggressive smell. It strikes upon the sense as a crash of
discordant sound beats upon the ear. It is cruel in its persistence,
and as horrible, in its suggestion of suffocation, as if invisible
fingers were clutching at the throat

No little of the vileness of this acrid stench comes from certain
creeks which crawl through the city. They are crossed now and
then by narrow stone bridges. From the parapet of the bridge
one looks down upon no prattling rivulet, no Venetian canal, but
upon a gutter of black mud, and a slimy track bestrewed with
pots and pans, dead animals, rotting rags, and the general offal of
the town. The filth oozes seaward as if it were the dark blood
of a diseased city draining away. Tumble-down houses hang over
these creeks, like faint and sickly people. Not even a live rat is
to be seen on the banks, nor is there a single blade of grass in
the length of the gully, for the shores of the creek are of festering,
bubbling sludge, which would poison anything that had life. Yet
two million people call this city "home," and the country they
name the " Flowery Land."

Canton is a nightmare city, and it is hard to conceive of a
more ghastly dream than to be lost in its maze of cruel streets.
Everything is strange, the dark ways are cramped and sinister,
and shut in from the sky. They seem to lead on for miles and
miles, so that one might wander for days before the outer wall
and the green fields are reached. The streets are like corridors in
a prison, like subterranean trenches, like cuttings in a mine. The
high walls on either side seem to be creeping together. There is
a fear that the causeway will become narrower and narrower, until
at last the wayfarer must be crushed between the greasy stones.
The stench in the air is unbreathable as a gas. The alleys are
full of a sallow crowd, some in dingy clothes, some with bare yellow
skins. They have shaven heads and grinning teeth. As the terror-
stricken man in the dream hurries by like a hunted thing from lane
to lane, they all stare with curious faces. There comes to him a
memory of the devilry of the people, of their murderous risings,
of their fiendish cruelty.

THE NIGHTMARE CITY OF CANTON. 277

He is filled with piteous alarm. He is imprisoned. He is
seized with a frenzy to escape before the painted walls close in,
before the fumes of the place stifle him, or the growing crowd
trample him into the mud. There is no sound about the place like
the sound of cities, only a muttering in an unknown tongue, and
the slimy tramp of thousands of bare feet. More terrible than all,
the panting man in the dream is utterly alone.

VI.
WHITE CLOUD HILL.

The basis of the Chinese religion is Ancestor Worship, and the
extreme and wide-extending form of filial piety which that wor-
ship involves is the basis of Chinese morality.

The spirits that pass after death into the other world need
necessities and comforts, and so the faithful descendants of the
dead have need to send them houses, boats, clothing, and money.
It is a make-believe offering, for the luxuries bestowed upon the
spirits are in the form of paper models or emblems. Money, for
example, is in the guise of joss paper with a little dab of silver
on it. These paper things are burnt, and their substance floats
away in smoke to the arms of the expectant dead That which a
Chinaman desires above all is a son, who will keep green his
memory after his death, who will minister to his needs in the other
world, and who will, before all things, secure for him an appropriate
burial.

The son has, moreover, an object in this worship which is
bound up in his own happiness and security. Ancestor worship
includes "not only the direct worship of the dead, but also what-
ever is done directly or indirectly for their comfort ; also all that
is done to avert the calamities which the spirits of the departed are
supposed to be able to inflict upon the living, as a punishment for
inattention to their necessities."*

Moreover, there are " beggar spirits, who may have been neg-
lected by living relatives, or who may have no relatives living,
and the spirits of those who have died at sea, in war, of starvation,
or abroad."t

The Chinese " believe that nearly all the ills to which flesh is

*" Things Chinese," p. 30.
| Ibid., p. 31.

278

WHITE CLOUD HILL. 279

heir, such as sickness, calamity, and death, are inflicted by these
unfortunate and demoniacal spirits."*

The mourning for the dead in China involves a ritual which is
extremely elaborate, together with a series of observances which
extend over months and years. The future of those who survive
hangs in large degree upon the precision with which the ceremonial
acts are performed.

Among these acts that which is of the very first importance
is the actual burial of the deceased. There is, indeed, a Chinese
saying to the effect that " the most important thing in life is to get
buried well."

In the case of the poor the ceremony must needs be scant, and
the time involved in its performance brief. In Canton those who
are ill-to-do are buried for the most part on the slopes of certain
green hills just outside the town. The place is picturesque.
Round the great city winds an old drab wall with many gates and
towers in its length. It is ever deserted and lonely. Grass has
grown over ail its paths, moss covers its stairs, and many a tree
has sprung up among its forgotten ramparts.

From this height one looks down upon the town, upon its
thousands of pointed roofs which hide, happily, the squalid lanes
and the seething crowd. So very slit-like are these alleys that no
trace of any one of them is to be seen. There is nothing but a
stretch of roofs. Of the mighty horde of two million folk there is
no sign except that a few children are playing about a distant gate.
To lift off the crust of roofs would be to turn over the flat stone
which covers a huge nest of ants. No sound even of the hideous
turmoil of the town reaches the old grey wall.

Here is monastic peace, broken only by the twittering of birds.
The air is clear and fresh. Far away the great river winds sea-
wards, with a gleam upon it which makes the name of the Pearl
River a name that can be understood. Even over the nightmare
city there is a ripple of sunshine. Just at this point of the wall is
a fine pagoda, the Five Storeyed Pagoda. It brings prospenty to
the town, they say, for, in some guise, the fortunes of Canton are
mysteriously hidden away within its red and black walls.

* Ibid., p. 32.

28o CHINA.

On the Bother side of the ramparts is a range of grass-covered
hillocks where the poor of Canton lie buried On these hillsides
are cut ten thousand notches. In every notch is a small, plain
stone. Each little scooped-out place marks a grave. So closely
placed are they that the hill looks honeycombed or waterworn, or
as if it had been gnawed at by gigantic worms. Still these little
downs are green and pleasant, and upon them has settled an eternal
quiet

To many a poor coolie carrying sacks in dockyards across the
Pacific, or dragging a rickshaw in Penang, or working in a laundry
in Calcutta, this hill is the one spot to which his thoughts are
ever turning. In the confines of his little world it is the one
sacred place that is treasured above all. However dismal his lot
may be, however dire his exile, he is still cheered by the memory

that

"There is a green hill far away."

Here rest his great hopes of a happiness which will come in
time, his faith in a power which will be with him to the end.

In the case of the rich, the disposal of the dead is by no means
a simple matter. His coffin cannot be hurried through the lanes of
the city, to cheerful, but immature, music and a plentiful scattering
of joss paper, to be buried on a worn hillside just beyond the walls.
The location of his grave demands profound reflection, indefinite
enquiry, and a knowledge of the mysteries of Fung-Shui.

Fung-Shui is an ancient form of geomancy which teaches that
the whole of nature is alive with influences which affect, for good
or evil, as well the living as the dead. The site of a tomb may be
rendered favourable or unfavourable by the slope of a hill, by the
bearing of a clump of trees to a roadway, by the curve of a stream,
and by other natural combinations too complex to be detailed.
The Chinese people " believe not only that the comfortable sepul-
ture of their ancestors will redound to their own comfort, but that
if the union of the elements, the nature of the soil, the configuration
of the ground, and all the other things which enter into this
farrago of nonsense are such as to produce a felicitous combination,
that riches, honour, and posterity may be vouchsafed to them. It
is these beliefs that cause the coffin to be so often kept for months

WHITE CLOUD HILL. 281

or years unburied, while a site is being searched for^which shall
combine all that is productive of good to the children and grand-
children. Even when the eldest son has discovered such a site,
and is confident that happiness and prosperity will be his lot, it
may be that another son has found out that what will benefit his
brother will not be productive of good to him, but of evil ; conse-
quently the whole search will have to be gone over again till one
favourable to all parties can be discovered. So many different
elements come in in determining the lucky sites that the professors
of geomancy are easily able to make a living out of the gullibility
of their employers."*

During the progress of these intricate and baffling researches,
where is the body of the dead to rest ? It has already been placed
in a substantial coffin made of curved logs, so that the whole struc-
ture has the aspect of the trunk of a tree. The surface of this
uncoffin-like coffin is coloured a deep rich brown, is brilliantly
polished, and glistens with copious lacquer. Its temporary resting-
place will be in a garden on " White Cloud Hill."

Here is a still, retired spot in a most comely enclosure. The
entrance is through a gateway made of brick, so as to form a perfect
circle. Within are paths lined by many porcelain pots full of
flowers, while beyond the paths are the details of a formal garden.
In this pleasaunce are a number of houses of two rooms each.
These are the lodging-houses for the dead. Here they linger until
the troublous question is settled as to the happiest place of burial,
and here they may sojourn for weeks or months, or even for years.
In this strange caravanserai one coffin had been lodged for seven
years, and still none could say when at last it would come to
the close of its journey.

In each small house the front room is furnished with an altar,
blushing with colour, and decked with cheerful images, with tinsel
and much bright paper. On the walls hang vertical scripts, covered
with a strange lettering, which tell of the titles and virtues of the
dead. There are chairs, too, where those can sit who come to visit
the lost friend, and do homage to his memory. On the table is
placed every day a cup of fresh tea for the departed man, so that

* "Things Chinese," p. 31^

232

CHINA.

he can drin\t and be refreshed. The altar, the gaudy emblems,
and the writing on the wall convey but little meaning to the pro-
fane ; but the chair and the cup of tea are pitifully vivid tokens
of the reality of the mourner's faith.

The back room of the house is very plain. It is meant to be
a bedroom — a place for sleep. Here stands the huge coffin, sup-
ported on trestles, and those who enter the chamber step gently,
so as not to disturb the sleeper's peace.

If life be a pilgrimage, this garden of summer houses is an
exquisite conception of the Last Inn, of the Last Resting Place
between this world and the next. In the language of the West
the little spot would be " a Necropolis : a City of the Dead " ; but
in the dainty imagery of the Oriental it is the " Garden on White
Cloud HilL"

VII.

THE HEALING OF THE SICK.

There are, it is needless to say, in China many educated medical
men who have studied in the West, and who have supplemented
the knowledge so obtained by a critical appreciation of the prac-
tices of the East. They are not, however, the doctors of the
people. The native doctor in China differs but little from the
" medicine man " who ministers to the woes of the North American
Indian, or from the quack who masquerades at a country fair. The
Chinese practitioner is not troubled by any education. He has no
hospitals to " walk," and no examinations to disturb his peace.
An absence of ceremony marks his initiation into the mysteries of
medicine, for to the dignity of a healer of men he elects himself.
If his father has been a doctor before him it is well. If both his
grandfather and his father have been members of the profession,
he at once takes a place of some eminence, for he will possess the
books of recipes of these ancestors, and to the sick Chinaman the
most commendable feature in a prescription is its antiquity.

To the Oriental the science of medicine goes backwards into the
past ; it is spoiled by progress. It has no future. A prescription,
like wine, improves with age, gathering power and mellowness
with years.

The stock-in-trade of a native doctor consists of a bundle of
recipes, a knowledge that the pulse is on the thumb side of the
wrist, and a pair of goggles of circular glass set in heavy copper
frames. These latter give him an appearance of learning, and are
more valuable in his particular practice than an academic degree.
If any man will only observe a reasonable silence it is easy to look
profound ; so it is probable that the Chinese doctor, by the bed-
side, commits himself to few utterances.

The physic he prescribes is for the most part nauseous, if not

283

284 CHINA.

actually disgusting. This much can be learned from a study of the
native drug shop, while writers on Chinese customs give details
of prescriptions which are nearly as filthy as those in vogue in
England in the seventeenth century. It may seem unkind to give
a child ill with fever an infusion of cockroaches, but the English
apothecary in ancient days never hesitated to do worse than that

A belief that medicine to be effectual should be odious is a
primitive faith common to all peoples. The Chinaman holds to it
still, and even in the enlightened West it has not yet died away.
A patient at a metropolitan hospital goes away best satisfied when
he is given something to drink out of a bottle. The drinking,
according to ancient ritual, must not be less often than three times
a day, and the ceremony must have some reference to meals. The
draught to be efficient should be coloured. It must have a marked
odour, so that he may invite his friends to smell it. It should be
loathsome to the taste, so that the taking of it may call for some
heroism. Above all, it needs to possess an evil-looking sediment
which will require a formal shaking of the phial. The Chinaman
who is sick will appreciate all this and think well of it. He will
intensify every detail of nastiness in the compound, so that the
potion, when it reaches him, is too impossible to be thrown even
to the dogs.

From the drug shops in Canton it would appear that plasters
are in much esteem for the cure of disease. They have the advan-
tage of being small, cheap, and of unpleasant aspect. Three little
bile-green plasters stuck on a shaven head would seem to be the
popular remedy for headache. I have no doubt also that many a
child playing in the street has a constellation of plasters about its
stomach.

It is well, however, that those who are sick in China can " take
higher advice " than that tendered by the goggle-bedecked doctor.
There is the temple, and notably the temple to the memory of a
great exponent of the healing art. I was taken to one such in
Canton by a guide who felt that he was bringing me in touch with
the departed spirit of a professional brother.

Most of the temples in this part of China are very gaudy with-
out, and very squalid within. Their most beautiful feature is the

THE HEALING OF THE SICK. 285

roof, whose graceful curves are swept by brilliant riclg^s of glazed
tiles. There is often running around a court a frieze, constructed
of porcelain figures moving among porcelain scenery, gods and
dragons, emperors and imps, with fantastic beasts ranging among
a gaudy flora. Pillars of stone or columns of timber, shrewdly
carved, support the roof, while there will be besides much deft
woodwork in the form of railings and little gates. Within is a
cavern filled with dirt below and smoke above, relieved fitfully
by structures in gilt, tinsel, and meretricious lacquer. In one
corner, probably, a cheap European lamp will be hanging before
an idol who looks red, stupid, and bored.

To the temple which was medically inclined — it was the temple
of Cho-Sing — I saw many come in search of relief and comfort
for themselves or for others. The ritual appeared to be as
follows : — The devotee first of all lit a joss stick and stuck it erect
in a pot of sand by the shrine. He then burnt some joss paper
before the idol. This worthless paper with its dab of silver paint
on it is supposed to represent money. The money, in the act
of burning, passes away to those poor spirits who bring death and
disease to men, but who may be propitiated by a timely bribe. The
compliment thus paid to the powers of the Universe is not high,
but there is a kindred mercenary taint in other faiths. The devotee
then prostrated himself before the image.

In this temple, I believe, the prayer is ever the same — a prayer
in the words of Christian litany — " that it may please thee to
succour, help, and comfort all that are in danger, necessity, and
tribulation."

One poor woman I watched, whose distress was piteous to see.
She planted many joss sticks in the sand, but her hands trembled
so that she could hardly light them. She burnt paper with dis-
tressful recklessness, and the red flare fell savagely upon her drawn
features and her streaming eyes. She then fell before the uncouth
idol in a paroxysm of misery, her knees on the stones among the
dirt, the ruin of joss sticks, and the fragments of red paper in which
they were wrapped.

I imagine she was a woman from a sampan — one of those
cheery, lithe gondoliers who rock their boats to and fro across the

286 CHINA.

Pearl Rivera In the cabin of the sampan one could picture the
dying child on a mat, with its baby pigtail, with its almond-
shaped eyes almost closed, with a strange tint creeping over its
yellow skin, and the flies of the river beginning to settle on its
face. Whatever may have been the true cause of the poor woman's
anguish, it needed little to tell that the scene in the dismal temple
was a fearful presentation of the tragedy of the Forlorn Hope.

In this same temple is provided another means of obtaining
relief from disease which is much more worldly. The sick man,
or his friend, after suitable devotions, dips his hand into a bowl
and draws out a number. Near by the bowl is a row of papers
in bundles, the series being methodically numbered. The invalid
extracts a paper from beneath the figure which corresponds to
that he has drawn. This document is a medical prescription, which
he presents at a drug counter in the temple, where it is duly " dis-
pensed." Having obtained the physic the sick man swallows it
with the conviction that he has found a sure remedy. By this
simple process — which differs in no essential from that known as
" the penny-in-the-slot method," the victim of disease obtains a
potential diagnosis and a prompt treatment

This is a practical development of the faith cure, with the
additional feature that the physic is hurled against the malady by
a bow drawn at a venture.

In one of the dull alleys of Canton can now and then be
seen a woful illustration of the truth that "faith is the substance
of things hoped for." A miserable mother, dazed by grief, may
step out from her desolated house and wave a child's jacket in the
air, looking all the time skywards with intense eagerness, as if she
watched for something to come. Her child is dead Before it died
it became unconscious, and it is her belief that while the child
was insensible its spirit wandered away and has been lost in
the lanes of the city. She waves the jacket so that the soul of the
child might see it and be coaxed back to it again, and the fond
mother thinks that she may still take a warm, tired baby into her
arms and carry it back to its home. As she stands in the street,
with a wistful light in her eyes, she croons a kind of cradle song
that the child would know.

THE HEALING OF THE SICK. 287

The jacket is new and very bright in colour, for k was made
months ago for the little thing to wear when the New Year came.
It had been so pleased to look upon the coat, even when it was
lying ill ! Now the New Year has come, but the child has wandered
away.

VIII.
THE UPHOLDING OF THE LAW.

A week or so before we reached Canton a man had been
strangled to death on the quay by the upholders of the law for a
robbery committed on a steamer. He was brought to die at the
scene of his crime. Those who landed at Canton for the first time
on the day of this event must be haunted by this " street scene "
in the nightmare city. The man is suspended in a pyramidal frame-
work of wood. On the summit of this is a horizontal board with a
hole in it, just large enough to take his neck. His toes barely
touch the ground, so he hangs by his head. Death comes slowly to
those who find themselves in the grip of this fiendish trap. They
may live a day or more, I was told.

The man who came to his end on the quay in this wise could
see from the height to which his strained neck was lifted the Pearl
River and the sampans skimming to and fro with light-hearted in-
difference. He would, no doubt, catch sight of one he knew
now and then. He could see the crowd of stokers and seamen
leaning over the rail of the steamer alongside, watching him die
while they smoked ; and the string of coolies, tramping to and fro,
unloading the ship. He could see the gaping crowd about him, the
man with the savage's insane glare of cruelty in his eye, the pitying
woman, the half-weary friend, the curious boy, munching a handful
of nuts. He would look until the blood burst into his cracking
eyeballs and made all red, and in this whirling eddy of crimson his
soul would pass from out of the company of men.

The identical instrument of death can be seen outside th(
common gaol, and shopkeepers who sell souvenirs to tourists sel
photographs of men with black, bloated faces dying in the embra(
of this machine.

288

THE UPHOLDING OF THE LAW. 289

There are other forms of torture sanctioned by th-fc law, either
for the purpose of extracting a confession or of inflicting punish-
ment. They vary from mere flogging, or kneeling with bare knees
on chains, to suspension by means of the thumbs or fingers, the
crushing of the ankles between boards, and other less lenient
processes.

Capital punishment is carried into effect by means of rapid
throttling with a rope and pole, by slicing the victim to death
slowly with a knife, or by the merciful process of hacking off his
head with a sword. There is so little open space in Canton that
the executions are performed in a potter's yard — a little muddy gap
in the midst of the straightened lanes of the city. On one
side is the potter's cottage ; on two sides are low grey walls ; while
at the fourth end is an alley of shops rilled with the usual pressing
crowd. Men are busy in the yard moulding coarse bowls and clay
stoves. They make a few less on the mornings when the
upholders of the law march into the place with a criminal or two.

The victim has his hands tied behind his back. He kneels
facing a blank wall, where are some rows of pots put out to dry,
and his head is cut off by an expert coolie. If any blood spurts
upon the potter's goods it is easily rubbed off. Children like to
play in this place, because it is open, and the potters are interesting
folk to watch. In a photograph of an actual execution, the faces
of pigtailed children are to be seen in the gaps between the
apathetic row of clay stoves. They appear to be watching the man
of the sword with great admiration.

The crowd, the potter's handiwork, and the children are all
human enough, but there is a presentiment of the terrible about
that bare grey wall, grim and pitiless, upon which the eyes of so
many have looked their last.

The common prison of Canton is a woful place. There is a
cavernous guardroom, dark and smoke-stained, where, amid the
fumes of cooking-pots and tobacco, gaolers are squatting playing
at cards. A sombre passage, jangling with keys, leads to a grating
of iron which looks into a court. Here are the prisoners, huddled
like beasts. The court is a mere grimy yard, a bear pit, a sty.
The prisoners crowd to the grating, hold on nervously to the iron-
T

29o CHINA.

work with ^filthy hands, thrust grinning yellow faces through the
Dars — a company of human wolves — with among them the bland,
smiling countenance of the idiot, and the frowning brow of the
insane. Here and there are a few pleasant-looking people, and one
wonders how they have found themselves in this hellish pen.

The fate of these trapped wretches is hideous to think upon.
The torture instruments are just without, while the execution yard
is but a little way off. Which of these jabbering men will have
his voice silenced and his neck crushed by a cord twisted with a
pole ? How many of these thumbs, which grip the bars, will serve
to swing their owners by, and how many of thesev almond-shaped
eyes will close upon the dreary grey wall in the potter's field ?

In the daytime the endless alleys of Canton fill the wayfarer
with a disquieting sense of insecurity, which could only be abolished
by meeting a London policeman, in full uniform, strolling along the
lane. At night the feeling of helplessness may deepen into actual
dread. The shops are barricaded, as if to anticipate the roaring
past of a rioting mob. The fronts of many houses are closed in by
mats. There are voices behind some of these, and faint lights.
Possibly they hide a group around the family meal, or a solitary
man counting the earnings of the day. The fearsome mind, how-
ever, would picture, behind the screen, men plotting murder, or the
crouching figure of a robber in ambush.

The lanes at night are strangely deserted. The noisome air
is drugged into a deathly quiet Many who go by are shoeless,
and the scuffle of naked feet upon the stones makes little more
sound than the rustle of a snake. The passages are dark, for there
are no street lamps. To look down one of these alleys is to look
along a black, deep trench. Here and there a little streak of light
from some sepulchral interior falls across the way. A few of the
loiterers in the street carry lanterns, which serve only to throw
fantastic shadows on the walls. Those without lanterns are mere
black, slinking shades, formless and well-nigh invisible.

The signboards which hang overhead are dun and ominous,
like banners in the vault of a catacomb. Wherever the stranger
wanders there is always the long black lane, the red specks of
moving lanterns, the groping shadows, the dangling boards.

THE UPHOLDING OF THE LAW. 291

It is pleasant to come upon a house of lamps, which flood the
little lane with light, so that those who step from the gloom inlo
the glare change from spectres into common men. Such a house
will be a gambling place, where the game of Fantan can be
watched. It is quiet but for the rattle of counters and the tinkle
of scooped-in coin. The faces of those who crowd round the table
are more agreeable to look upon than is the ring of eyes at the
roulette tables at Monte Carlo. A Chinaman is a born gambler.
He gambles steadily, without either excitement or feverish
paroxysm.

In any one of the haunted lanes the wanderer may come across
a band of men — four or five in number — tramping along with some
show of hurry. They slouch on their way untidily. Their slovenly
heads are bare, while their dirty red tunics are emblazoned with a
circular white badge on chest and back. From each man's wrist
a revolver is dangling, and with the company is a rogue with a
drum, upon which he beats at times, as if to the unheard music of
some evil march. This is the city guard patrolling the town.

At occasional points in the lane are iron gates to be slammed
when there is a rising in the place. The closing of certain of these
barriers will shut in a section of the city, and so limit the spread of
riot For some reason, neither the upholders of the law nor
the iron bars inspire much confidence. A memory of the gaol
engenders the suspicion that the tender mercies of the city guard
may be cruel, while the gates, with their clanking locks, induce
only terror of the prospect of being locked within a maze in
purgatory.

Out of a vague doorway there will now and then stagger a gaunt
man. When a light falls upon his face his eyes are seen to be
glaring, his amber cheeks are flushed, and a fearful smile hangs
about his mouth. He draws in a breath of the stinking air of the
lane as if it were a March breeze on a moor. He has reeled forth
from an opium den, starving and penniless. He is going home
to sleep, but his bed will be the garbage of a ditch. For the
moment he is in a celestial city, strange lights flash in the cause-
way, stirring sounds break upon his ear, he is happy, he has fared
well, money is dross, and fit only to be flung to the sneaking shades

292 CHINA.

which pass^him by and elude his reeling steps. The filthy pave-
ment is of gold, and the dead banners that swing above him in the
dark are hung with stars.

The light of the dawn finds him on a mud bank, wet and cold,
empty and racked with nameless pains. The brilliant city has
vanished, the mist that clings about him is peopled with gibing
things of horror. He is haunted by terrors worse than those of
death. During his stertorous dream a rat has nibbled at his hand,
but the man must crawl away to the quay to work. If he is strong
enough to carry bags of rice he can earn a coin or two, and after
sundown he can buy peace, and find himself once more in the
valiant city of stars.

IX.

THE MAN OF THE WORLD.

The population of China is said to be four hundred millions. An
ingenious person has estimated that if a man stood by a roadside
and watched the whole of the people of China walk past him, at
the rate of one individual per second, more than twelve years would
elapse before the last member of the procession went by.

The visitor to China is likely to make early enquiry from
prominent European residents in the matter of the " Yellow Peril."
It will be with some little disappointment that he learns that the
" Yellow Peril " does not exist. The Chinese have no desire to
spread themselves over foreign lands in devastating hordes like the
Goths and the Huns. They are fired by no desire for conquest,
nor for new territory. The wish dearest to their hearts is to be left
alone. The cry of the people is " China for the Chinese," and the
extreme bitterness of this cry has led from time to time to trouble,
in the form of risings, riots, and indiscriminate murder. On each of
these occasions the Chinese worm has turned, and turned un-
pleasantly.

The mass of the people are ignorant, superstitious, and
credulous as children. They find the foreigner mysterious and
uncanny. He frightens them, and his ways fill them with alarm.
They are distrustful of his ships, which move against wind and tide,
of the dreadful things he does with steam, and the terrifying things
he does with wires. They call him a devil, for his ways are not of
this world. He will run a cutting through a graveyard, will store his
goods in a pagoda, and will appear neither to fear idols nor regard
his ancestors, and yet he does not fall dead. He is unnatural and
unearthly, his face and his clothes are utterly strange, while his
habits are unpleasant. Few know whence he comes. He is push-
ing, insistent, and, at times, violent. They are terrified to think
what he may do next, and they want him to go away.

293

294 CHINA.

If a horrible stag beetle of the tropics were to crawl on to the
white hand of an English child it could scarcely cause more alarm
and uneasiness than does the foreigner who drops down into an
unsophisticated part of China with an eye to business. The child's
instinct would be to knock the awful thing off, and that is the
impulse of the Chinaman.

The Boxer rising was an outcome of this impulse. It was due
to the working of a secret guild, with a name which is, in literal
English, " The Harmonious Fist Society," by which was implied an
organisation of men banded together to obtain freedom from the
foreigner by force. The motive was honourable and patriotic ; the
method of application was faulty, and worse.

The prayer of the Chinese is for peace, not for power to run
riot over the earth ; for remunerative work, and not for the privilege
of filling the dramatic part of a Peril, yellow or otherwise.

The average Chinaman has no ambition as the Western mind
understands the term. He wants to be comfortable in his own
station, to have sons who will revere his memory, watch over his
grave, and attend to his needs in the other world. The wish
nearest his heart is to be buried well. He has little desire to open
up the country, to develop waste lands, to worry over public works,
or to be for ever grubbing the earth for minerals. As a trader he
is a man of wondrous parts, but he has no leanings towards big
ventures, " booms," or the making of " corners." He has no initia-
tive, and small sense of the lack of that quality. By nature he is
a conservative of so old a school that he would rather be fossilised
than take upon himself anything that is new.

Unfortunately for the home-loving Chinese, the " Flowery
Land " cannot comfortably support four hundred millions of
people. Thus it is that, year by year, thousands are turned forth
into the wide world to shift for themselves. Those who have seen
even a little of the emigrants, on the one hand, and of the Chinese
at home on the other, must feel that they have come upon a re-
markable race, upon a mysterious people, full of unfathomed forces
and of the strangest incongruities.

The Chinese are by nature kindly, affectionate, and docile, yet
when the firebrand of riot glares over the city, they are yelling,

THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 295

maniacal demons, monsters of murder, arson, and rapkie. I have
watched, in a garden in Burmah, a Chinaman who was nurse to a
little fractious English girl That he was trusted absolutely was
evident, while his gentleness, his patience, his much tried forbear-
ance were wonderful to see. Yet take this very man back to the
slums of Canton whence he came, strip him, and turn him into a
coolie again, touch some spot on his brain with a spark that is just
aglow in the town, and he changes into a devil, venomous with
treachery, and fevered with the most fiendish cruelty.

Conservative as the Chinaman is, he is quick to learn, and can
adapt himself to any position he comes upon. He soon develops
into an experienced mechanic, and an adept at any European in-
dustry. He may burn joss sticks before a daubed and dirty idol in
a secret corner of the stoke-hole, but he is nevertheless a first-class
electrical fitter. His face and his clothing may be strange, and he
may eat weird food with chop-sticks, but he can work a pianola in
a Californian drinking saloon better than any in the district.

He can stand all climates. He can go anywhere, and he does.
Whatever land he reaches he there makes himself serenely at home,
dropping into the life of the place as if he had been born to it. He
will be found mining along the Yukon, working on the wharf at
Cape Town, cooking on a steamer down the Irrawaddy, taking in
sewing in San Francisco, running a laundry in the Sandwich
Islands, driving a smart victoria at Bombay, or keeping a tailor's
shop in Borneo. Wherever he is, he settles down like a
philosopher, and whatever his surroundings may be he will be
genial and contented.

The Chinaman, indeed, is the Man of the World, or has at least
a better claim to that title than any other of the many peoples of the
earth. Nothing comes amiss to him, and so easily and amiably
does he mingle with any tide that he drifts into on his voyaging
that he seems never out of place.

He is an excellent servant, obedient, shrewd, polite ; an excel-
lent manager, quick and trustworthy. He is always busy, always
ready, and strangely uncomplaining. Bret Harte did the native of
China an injustice in his vivid rhyme of the " Heathen Chinee " ;
for there are many, possibly, who base their conception of the

CHINA.

Chinaman's Integrity upon that famous ballad. The world has not
yet produced a people who can resist the temptation of occasionally
cheating at cards. The Chinaman has, however, no exclusive
claim to this particular weakness. The average Chinese man of
business is rigidly honourable, his word is as good as his bond,
while he shirks no obligation he has incurred. Throughout the
East the cashiers of the banks are nearly always natives of China.
The shroff, or detector of base coin, is a Chinaman, and so, as a
rule, is the comprador, or merchant's agent.

Before leaving the topic of the relation of the Chinaman to
other men, it is impossible to avoid notice of one factor which is at
work among the foundations of the land, and that is the almost
imperceptible invasion of the country by Japan. To the Chinaman
the native of Japan is hardly a foreigner. The two peoples both
came originally from the same Mongolian stock. For centuries
they have been intimately associated, both in the paths of peace
and in the clamours of war. In all prominent arts and industries
Japan has learned at the feet of China, so that the influence of the
great continent has left a mark for ever upon the genius of the
islanders. The two peoples are alike in aspect, in costume, in their
methods of living and eating, and, above all, in the elements of
their religions. Ancestor worship is the basis of all moral and
devotional life in China, and, in spite of modern changes on the
surface, it holds deep down a kindred position in Japan. The
Japanese may not be much in evidence in the busy marts of China,
but they are to be found in a more important quarter, in the schools
and colleges, and notably in the naval and military academies. The
Western foreigner has made his way into China by force of arms.
The Eastern foreigner is growing gently into the country, is grow-
ing up with the country, and is busy with the springs of its national
life. The Japanese invader has crept in almost unobserved, has
mingled with the crowd, and in the crowd he is for the moment lost.
The European visitor is still the armed man who has landed noisily
out of a boat, has built his strange shanty on the beach, and
declines to leave.

The Man of the World, when he is seen in large quantity, in
his own country and in the busier streets of his towns, is a little

THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 29;

. *

monotonous. There is a remarkable sameness about him as well as
about his womankind. The colours of his clothes are blue and
black, while the colour of his face is that of a new potato. The
crowd that encircles the race course at Hong Kong, for example,
looks like a wreath of blue and black with dots of yellow, lying on
the wide green.

To wear a blue jacket and stiff trousers of shiny black cotton is
to be smart ; and as the men are, so are the women, save that
their jackets are larger and longer. The men, being often thin
and lanky, have a little the look of mechanical dolls, so that one
would not be surprised to find that their legs were made of wire.
Their garments have the severe simplicity peculiar to the cheap toy
which is made by the thousand from the same mould.

Those women who have the tiny foot, which is so great a feature
in female loveliness, are still more like mechanical figures ; for they
have precisely the gait of a clockwork man, and the peculiar stilted
lameness of the puppet of watch spring and wheels. When the
tiny-footed lady reaches a dirty road, her maid or amah lifts her
up, and carries her on her ample back across the mire. In this
passage she has precisely the aspect of a helpless automaton whose
works have failed, or whose key has been lost, or of a model which
is being carried home in triumph from an exhibition. The amah
may smile, but not her mistress, who preserves on her decorous face,
during the process of transfer, the vacant calm of a wax figure.

To make the resemblance to a mechanical toy more complete,
the Chinese woman pastes her black and glossy hair flat against her
skull, so that it resembles the cap of rich paint on the head of a
Dutch doll. More than that, she whitens her face with so little
skill that her cheeks and forehead appear to be made of papier
mache.

There is a strong suggestion that the resemblance of a Chinese
lady to an automaton is not quite accidental. I infer that to appear
helpless is a sign of gentility, while possibly it is an expression of
female charm. Not only do the crumpled feet prevent her from
walking and the whitened face make it impolitic to smile, but the
sleeves of her jacket are so long as to extend half a yard beyond her
hands, of the use of which she is thus deprived. The Chinaman

298 CHINA.

may yield td the fascination of utter uselessness in his adored, and,
if he has many wives, he may fill his house with the sentiment of a
cripples' home, but he will not convince the rest of the world that a
woman who can use her hands and her feet has thereby lost all
enchantment.

I imagine that no more dire or lamentable spectacle could be
presented to a Chinese woman than that of an English girl playing
lawn tennis, with a smile on her face and her hair " coming down."

The women with small feet who are met with in the ways of the
city belong, for the most part, to the tradesman class. The lady of
high birth is seldom to be seen. She lives in seclusion, and when
she ventures forth she is hurried along in a sedan chair.

When the Oriental does devote himself to the question of colour
in dress he exhibits little restraint The man of high degree will
adopt en masse all the tints of an Egyptian sunset, all the glitter of a
bird of paradise. The young girl — arrayed for a f esta — will be in the
fashion if she wears a mauve tunic, under a large blue collar, and
bright green trousers edged with a band of black like a mourning
envelope. She will whiten her face to the utmost. Her hair she
will twist into a sticky black knob over her right ear, and then cover
the protuberance with artificial flowers, pins, and tinsel ornaments.
Like the man, she dallies with no half measures.

The dull, yellow face of the native of China has remarkable
capacities for expression, both positive and negative. No one can
look so utterly expressionless as a Chinaman, nor can any assume
an aspect of more bland vacuity. On the other hand, he can smile
like a negro, and scowl like a stage villain. His children are more
childlike than any, and none can rival the solemnity of his solemn
men. No balloon-chested Guardsman can swagger like a China-
man, while those who seek the supremest expression of smug
dignity and patronising pompousness, must seek for it among such
Chinese traders as have become both prosperous and fat

The Chinese woman is never beautiful, but she can yield to no
female in the world in her capacity for expressing the state of
being coy.

A STREET IN SHANGHAI.

SHANGHAI.

On the way from Hong Kong to Japan the ship sailed into a
yellow sea among many bare and miserly islands which shuddered
tinder a cold, sunless, and forbidding sky. For the first time there
was a suggestion of winter in the world, and on the way up the
chilled river to Shanghai it was noticed, with some relief, that the
everlasting palm had vanished, and that trees were to be seen which
were bare of leaves, and had thereby come more in touch with
human sympathies.

Shanghai is a Chinese town which has been Europeanised, or
which, rather, has grown up under a strict European eye. There
is a fine promenade along the Bund with grass lawns and public
gardens, a red clock tower, and a cab stand, quite on the lines of the
self-respecting English town. We landed on a Sunday morning,
when steeple bells were ringing, and the English colony was going
stiffly to church. The fine streets of the city were filled by a great
concourse of people who constitute, probably, the most cosmopolitan
crowd in the world. The majority were Chinese, but they were
leavened by the folk of every country in Europe — Russians,
Germans, Italians, and French — by natives of India, Burmah, and
Ceylon, as well as by men from Manchuria and Korea, by Japanese,
and an occasional African negro. Like a pharos in the tide, in the
English quarter, stood a London policeman dressed in the familiar
uniform of Piccadilly.

In addition to the inevitable rickshaw were many smart
carriages driven by Chinamen in old-world European liveries, who
had absorbed with their uniform all the stiff-necked immobility of
the family coachman. The cab of Shanghai is a wheelbarrow. It
is a structure with one huge wheel in the centre, and a seat on either
side of the same. The passenger from the quay will place himself
upon one ledge of this modified jaunting car, and his luggage on the

299

300 CHINA.

other. The wheelbarrow is more commodious than a London
hansom. It will accommodate a man and his wife and a couple of
children. On one barrow we met with were four elaborately
dressed women and two children — a load for an omnibus — but the
whole company were trundled along by a solitary man.

The roads are well kept. There are stone pavements on either
side of the way, street lamps, electric lights, and a general air of
order and decorum.

The chief streets of the town are exceedingly brilliant. The
roofs of the houses are covered by gay tiles which are broken in
upon by many gables — like cocked hats — resplendent in colour.
The fronts of the shops are as bright as lacquer and gold can make
them. They are tattooed with the strange hieroglyphics of the
country, and are relieved from monotony by verandahs of carved
wood, by hanging signs of every tint of the rainbow, by red lanterns,
and much emblazoned symbols. A smell of incense fills the air, as
well as of spices and of odorous woods, which is entirely consistent
with a street made up of houses like lacquered cabinets.

There is little that is reminiscent of the slimy lanes of Canton or
of the stench which creeps from out of its dull slums. There is
the knowledge, too, that the hand of Europe has turned the execu-
tioner's sword into a ploughshare, has swept away the torture
chamber, and has fixed its grip upon the demons of cruelty and
lawlessness. The white man in Shanghai is not stared at as if he
had dropped from black clouds, nor is it impressed upon him that
he is both a foreigner and a devil.

Prominent pagodas are dispensed with in Shanghai, while
temples do not flaunt themselves abroad. There are slums, of
course, and mean streets, but they exhibit a becoming restraint in
their nastiness; while whatever there may be that is vile lurks
nervously in unsearchable shadows.

China, as seen at Shanghai, is an agreeable country. It is a
China which has been amended after the manner of an Anglicised
French farce. Those who would study China and its people at
Shanghai must remember that they have before them a
Bowdlerised version, an edition de luxe suited for the European
reader, or even for the young.

A SHANGHAI WHEELBARROW.

part 0

JAPAN

THE FIRST SIGHT OF JAPAN.

IT was in the passage from Shanghai to the coast of Japan that
we came nearest to the seat of war. There were great expectations
among the more sanguine of the passengers, but we fell neither
upon battle-ships nor upon sounds of battle. On approaching
Japan the steamer slowed down, in order to enter Nagasaki harbour
by daylight, for the entrance was mined. When we reached the
port we crept in timorously at the heels of a little fussy steam tug
sent off from the guard ship.

It was a brilliant morning, crisp and clear, and the first sight
of Japan was afforded as the ship sailed into the mouth of a long
sinuous inlet among low hills. This was the seaward end of that
green fiord, whose far away point is buried among the brown houses
of Nagasaki. Precipitous cliffs climbed out of the blue water, on
the summits of which were rolling downs with many pine trees. If
the country were more verdant and better wooded, this beautiful
sea entrance might have been an estuary in England.

As the vessel glided up the long channel, we fell in with certain
small islands made up of nothing more than a grey cliff, rising sheer
from the sea, a crest of stiff grass, and one or two contorted pine
trees on the tiny sky line. These were the islands of the Japanese
screen and of the kakemono ; while the trees were matsu, growing
as the Japanese love them to grow, and as they train their dwarf
trees in pots. A little further on was a lad sculling a sampan with
all the squat spread-out vigour which is common to the man of

301

302 JAPAN.

action in Japanese drawings. His arms and legs together made a
kind of X. His bare head was covered by short cropped hair, his
brow was wrinkled, and he wore a monkish garment with wide
sleeves. He also — like the small island — was very familiar, and by
the sign of these two it was evident that we had come upon Japan.

Nagasaki — as seen from the inlet — is as dull a town as the mind
could imagine. At a distance it is merely a disorderly crowd of sepia
roofs on a slope, like the backs of a herd of brown swine running
violently down a steep place into the sea.

The first impression of the place is one of utter dinginess.
Ashore is a long quay with European houses, banks and offices, a
forest of telegraph poles, electric light standards, and a few dull
factory chimneys. The first individuals fallen in with on landing
are French-looking policemen with white gloves, together with a
crowd of rickshaw coolies bawling in rickshaw English. These
latter wear white hats shaped like mushrooms or basins, with blue
jackets and tights. On the back of the jacket, near the neck, is a
square white tablet with strange letters upon it On their feet are
sandals. They seem to be more the men of the country than the
little gendarmes.

On the road between the quay and the town it is possible to
come upon the Japanese peasant. He also is clad in a jacket of
deep blue and in tights of the same colour. On his head is a white
handkerchief. He looks like a mediaeval retainer, or he may be one
of the crowd of varlets and villeins from the stage of an ancient
play. He leads a bullock, on whose feet are straw slippers. In a
little time there must come along a Japanese woman — one of the
women of the fans — with elaborately fashioned black hair and a
kimono of silver grey, with glimpses of a red lining in the sleeve.
She and the peasant will fulfil the assurance that the country is
really Japan.

Yet it is not the Japan that was imagined. The first im-
pressions of the wonderful island and its people are very dis-
appointing. So much was expected. It may be supposed,
however, that expectations based upon fans and screens and the
literature of romance are not likely to be satisfactorily realised.
Those who are familiar with the artistic temperament of the people,

JAPANESE HOUSE AND MATSU TREE.

THE FIRST SIGHT OF JAPAN. 303

and with choice specimens of their art, are discourager} to find the
streets flaring with vulgar advertisements, and the shops full of
tawdry wares. With this spectacle vanishes the belief that the
Japanese could never be inartistic.

Those who only know of Japan as the land of the tea house and
the Geisha, as the country of brilliant silks and quaint costumes,
will be vexed to find the towns so dull and the dresses of the people
duller still. The kimonos of the men and women, who are
encountered in the street, are in sombre blues, drabs, browns and
greys. It is the dancing girl who dresses in crimson, in green and
in sapphire blue, and who has gilt dragons on her gown and red
peop.ies on her sash. There is little doubt that to many the repre-
sentative of the race is this same dancing girl, and all such will be
disappointed not to see a town of tea houses, whose streets are
crowded with Geishas, and are brilliant with the florid colours of the
comic opera. To those with such hopes it will be a shock to find
that the Japanese woman, met with in the ways of the town, is very
plain, and that the man (it may be added) is apparently very obtuse.

Japan, like other countries, does not wear the heart of its
sentiment upon its sleeve, nor does it present to the casual eye a
formal display of its characteristics. Any native of Japan, who has
read much of England and English ways, may be dissatisfied, when
he lands at Southampton, not to see at once the ruins of a Norman
Keep, not to meet the counterpart of Mr. Pickwick or of Dolly
Varden, and not to find upon the wharf, in front of an old hostelry,
the " plump head waiter of the Cock"

Nagasaki is the Portsmouth of Japan, and those who are
chagrined by their first sight of its streets and its people must
remember how little just it would be if the looks of the English girl
were to be judged by the first half dozen factory hands met with in
a seaport town, or if the intelligence of the British race were to be
gauged by the face of the first dock labourer on the quay. It would
be as reasonable to estimate the influence of Shakespeare and
Turner on national taste by the study of a row of riverside shops at
Liverpool.

In a little while — in the matter indeed of a few weeks — the
charm of Japan takes possession of whatever stranger finds his way

304 JAPAN.

within its ^ates. The first thing that delights him, in the first town
he enters, is neither the houses nor the shops, but the children.
They are the children he has learned to know by a hundred
sketches and photographs, and in whom he sees the living ideal of
the famous Japanese doll. They toddle along dressed in the
brilliant colours of toys. On their shaved heads is the same circle
of hair the dolls affect — a thing like a mat made all of fringe — while
they have the same brown lacquer eyes.

Then there are the dainty houses with their paper walls, the
primrose-coloured mats, the niche with the single flower in its pot of
blue china. About the outskirts of the town is a monastery close,
shut in by solemn pines, in whose shade stands the grey stone
lantern, while in every little thorpe and through every garden door
will be a glimpse of the cherry blossom. In the air is the
monotonous boom of the temple gong, the sound of clogs that
clatter on the temple steps, and the murmur of exquisite human
voices. There is in all this the delight which attends the incarna-
tion of old impressions, the coming to life of old pictures, the
actual realisation of scenes which have been long imagined.

There is such charm, too, as follows upon contrast. India with
its melancholy, its vastness, and its tragedies is changed for an island
with little hills and downs, little cliffs and bays, peopled by little
folk who are cheerful and dignified, and who spend their days in
cultured simplicity. The wild, reckless vegetation of the tropics is
changed for trim trees, for the miniature garden, for the well tended
and elaborate orchard. The wanton, luxurious palm has given way
to the ascetic pine, while the reeking alleys of China have faded
into pretty wynds, where plum blossoms hang over white walls.

II.

THE INLAND SEA AND CERTAIN TOWNS.

It is probable that the visitor to Japan will not disembark at
Nagasaki, but will travel by the Inland Sea to Kobe, and thence to
Kyoto, Yokohama, or Tokyo. The voyage from Nagasaki to Kobe
is 387 miles, the greater part of which distance is occupied by the
passage of the Inland Sea

The western entrance to this sea is through the Straits of
Shimonoseki, which are some fifteen miles in length, and which
wind through the hills like an eel. It was at 5.30 in the morning —
while it was yet quite dark — that this waterway was approached.
The dawn broke over the ship's bow, and in a while the silhouette of
a ragged coast stood up against the rose-tinted sky like a black saw
edge. For this dark bank we steered, and by the time the daylight
came we were off the island of Rokuren, which guards the Straits.

From out of the channel there rushed a roaring tide, which made
eddies of domed water and hissing whirlpools, as if the spirits of
the sea were dancing in mad circles.

Then came a track of blue — like a flooded mountain pass — among
low hills with yellow cliffs, by valleys and gorges, and by ruddy
hillocks which came to be islands. Twenty times it seemed as if
the passage were blocked by a precipice, but the ship swung round,
and the blue Straits shone ahead again. Sloping down to the brink
of this great sea river were mountain sides covered with pines, or
bare of all but rocks, so that the colours upon them changed many
times from deep green to rose brown. We glided by many capes
and creeks, by coves with beaches of pearl-grey pebbles, by
doddering villages hanging over the sea on tottering posts, by
harbours full of junks and long sea walls.

There were islands in hundreds, some rocky and savage, some
U 3°5

306 JAPAN.

moss covered and meadow like. Most beautiful of these was a boy
and girl's island. It was no longer and no loftier than the steamer,
yet on it were three small hills covered with fir trees. In one mimic
valley was a tiny temple, devoutly red, and, where the valley opened
to the sea, stretched a bay of white sand with a small path that
wound across the grass from the beach to the shrine. At one end
of this island were frowning, brick-coloured cliffs, as if the little
place had the pretensions of Gibraltar, and a rock-girt harbour
which suggested that it encouraged commerce and possessed a safe
haven for ships from over the seas.

The Inland Sea itself is 250 miles in length, while its width
varies from eight miles to forty. In it are a thousand islands of
every possible size and shape, from an eyot of biscuit-coloured
boulders to a land of woods and forests and cultivated fields. The
sea is blue ; a porpoise will now and then leap out into the sun ; and
following seagulls ever make circles about the ship. The coast is
a coast of low hills, deep inlets and verdant capes which change
their outlines so unceasingly that there is scarcely a phase of
mountain, headland, or bay that does not come into view before the
day is done.

The beauty of the Inland Sea has been much exaggerated. Its
prettiness is monotonous, and has the effect of a popular tune which
is played over and over again until it becomes wearisome. It
cannot compare with the west coast of Scotland, nor with the
passage northwards from Stavanger to Bergen, nor with such a
majestic fiord as that which leads from the Adriatic, far inland, to
Cattaro.

Kobe is a town which maintains an aspect of cheerfulness in
spite of its being neither beautiful nor interesting. An un-
picturesque middle age is the characteristic of Kobe. There is, on
the side towards the sea, a large Western town which might have
been transported bodily from America — streets, sidewalks, banks
and hotels. The Japanese quarter has been marred by what is
regarded by some as civilisation. In the main streets are still the
Japanese houses, but they have been, for the most part, hopelessly
defaced by the introduction of plate glass shop fronts, which are as
fitting as a Paris toque on the head of a statue of Artemis. At

YOKOHAMA. 30?

the back of Kobe are delightful hills and downs, but like* every thing
else in Japan, they are by comparison little.

Yokohama — the most important port in Japan — has a popula-
tion of 193,000. In 1854 ^ was an insignificant fishing village.

Those who make their first acquaintance with Japan at
Yokohama can scarcely fail to look around them, when they land,
with eyes filled with disappointment. To go ashore in a steam
launch, and step out upon a great black pier embodies no novelty.
Along the sea wall stretches a European town, clean and open, with
an orthodox church, appropriate hotels, club houses and banks. At
one end of the Bund, or Marine Parade, is a well-wooded hill — " the
Bluff " — dotted over with the villas of Torquay and Atlantic City.
A sorry crowd of Japanese men in Western dress hang about the
pier end ; and until the enquiring gaze has alighted upon a rickshaw
coolie, or upon one or two women in kimonos, there is no promise
that this quite charming seaside town is in Japan.

The Japanese city lies inland, but the streets of it show a sad
falling away from the homely brown lanes of Kyoto, the street on
the hill at Nara, or the one long road of Nikko. The thoroughfares
of Yokohama are a compromise between the Far East and the
Recent West, and they are creditable to neither of them. At first
sight it would appear that the only thing the natty, artistic native
of Japan has absorbed from Western civilisation is its dirtiness, its
untidiness, and its vulgarity. In the noisy, blatant Theatre Street,
with its flags and placards, its tinsel decorations and its gramo-
phones, there is little that is in tune with the gentleness and the
quiet of the Japanese people.

Those who stay long in Yokohama would do well to live in the
pleasant European quarter, and try to forget that they .are in Japan.

Early in May in each year there is a great popular festival in
honour of the boys. The exemplar that is held before the boy, as
worthy of his ambitious imitation, is the carp. The carp is strong,
he is undaunted, he makes his way up stream in spite of all
obstacles and all difficulties. If the torrent be fierce he will fight
with it ; if there be rocks in the way he will leap over them. Thus
it is that about the fifth of May the sky all over Yokohama and
the villages around is alive with fish. Fish flying from poles like

3o8 JAPAN.

flags, and fish, too, of no mean kind, for many of them are ten or
fifteen feet in length.

They are made of paper or cotton, and are all most brilliantly
painted. As they are hollow, and as their mouths are wide open,
the wind fills them and makes them flap their tails and their fins
and struggle gallantly. Their movements are indeed strangely
realistic. There is some ferocity about the gaping mouth and about
the great eyes, made of discs of silver paper, while their scales,
whether they be blue or yellow or red, have the look of armour
plate. These great fish twist and roll and wriggle in the blue sky,
ever battling against the strong stream of the May wind. Never do
they turn round and float away lazily with the current. They can
be seen at night, still struggling up stream, over the house tops;
while the early sun falls upon an ever-moving shoal of stout backs,
white bellies and gleaming eyes. Over some houses there are as
many as four fish dangling from one pole, in graduated sizes, and it
may be supposed that the large carp at the top is the big boy of the
family, and that the small one at the bottom is the baby.

Only the well-to-do can afford to have calico fish fifteen feet in
length floating over their houses. The poor must needs be content
with paper fish of less stately proportions. The most meagre fish
I saw was over a squalid hut in the outskirts of the town. It was
of paper, of course, but its colouring was very faint. It lacked the
bold silver eye and the heroic scales. Moreover, the seam along its
back had become unstuck so that it looked very wasted and flat A
breeze had sprung up, and the mother — a mere ugly girl — had come
out of the hut to see how bravely her boy's fish could swim. She
held the baby up to see the fish, and chattered with delight as the
poor thin rag fluttered at its pole.

The boy seemed hardly to notice it, and when I drew nearer I
saw that the little thing was blind.

III.

THE CAPITAL OF OLD JAPAN,

As a type of a Japanese town it would be well to select Kyoto,
because it is an ancient city full of old temples and monasteries
and because it has played a romantic part in the history of the
country. For many centuries the Palace of the Mikado has stood
within its confines, and for as long a time the roads leading into the
city were apt to see many regal and noble processions winding into
the dim streets of the capital. Kyoto, moreover, is not a progress-
ive town. Its population is declining, and it is pre-eminently the
metropolis of old Japan. It has not become Westernised, for its
people cling to the houses of their forefathers and to the costumes
of bygone days. A native woman in the attire of Europe will not
be seen in its pleasant lanes, and such men as have discarded san-
dals and kimonos belong to the official classes.

Kyoto lies in a dead plain surrounded by a ring of hills which
opens only to the south, as if to make a way to the sea. There
are many dips and valleys in these hills, while on those slopes
which lie to the east there are luxuriant trees. It is at the foot
to the eastern hills that the city is stretched.

From among the pines on the sunset-facing slope is the most
pleasant view of the town. It is a wide city of pewter-grey roofs,
jumbled together about the same dull level, as if it were a pond
grown over with stiff grey leaves which had been tilted by the
wind at many angles. Rising above the surface is the mighty
roof of Higashi Hongwanji, the St. Peter's of Japan. Through
the drab expanse there are, here and there, flashes of the white
river which runs through the town, whilst a waving line of yellow
green marks an avenue of budding willows by the side of the cana^
Between the dun city and the distant hills are patches of brilliant

309

310 JAPAN.

green where young corn is growing. In the foreground a few-
ragged matsu trees stand out from the hillside. Below them is a
brown house with a garden of pebbles and little firs in its court-
yard, and a steep road dropping down into the town. Cherry
trees in blossom hang over the road, and there are glimpses of red
lanterns by the way.

The streets of the town are straight The roadway is of
honest earth, for pavements are unknown. The houses are of
two storeys, with the charm that no two of them are precisely alike.
The most striking part of the house is the roof, which is made
of strongly marked drab tiles vigorously rounded. The rest of
the structure is fragile and subservient to the roof. It would
seem as if the roof had been sketched in bold strokes by a
masculine quill pen, whilst the walls and framework had been
delicately drawn by the finest nib of steel. The houses are of
chocolate-coloured wood, disposed in kindergarten lines. There
are no windows, for the outer walls are fashioned of paper screens
which admit a wan light in the winter, whilst in the summer they
are thrown open to the heavens. There will be a frail balcony
of wood under the solid eaves, where are cupboards for the shutters
which close in the verandah at night. On the ground floor is a
species of "bow window," made of lattice work and paper, which
has a little the aspect of an idealised larder.

About each private house or about some part of it will be a
fence of bamboo or pine, a mere quaint arrangement of lines, but
always admirable in effect. The Japanese have brought the art
of fence-making to perfection. The little palisade is a beautiful
setting to the house, the delicacy of which can be judged by com-
paring it with the gawky lines of iron railings around a suburban
villa in England Many of the houses are within little courtyards,
over the tiled-capped wall of which will rise a plum tree, a pine,
or a tuft of bamboos. Through the gate, leading into the court,
is a sight of a mimic garden made of pebbles, a few boulders, and
a grass lawn six feet square. Here will be a dwarf maple in a blue
vase, a grey stone lantern, or a bronze stork.

By the banks of the river, which tumbles through the town,
are many tea houses. They crowd along the brink — a medley of

THE CAPITAL OF OLD JAPAN. 311

glazed roofs, of brown balconies and paper windows,* of wooden
terraces which hang- over the stream, and of steps which drop
into the water. Here and there, in this long line, is a paper
lantern hanging above a hidden court, while a mass of plum
blossom or a Japanese willow marks the place of a tiny garden
that opens on the river.

In the business part of the town are miles of streets full of
shops. These shops are without either windows or doors. They
are open to the causeway, like the lower storey in a doll's house,
and are closed at night by shutters. Within is a low platform
covered with mats on which the shopkeeper sits. Here are the
lacquer boxes in which he keeps his treasures, his smoking table,
his bronze brazier full of glowing charcoal, and his favourite dwarf
tree in a jade-green pot.

A lane of shops displays an incongruous variety of things for
sale. Here is a little magasin for ladies' fans. It forms a splash
of colour between a shop full of bronze lanterns on one side, and
a mat maker's on the other. Here will be a stall brilliant with
green vegetables, and there a pastry cook's, a shop hung with
clogs, a place for the sale of granite lanterns and rocks for
gardens. On the opposite side of the road may be a little kiosk
filled with head ornaments and curious productions in artificial
hair, a shop resplendent with gilt shrines, a depot for dwarf shrubs,
or a fragrant counter for the sale of teas. Shops of a kind are apt
to cluster together, so there will be a lane of curio shops, a long
row of houses where ladies' finery is dispensed, and a street of
carpenters, or of lacquer makers, or of workers in silk.

There is no formality in the lines of a Japanese street. The
town builder knows nothing of the monotonous " terrace," with
houses in a row like drilled men ; of the " colonnade " ; or of the
geometrical " quadrant." Hanging over the road are innumerable
signboards, many of them glistening with gilt ; with them are paper
lanterns of every size and shape, and now and then a Japanese
flag to mark a recent victory. Here a balcony will lean over a lane
with gaudy paper umbrellas on it which have been put out to dry,
and there a cherry tree in blossom, or a matsu will stand up above
the wall of a tradesman's garden. There are little restaurants

312 JAPAN.

on wheels ip. the road, as well as the barrow of the tobacco seller
and of the merchant of sweets.

Each lane is thronged by bare-headed men and women in the
delightful and familiar costumes of the country, by innumerable
solemn children, some walking about, full of mere delight of the
street, some with drums and flags playing at soldiers. A rickshaw
will swing by with two smart and stately Japanese girls in it, then
a blind shampooer feeling his way with a long stick, then a com-
pany of curious pilgrims in white, dazed and tired. There will
be occasional tourists also, with cameras and guide books, who
seem as out of place as the French modelled policeman, or the
everlasting avenues of telegraph and telephone poles.

There are no carriages in Kyoto. The only vehicles are the
rickshaw and the two-wheeled trolley which is dragged along
indifferently by red-faced men, puffy-faced women, or oxen with
straw slippers on their feet.

Ever in the lanes of a Japanese city is a sound which is
pleasant to hear and which is unlikely to be forgotten ; it is the
clatter of clogs, " the clang of the wooden shoon." It is no mere
noise, for there are a hundred musical tones in it like the notes of
a flute. When the road is hard the sound is that of a shrill brook
tumbling over hollow stones, where each note is echoed back by
resounding rocks. To a native of Japan it must be one of the
sweetest sounds in the world. To many an exile in the blaring
unmusical streets of Europe, to many a soldier, tramping in un-
familiar guise across a weary country, no music could fall more
divinely upon the ear than this babble of the clogs.

IV.

THE BUYING OF AN INCENSE BURNER,

Among the simpler arts which are open to the resources of the
humblest is the art of shopping. There are many in the Western
world who devote much time and ingenuity to this butterfly-like
pursuit ; but it is only in the East that the art and science of
shopping has reached to heights which may be considered great
or satisfying.

It is in Japan, above all other Oriental countries, that this
mere phase of commerce has attained to a development which is
little short of idyllic. Shopping in Japan is no mere question of
sitting on a chair and turning over goods on a counter, in the
presence of an unsympathetic shopman who sees no delight in un-
certainty of mind and nothing but ill in infinity of leisure. It
is hard to dally pleasantly with a man who is so gross that he
merely wants to sell goods for lucre, and who is so lacking in the
artistic sense as to talk of " fixed prices " and of things " marked
in plain figures."

Bargaining in Japan recalls the limitless inactivity of the
pastoral play and the speech of shepherds in an ancient eclogue.
It carries one back to the mediaeval market place, even if at the
end there seems to be, " but one half -pennyworth of bread to an
intolerable deal of sack."

Many visitors to Kyoto will need to buy some specimen of the
cloisonne enamel, for which that town is famous. To satisfy this
need they will make their way to the house of Namikawa, the great
cloisonne maker. In this particular shopping you come upon no
shop, but upon a plain Japanese dwelling in a plain street. The
rickshaw deposits you in a little yard, where you remove your
shoes and step at once on to the primrose-coloured mats of an
exquisite room. A man in a brown kimono leads you, with many

313

3i4 JAPAN.

bows, through other rooms, bright with the primary colours of
plain wood, and bare but for a black and gold cupboard, a bronze
stork, and a single flower in a porcelain jar. At the end of a
verandah which crosses a courtyard is a room looking over a
garden. Here are a European table and some lodging-house
chairs. Without them the room would be faultless.

Sliding paper screens open upon a little balcony, built over a
pond, where are innumerable gold carp lounging through the
bistre water like fish made of coral-pink lacquer. The garden
is as pretty a Japanese garden as the town can show. Besides the
pond is a river, also many bridges, together with paved walks in a
forest of dwarf pines. There are old water basins, too, with
wooden dippers in them, the familiar granite lantern, and a circle
of trees, which give the impression that the garden is in a wood.

It is a fanciful little landscape, and I have no doubt that the
yard long beach, at the edge of the lake, is " the Coast of the
Early Dawn." The whole of the make-believe country is but
little larger than the room with the lodging-house chairs.

An amused Japanese girl comes out upon the balcony and gives
you rice cakes with which to feed the fish. You are joined, in due
course, by an old and most courtly man with a fine ascetic face.
He is thin and pale, and his dark robe gives him the aspect of a
monk. He is no other than the great cloisonne maker himself.
He speaks no English, but he points out certain fish as curious
and joins in the feeding of them.

There are things in the garden to be seen, and time passes
quickly. After a while you sit down at the obtrusive table,
where now some incense is burning, and the man who led you
thither brings from a cupboard a white box, out of which he draws
a tiny vase of cloisonne wrapped up in a rag of lavender silk.
You tell him it is not the kind of thing you want, whereupon he
brings other boxes out of the cupboard, which also contain the
kind of things you do not want. In time the table is covered
and the incense has burnt out. One of the carp can be heard
splashing in the pond, and the day is waning.

At last, from out of the twentieth box, comes the ware you have
talked of. You carry it on to the balcony, over the pool, for the

THE BUYING OF AN INCENSE BURNER. 315

better seeing of its workmanship, and notice an old gardener tend-
ing the moss on a bridge. Then follows much talk about yen, to-
gether with a disquisition on the costliness of art. Finally you
leave, amid infinite expressions of amiability, and promise to come
the next afternoon.

The next afternoon you walk in the garden a little, watch
workmen who are busy in a room as neat as a boudoir, and who
only take their eyes off their work to look at the " Tree of the
Setting Sun " on the " Elysian Isle." Then comes the eating of
rice cakes, more talk about yen, copious bowing and smiling, to
the accompaniment of which the box of cloisonne is deposited
under the seat of your rickshaw. Thus is shopping elevated to a
fine art.

Wishing to buy an incense burner, I took counsel with a
Japanese friend on the matter. He knew a potter who made such
things, but he added that the potter in question was also a poet of
some note, and that the business would occupy an afternoon. It
did. We went in rickshaws to the outskirts of the town, where
we stopped in front of a rustic gate. The gate opened into a
garden, about eight feet wide, which ran between the house and an
enclosing palisade of bamboo. The house was approached by
stepping stones which crossed a strait of raked earth intended to
represent a rushing trout stream.

The garden showed a sweep of green, undulating downs, with
storm-blown pine trees here and there, a thicket of shrubs, and
some lichen-covered boulders from a moor. Although this stretch
of country was but fifteen feet in length it was easy to fancy that
it would be a Sabbath day's journey to tramp from one end of the
downs to the other against a March wind

In England the backyard of a potter's house would present
a water butt, a perambulator, and a ruinous dog kennel, together
with a dust bin, some packing cases, and a pile of empty bottles.
Any attempt at landscape gardening would end at a circular flower
bed circumscribed by tiles.

A verandah looked into the potter's garden, and here we
removed our shoes, and entered the house. The poet received us.
He was a solemn man, who looked more like a poet in his long

3i6 JAPAN.

sleeved kimono than he would have done had he adopted the ortho-
dox velvet jacket, the loose flying necktie, and the flopping hair
of the West.

The room we came into was purely Japanese. It was dis-
figured by neither tables nor chairs, so we sat on the floor. On
the mats was a bronze charcoal stove and a low, black lacquer
table, upon which was served, in due course, tea and cakes. The
prevailing colours of the room were French grey and maize-yellow.
The simplicity of it was relieved by small cupboards with sliding
panels on which flowers were painted upon a background of dull
gold, by a kakemono in black and cardinal red upon the wall, and
by exquisite rammas or friezes of carved woodwork between
the ceiling and the wall. The semi-transparent screens which
divided this room from the next were furnished with sunken
" finger plates " in dark bronze. The ceiling was of seaweed-brown
wood — cryptomeria in tiny beams — relieved by yellow rods of un-
touched bamboo. Paint or varnish in this dignified chamber
would have been as out of place as a wall-paper or a firestove
ornament.

The Japanese room is a room in outline, a sketch in water
colours, a few masterly lines drawn to make a setting for the blue
vase of azalea which forms the centre of the little salon.

After a most leisurely tea drinking the potter poet opened an
old gilded box, and taking out a piece of incense put it in a bronze
burner, which was older still. The smoke, as it rose, he gathered
up in his hands and carried to his nose, and he invited us to do the
same. Then out of various cupboards he began to take treasures
— one by one — and absently he placed them on the floor beside us.
During this stage in the ceremony of shopping it was his pleasure
that we smoked. In due course he sat down again and smoked
also, the while he handled the pieces of china with evident
affection. Among them, however, was there no incense burner.

We then went through the kitchen of the house — where was a
small shrine to the Fox Goddess Inari — to see the potter's shed at
the back of the building. After watching two leisurely men at
work for a while we returned to the grey and yellow room, and ate
sweet cakes with ostentatious disregard of time.

THE BUYING OF AN INCENSE BURNER. 317

Finally from a cupboard was produced — as an after thought —
an incense burner. It was a little pot of mushroom coloured china,
on which was wrought a pearl grey dragon moving through white
clouds. The cap was of the plainest iron. The whole was the
product of the potter's own imagining, and both the pot and the
iron cover were the work of his hands.

There then came some dreamy talk about yen, which talk was
dropped on occasion and then incontinently resumed. Finally,
and by unconscious steps, the incense burner, with its pearl grey
dragon, passed into my possession. When the rickshaws finally
took us back to the town the day was far spent

THE JAPANESE GARDEN.

There is no garden like a Japanese garden. It is as little com-
parable with the garden of the West as any tended plot of ground
could be. The Western garden is an aristocratically planted
enclosure. It is indefinitely informal, for its formality is eclectic,
being based upon uncertain codes of horticultural deportment
It presents gravel paths of a type, trees in rows, trees in pairs,
shrubs which are foreign to the climate, plants which are cherished
because they are costly or curious, vases bought at a famous sale,
flowers which have obtained prizes at a show, and incongruous
summer houses.

Very often its main claim to attention is as a vehicle for dis-
play. The features which then call for admiration are the extent
of the grounds, the number of gardeners employed, the size and
billiard-table surface of the lawn and the cost required to main-
tain the same, the fountain containing carp bred in a ducal pond,
the myrtle bush grown from a cutting from a notable wedding
bouquet, and the yew tree clipped to resemble a peacock. Above
all are the hot houses, the glory of which is only to be expressed
in the coinage of pride. He who has " an acre under glass " owns
a garden indeed. There may be floral freaks and big gooseberries
under the glass, but the enviable charm is the covering of an acre.
The flowers in the garden are apt to be disposed in strong blotches
of colour, so as to produce an effect like that of an " art " Persian
carpet. The summer house may be a Grecian temple, or a hut
made laboriously rustic.

The gardens of Japan can compete in no way with attractions
such as these. They, on their part, aim at reproducing the spirit
of a landscape, the memory of a well-beloved corner of the

318

A JAPANESE SUMMER-HOUSE.

THE JAPANESE GARDEN. 319

country ; while at the same time they attempt, in ev<^ry detail of
their planning, to express some sentiment or pleasurable fancy.
The manner in which this purpose is attained may be conventional
and pedantic, but it will always be full of subtleness and fine
suggestion.

In his intensely interesting volumes on landscape gardening in
Japan, Mr. Conder writes of this subject as follows : " In these
compositions, as in the pictorial works of painters of the old
school, there is an absence of that perfect realism which we are
accustomed to look for in a naturalistic art The same subjection
to conventional canons noticeable in the works of the Japanese
landscape painter, is paramount in the compositions of the land-
scape gardener. A representation of nature is, in neither case,
intended to be a completely realistic reproduction. The limits
imposed by art in Japan require that all imitation should be sub-
ject to careful selection and modification."*

To the Japanese gardener would never occur the attempt to
make his garden the medium for mere display, either in the matter
of flowers or plants, or of horticultural skill. His ambition would
be satisfied if his garden could recall a cove by a familiar sea, the
hillside bordering on a lake, a valley among the mountains, or a
scene that was precious from old associations. Further, he would
wish no more than that he who walked in his garden should

" Find tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in everything."

Thus it is that many a Japanese garden professes only to
embody an abstract idea, such as that of quiet and solitude, of
hope or of contentment ; while others seek to picture the scene
of a bygone legend or the landscape of some traditionary spot

" Landscape gardening, as taught and practised by the
Japanese, reveals an art of considerable refinement, built upon a
charming system of ethics. . . . Whether or not the Japanese
conception be the ideal art expression of nature, it is undoubtedly
governed in its execution by a scrupulous attention to aesthetic
rules. Considerations of scale, proportion, unity, balance, con-

*" Landscape Gardening in Japan," Tokyo, 1893, P- *•

320 JAPAN.

pruity, and ^11 that tends to produce artistic repose and harmony,
are carefully preserved throughout the designs."*

There are numerous schools of garden-makers, each with dis-
tinctive styles and jealously preserved systems of procedure. Each
garden is planned as a writer plans a drama or a sonnet, or an
artist a picture. There are precise rules for the securing of suit-
able perspective as well as for the fitting indication of height and
distance. Every detail is as gravely formulated as are the items
of a ceremonious ritual. The outline of a lake is determined by
accepted types, not by mere whim. Each island in the pool
follows a familiar model. There are the " Master's Isle " and the
" Guests' Isle " for the inland lake, the " Wind Swept Isle " for the
sea. The lake islands will have bridges, but the sea islands will
have none.

Every stone employed in the decoration of the garden must
conform to an established figure. There is a form for the " Kettle
Stone," on which the tea is made, as well as for the " Shoe-
removing Stone," and the " Children's Stones." Each boulder
has its name, whether it be the " Water-dividing Stone," the
" Torrent-breaking Stone," or the " Guardian Stone." So also,
among the hill scenery of gardens, will be found the well-defined
outlines of the " Mountain Summit Stone," the " Way Side Stone,"
the " Mist Enveloped Stone." To build a rockery of burnt bricks
and clinkers, after the manner of the British gardener, would be
to the Japanese an offence beyond imagining. There are many
ways of placing stepping stones, but in Japan each manner is
determined by rigid canons of the art. A water-worn boulder
could only be employed in connection with water, real or sug-
gested In the cascade in a Japanese garden — as a matter of fart
— there need be no water. The fall is suggested by a torrent-worn
rift in an upright rock, and then by a pebbly course across a stretch
of green.

It has been said that the trees and bushes in a Japanese
garden are so clipped and contorted as to be unnatural. In the
treatment of every tree, however, there is an artistic object. Thus
a little matsu is so trained as to look both old and tempest-worn,

* " Landscape Gardening in Japan," pp. 6 and 7.

THE JAPANESE GARDEN. 321

and if it then be planted upon the summit of a far p^ak it looks
fitting. The disposition of every tree in the pleasaunce is ruled by
a definite scientific scheme, by which a place is allotted to the
"Principal Tree," to the "Distancing Pine," and to the "View-
perfecting Tree."

The Japanese garden is a garden of suggestion, a scene from
the land of make-believe, the little world of a child.

There are many different kinds of garden which are classified
under various heads. The actual arrangement is, however, of little
interest except to the enthusiast. The hurried visitor to the
country, who has seen many of these quaint spots, will group them
according to a method of his own. For my own part, the gardens
I have come upon in Japan range themselves in an easy fashion in
some such way as this — the King's garden, the Monastery garden,
and Endymion's garden.

Of the King's Garden there is a fair example within the prim
palisade of the Katsura Palace near Kyoto. This little summer
retreat is by the banks of a tumbling river, but both the house
and the garden are hidden from common eyes by an encircling
thicket of bamboos. The house is exquisite, with its delicate
verandahs, its faded paintings, its doll's house cupboards, its tiny
courtyards, its fragile screens. From a balcony built out over
the grass, and called the " Moon Gazing Platform," is a fine view
of the garden. It is large, as Japanese gardens go ; while it is
full of many and ancient trees, pines and firs, cryptomeria and
maples.

There is a winding lake which seems to lead on for ever, for
its end is hard to find In it are steep islands, covered with storm-
blown trees, as well as lazy-looking islands, fringed with iris.
There are bridges between the islands built of both stone and
wood. One — " The Full Moon Bridge " — is like a section of a
water wheel.

Mossy slopes, so shaded by trees as to be almost dark, lead
down from the woods. There are silent back waters where
strange ducks find a home. Devious paths lead across hills and
along valleys, over stone planks, by lonely obelisks, and by
summer houses. One path ends on a green, far-reaching cape
v

322 JAPAN.

with a single pine on it. Another wanders to a spit of pebbles,
which creeps out into the lake until the water covers it. Here
stands a stone lantern, as if it were a lighthouse at the end of a
shoal. Elsewhere are the open hillside, the savage gorge, the pine-
clad crest, the moody forest, as well as the beach at low tide — a
sonnet in stones.

It is a mimie«world, a toy garden of Eden, a piece of such a
country as Alice saw in Wonderland. All this it is, but it is not
regal ; neither is there any feature in it which lends itself to the
pomp of courts. It is neither a place for a pageant, nor for an
imperial reception. It is merely the garden of an idyll, bare of any
hint of palace precincts.

Of the Monastery garden an example will not be far to seek,
since there is scarcely a temple in the country which has not a
garden of a kind, and many of these are ancient and noteworthy.
Kurodani, near Kyoto, is a Buddhist temple and monastery, beauti-
fully placed upon a hillside among the pines. The temple has a
sweeping roof of drab tiles upheld by immense pillars of good
brown wood Without is a time-worn pine tree which figures in
the romantic traditions of the place. Within is the shrine, a
wonder of crimson and gold, of brilliant black lacquer, of gilt
brocade, of tinkling ornaments and priceless bronze. The ample
eaves and the paper screens make it dim. Moreover, it is filled
ever with the mist of incense. Beyond the sounds of the woods,
the silence is only troubled by the droning of priests, by the
monotonous heart beat of a gong, and the clatter of clogs in the
court.

Behind is a little garden 500 years old. It is a mere child's
pond in the corner of a wood. The hills shut it in on all sides,
except where the monastery stands ; while the slopes which come
down to the pool are thick with cedar and pine, cherry and azalea,
bamboo and moss. There is a mimic island in the pond with a
stone lantern on it. It is approached by a bridge made of one
slab of granite. Another bridge, covered with green turf, crosses
an arm of the tiny lake. There are stepping stones across the
grass, while many paths lead among rocks, through green glades,
and by azalea thickets. The sound of the temple gong reaches

THE JAPANESE GARDEN. 323

the drowsy nook, but that is all. The garden is the monastery
cloister, the place for reflection. The priest paces its paths at sun-
down with his head bowed and his lips fashioning a prayer. It is
full of fancies, full of memories, and the voice that speaks in the
garden is the voice of God.

If there be in the world a place to think in, it is such a
monastery close as this at Kurodani.

In another garden like to it, at Ginkakuji, there is also a pool
hidden in a wood. The pool is so small that a stag could leap
across it. Yet it is full of rocky, fir-covered islands reached by
bridges. It has, too, a wild coast of cliff and bay, of sandy beach
and wind-haunted inlet. The matsu trees crowd about the pond
and make it silent. A tiny waterfall drops out of the steep hill-
side from among wet rocks and bejewelled moss. Here and there,
around the margin of the haunted mere, is a glimpse of a path
of white sand.

This little make-believe garden, which is lost to sight, is one
of the sacred books in which the priest reads, for it portrays the
scenery of the most cherished traditions of his brotherhood.

Last of all there is Endymion's garden, vthe garden of fancies,
the garden of the dreamer. There are many of these in Japan.
The one I remember best was shut away from the world, and we
entered it through a wooden gate, with a creeper covered roof,
called the Gate of Summer Sleep. Just inside was a beautiful
lawn, leading down to the margin of a lake. There was a great
stone at the edge of the water called the Angling Stone, while
a pigeon-blue boulder on the tiny beach of the lake was the Moon
Shadow Stone. On the other shore of the pool, hills covered with
trees came down to the brink, while clumps of oleander and
bamboo hung over the water and were reflected in it

Winding through these far away trees, as through a ravine,
was the River of Loneliness. The trees met over it so that it was
almost dark, and faintly in its far shades a stone bridge crossed
it, the Floating Bridge of Heaven.

In the mere was a large, undulating island approached by a
trestle bridge, known as the Bridge of the White Crane. The way
to the crossing was along a line of stepping stones which reached

324 JAPAN.

the bridge' through a swamp of soft moss. There were many
hills in the island, while through one valley of maples a small track
wound and vanished It was the Eternal Narrow Path. From a
clearing on the island one could look into the Pool of the Autumn
Wind, and to the country on the other side of the lake. Here a
bare hill stood up against the sky called the Ocean Viewing
Hill, below which could be seen the roof of the Mountain Village
Tea House.

Hence, by another bridge, we passed on to the main land
again, where was the Magician's Pool, almost buried in dim bushes.
On its reed-covered margin was a ghostly obelisk to mark the
Tomb of the White Dragon. Following a path by the lake we
came upon the Shuddering Wood, a sombre copse of dull green
pines, against whose melancholy shades a slender cherry tree,
crowned with white blossoms, rose up, alone in the solitude. It
was the Tree of Good Hope.

A path then led to a bare part of lake, where were the Sand
Blown Beach, the Seagull Resting Stone, and the Tree of the
Salt Breeze. Off from the shore were a few bleak islands — Wild
Moor Island and Dry Beach Island, with, in the distance, the
Misty Isle. On the grass that came down nearly to the pebbles
was built the House of the Sound of the Sea Shore.

Another turn of the lake brought into view the Island of Leave
Taking with two stone lanterns on it. It was approached by the
Bridge of Remembrance, made of a single smooth rock. At one
end of it was the Idling Stone, at the other the Waiting Stone.
An arched wooden causeway — the Bridge of Regrets — led away
from the island.

Thence by the Garden of Mountain Grass we came to the tea
house. It was on a land-locked cove fringed with rushes, through
a gap in which a river crept into the pool. The stream came from
under an arch of camellias, and followed a rocky ravine between
steep cliffs. It bubbled over bright stones, making much noise
for its size, for it was only two feet in width, while the precipices
of the gorge were little more than a yard in height. The whole
garden — with its lake, its sea, its forest, and its hills — covered
barely an acre of land.

THE JAPANESE GARDEN. 325

The tea house hung over the water, for it stood on brown
piles, around which ever idled a listless crowd of golden carp. The
little house was built on fine lines, of bare, bright unsullied wood.
The floor was of mats, the windows of paper screens. A red
kakemono hung from the French grey walls. Near it on one side
was a cupboard of black lacquer with doors of gilt. On the other
side was a recess with some peach blossom in a drab vase. When
the paper screens were drawn aside there opened from the front
of the house a view across the lake ; while at the back was a
glimpse of a secluded garden with a path among rocks, a copse
of dwarf pines, and a miniature pagoda.

On a summer's evening, when a cool breeze would eddy lazily
out of the lake, the paper screens would be closed. The light in
the little room would become so faint that the colour of the
kakemono would fade, and the figures of the two who sat within
would blend into one. If either spoke it would be to quote the
little Japanese poem :

"The window itself is dark,

But see!
A firefly is creeping up the paper pane."

VI.
A RELIGION OF CHERRY BLOSSOM AND OLD MEMORIES.

By the shore of Lake Biwa is an old temple gate. It is covered
by a roof of thatch which time has turned from brown to bronze
green. The wooden gates have become ash coloured from age.
They are carved modestly, but the work is delicate, and has
remained ever untouched by paint or varnish. By the side of the
gate is a plum tree in blossom. The exquisite white flowers hang
over the old thatch, and many petals have dropped on to the grey
moss-covered wall near by and upon the steps that lead up from
the road. Under the faint shadow of the plum tree stands an
ancient stone lantern also grey, and covered with moss and lichen.
The place is quiet ; while the path from the gate winds solemnly
uphill through a wood of pines and cedars to the temple.

It is an old Shinto worshipping place which may have relapsed
of late years into Buddhism ; but the gate, the path through the
wood, and the shrine on the hill, looking over the lake, are all
expressive of the ancient religion of Japan.

The Shinto faith belongs only to Japan. It is the indigenous
religion of the country, and although it may have been much
modified by the teaching of Buddha, it remains still the religion
of the people.

It is the simplest of all the faiths of the world Shinto
merely means * God's way," and to the founders of the sect " God's
way " must have been a way of pleasantness and a path of peace.
Shintoism possesses neither sacred books nor an austere code of
ethics. It has burdened itself with no dogmas, while the unseemly
cackle of theological discussion has never come within its tree-
encircled walls. Of the malignity of religious hate, of the bitter-
ness of religious persecution, the Shinto faith knows nothing.

It has been to the people the familiar friend, not the peda-
gogue ; the comforter, not the censor.

Shintoism is represented mainly by two elements — by ancestor

326

THE TEMPLE GATE.

A RELIGION OF CHERRY BLOSSOM. 327

worship and the adoration of nature. Ancestor worship has made
it the religion of the state as well as the religion of the family.
With that phase of devotion has come the inculcating of loyalty,
patriotism, reverence, duty, unselfishness, comradeship. With it
has also come the veneration of those who have passed from out
of the sight of men. It has made itself a religion of Hero Worship,
in whose Pantheon God's good man has come to occupy a place
that is worshipful. It has made of great men demi-gods ; and it
has done more than this, for it has served to keep their memories
green.

The Shinto faith is the religion of old friends, the religion of
lovers, since high among the objects of its homage is fidelity in
human affection, unforgetfulness of human ties.

Another aspect of this homely creed concerns itself with the
adoration of nature and whatever in it is beautiful and lovable.
It recognises that in the sunshine, in the mountain torrent, in the
cherry trees about the meadow there is a glory which is divine.
That glow of pleasure which stirs the senses when the eye opens
upon the stretch of Biwa Lake, or upon a nook full of iris flowers
in a monastery garden, is worshipful, for it is the reflection of the
divine presence.

So simple is Shintoism that it may have been founded by a
coterie of serious boys and girls whose lives were bound up in
kindly homes, and in the woods and meadows of a fair country.
A reverent remembering of those who have gone away, a love
for the beauty of thicket and field, and an instinct to uphold the
right need only be expressed by a power which could be deified
and worshipped, and there arises the foundation of a boy and girl's
creed.

To such creed makers it would seem that human tenderness
was no mere phase of mind to spring up, pass by, and then be lost
for ever ; that the thrill of delight which comes with the contempla-
tion of the world was no mere mood of the sense of sight, and that
the incentive to do no wrong was founded upon some influence
which was not wholly man's.

The temple gateway by the lake is an emblem of this religion
of cherry blossom and old memories. The common thatched roof

328 JAPAN.

is the cottage roof, a token of homeliness and simplicity. By the
gate is the worshipful plum tree, and under the tree is a granite
lantern placed there to keep alight the memory of a friend.

The temple stands high up on the hill, on a terrace that juts
out over the lake. It is reached by long stone stairs which climb
up among the dark passages of the wood, or by contemplative
paths which wind by old walls and through silent courtyards,
where are yet again stone lanterns and a plum tree in bloom.

On the terrace is a little pavilion close to the drop of the
hill, whence is a view over the great Lake Biwa. It is a view
of a blue lake within a circle of pine-covered hills. On its shores
are many a brown-roofed village, many a green flat busy with
husbandmen, many a cape of rocks crowned by fir trees. In places
a bamboo copse creeps down to the water, or a company of sigh-
ing rushes wade out into the shallows. Here and there is a fishing
boat drawn up, or a tiny island of emerald dotted by white birds.

The Shinto faith would teach that the contemplation of this
gentle stretch of water was a religious exercise from which the
troubled man would gather peace, and which would lead the man
with evil in his heart to turn homewards in a purer spirit. It is
indeed something of a sacrament to sit by the terrace edge on a
still day (when there is no disturbing sound but the temple bell),
to look over the lake and be filled with the divineness of its
presence. Thus it is that the nature-loving Japanese have evolved
some kind of ritual for those who worship at this wondrous shrine.
There are eight views of the Lake of Biwa, they say, which are
commendable above all. They are these : " The autumn moon
seen from Ishiyama, the evening snow on Hirayama, the sunset at
Seta, the evening bell of Miidera, the boats sailing back from
Yabase, the bright sky with a breeze at Awazu, rain by night at
Karasaki, and the wild geese alighting at Katata."*

If there be many who can see no element of religion in this,
there are, at least, not a few who can.

There are two temples at Kyoto near by to one another. The
smaller of these — the temple of Hirano Jinja — is considered to be
an example of " pure Shinto." Its garden is so full of cherry
* "Things Japanese," by Prof. Chamberlain. London, 1902, page 355.

OVERLOOKING LAKE BIWA.

A RELIGION OF CHERRY BLOSSOM. 329

trees that it might be regarded as a type of the temple of the
cherry blossom. The other — Kitano Tenjin — serves to illustrate
that phase of Shintoism which has ripened into hero worship, for
it was erected to the ever-sacred memory of a scholar who died in
exile precisely one thousand and one years ago.

Hirano Jinja is a very humble shrine, very modest, very bare.
At its entrance is a homely unpainted wooden gate, such as may
lead into a farmyard Within is an open garden very beautiful
to see. A little stream wanders about it affectionately, and over
the stream are bridges. At one spot the mimic river encircles
an island with a shrine on it. It is quite a child's garden, and the
flowers in it are planted with a lovable absence of art. Over
against the garden is a copse of cherry trees which — when I saw
them — were covered with bloom. Every tree has a name, a pet
name associated with some pretty fancy, such as a child would
construct for the things that grew in her garden. It was evident
that to the crowd of worshippers the trees were themselves
familiar, and that some were the favourites of one and some of
another.

Beyond the garden and the cherry copse is the oratory — a mere
open shed — and before the oratory is the temple. The temple is
made up of five small wooden shrines in a row, under a long plain
roof of cedar bark. They stand within a kind of miniature gallery,
while in front of them all is a low fence of meekly carved wood.
Everything is grey and bare. Before each shrine is placed the
wand with the dangling paper, or gohei, and the tassels of straw
and hemp, which are common to all holy places of the Shinto
faith. The plainness, the scantiness, the simplicity of the wizened
building is befitting to an ancient village.

Behind the motherly thatched roof of the shrine a clump of
bamboos makes a background of brilliant green, whilst beyond
them stands a monkish company of solemn pines and sombre
cryptomeria to shut the sacred close away from the world.

The prayer uttered before the shrine by those who came was
very short, but I think that many, as they passed out through the
gate, would have murmured that it was good to see the cherry
blossom at Hirano.

33o JAPAN.

Kitano Tenjin — the temple of the exile — is a more florid and
pretentious building. It belongs to a decadent form of the faith,
to the sect of Ryobu Shinto. Still it serves to keep in reverent
memory a man who had a claim to be unforgotten. Tenjin is
said to have been a great minister and a scholar. In A.D. 901 he
was degraded and banished to the island of Kyushu. What was
the offence that brought upon him this dire punishment I know
not. He would seem to have carried away with him the sympathy
of the people, and to have held it from that time until now.

In the Imperial Museum at Kyoto are a series of pictures
illustrative of the life of Tenjin. They are the work of one
Nobuzane, who is said to have wrought upon them in A.D. 1206.
The most vivid painting deals with the passing of the scholar into
exile. He is seated in the stern of a boat rowed by ten men.
They pull in the face of a terrific and unearthly wind The sail
is furled and lies, with the mast, on the roof of the galley. The
efforts of the rowers are so frantic as to be pitiable to see. They
fight their way against this blast from the nether world until the
oars are bent double under the awful strain. The sea is horrible
beyond words, a sea more gruesome than any the ancient mariner
ever reached in his dread sailing. Its colour is a livid blue green,
the tint of a bruise, and it is contorted into gnawing waves, sharp
like the curled teeth of a gigantic saw. The waters, moreover, are
full of loathsome fish, red and slimy, while on rocks near by are
snaky black cormorants — portentous birds of evil. In the bows
of the ship kneels a distressful man in white. As he prays his
raiment is being dragged tight across his bones by the direful
wind. In the hold, among much luggage, are limp women wan
with weeping. They are blown prone by the storm, like wheat in
a hurricane. Tenjin, the scholar, alone sits in the stern, wrapped
in a brown robe, unruffled and unmoved.

The temple stands among trees, and, through these and by many
lanterns and many gates, a stone causeway leads up to the shrine.
The encircling trees are mostly the matsu and the cryptomeria.

The temple is in a paved square. It is a little more than a
great solemn shed with a comfortable roof of warm brown thatch,
which mounts in the middle to a surprising gable. The shrine,

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A RELIGION OF CHERRY BLOSSOM. 331

with the tablet of the exile, is far away at the back c/ the temple,
where it is lost in inscrutable shadows. Before these shadows are
ranged mighty wooden pillars ; while from unseen beams lanterns
in gilt and in bronze hang down into the dusk. In the cabalistic
gloom is the outline of a black table, with brass incense burners and
candlesticks on it, as well as dishes for offerings. There are
mysterious screens, too, that hide something; while, here and
there, in the unfathomable depth are glimpses of silver emblems,
of mighty timbers covered with red paint, and enigmatical panels
glistening with black and crimson lacquer.

In front of all — so that the wholesome daylight falls upon it —
is a delicate branch of plum blossom in a blue vase.

The favourite flower of the banished scholar, who was rowed
away in the teeth of so ruthless a storm, was the plum blossom.
Thus it is that in the courtyard of the temple, surrounded by a
wooden fence, there stands a venerable plum tree laden with pink
flowers. It is the exile's tree, and it blooms in the little paved
square to do honour to the man who loved it in his life-time and
who loves it still.

In the temple precincts are thatched buildings of plain bare
wood, granite lanterns and small shrines. In every byway, by
every moss-covered wall, and by the side of every flagged path
are plum trees in blossom. The flowers of most of them are white ;
a few are pink.

In the early spring the temple close is buried in clouds of plum
blossom. The masses of flowers stand out, in exquisite contrast,
against the old drab walls, the seal brown thatch, and the dark
green of the encircling pines. The ground is snowed over with
frail petals which, along the temple step, have been swept into a
white drift by the March breeze.

For those who come here to worship the ceremonial is very
simple. They go first of all to a stone cistern, where they wash
their hands and their mouths, dipping up the water in a small
wooden cup at the end of a long stick. In front of the temple is
a bell from which dangles a wide linen rope. There is also a
receptacle for alms not unlike the hay-rack above a horse's
manger. The worshipper approaches, makes an obeisance to the

332 JAPAN.

shrine, and throws an offering of money into the rack. Then,
after ringing the bell, he kneels or bows before the altar with
clasped hands while he prays. He prays to the scholar who died
in exile, and to whom the plum blossom was dear. He then claps
his hands, makes another obeisance, and retires.

Before he leaves he wanders about the temple gardens to see
the plum trees. His eyes light up as they fall upon the wondrous
bloom, his mind is aglow with unspeakable adoration. To him the
temple plum blossom with the sun on it is an emblem of the Great
Peace.

In a place called Shimo-Gamo, near Kyoto, on a much-wooded
spit of land running out into the river, is an old and deserted Shinto
temple at the end of an avenue of maples. It was founded, they
say, in A.D. 667.

It seems now to have been forgotten by the world, to have
faded into the sightless grey of centuries, and to have become
deaf to the voices of living men. There is no rattle of clogs upon
its stones, nor is there any sound of the temple bell in the gloom
of its ancient eaves. Once a year, I understand, there is a cere-
monial visit to the place, when it partially awakens. As soon as
the day is over the shrivelled old sanctuary wraps itself once more
in the silence of sleep.

In one corner of the temple square a spring of water creeps
from under a rock and, after loitering in a pool banked by stone
steps, it runs as a small river across the courtyard, to be lost
among the trees. There is a tiny round bridge over the stream
arched like a bow, and, near by the bridge, a well, with a wheel
and bucket, under a wooden roof. Shading the well is a plum tree
in blossom.

The only living creature met with in the temple grounds, on
the occasion of my visit, was an old woman carrying a ruddy-faced
baby — her grandson. My companion asked her why she had come
to a place so solitary. She said, " she thought it would do the baby
good to see the plum blossom." In such wise commences the
education of the Japanese child

VII.
THE GENTLE LIFE:

Not a few of the more highly educated Japanese — especially the
younger of them — are apt to assert that, after some critical enquiry
into the subject of creeds, they have abandoned all religions on the
ground that they are neither useful nor convincing. It is stated
also by competent writers on Japan that the people of the country
generally are undevotional and irreligious. A residence in the
island of a few months only leads one to doubt the correctness of
both of these statements. The erudite Japanese may discard as
unsound the professions of Buddhism or Christianity, or may even
repudiate the gentle and unassuming pretensions of the Shinto
faith, but all the same he will remain a devotee to Ancestor
Worship, and in the religion of ancestor worship he will find the
code of morality he observes. He has not, therefore, thrown
aside all religion.

In spite of fluttering manifestations of particular beliefs, or
of unbelief, there is a religion in Japan, the foundations of which
are set in Ancestor Worship, and these foundations neither ancient
Indian creeds nor modern agnosticism have in any degree dis-
turbed. Both Buddhism and Western civilisation are opposed to
ancestor worship, and although both have entered very intimately
into the life of Japan they have left this old-world faith untouched.

To refute the general charge of irreligion it is only necessary
to note the immense number of temples which exist throughout
Japan, the constant crowd of worshippers, their obvious sincerity,
and the enthusiasm which attends their great sacred festivals
throughout the year. The religion of the humbler classes, whilst
it does not express itself in mere parade and exacting ceremony,
yet influences every circumstance of daily life. Their devotional
acts are simple, but they are not confined to public places where

333

334 JAPAN.

they can be ceen of men, nor are they regulated by social require-
ments, nor employed as a means of " appearing respectable."

But for the comments of those more competent to speak I
should have regarded the Japanese as a devout people.

Ancestor worship lies at the bottom of it all. The worship
of the Imperial Ancestors is, as Professor Nitobe says, " the
national worship."* Upon it is based the government of the
country. The present constitution of the Empire of Japan,
promulgated in 1889, is definitely founded upon the worship of
the Imperial Ancestors, and, in the preamble of the charter, this
fact is very prominently set forth. The worship of clan ancestors
— the dead of the district — serves to maintain that love of country
and of home, that attachment to the land, which is so strong and
wonderful a factor in the Japanese character.

The worship of family ancestors influences and directs every
act in the worshipper's life. It is the sacred soul of the ancestor
who watches over the family, who is ever mindful of the dignity
of his kind, and who has in his keeping the memory of old ties
and old associations. The living feel that they are never forgotten,
and that they in turn should never forget. The same father —
although he is long since dead — keeps ward over the son, in whose
every action he still remains intently concerned. " When a young
student goes to Europe to pursue his studies, when a soldier
sets out on a campaign, when an official is sent abroad on some
government service, he invariably visits the graves of his ancestors
in order to take leave of them."t

With the devout Buddhist in Japan there are four days in the
year — in the height of the glorious Japanese summer — when the
spirits of the dead come back to the old house and live in it
again. On the evening of the first day a fire is kindled before
the door of the house, or in the little garden, to guide the spirit
home. On the evening of the fourth day another fire is lighted ;
it is " the farewell fire," and it is intended to cheer them on their
way. During these four days the house is filled with tender
memories, with the dearest presence, with longings which, though

* "Japan by the Japanese." London, 1904, page 286.
f- Ibid., page 289.

THE GENTLE LIFE. 335

unutterable, will one day be satisfied. It is during th^se scented
summer evenings that those who still live on can feel once again
"the touch of the vanished hand," and can hear once more "the
sound of the voice that is still." The offerings of flowers and
fruit, which are placed on " the spirits' shelf," are a repetition of the
presents which are bestowed in life with such infinite pleasure and
such graciousness.

It is little to be wondered that the Japanese are loyal to the
death, are devoted to their country and their people with a fervour
that few have knowledge of, are filled with the fierce partisanship
of the clansman and the pride of birth, but are yet gentle and
tender, considerate and full of sympathies. It is small wonder, too,
that their everyday life is peopled with fancies, and that they
traffic much with the world of dreams. The basis of their worship
is affection and gratitude, the motive of their ceremonial is the
ever-present voice, " Do this in remembrance of me."

The daily acts of the Japanese man are moulded upon the
resolve never to degrade in any way the name of those who have
gone before him. He is always under their watchful eyes, and
it is the purpose of his life to do nothing which may occasion them
offence, or may alienate their affection and good will. The
Japanese woman, facing the great crisis of her life, would speak
in the words of Pompilia's prayer: —

" O lover of my life, O soldier saint,
No work begun shall ever pause for death !
Love will be helpful to me more and more
I' the coming course, the new path I must tread,
My weak hand in thy strong hand, strong for that ! "

One passing comment upon ancestor worship, made to me by a
Japanese gentleman with whom I was speaking upon the subject,
brought this antique religion lightly in touch with modern
criticism. " There is considerable doubt," he said, " as to the
precise origin of the human species. That origin, at least, is the
subject of difference of opinion, and has been the matter of much
philosophical discourse. Amongst all the clouds of argument and
of dogma one thing alone stands out as certain, and that is, that
we all come from ancestors."

336 JAPAN.

The standard of Japanese morality is high. It is influenced not
merely by the logical outcome of ancestor worship and by the
teachings of such religious creeds as Shintoism, Buddhism, and
Confucianism, but also by an ancient and curious code of morality
called Bushido. The literal significance of Bushido is " fighting
Knight ways," or, in freer English, " the precepts of Knightly
behaviour." This code of honour was that professed originally
by the Samurai class, and in time by the greater body of the
people. Bushido is of indefinite antiquity, and is reputed to be
an outcome of the old Shinto religion. " It professes no revelation
from above, and it boasts of no founder. Its ultimate sanction
lies in the inborn sense of shame at all wrong-doing, and of honour
in doing right. It offers no philosophical demonstration for this
belief."* It is embodied in the form of no statutes, and its
teachings, such as they are, have never been systematised.

It enforced care of the body in that it is, for a time, the
habitat of a divine presence. It taught that a man should be
master of himself, should be capable of effacing himself, should
be so unselfish that he should regard it as the highest praise to be
spoken of as " the man without a me."

Bushido insisted upon the power of the voice of conscience,
taught the nobleness of self-sacrifice, of valour, of patriotism and
of benevolence. It inculcated gentle manners, courtesy, and an
ever-mindful regard for the feeling of others. If any man were
insulting and violent it was wrong to be cross with him. He had
offended against himself and not against you, so that he is only
to be pitied and helped.

Bushido is an expression of " the inborn race instinct of
honour " of the Japanese people, the sum of their natural estimate
of right-doing. It is the outcome of an intuition, and not of a cult,
just as what we call in England " the dictates of common sense "
depend upon no carefully constructed formulae, but upon the judg-
ment and perception of the English people. Bushido presents this
element of strength. Its code of precepts does not rest upon a
revelation, the reality of which may become a matter of doubt,
nor is it framed from the utterances of a teacher whose authority
* "Japan by the Japanese," page 265.

A SHINTO TEMPLE.

THE GENTLE LIFE. 337

may be disputed. It is the feeling of the nation., It is the
country's ideal of what is right, its ideal of what is wrong. He
who breaks its unwritten laws sins against the unanimous con-
science of his fellow-man.

If anyone upon this side of the world will tabulate " the
instincts of a gentleman," or will place in order the accepted
principles of the Gentle Life, he will be laying the foundations of a
Western Bushido.

VIII.

THE JAPANESE THEATRE.

There is in Kyoto a jingling street, full of trivial shops, called
Theatre Street. It is given over wholly to frivolity, so that the
sign of the street might as well be " the Cap and Bells." No rick-
shaws are allowed in this lane, neither may a cart nor a pedlar
trespass upon it. The crowd, therefore, can wander within its
limits aimlessly, can gape at the booths and the finery without fear
of being knocked down by anything in a hurry.

The street is aflame with colour from one end to the other.
Besides lanterns and flags there are hanging silks and gaudy
umbrellas, which wave in the wind, shop signs in black, red, and
gold, together with brilliant pictures, framed in tinsel and paper
flowers, over a score of theatres and booths. These places of
entertainment show no restraint whatever in the matter of colour.
Any tint that is bright is acceptable. If there be one facade in
pink and yellow, the next will be in crimson and green. They
seem indeed to shout at one another in colours. At some play-
houses can be heard tragedies which deal with much shedding oi
blood, or comedies which, according to the placards, are embowered
in cherry blossoms and moonlight on lakes. In other places it is
possible to see dances, or men juggling with plates, or women
strolling with bare feet on red-hot iron. There are waxworks also
and peep-shows, as well as displays of animated pictures.

The shops, which fill up the gaps between the booths and
theatres, deal with no serious articles of commerce. In some are
revealed all the mysteries of the Japanese lady's dress, together
with the splendours of her silks ; while in others are fans, cosmetics,
trifles such as hair-pins and pipes, children's toys, and posies of
artificial flowers. The street traffics, indeed, only with vanities,
for the place is none other than Vanity Fair.

338

THE JAPANESE THEATRE. 339

It is at night that it is most crowded and most brilliant. The
booths and theatres are ablaze with light, which illumines the
amused faces of the restless crowd. The many-coloured lanterns
are lit, while even through the paper screens of the houses there
filters the glow of the yellow light within. So great is the clatter
of clogs and the rustle of sandals that the gong of the conjurer
is hard to hear, while the drum of the exponent of the panorama
is but a mumbling echo.

The chief theatre in this gay thoroughfare is very large, and had
devoted itself to a bustling play illustrative of the great war.
The building itself inside is low roofed and bare, like an unfurnished
mission hall. There are neither seats nor footlights, neither boxes
nor orchestra. The stage occupies one side of the hall, and from
the foot of the platform the floor slopes upwards as if it were an
undecided roof. The whole of this tilted area is divided into
little square compartments by boards which are only some four
inches high. Thus it comes about that the auditorium has the
look of a seedsman's counter marked off with shallow compart-
ments for seeds. Each square has a mat and " kneels " two people,
for the whole of the audience are dumped down upon the floor.
At the back of the hall, facing the stage, is a gallery to " kneel "
about one hundred.

A curious feature of the theatre is due to the circumstance
that the actors enter by the front of the stage instead of by the
back. A raised wooden causeway runs along one side of the
hall from the stage to the street. If applied to a Western theatre
it would traverse the pen for the orchestra, the stalls, and the pit,
and end somewhere in the foyer, or outer hall. By this causeway
— which suggests an embankment across a flood — the actors make
their entries and their exits. By it also the audience reach their
" kneels," the waitresses their customers, while upon it inattentive
children play.

As the actors have to stalk through the company their exits
are, in consequence, a little drawn out. The suicidal woman,
rushing riverwards, has to maintain her agony until she has
traversed the causeway ; while the hero, who is making for the
rescue of the afflicted, appears to be hurrying to the street. It is

340 JAPAN.

possible that a playgoer, on his way to his seedsman's compartment,
may collide with a Japanese Ellen Terry, who is leaving the stage
heavy with tears. This long extended fading from the public
gaze, moreover, compels the funny man to continue to be funny
for some time after he has made his last jest upon the boards.

The auditorium is dull in colour, for all the playgoers who huddle
together on the floor affect dull dresses. Although the theatre,
on the occasion of my visit, was full to its paper walls, there was
not a European costume among the crowd. There are, therefore,
no matinee hats. By stepping from one compartment to another
it is easy to ramble over the whole theatre, while in case of fire
it is only necessary to walk through the wall.

As the performance could only appeal to me as would a drama
acted before a stone deaf man, I took the opportunity of noting the
observances which attend the going-to-the-play in Japan. An
illustration was afforded by a young couple, who, if there were a
" smart set " in Japan, would certainly be of its fellowship. The
man had a fine intellectual face, and his black robe was evidently
of the most approved type. The wife was very young, as well as
exceptionally pretty. Her hair was a triumph of art, and she
was exquisitely dressed. Her kimono was of the dull grey of a
moth's wing ; her legs were bare ; her socks were white. Beneath
the skirt was a glimpse of some garment in bright coloured silk.

The little couple came in late, just as the " smart set " do in
England. They were shown to their places, with some ceremony,
and as they stepped from one little pen to another they bowed to
their friends. It is evidently the " proper thing " for the up-to-date
playgoer and his companion to take two seedsman's compartments
and turn them into one by removing the intervening strip of wood.
This they did. A low-bowing waitress brought them cushions to
kneel on, programmes, a bronze stove full of glowing charcoal,
and a smoking box with a bamboo receptacle for tobacco ashes.
Later on she followed with a tray, on which were a teapot and
two cups. The lady, as soon as she had settled down, drew a
mirror from out of her sash, inspected her hair with some anxiety,
altered the position of a coral pin, wiped her face in places with
paper and applied powder where necessary. The powder puff

THE JAPANESE THEATRE. 341

also came from the depths of her sash. There wete still other
things buried in this broad band of silk, for when she had put away
her mirror, powder box and puff she drew out a showy pipe case
along with an exquisite tobacco pouch. She smoked three pipes
with infinite grace, taking about three whiffs from each, and knock-
ing out the ashes into the bamboo cylinder, with or without the aid
of a hairpin. Having returned her pipe and accessories to her
obi she proceeded to take tea.

As soon as the tea was disposed of the waitress brought in
dinner. It was a jumbled little meal made up of elegant trays,
dishes of lacquer, and tiny basins of porcelain, very suggestive of a
doll's birthday repast. The grace with which the lady ate was
more wonderful to see than anything on the stage. She used her
chopsticks as if they were sensitive antennas and fed like a butter-
fly. There was a bone in the fish, so she picked it from between
her teeth with the chopsticks and let it drop into the bamboo tube.
Her neatness and quickness of movement were amazing. She
and her husband sipped saki out of doll's house cups. I noticed
that he helped himself quite liberally before she ventured to take
any, and that she usually poured it out for him. He had forgotten
his handkerchiefs ; whereupon she dived into her sleeve and
brought out a dozen. With some of these he wiped his face and
his hands, and dropped the used paper into his own sleeve so as
not to litter the prim enclosure.

When the many dinner dishes had been removed the little
people lapsed into tea drinking and smoking again, and the lady
was now more in a mood to smile at the play. In due course the
baby was brought in by a nurse. The baby — about three years
old — was as radiant in colour as a tropical bird. With the
arrival of the child the mother's interest in the drama vanished,
for it was evident that the baby provided her with a delight which
absorbed all others.

The acting on the stage appeared to me to be admirable, so far
as it is possible to judge of acting in an unknown tongue. Cer-
tainly the scenery and the management of the play were near
to perfection. As soon as the curtain came down upon an exciting
episode those of the audience who were nearest to the stage jumped

342 JAPAN.

up, and lifting the foot of the curtain, put their heads under it to
see the veritable end. It might be thought that persistent dis-
illusions would have discouraged them, but the same heads dived
under the curtain time after time.

When the play is over the calling for cabs and carriages is
replaced by a calling for clogs. It is impossible to step into the
muddy road in spotless white socks ; and as everybody wants to
leave at once there is much importunate holding out of wooden
clog room tickets.

IX.

TOKYO THE REFORMED.

At the extremity of a long bay which ends in a tired water —
like Southampton water — stands the city of Tokyo, the capital of
Japan. It is a place of astonishing extent, as those who cross it
in a rickshaw come to learn at the cost of some weariness. It
needs to be large, as it shelters one and a half millions of people.
Up to September I3th, 1868, the city went by the name of Yedo.
Since that date there has dawned upon it the unhappy light of
Western civilisation, under which it is reputed to have advanced
amazingly. Yet there are many in Japan, as well as without it, who
would long to see come back again the city of Yedo the Un-
reformed.

Civilisation fell upon the gracious city like a disfiguring disease,
and if good has come of it, it has been at no less a sacrifice to the
capital than the loss of its beauty and its individuality. Progress
has changed the homely brown lane into a wide and glaring street,
with two lines of tramways and broad pavements. It has made the
winding path straight, while the alley, whose tiny gap of sky was
almost shut out by paper lanterns, it has taken entirely away.
Saddest of all, it has fallen upon the Japanese house — the exquisite
little house of chocolate-coloured wood and paper screens — and has
turned it into a horror of stone or brick. The white paper it has
replaced by glass, the dignified plain wood by stucco. The ill that
has thus been wrought is beyond all weeping for.

In the main street of Tokyo there are now scarcely any wooden
houses to be seen. In their stead are two storied buildings
of brick, no two of which are alike, although they all possess
the common quality of ugliness. They are daubed with coarse
colours like a tattooed Indian, while in the features of meanness and

343

344 JAPAN.

vulgarity the./ leave no opportunity for further development. Their
style of architecture is that known as " foreign," which means that
no country in the world would acknowledge it, or give it a home.

It is to be hoped that far at the back of the tawdry shop
front, and out of sight of the flaring advertisements which cover it,
there is still a quiet Japanese home where the relieved shopkeeper
can throw off the mask, can don his kimono, and smoke his pipe,
sitting on wholesome yellow mats, with the companionship of a
sprig of cherry blossom in a cherished vase. He must often
question what it is he has gained by the pursuit of progress. He
has gained neither charm nor ease, nor has he secured any
advantage in the matter of health. The Japanese house with its
liberal ventilation and its paper walls — permeable to air — is well
to live in. The same cannot be said of the brick and stucco case-
ment which has taken its place.

It would seem as if some sinister Aladdin had walked through
the dignified byways of the old city crying, " New lanterns for old,"
and that the people had come out to exchange paper windows for
glass, coarse iron railings for the bamboo fence, corrugated iron
for the old grey tile, the sound of rattling tram-cars for the rustle
of sandals and the whisperings of the street.

The picturesqueness of the Japanese dress may well be the
envy of any civilised people. In Tokyo — lamentable to say — the
delightful costume of the country is vanishing. The women (to
their great credit be it observed) still cling to their own beautiful
dress, but the men are succumbing to the infection of reform. It
is to be regretted, for the Japanese man in his kimono has a natural
dignity which vanishes miserably when he takes upon him the
costume of Europe. There is no spectacle in the streets of Tokyo
more distressful than that of the dandy who has attempted a com-
promise, in the matter of his attire, between the Far East and the
Far West. Such infirmity of purpose will lead him to wear a
kimono, with above it a " bowler " hat, and below it knickerbockers
and elastic-side boots.

Tokyo is noisy and smoky. A black forest of factory chimneys
is springing up around it, while the incessant shrieking of steam
whistles has already made the city famous. Against the sky in

TOKYO THE REFORMED. 345

every street are lines of electric wires concerned witA telegraphs,
telephones and incandescent lamps. These wire entanglements
cross the city in every direction and at every angle, so that there
seems to be creeping over the troubled settlement a cobweb of iron.
About the centre of the town merciless clearings are being
made. The picturesque old houses, with always the warm tints
of autumn about them, have been swept away ; just as a
ferocious builder would mow down bracken and fern to make a
brutal waste for his castellated villa. The defiant outer moat,
which in heroic times served to guard the King, is being filled up,
so that soon its place will know it no more. On the bald spaces
thus made in the improving city appear, in fulness of time, wide
roads, open squares, and line after line of immense public buildings
in red brick and stone. At a period but little distant, Yedo the
Imperial, the Sacred, the World-ignoring, will become a " modern
capital," the simulacrum of Brussels, the echo of Pretoria.

Near about the centre of the reformed city an opportunity is
afforded to the English of seeing themselves as others see them.
The mirror that is thus held up to the Western country is in the
guise of a small public park — a European park — with evidences
that it is modelled upon like enclosures in England. It is girt about
by assertive iron railings, exulting in their ugliness. It is entered
by lofty iron gates of the well-known, much lamented suburban
type. Within are wide gravel walks, precise flower beds, a waste
of confused and vacant grass crowned by a purposeless mound, to
show the end of the art of landscape gardening. Near the mound
is an up-to-date open-air gymnasium.

And this is a country that has been civilised for a thousand
years ! The land with such a garden as that at Katsura, such
walks and terraces as those at Nikko, such a park as that at Ueno
on the outskirts of the very city itself!

Those who look into the mirror provided by Tokyo's new public
park will recognise the face, but will be startled to find that it was
so much more unsightly than they had ever dreamed. One thing
about this park must count for righteousness. In May it is glorious
with azalea trees in bloom, with such an outpouring of dainty
colours as would make a halo about even a boot factory.

346 JAPAN.

The two ^ancient parks of Tokyo, Shiba and Ueno, are suffering
a little from the close association with a population of one and a
half millions. They crown certain low hills, over which they
stretch with many avenues of trees and wide slopes about old
temples, with occasional ponds and carved pagodas.

The temples, once among the most beautiful in Japan, are
becoming a little shabby. Their precincts are neglected and untidy,
for casual paths have been trodden about the woods by some of
the three million feet of the city. About these sacred parks there
is a suggestion of Hampstead Heath as it appears on the morning
after a Bank Holiday. The great pines and the stalwart
cryptomeria keep up, in some manner, the dignity of the old
feudal days, but the magic of their presence is waning.

In the Ueno Park is the once beautiful Lake of Shinobazu-no-
ike, famous for its lotus flowers in August. Western civilisation,
however, has no sympathy with people who waste the early morn-
ing, by the margin of a pool, watching for the lotus to open ; and
thus it is that the shores of the lake have been turned into a race-
course.

A river traverses Tokyo, and besides the river there are many
half-forgotten Dutch-looking canals. From them arises all that
stench which is proper to any town canal which has come under the
influence of useful progress. Many of these waterways still retain
the beautiful old wooden bridges of the Japan that was, the
tumble-down timber houses which hang half across the stream,
and the quaint craft which, with sail and oar, have passed by the
riverside tea houses in so many an ancient picture.

There are bridges across the river of recent erection which
can, I believe, claim to be the ugliest constructions of the kind in
the known world. One bridge of iron girders especially leaves
on the mind the impression of a hideous nightmare in which a
colossal humpbacked insect with stilt-like legs is crawling across
a tainted river. Near by to this fearsome thing is one of the old
bridges of the city. It is called Ohashi, which is by interpretation
" The Honourable Bridge."

The Honourable Bridge is fashioned wholly of wood, and
honest planks have not been spared in its building. An old

TOKYO THE REFORMED. 34;

coloured print by Hiroshige shows the bridge as i> was in the
leisurely days before the city became regenerate. As it was then
so is it now, except for differences which matter little. In the
print the bridge leads over into a place where there are a few
contented houses among a stretch of comfortable trees. It is rain-
ing in the picture, so that two women have drawn up the skirts of
their kimonos, while the man behind them in a limpet-shell hat is
pulling down his sleeves. Further on the way are three coolies
hurrying along under a paper umbrella, following a fourth who has
wrapped himself in a mat. On the river a man clad in a " mino,"
or rain cape of straw, is poling a timber raft down the stream.

The Honourable Bridge leads no longer from the town into the
green country, for across the river are factories and wharves, tall
chimneys and telegraph poles. When the rain falls now the
women on the bridge open French umbrellas. The coolie turns
up the collar of a discarded Norfolk jacket, or dons a London cab-
man's waterproof cape. There is a timber raft on the river, but
it is being towed by a tug, belching black smoke and whistling
hysterically, while the " mino " is replaced by an oilskin coat from
Chicago. The bridge has been left behind with its gorgeous past
and its ancient memories ; the relic of a dead romance. There is
now little to keep it fitting company, but it is still The Honourable
Bridge.

As a relief from the imposing courts of the Imperial Diet, from
the new University Buildings, from the girder bridges and the
Industrial Exhibitions of the reformed city, the visitor might go to
Kameido — an old Shinto temple in the undecided suburbs of the
town. The place is called Kameido because of a stone tortoise,
which still rests there on the brink of the well.

The temple itself is of no particular interest, but the garden by
which it is approached — if seen about the end of April — is not
likely to be forgotten. A plain wooden gate opens into a court
traversed by a stone causeway. This causeway leads across the
middle of a pond to the temple, going by way of strangely shaped
islands, on which — among green lawns — are rocks and azalea
bushes with some venerable matsu trees, looking crazy with age.
The islands are approached from one side, and are landed from on

348 JAPAN.

the other, b)& wooden bridges, which are very round and steep and
which, by reason of their shape and the little steps upon them, have
the look of paddle-boxes emptied of their wheels. To cross these
bridges when the planks are wet is a feat creditable to an acrobat.

The pond is called the " Pond of the Word Heart," because it is
supposed to be the shape of the Chinese character for " Heart."
All around this Pool of the Heart, extending from one fantastic
bridge to the other, are arbours laden with wistarias. Towards the
end of April every climbing shrub is in full blossom. The flowers
are either white or mauve, and they drop from the trellis in great
cone-shaped clusters, hanging over the water and over the flagged
walk which skirts the margin of the pool.

The water of the pond is clear and has the yellow-brown tint
of the oak leaf in autumn. Upon it are reflected the grey trellis-
work and its burden of green, partly hidden by clouds of white and
clouds of mauve — the shadows of the flowers. Under these
shadows swim golden carp. The air is full of the sensuous per-
fume from thousands of drooping flowers ; and if only the little
square could be emptied of its clattering holiday folk, it would be
a garden court with scarcely an equal in the world.

Let the emblem of the reformed city of Tokyo be, by all means,
a steam tug floating under a girder bridge. But the emblem of the
old untroubled city of Yedo shall be a golden carp floating under
the mauve shadow of an overhanging wistaria blossom.

THE ST. PETER'S OF JAPAN.

The largest Buddhist temple in Japan, the most recently built
and the most magnificent to see, is the temple of Higashi
Hongwanji at Kyoto.

It will probably be a matter of little interest to know that the
structure cost eight millions of dollars, or that it needed seventeen
years to build. There are many holy places which have cost ten
times that sum, and which have occupied a score more years in the
building. But the money for the uplifting of this temple was for
the most part provided by the peasants of the country, who saved
up their pence, week by week, with unstinted labour, and then
carried the little offering by long miles into Kyoto.

Still less interest may attach to the fact that there are ninety-
six mighty pillars of solid wood in the shrine, together with beams
which are forty-two feet long and four feet thick. But these huge
timbers were dragged to Kyoto by singing folk, who raised them
on high by the might of their arms and placed them where they
stand, and who — be it noted — would take no wage for the work
they did. They would tramp home through the length of the night,
hungry and sore of limb, but with a great comfort in their hearts.

In an outbuilding by the temple is a curious thing which may
arrest the attention of some. It is a gigantic rough cable or
hawser, curled up like a Titanic caterpillar in a stone court. It
measures three hundred feet in length and boasts a diameter of
three inches. There are many cables longer than this and larger,
yet there is no other rope like it in the world. It is curious in
colour, being a faded and musty black. It is unusual in texture,
appearing at a distance as if made of fur. Its peculiarities are

349

350 JAPAN.

readily to b$ explained. It is made of human hair contributed by
thousands of poor people from the country around. In this dull
warp are the glossy locks of many a smiling Japanese girl and many
a sober matron. Wound up with such rich tresses also are grey
hairs from the head of the old grandmother, who longed to help in
the building of the sanctuary. This hawser of hair was used to
drag the timbers along, as well as to hoist them into place.

Higashi Hongwanji, indeed, was built by the love of a people,
whose unselfishness and devotion are without end. Much money
was bestowed upon it, but it belonged to that coinless wealth which
is " beyond the dream of avarice." Much gold was poured forth
for seventeen years, but it came from a land of Havilah, of which
it could well be said, " and the gold of that land is good."

The temple, of immense proportions, is beautifully placed in an
open square, where are the cistern, the great bell, and the ponderous
lanterns of bronze. The roof shows one majestic sweep of grey
tiles, with a curve like the hollow of a foam-crested wave. The
pillars are made of untouched baulks of keyaki wood, brown and
bare.

Within is a wide hall, the pine ceiling of which is held up
by huge columns of timber, free from any trace of decoration
and standing in four rows. The walls are of paper screens, so that
the light within is dim. Before the shrine is a coarse wooden
barrier, and then a broad mat-covered passage for the priests.
The shrine and the open chantries on either side of it occupy the
whole of one length of the building.

The shrine itself is of red and black lacquer and brilliant gold.
Its gilded screens are thrown aside, and within is the figure of
Buddha, black and grave, sitting in an alcove of gold. The altar
before the image is of gold lacquer brilliantly burnished. On its
dazzling surface stand the golden lotus, the candlesticks, the dishes
for offerings, and the incense burner. Amidst these effulgent
emblems, and almost lost in the blaze of brass and bronze, silver and
gilt, is a blue china vase with a sprig of cherry blossom in it The
ceiling is lost in darkness, but from it hang metal lanterns, glisten-
ing tassels, and curiously shaped ornaments.

The unenclosed rooms on either side of the shrine are extremely

THE ST. PETER'S OF JAPAN. 351

beautiful. Around each runs a dado of black lacquer with panels
of gold. The wall above the dado is wholly of dull gold ; and on
this background are painted white and pink lotus flowers adrift
among eddies of blue green. On this wall hangs a solitary kake-
mono in Pompeiian red. The ceiling is too dim to see. The
floor is of black lacquer polished like a mirror, and in it are reflected
the gold panels on the wall and the drifting lotus flowers. Steal-
ing through the gorgeous chamber is the perfume of incense ; from
some corner comes the sound of the beating of a gong; without
is the kneeling multitude.

Such is the temple the poor people built with their coppers,
and for which, moreover, the men gave the wealth of their muscles,
and the women the glory of their hair.

XI.

THREE TEMPLES IN KYOTO.

The three most frequented temples in Kyoto are Kiyomizu-
dera, the Inari Temple, and Chion-in. Kiyomizu-dera stands on a
precipitous hillside looking down over the town. It is hardly a
temple, but rather a little hamlet of sacred buildings perched half
way up a height which is covered with trees. A ledge has been
hewn out of the slope to provide a foothold for this holy place ;
but so steep is the incline that the wooden platform which widens
out before the main temple, and whi$h makes a way round the
terrace from one chapel to another, is built upon lofty timbers
stepped on the sides of the declivity. The pines with which the
great hill is shrouded gather around Kiyomizu-dera on every side,
like a multitude of eager worshippers. Thus it is that the venerable
roofs and the sun-tanned pillars stand out always against a back-
ground of eternal green.

The spot is reached by a long, steep street, given up to the sale
of earthenware dolls and fancies of many kinds in homely porcelain.
At the end of the street the worshipper is faced by towering stairs
of stone which he needs must ascend. On the summit of these
are two-storied gateways ; while beyond, and still higher up the
hill, is a stately pagoda, from the foot of which is a glorious
view over the town and the misty plain in which it lies. The paved
path thence climbs ever up and up, mounting towards the solemn
tree-covered hill. It winds through avenues of stone lanterns, by
the great fountain of bronze, by the stone cistern and the belfry,
past the hall for offerings, and by many little chapels and shrines.
It is, as it were, a street clambering through a village of monastic
buildings.

352

THREE TEMPLES IN KYOTO. 353

At last the wide platform before the chief temple > is reached.
It is a stage of plain wood with a railing round it, over which
those weary with the climb can lean and look down into the wooded
gorge below. The temple is old and bare. Its roof of velvet
brown cedar bark is streaked here and there with green moss, for
the thatch lies under the damp shadows of the trees. On the
platform is always a loitering crowd — just as on the platform of the
Golden Pagoda at Rangoon — old men and maidens, young men
and children, all attired in their best. There is much chattering
among the friends who meet here, but their voices are drowned
by the musical babble of clogs on the hollow boards. Always can
be heard, too, the throb of the temple gongs, and the chink of
copper money thrown by the worshippers on to the altar floor.
In the still air the odour of incense mingles with the smell of pines.

The mysterious shadows in the depths of the shrine mimic
the shades among the pine woods which gather around. In the
one are the flickering flame of a swinging lantern, the gleam of gilt
figures and the glint of brass. In the other are patches of burnished
moss, bright tufts of ferns, and wet rocks that reflect the light of
the setting sun.

The temple is sacred to Kwannon, the goddess who looks
after the unhappy. So it comes to pass that those who every day
climb up to this worshipping place among the trees come hither
to find peace. It is a goal of pilgrimage for the sad at heart ; and
many, walking townwards, down the long paved way, stop at the
edge of the hill to gaze across the dreamy valley with its white
river, and in the looking lose some of the burden of their trouble.

Kiyomizu-dera is, however, no mere shrine to Kwannon. It is
a sanctuary which supplies, to all sorts and conditions of men, a
religion sufficing for every need

There is, for example, on the platform the squatting figure of
an aged man who ever looks amiably towards the distant hills. He
is the god Binzuru. He is a deity " with a past," and certain slight
failings in his early days have brought him in closer touch with the
sympathies of the people. He now busies himself with the healing
of the sick. The method of the healing is after this fashion : The
believer rubs Binzuru on such part of his body as corresponds to the
X

354 JAPAN.

seat of his ^ own trouble, and then rubs himself. This rubbing —
although it may be a form of celestial massage — has done the god
Binzuru no good. His image is of wood, which has been heavily
coated at some time with red lacquer. Thousands of hopeful
hands have rubbed all the lacquer from his brow, have lowered
the height of his forehead, and have rubbed away his nose. From
this it is to be inferred that headache and cold in the nose are
common in Japan. Binzuru also has been worn to the wood in the
region of the stomach as well as over the great toe, which losses of
structure suggest that indigestion and possibly gout are not un-
known about Kyoto.

It may be added that the constant abstraction of virtue has
left Binzuru with an aspect of extreme senility and dotage, while
the fact that he has bibs of red or white cotton around his neck,
and " cuffs " of the same about his wrists give him an appearance
which is little calculated to inspire professional confidence.

I watched many seek relief and comfort at this unusual out-
patient's department. One pretty but shy maiden, having bowed
before the much-worn ancient, passed her hand tenderly over his
heart, and then over her own. I think she had a heart ache and
that Her trouble was lovesickness. If so, the kindly old wooden
image may possibly have done her more good than could the
mystified physician in the town. After her came along a wizened
peasant from the country. He seemed to have travelled from afar,
for there was a dazed look in his face. He led by the hand a boy,
whom I supposed to be his grandson, and who was suffering from
wide-spread ringworm of the scalp. It is probable that the learned
in the village had wrought their best upon the lad's head, but with-
out effect, for the malady is obstinate. The old man had evidently
journeyed to Kyoto to seek the aid of the famous healer of
Kiyomizu. He rubbed the bare wood on Binzuru's head vigorously,
and then he rubbed the boy's head until he giggled. He repeated
this ritual many times, and then left with great faith in his heart.

The next applicant was a worried woman bringing with her a
bald-headed boy who was evidently mentally deficient I think she
hoped to convey to her son's brain some of that bright sense and
that power of learning which dwelt beneath the brow of the patient

A RELIGIOUS PROCESSION AT KYOTO.

THREE TEMPLES IN KYOTO. 355

divinity. She rubbed the two heads — one after the. other — with
even more ardour than the peasant had displayed. The boy
laughed uproariously, but the mother was very grave. Whether in
the course of days a brighter intelligence dawned in the lad's dull
eyes I know not ; but I have little doubt that in its appointed time
ringworm appeared upon his scalp. Women are patient ; still there
is trouble in the learning that the growth of a parasite outside the
skull is no cure for a lack of activity within.

In the most remote nook of Kiyomizu-dera is an ancient timber
shrine, drab and worn, with something of the look of a discarded
wardrobe about it. It is sacred to the god who watches over
lovers. There is a wooden grating in the front of this unpretend-
ing ark, and through it can be dimly seen the deity who has taken
upon himself such lamentable responsibilities. One would expect
him to be of amiable countenance, but the face that is visible in the
dusk is that of a repulsive man with a grinning mouth and erect
hair. To have listened for endless aeons to the woes of the lovesick
may possibly account for this sourness of visage.

The grating is thickly covered by little knots of white paper,
which have been tied around every available bar of the wood.
The maiden who is in search of a husband climbs up shyly to
Kiyomizu, possibly after sundown. She there purchases a homily
on white paper from the priest. This she rolls into an anguished
cord, and, after praying to the dim man in the ark, and casting
coins into his treasury, she proceeds to tie a knot around the grating
with the thumb and little finger of one hand — a performance of
some cunning. If her prayer be answered she shows her gratitude
by hanging a little highly-coloured picture about the shrine, upon
which is usually depicted a grateful woman kneeling at the feet of
a heaven-sent husband.

I had once noticed in a country tea house a girl in a corner
trying with great earnestness to tie a knot with only her thumb and
little finger. It was not until I had seen the shrine at Kiyomizu that
I understood the purpose of her endeavour.

Some way along the terrace is a poor little wooden shed in a
corner against the bare hillside. In it are coarse shelves, one above
the other, and on the topmost ledge is the bronze figure of a

356 JAPAN.

benevolent tian with a bald head and a genial face. He is Jizo,
the god who is kind to little children. Not only does he watch over
them during life, but he cares for them after death and protects
them from the hag Shozuka, who would rob the poor mites of their
clothes when they are wandering in the other world. On the
shelves below the image are many rude stone figures, which are
archaic images of the kindly god himself. Around the necks of
most of these are cotton bibs in red, in yellow and in white, while
here and there on the shelves are children's toys, or a baby's cap.
All these objects are offerings to Jizo, so that he may keep the
dead children in mind.

This small shed of the benevolent old man, with nursery bibs
about his neck, is the poorest building in Kiyomizu ; and yet, from
the bare earth to the shabby tiles, it is full to bursting with the
love of mothers. All the gold of Japan weighed against this love
would be as nothing. No resplendent shrine, no priceless emblem
laden with costly stones, could represent all that intense, tragic,
piteous affection with which tens of thousands of mothers have
committed their babies to the care of Jizo under this mean thread-
bare roof.

The shed is against the damp rock of the mountain, the pine
trees hang over it, the ferns have filled up gaps where the wood-
work has fallen away. So it is that this poor worn shrine of dead
•children has for its real canopy the everlasting hills.

Inari — the goddess of rice — is one of the most popular of all the
Shinto deities. Her emblem is a fox, and Fox Temples exist over
the length and breadth of the land. This is the goddess of the
peasant, for she makes his ricefields to flourish ; the goddess of the
liousewife, for she fills her larder and replenishes her tubs of meal.
In every kitchen is a small red shrine to Inari, and even in the
modern hotel, with its electric light, its latest thing in English
stoves and its French menu, there is sure to be found in the kitchen
an altar of the Fox.

The great Inari temple at Kyoto is so placed that the wor-
shipper is led up, step by step, from the valley until he finds himself
in the wild untutored woods on the hillside. Many pilgrims tramp
to this place. They are mostly of the poor, and many of them come

THE TEMPLE OF THE FOX.

THREE TEMPLES IN KYOTO. 357

hither by long roads. A prominent feature of this temple is the
torii, a kind of gateway made of two upright pillars, across the tops
of which stretch two horizontal beams. The uprights are, as a
rule, painted a bright red and the beams a dull black. Many of
the pilgrims bring little red torii with them as offerings to the good
goddess.

Everywhere about the approaches of the temple are statues
of foxes in stone, bronze, or wood. Some have in their mouths a
key — the key of the celestial u godown " where the rice is stored,
others hold a ball which is the world, others a roll of the sacred
writings.

The way to the temple is by a wide stone path and many stairs,
beneath innumerable torii, by many sheds for offerings, and count-
less lanterns and small shrines. The temple with its thatched roof,
its timbers aglow with gilt and crimson, and its tassels of hemp,
differs in no way from the ordinary Shinto sanctuary. Beyond the
temple, and its cluster of dull buildings, paved paths make their
way up the hill. They vanish into the silent wood, and thence
creep upwards for more than a mile. These paths lead to sacred
foxholes among the rocks and bracken, or to rustic shrines. They
are almost roofed in by votive torii — pillars of vermilion with archi-
traves of ebony — which are so closely placed as to make of the way
a tunnel or roofed colonnade.

These thousands of torii in solid file wind through the wood
Hke a slow-moving solemn procession of cowled monks in scarlet,
This creeping cavalcade in brilliant red, passing among the awed
pine trees and through the trembling multitude of ferns, is most
wonderful to see. At the end of the strange path there is merely a
tiny shrine among the moss and the boulders. It is over a foxhole,
and is almost buried in toy torii in red, or by a caressing under-
growth of green.

There is a religious procession in connection with this temple
which stirs the heart of Kyoto every spring time. Elaborate
shrines, covered with Shinto emblems, are carried on poles through
the streets by coolies dressed in white, who gather in their hundreds,
and who show by their magnificent physique that Japan does not
yet lack men for her armies. In the procession are uneasy officials,

358 JAPAN.

with strange head dresses, on horseback, innumerable bearers of
umbrellas and lanterns, or of waving white trophies emblematical
of rice. There are attendants in limpet-shaped hats, with neck-
laces of black and white squares, and solemn men who walk alone,
but are dignified by some dangling badge of office.

Chion-in is a magnificent temple, whose immense two-storied
gate is approached by an avenue between banks planted with
cherry trees. Like other temples of its kind in Kyoto it is built
upon the slope of a hill, and is on every side surrounded by pines.
Near to it is a picturesque monastery with an ideal Japanese garden
hidden among its sober buildings. Outside the monastery is a
stone walk where are cherry trees, whose frail white blossoms stand
up in sensitive contrast against the rust-brown roof.

Curious as it may appear, the most remarkable thing about
Chion-in is neither the painted egret on its walls nor the gilt
lotuses by its altar, neither its towering bronze lanterns nor its
fountain with a dragon crawling out of it. The strange thing is a
sound. It is the sound of a great bell which stands alone among
the trees in a dip on the hillside. The bell is rightly called great,
for it weighs seventy-four tons. It is of green bronze, and the
wooden tower in which it swings raises its mighty mouth but a
few feet from the ground.

In Europe a bell is struck by a metal hammer, and the hard
crashing sound comes upon the ear like a concussion. The bell, too,
is raised above the housetops, so that the clang of it scatters about
the sky and reverberates away to the horizon. This temple bell is
struck by a hanging ram of timber which strikes softly.

The sound which comes down from the pine woods above
Chion-in is like the sound of no earthly bell As heard at dawn,
when the first streaks of light are creeping into the shuddering
east, it is mysterious, thrilling, and solemn beyond all imagining.
The sound comes out of the wood and rolls downward to the town.
It is a deep, soft, melancholy note like that of a humming gong.
It never rises skywards ; it rumbles along the ground. It flows
through the listener like water through sand. It permeates the
body like a subtle tingling current. It sweeps through the living
tissues like a Roentgen ray.

THE CHERRY TREE BY THE
MONASTERY WALK.

THREE TEMPLES IN KYOTO. 359

If it be the knell tolled for a departing spirit, the^bell must be
upon the other shore of the Great Gulf ; and the sound that comes
down from Chion-in is but the echo of it resounding across the
void It is so sad, so wandering, so desolate, that each slowly
recurring boom comes like a sob.

XII.

A JAPANESE DINNER.

A Japanese dinner has been described so many times that there
is little to be said about it that is not already well known. It is a
dinner without tables and chairs, without knives, forks, spoons, or
glasses, without bread or butter, potatoes or puddings. Thanks to
the most kindly hospitality of the many Japanese gentlemen I met
I had experience of both public and private dinners, and a grateful
remembrance of all of them. A certain dinner of four will serve
to illustrate to what state of nicety the art of eating has attained
in the Far East.

The meal was served in a small, low room in a garden
approached by stepping stones. Within, the walls were of brown
or grey paper screens, while one side was open to the mimic
landscape. A kakemono, showing a crow on a bamboo spray, hung
from the wall On the glistening yellow mats which made the floor
were four kneeling-cushions. Dining on the floor to a European
involves a certain degree of physical endurance, as well as an ex-
tended experience of the phenomena known as " pins and needles."
There is a considerable difficulty in disposing of one's feet, which
tend somehow continually to find their way among the bowls
and dishes. The dining Japanese, on the other hand, appears to
be a creature without legs. Before each of the cushions, on the
occasion I have in mind, was placed a bronze charcoal stove, which
also had a tendency to force itself as inconveniently upon the notice
as did the European sock-covered feet.

The serving maids who entered noiselessly kneel before the
guests and touch the floor with their foreheads. They serve each
dish kneeling and with the most fascinating grace.

360

A JAPANESE DINNER. 361

The first feature in the repast was tea — of the type known as
" tea-ceremony tea." It is a pea-green mixture, thick, opaque and
frothing, which is served in china bowls. It is made by whipping
tea powder up with warm water. It possesses an agreeable taste
suggestive of hay, while with it are brought sweet cakes on a
wooden dish. Now before each diner is placed a small black
lacquer table, about four inches high, on which is deposited a
porcelain dish containing raw fish in neat segments, together with
horseradish paste and a minute cup of soy. A fragment of the fish
is picked up with chop-sticks, is dipped in the soy and then eaten.
Those who express horror at the idea of eating raw fish will
consume uncooked caviare with relish.

The course next in order is represented by a lacquer bowl,
with a cover, containing rice, together with a like bowl of clear
fish-soup, in which float shreds of lotus bulb. The soup is sipped
as from a cup. During the meal saki — a wine made from rice —
is taken. It is poured from a porcelain vase, and is drunk from
minute bowls with a capacity akin to that of a liqueur glass.

Now on the table is placed a red lacquer box with a red lacquer
lid. It contains eels roasted in oil. These also are eaten with
chop-sticks. Following this appears another basin of clear soup
made with lobster, and furnished with pieces of mushroom and
sprigs of green. The remaining dishes consist of hot grilled fish
in squares, served with sweet cakes, cold crab with ginger-flavoured
vinegar, and finally (as a yielding to the Western appetite) frag-
ments of roast teal with burdock, served with slices of raw apple
and orange. At the end of all is a bowl of plain rice and clear
Japanese tea. Everything is deposited upon the floor, or on the
little lacquer stand, and as no dish is removed it is en regie to return
to a particular course at any stage of the meal.

There is about the whole repast, from the beginning to the end,
something of the little atmosphere of a doll's dinner party.

On a public occasion the later stages of the banquet are en-
livened by geishas and dancing girls, whose brilliant costumes
create in the room an effect as beautiful as a bank of flowers. In
the last act of the dinner for four came the two little waiting maids,
standing at the door of the house before the rickshaws, bowing

362 JAPAN.

their heads simultaneously to the ground, with their hands on their
knees.

Japanese cooking would, I imagine, be not unfitly called ex-
quisite. The food is neither greasy nor messy, nor in crude lumps,
while every dish is pretty to look at. The serving of the food is
a revelation, involving as it does a quaint and piquant ceremony.
It may be claimed, moreover, that there is no method of taking food
more refined or more delicate than that by means of chop-sticks.
Civilisation in the West has as yet not advanced very far in con-
nection with the circumstances of eating. While watching a
number of Japanese gentlemen at dinner in the tea house it was
impossible to avoid recalling the spectacle of a company of Germans
— each with a yard square serviette tied about his neck — gorging
noisily on a Rhine steamer. No contrast could well be more
extreme.

The Japanese dinner is noiseless, but for the talking of those
who gather on the floor. There is no clatter of knives and forks,
nor of plates and dishes, nor does the floor tremble under the tread
of perspiring waiters who bawl hotly in the ear such mysteries as,
"thick or clear?"

Civilisation in the West has proposed but feeble attempts to
mitigate the brutality of eating. If a boar's head be served up at a
rubicund banquet it is ceremoniously brought in entire, and is made
so realistic that there shall be no doubt but that the diner is about
to eat the face of a recently living pig. On the more homely table
the roasted hare appears in a ghastly guise — minus its fur certainly
— but with ears and tail erect. It is hard to say what feature could
be introduced to make it look more horrible or less suggestive of a
creature which had been burnt alive. The leg of mutton, too, is
dumped down as an obvious piece of a carcase ; while the slab of
blood-coloured beef makes no pretence of being other than a chunk
of flesh cut from a cow.

There is no logical reason why the fact that man is a carnivorous
animal should not be kept prominently before the eye ; yet there
are many functions appertaining to the animal man which we have,
illogically, no need to be constantly reminded of. In the Japanese
meal the circumstance that what is being eaten was once a live fish

A JAPANESE DINNER. 363

or a live bird is concealed prettily, and with commendable
affectation.

The affairs of dining among Western folk have advanced but
little since the days when the hunter or the backwoodsman killed
his deer, skinned it, roasted it, and ate it before the fire, cutting off
the flesh in strips. A good deal of the business of eating in the
Occident is occupied with acts which rightly belong to the kitchen
and the butcher's block. To the hungry is given a cooked fish ;
whereupon he proceeds to skin it and to remove the bones — the
spine and the ribs. The Japanese are of opinion that this imitation
of the methods of the nomad fisherman is obsolete, and that such
incident of the meal might be anticipated in the scullery. A
family essay to eat a turkey. The entire bird — which was possibly
familiar as an individual during its lifetime — is placed proudly upon
the table whole. The head of the family then rises in his might
and, cleaving the bird with a knife, chops it up and hands fragments
of limbs and trunk to those around. The cave man, when he dined
en famille, did no less.

Japanese food is served up ready to eat, and there is about it no
ostentatious display that man does not live by bread alone. More-
over, the native of Japan, when he dines, dispenses with the camp
fire phenomena of a meal, with the relic of the hunting knife and of
the fork with which flesh is fished out of a pot. A Japanese critic,
if present at an enthusiastic harvest supper in England, would be
justified in thinking that we eat surrounded with the bustle of a
melee, use knives like forest rovers, and drink out of buckets — for
the Japanese bucket is small.

XIII.

THE PALACE.

From time immemorial the government of Japan has been
vested in an Emperor who was of heavenly descent, who could
trace his origin to the sun, who was holy and inviolable. The
present dynasty goes back to a time beyond the dawn of accepted
history.

" The Sovereign Ruler was a personality deemed too sacred and
apart for connection with affairs of general administration."* In
stirring times he could take no active share in military movements,
while in times of peace the mere details of civil government were
beyond his ken. Thus it came about that, some time in the ninth
century, a " Shogun " was appointed by the Emperor to relieve him
of the burdens of military and civil administration. He became the
Commander-in-Chief when war was abroad in the land, and the
Governor-General when the islands were at peace. It is little to be
wondered that the Shogun, although always acting in the name of
the Emperor, rose to be a more and more independent power, that
in due course the office was made hereditary, while the position
assumed was practically that of the ruler of the country. As years
went by, moreover, it is easy to understand that the actual influence
of the Emperor became less and less ; until he faded into what was
little more than a reverenced name, a shadowy emblem.

In the twelfth century the establishment of the feudal system
throughout Japan greatly strengthened the position of the
Generalissimo. The Shogunate continued until the Restoration in
1867, and on October i/th in that memorable year the full
supremacy of the Emperor was restored. He became again, as in
ancient days, the ruler in fact as well as in name, and the Shogun
vanished from out of Japanese affairs.

*" Japan by the Japanese," London, 1904, p. 500.
364

THE PALACE. 365

So it comes about that there are in Japan palaces ?f two kinds,
the one of the Emperor, and the other of the Shogun. In Kyoto
two such palaces exist within little distance of one another, and
they serve to illustrate the characteristics of these two great powers
in the country.

Nijo Castle became a palace of the Shogun more than three
hundred years ago. It is still a place of great dignity and splen-
dour. It is surrounded on all sides by a moat, full of lotus flowers,
beyond which rises a massive wall made of great black stones.
On the summit of the rampart is a grassy bank where are ranged
savage-looking matsu trees. The moat is crossed here and there
by a bridge leading to a gate in a huge two-storied tower. The
tower is white, windowless, and silent.

Within this simple but impressive stronghold are wide court-
yards and many ancient trees. The palace is approached by
glorious wooden gates, roofed by a thatch of cedar bark. The
timbers are a dead grey, the thatch a bronze green, but the whole
crowning of the gate is made brilliant with gilded metal work and
with wondrous carvings of birds, phoenixes, and peonies in high
relief, as well as in vivid colours. The most sumptuous blaze of gilt
is in the shadows under the eaves, while the most bounteous array
of birds and flowers is just above the princely gateway.

The palace is a plain building as seen from the outside ; but
within is a cordon of solemn rooms which are magnificent in the
extreme. The ceilings are coffered, and each sunken square is
richly painted with flowers, crests and geometric designs. The
wood of the walls is seaweed-brown, and on this sombre ground are
depicted peacocks and eagles, maple boughs and finches. Every-
where are there exquisite lattice-work and worthy carvings in teak.
The ramma — which comes in the place of the frieze — is of per-
forated cedar, alive with strange ducks and monster flowers, all
radiant in brilliant colours. In the gaps between the gaudy
blossoms and the birds, light streams into the rooms.

On the sliding screens in every chamber are paintings on a back-
ground of dull gold. Here a branch of a matsu tree, the size of the
living stem, spreads across the wall, and there is a cloud of cherry
blossom, or a branch of the maple afire with the tints of autumn.

366 JAPAN.

In another place are herons fishing, or wild geese hurrying seawards
across the sky, and often are to be seen imagined landscapes,
fantastic mountains and magic lakes. Every room is framed — as it
were — in black lacquer and gold bronze, while now and then the
sweep of the wall is broken by a polished cupboard with gilt doors,
or by a mysterious recess.

The outer walls are of white paper screens. If a slide in the
corridor be drawn aside there is a view over a shut-in garden. The
garden shows a lake with islands and bridges, but without water.
The water is represented by white sand raked into ripples. Step-
ping stones lead down the beach to the water's brink, while a wind-
ing track of river-worn pebbles on a hillside makes believe to be a
mountain torrent making for the pool.

A palace aims at embodying the grandest conception that the
people of a country can form of a home or of a place to live in.
The abode of the King must be the most superb dwelling that the
imaginative can imagine, or that the cunning can construct. Every-
where in the world is this endeavour the same ; this determination
to raise the Sovereign to a position which shall be above all others.
In the Kaffir village the largest and the best built kraal is the
kraal of the chief. The most pretentious house in Burmah is the
palace at Mandalay. The finest buildings in India have been the
abodes of Kings; while throughout the Western world there is
little need to seek the history of the loftiest castle, or the most
stately chateau.

Here at the palace of Nijo has the will of the people been the
same. The palace is a Japanese house made immense, made beau-
tiful. Those who designed it and those who built it gave of their
best. It was not finished until all conceptions of magnificence had
been exhausted, and until that time was reached when no added
fillet of gilt, no further painting nor carving of wood, could bring it
nearer to the realisation of the most august dwelling in the land.

As the Shogun was the creature of the Emperor, it may be
supposed that the Imperial Palace at Kyoto would present a degree
of grandeur of which the glory of the castle of Nijo was a mere
shadow. This, however, is not the case. The Shogun, although
he was virtually the ruler of the country, was only a man. Recog-

THE PALACE. 36;

nition of his position required that his dwelling1 place should be the
proudest that could be designed or erected for men. The Emperor
was a divinity ; his person was sacred ; he was a presence, not an
individual ; he was the embodiment of a mighty principle, not a
mere mortal. His abode, therefore, must accord with the con-
ception of a temple, and more than that, a temple of the Shinto
faith — the old faith of the country. The Shinto temple is secluded,
quiet, unpretending ; a sanctuary for meditation as well as for com-
munion with the powers that rule the world.

The Imperial Palace is shut away within a plain drab wall.
There is no pretence at a stronghold, for the person of the Emperor
could never be assailed. Around him was Japan ; that alone was
defence sufficient. The palace gates are temple gates of plain,
unpainted wood, without either carving or gilt, which are crowned
by a village thatch. No gates could be less alike than those of
the Shogun's palace and the Palace of the Emperor. The one
may be worthy of a king, but the other is worthy of a god. Within
the drab walls are the palace buildings — plain houses of one storey
covered with the humble thatch — so that the royal residence is not
unlike a hamlet in an enclosure, even though the roofs curve
skywards as do the canopies of a shrine.

Within are long corridors of quite bare wood, with above a
plain ceiling and below primrose mats. The light comes in through
paper screens. These are the corridors of a monastery. The
dingy throne room, with its dull roof and its unornamented timber
pillars, is no longer in keeping with the spirit of the palace, since
in it is a modern canopy of silk over a modern throne to meet
those conditions which now attend the ceremonial of the court.

That part of the palace which is the most interesting is the
Imperial Study, in which, it may be assumed, much of the day of
the Emperor was, and still is, spent. Six rooms in all constitute this
retreat, and they no doubt represent the ideal of such an apartment
as is considered fitting for the Ruler of Japan. They are no more
than the rooms that border on the temple close, ascetic and unpre-
tending. On the walls, as well as on the sliding panels, are painted
landscapes of sacred and historic association against a background
of gold The general colour of the walls is that of a gold-tinted

368 JAPAN.

autumn leaf.^. The wood around is severely plain, and is untouched
by carving of any kind. On the floor are yellow mats edged with
red, and the lights steals in through simple paper screens.

When one of these white shutters is drawn aside there is
revealed the scene upon which it is considered appropriate that an
Emperor's eyes should rest. The screen opens upon a convent
garden so closed about with trees and banks that it may be a league
from the abodes of men. There is a lake with, at one part of it, a
shore at high tide. This is shown by a beach of pebbles crossed
by large stepping stones which lead from the verandah before the
Emperor's rooms. The tide has so risen that the lowest stones
are already under water. In the la^ke is a green island with pine
trees and granite lanterns on it, approached by old somnolent
stone bridges. Beyond are hills crowned with maples ; while from
over the summit of one height a waterfall tumbles down through
a ravine of rocks into the lake. There are glimpses, too, of a
wistaria arbour, of a summer house, of a little copse. The garden
is small, but it is as exquisite, as suggestive, as full of imagination
as any garden in Japan could be.

This, then, is the abode worthy of an Emperor, a simple room
looking out upon a garden, a corner in a monastery, a world-
forgetting cloister, dainty, reposeful, lovable. It is a place for the
recluse, the student, the meditative. Here on the verandah at sun-
down the sacred Ruler of Japan could stand and dream over the
fortunes of his country, with always before him the inspiring parable
of the Rising Tide.

XIV.

TWO INTERVIEWS.

When I was at Tokyo I had the honour of being presented to
His Majesty the Emperor of Japan, and when at Washington —
some weeks later — the like honour of being presented to Mr.
Roosevelt, the President of the United States.

There is only a sea between the islands of Japan and the
continent of America, but there could be no contrast of nations
more extreme if the wide world parted them. On one side lies
Japan, just emerged from feudalism, with its ancient civilisation,
its leisured culture, its slumber of centuries, its elaborately
developed country ; on the other America, the newest of the great
powers of the world, with its freedom from old prejudices, its push-
ing commercial activity, its intense energy, and its miles of yet un-
developed prairie and forest.

It was America who opened Japan to the world, who pierced
the cordon which had made the island an isolated sanctuary upon
the earth, within whose jealous circle no strange foot could step.
It was an American sea captain who woke the Sleeping Princess,
who blew such a blast before the cobwebbed castle that those
within were constrained to come forth and listen. Commodore
Perry then told them the surprising tale of modern progress, and
let them know that America proposed to take part in their arousing,
and would accept no refusal.

The Emperor of Japan was born in 1852, just one year before
Commodore Perry anchored his " black ships " in Yedo Bay. He
is the representative of the oldest dynasty in the world, a dynasty,
which according to the words of a recent Imperial Decree, has
existed " for over 2,500 years."* " The Sacred Throne," says the

* "Japan by the Japanese." London, 1904, p. 4.
Y 369

370 JAPAN.

Articles oft the Constitution, "was established at the time when
the heavens and the earth became separated. The Emperor is
Heaven-descended, divine, and sacred ; he is pre-eminent above
all his subjects. He must be reverenced, and is inviolable."* Of
the throne, the Emperor himself speaks as follows : —

" The Imperial Throne of Japan, enjoying the grace of Heaven,
and everlasting from ages eternal in an unbroken line of succession,
has been transmitted to Us through successive reigns."t

The present Emperor has not only seen the opening up of his
wondrous country to the outer world, has not only witnessed
changes which are beyond all reasonable imagining, but he him-
self has taken part in the abolition of the Shogunate (1868),
and in the breaking up of the feudal system (1871). He has
indeed watched a revolution in his country which has had no parallel
in the history of the world. He still remains a divine being, who
is regarded by his subjects with the most intense admiration and
reverence, and who is obeyed with a loyalty which recalls the
superb heroism of mediaeval times.

Mr. Roosevelt was born in 1858, and commenced his life in the
study of the law, partly at Columbia College and partly in his
uncle's office. He soon abandoned the law for politics, and in but
few years his sturdiness of purpose and his high principles made
him a marked man. The success with which he held successive
important offices in the state is well known, as are also his gallant
services in the war with Spain. Finally recent events have shown
that he has secured, in his position as President of the United
States, the confidence of the nation to a degree which has never
before been surpassed.

Between the Imperial Palace at Tokyo and the White House
at Washington there is little in common.

In the very centre of the great bustling city of Tokyo is a
secluded area some miles in circumference. It is surrounded by a
steep bank and a moat, and somewhere within this circuit is the
Palace in which the Emperor dwells. The moat is singularly im-
pressive, and forms, indeed, the most beautiful feature of the

* " Japan by the Japanese." London, 1904, p. 33.
t Ibid., p. 610.

TWO INTERVIEWS. 371

Royal City. The fosse is wide ; its waters are dee^/ and clear ;
its banks of grass are as vividly green and as smooth as an English
lawn. On that side of the winding lake which borders on the town
the bank is low and edged with Japanese willows. The Palace
bank, on the other hand, is as high and as steep as the glacis of
a fortress ; only its covering of well-trimmed grass drapes it like
velvet. On the summit of the precipitous slope is a wall, black
with age, a primeval wall which may have been built when building
began. On the verdant slope are a few ancient matsu trees.
Some bend moodily over the moat. Others seem to be stagger-
ing down the incline towards the water, like scared demons,
with wild, outstretched arms and eerie tresses. Within this barrier
of pond and dell the ground is level with the summit of the crown-
ing wall. It can be seen that it is covered with grass, and that
many pines are standing on the height like sentinels.

The green-banked moat is the cordon around the King ; the
rim of the charmed circle ; the bulwark against the world. What
is beyond the bank and the wizened wall belongs to the mystery
which shrouds the dynasty of Japan. To those in the city there is
nothing to be seen across the girdle of the moat but a tree-covered
heath — no roofs, no signs of a Palace. Among the turmoil of the
great capital this is a hushed oasis ; among the crowding houses
this is a piece of the heart of the country ; among a million homes
this is the home of the Heaven-descended King.

The Emperor of Japan is a being alone, the living representa-
tive of the soul of the nation, and here at Tokyo the solemnity of
this fact is taught. No environment of a monarch could be more
dignified or more simple than the green still moat around a pine-
covered land, which to the common world has remained always
unknowable.

I was presented to the Emperor by His Excellency Sir Claude
MacDonald, G.C.M.G. Passing across the moat we entered the
mysterious country, which proved to be a gracious park with green
lawns and many pine, matsu, and maple trees. It is encompassed
by an inner moat with cyclopean walls of immense height and
cliff -like steepness. The Palace is a simple building of one storey.
The portal we entered by differed but little from the gateway of

372 JAPAN,

a village terrple. At the door were footmen in European liveries
trimmed with gold. They wore breeches with white silk stockings,
but being very short they seemed to lack the most familiar quality
of the Royal servant. The Lord Chamberlain and other officials
were in uniforms which closely resembled those of the English
Court There was a fine Entrance Hall, but it was furnished in
the Western manner with chairs and tables, carpets, and the ortho-
dox fireplace and mantel-piece. The corridors, too, were carpeted,
and it was impossible not to feel that nothing had been gained by
the loss of the primrose-coloured Japanese mat. On one side were
glass windows in the place of paper screens, and on the other a
wall paper in lieu of exquisite bare wood.

The Waiting Room was large and lofty, with a prettily painted
coffered ceiling. The floor was of parqueterie. The furniture was
European and apparently German. Over the fireplace were a few
exquisite Japanese curios, by the side of "ornaments for the
mantel-piece " which had come from the far West. These latter
could well have been spared. The most beautiful thing in the
apartment was a gold lacquer cabinet. It put to shame whatever
else was in the room, and especially some very strident electroliers
which were possibly fresh from England.

The corridors which led to the Royal Apartments were simpler.
There were still the Brussels carpet and the glazed windows, but
the plain ceiling, showing the beauties of natural wood, had come
back again. On the wall were gold panels in that ancient style
which makes Nijo Castle magnificent, while near to the reception
room was a plain gold screen which must have blushed for the
carpet beneath its foot.

The room in which the Emperor stood, surrounded by the
great officials of his household, was small, and lit only from the
corridor. It was furnished after the Western style, and had the
appearance of a small sitting room.

The Emperor was dressed in a dark military uniform very like
to that of a French general. He is the I22nd member of his family,
in unbroken line, who has ruled over Japan. His appearance is
familiar through published photographs. His face remains im-
mobile, and, if one may say so without disrespect, it is expressionless,

TWO INTERVIEWS. 373

impassive, and mask-like. As His Majesty does not speak English,
his questions and my answers were interpreted by one of the Lords
in Waiting. The etiquette of the Court requires that the conversa-
tion should be in so low a tone as to be practically whispered. The
Emperor was good enough to ask about my journey and my im-
pressions of Japan. He made enquiries as to the health of His
Majesty the King of England, and asked me much as to my
opinion of the Japanese military hospitals, medical field equipment,
and the like.

Her Majesty the Empress received me in an adjacent
room, in which she had already graciously received my wife
and daughter. She was attended by her Lord Chamberlain and
three Ladies-in-Waiting, who were all in European dress.
The Empress, whose face is most vivacious and alert, also speaks no
language but Japanese. The conversation I had the honour to
hold with her took place through the medium of a Lady-in-Waiting,
and was conducted in a whisper. These Royal apartments looked
out upon a charming Japanese garden, but they lacked the dignity,
the graciousness, and the elemental splendour of the Royal rooms in
the Palace at Kyoto.

The old Japanese audience chamber is beautiful, as well as a
realisation of perfect daintiness ; but as soon as the garish glare
of Western civilisation creeps into it the whole charm vanishes.

The Throne Room of the palace is decorated in black lacquer
and gold. The walls are hung with claret-coloured curtains. The
two gilded thrones are on a raised dais. Behind them is a panel of
pale green silk, upon which is embroidered the royal crest — the
sixteen -petalled chrysanthemum. The canopy over the thrones is
supported by sloping gilt poles crowned with ostrich plumes. The
Audience Chamber is of red lacquer and gold. Pictures of flowers
on silk fill the sunken panels in the ceiling, while brilliant silks cover
the walls. Other public apartments follow more or less on the same
lines, and everywhere the furniture and general arrangement of each
room are European.

Washington is a picturesque and dignified city, which, when the
improvements which are now in progress are completed, will be,
with little doubt, one of the most stately capitals in the world.

374 JAPAN.

The Wr^ite House stands a little back from the road in
Lafayette Square. In no way is it isolated or shut off from the
city. It has the appearance of a gentleman's country house, a solid,
simple building, with a long-settled air of quiet refinement about it.
While it is exactly appropriate to the spirit of the American
Republic, it is in a way a vivid embodiment of its principles. The
mansion is by comparison very modern, for when the first President
of the United States was elected, the present dynasty in Japan had
already ruled that country for 2,449 years.

As Mr. Roosevelt burst into the room it was impossible not to
feel that he who had written upon the Strenuous Life had written
upon what he knew. Here was a man of intense vigour and
activity, who looked in every inch of him what he is — a strong
man. He met me without formality of any kind, but with a breezy
heartiness. One could hardly fail to be electrified by his irrepres-
sible energy. Those who know Mr. Roosevelt will agree that his
face is neither expressionless nor impassive. It is the face of a
determined and brilliant man who has taken no uncertain position
among the great influences of the time.

XV.

THE VILLAGE.

No mean idea of the features of the country in Japan can be
gained among the villages and hamlets round about Yokohama.
Along the coast towards the south lies a district very like to
England. It is a land that changes restlessly from hill to dale,
from wooded copse to wandering down, from wild yellow cliffs to
sober barley fields. In many a place a drowsy coombe opens to
the sea, and often the path that has led through a pine forest will
drop into a Devonshire lane. Far inland is the superb mountain
of Fuji, capped with snow ; far out at sea is a liner with a pennon
of smoke making for San Francisco.

The rickshaw road from Yokohama to the village of Sugita —
famous for its plum blossoms — follows the sweep of a generous bay,
keeping ever along the margin of the sea. The country is clad
with verdure to the very edge of the beach. Tufts of bamboo hang
over the fawn-coloured sand, and the sampan, drawn up so as to
be beyond the touch of the creeping wave, may have its prow
buried in a field of millet.

It is a wonderful sea road. On one side all is green ; on the
other all is blue. On the one hand are fields of maize and corn,
of beans and rice, in which men in indigo jackets and tights, with
white handkerchiefs on their heads, are eternally at work. They
are the peasants who people the country of the old coloured prints.
Beyond the fields are fir-covered hills and occasionally a bramble-
draped precipice. On the side towards the Pacific is the beach,
where men are busy with sampans, and where, here and there,
are the picturesque, untidy belongings of boats, the ropes and
spars, the brown sails and nets, the piles of old timber. Now

375

376 JAPAN.

and then there is to be seen a man building a wherry. His
methods are so primitive, his carpentry so rude, while he himself
is so elementary in dress, that he might be Robinson Crusoe
fashioning that famous craft which has interested a world.

On occasion a tiny creek will cross the road, running under a
wooden bridge. It soon loses itself among a tangle of ferns, or in
a tunnel of overarching bamboo and inquisitive bushes. Far up
the creek there is sure to be a boat. It may be very old, half filled
with water and half buried in weeds. If so, it has crept up the
creek to die. It may be hearty and trim, but injured in its struggle
with the sea, and then the creek becomes its dock, and the ship-
wright works upon it standing in the water with his tools on the
bank of grass.

On one side of the path is the smell of the sea and the
seaweed, while, landwards, is a perfume blown from off fields full of
flowering beans.

The village, when it is come upon, is very picturesque — a line
of houses straggling along in the company of a brown, unsteady
road. All the cottages have a soft velvet thatch, with commonly
a crop of green lilies growing along the crest of the roof. The
rest of the house is of weather-stained wood and paper, a con-
struction as simple as the house a child draws on a slate. About
it is a paling of bamboo, or a laurel hedge, while within is a garden
such as the Japanese love, or a yard filled with the lumber of the
fields and the lumber of the sea. Around every house and in
every court are women, with bright handkerchiefs on their heads,
dallying with children, or washing clothes, or damply active with
dripping brooms and splashing buckets.

At some spot by the side of the street is the pet tree of the
hamlet, a cherry tree as a rule, or possibly a maple. Then comes
a bright red torii, flanked with stone lanterns, guarding a temple
with whose paltry adornment the village priest is busy. There
are humble village shops, left apparently to look after themselves,
and unassuming tea houses, where a few gossips linger on the mats.
There will probably be one great house in the village with a walled
garden and tiled roof. It stands a little apart, for it is quite
aristocratic, in spite of some piles of seaweed which are immodestly

THE VILLAGE. 377

near to its confines, and some red-brown nets which are actually
drying on its camellia bushes.

The largest of the country houses, those lost among trees or
those with heavy roofs curled up at the corners, are usually
monasteries, or have been at some time connected with temples.
Japanese farms are small, so small that the family can work them
themselves unaided. The cultivated fields — marked as they are
by precise trenches and rows — are as trim as gardens. Every-
thing is " done by hand," and each plant is tended as an individual,
not as a part of a crop. From the care expended upon a single
onion, one might imagine that it would one day blossom into an
orchid

There are children everywhere in the village, crawling in the
road, nodding asleep on their mother's shoulders, or playing in
the creeks. There is the leisured, critical village dog, who is the
same in every small settlement all the world over, and the old
man of the place, who was once a daring sea fisherman, but who
now shuffles about with a baby on his back.

It is well for the visitor to go on from Sugita to Kamakura.
It was a populous city with a million inhabitants in the days
of its glory. It was the capital of eastern Japan, moreover, and
the scene of faction fights, of sackings and of burnings of a fine
heroic type. Now it is a little seaside village grateful for the
patronage of the holiday-maker from Yokohama.

Here in the open, in a quiet garden by the side of a Japanese
pond, is the great Daibutsu — the colossal bronze figure of Buddha,
which photographs have made as familiar as Fuji or the geisha.
The ponderous deity looks dull and stupid, as well as infinitely
bored. He seems to be squatting in a hollow of the ground and
to have lost his lower limbs. The height of the image is nearly
fifty feet. His sluggish eye measures four feet across, while his
mouth, in width, is but little less. There are windows with shutters
where his shoulder-blades should be, and within his chest is a
temple with a wooden stair leading up to the windows.

This immense image is less ungracious than the Daibutsu at
Nara, which claims to be three feet higher. The Buddha of Nara
is in an enormous but dilapidated house, with no more pretence

378 JAPAN.

than a shed for a mammoth. The building, patched in places with
corrugated iron, is shabby and mean-looking. Within, the
Daibutsu is exhibited as a penny show, and is presented with no
more reverence than that which surrounds the Fat Woman at a
fair. There is a tawdry dust-covered altar before the image, with
a background of European wall paper such as is used in servants'
attics. In front of the altar are bunches of paper flowers six feet
high, in flaring blue and red. The colour of the figure is bottle-
green, and from head to foot it is powdered in dust. It presents
a brutish, dropsical lump of a man, sitting apparently in a sponge
bath, but in reality on a lotus. His eyes are closed, his eyelids are
sodden, his cheeks bloated, his puffy hands are enormous and
seemingly too heavy to lift. This repulsive creature of bronze
suggests the model of a man suffering from the stupefying disease
known as myxcedema. Those who go to Nara would do well to
avoid the exhibition.

From Kamakura it is but a few pleasant miles to Enoshima —
the Mont St. Michael of Japan. This little steep-cliffed island can
be reached at low tide by crossing the sands, but when the tide is
in flood it is cut off from the mainland, and then the only way to
the place is along a wooden causeway, which is lamentably
decrepit The island is very green, for it is covered with trees
and a dense undergrowth. Even the stones are green, for they
are spread over with moss. A very trivial town clings to the one
steep street which makes its way, step by step, from the yellow
sands to the wood-crowned summit. There are tea houses without
number in the street, for the island is sacred to Benten, the
Goddess of Good Fortune, and is a favourite place of pilgrimage.

In the woods are many aimless paths which loiter all over this
Elysian Isle like delighted idlers. Some of them are cut along
the edge of the cliff, whence is a glimpse of a miniature harbour, a
long way down, with the sampans of the island huddled in it, or of
a sandy cove among black rocks where are many sea birds.
Through the trunks of the trees can be seen, on one side, a grey,
fern- encompassed temple hiding in the woods, and on the other
the circles of widening waves streaming into the bay from the
Pacific.

XVI.
N A R A.

Nara lies at the foot of a range of low hills some twenty-six
miles from Kyoto. It is a place of infinite leisure. For three score
years and ten it was the capital of Japan, but that was as long as
twelve centuries ago. Since then it has slumbered It is a tidy,
self-respecting little town, with a certain prim old-maidenly stiffness
about it It lives upon memories of the past, and could gossip
delicately about a glory that was. Its ancient park and moss-
grown terraces are as full of old-world legends as are the avenues
and courts of Fontainebleau. In all its ways there is still the dignity
of the Royal Borough, the consciousness of a never-to-be-forgotten
past, when Imperial processions moved through its streets. The
vase is broken and shattered — •

" But the scent of the roses will hang round it still."

A long, straight road leads through the town to the foot of a
deeply wooded hill. Where the town ends, along this way, is an
open common of miniature downs and miniature dells, all graciously
green, and covered with cherry trees which were in full blossom
when I visited the dowager city. Many who had come to see the
flowers were picnicking under the trees, but with a certain
solemnity appropriate to Nara the Highly Born.

Near by the common is a beautiful pool with green banks
planted with cherry trees and pines and the sorrowful Japanese
willow. One slope is crowned by the graceful Pagoda of
Kobukuji, while on other sides of the pool are white-walled houses,
with gardens about them, which were probably planned when the
Emperor lived in the city. There is a certain melancholy about
this exquisite lake, for it appears that, once upon a time, there was

379

380 JAPAN.

' a beautiful ^maiden at the Mikado's Court, who was wooed by all
the courtiers, but rejected their offers of marriage because she was
in love with the Mikado. The latter had pity on her for a while ;
but when he afterwards began to neglect her, she went secretly
away by night and drowned herself in this pond."*

Between the cherry tree common and the lake is a venerable
park belonging to the temple of Kasuga, which was founded here
in A.D. 767. The shrine is far up the hillside among the trees. It
is approached by a stately avenue of cryptomeria, which extends
from the common to the foot of the hill. Here, where the solemn
walk ends, stands a red torii against the blue-green of the wood.
The way now becomes steeper and steeper, winding up by many
terraces to the middle of the forest. Gigantic trees grow about
the path and make it dark. The wood becomes at each step
denser and wilder until there is seldom a splash of sunshine to be
seen on the paved way.

On each side of the road are rows of stone lanterns, not in
scores, nor in hundreds, but in thousands. They are of all heights
and shapes as well as of all ages. They incline at many angles,
for now and then they are tilted by ancient tree roots which are
crawling out of the earth. They stand like a row of ghosts,
shoulder to shoulder, and often in ranks three deep. Many are
turned to bronze-green by a growth of moss. The path still
climbs up through the shadows of the wood by crumbling walls
and steps so old that they have become a part of the forest.

Plodding up this hushed ascent are pilgrims in white, with
straw hats on their bowed heads and inscriptions on their chests.
They carry each a staff and beads and a pilgrim bell. They mutter
as they go. Men clad as these were climbing up to Kasuga
when Chaucer's pilgrims were making their way to the shrine at
Canterbury. As they were then so are they now, for nothing is
changed. The way is a thousand years old, and for a thousand
years pilgrims have crept up the hillside to the holy place.

The forest is full of sacred deer, who make a rustling among
the bracken as if the place were haunted, or who patter over the
stones in the wake of any pilgrim who seems likely to give them a
* Murray's "Handbook of Japan," London, 1891, p. 330.

NARA. 381

rice cake from his bag. At last the path opens unon a stone
courtyard where are a cistern and an oratory. A few paces higher
up the slope is the temple. It is a small and simple sanctuary,
whose thatched roof is studded with moss. It is in the very bosom
of the hill. The breathless pilgrim as he prostrates himself before
the shrine can see around it nothing but the untrodden forest,
with, perhaps, a stray deer moving through the undergrowth.
Here, at the summit of the dreary steps, at the end of the dark
avenue and beyond the phantom muster of stone lanterns, he has
come to the very heart of things.

There are roads trodden by pilgrims which lead at the end to
resplendent shrines rich with relics and overladen with precious
offerings. This pilgrim's road at Nara leads to a quiet hollow in a
wood and to a temple which is little more than a woodman's hut

There are many other sanctuaries upon this hillside which are
reached by desultory avenues among the trees, all marked by lines
of lanterns, by worn stairs, by banks of moss. Some of these
temples are brilliant with bronze lanterns, which hang under the
wide eaves in many hundreds ; others are brave with crimson paint
or bright lacquer ; others seem to have dropped entirely from out of
the memory of men and to have faded — gate, pillar, and balcony —
to the tint of ashes.

Near the main sanctuary and in a court of the temple buildings
is a tree called " The Lovers' Tree." That it is very old is evident,
for it is propped up with solicitous care. It is claimed that its
extravagantly twisted trunk is composed of six trees, viz. : A
camellia, a cherry tree, a plum tree, wild ivy, wistaria, and nandina
or barberry. What strands make up the knot of intertwining
boughs no man can say, for such is the fervour of this ecstatic
embrace that the stems have in places become fused together as if
by amorous heat. This picture of eternally clasped hands can
scarcely find favour with any but a polygamous people. The tree
might have been adopted as the emblem of the Agapemone, but if it
be assumed to depict the anguish of the maiden with many suitors
— the one Juliet of five Romeos — then her fate is assuredly no less
terrible than that of Laocoon.

A closer examination of this burning bush made it apparent

382 JAPAN.

that the res1 bond of affection was between a very old cherry tree
and a faithful camellia. They were both in blossom, and the flowers
of each — the white and the red — were mingled together as in an
old-fashioned bouquet. The other four trees were mere
philanderers. Those knots which were closest, those stems which
were so interlocked that they had blended into one, belonged to the
camellia and the cherry. Under the tree was a small red torii and
a shrine to show that the place was sacred, while about the boughs
which were in tightest embrace were tied many paper knots, as at
Kiyomizu-dera.

It may be supposed that those who prayed here, and who left
these memorials of their longings upon the altar of the ancient
tree, followed a dream of life which was founded upon the idyll of
the Camellia and the Cherry.

XVII.

NIKKO

The most famous dynasty of the Shogunate was that of the
Tokugawa family. It was not only the most famous, but it was
also the last. The dynasty was founded in 1603 by leyasu, who
is spoken of " as one of the greatest generals and altogether the
greatest ruler that Japan has ever produced." The Tokugawa
princes were still in power when Commodore Perry came with his
black ships to Yedo Bay. It was with a Shogun of this family
that he treated ; and when the Revolution broke out in 1 867 the
Shogun who was deposed, and who thus became the last of his
race, could claim direct descent from the ever illustrious leyasu.

In 1616, when the great general lay a-dying, he ordered that
his body should be buried among the mountains of Nikko in a
spot he knew well and which he himself indicated. To Nikko, then,
in the following year, his remains were brought. Thirty-five years
later his grandson, lemitsu, the third of the Tokugawa Shoguns,
who was himself a scarcely less able ruler than the founder of the
house, was buried near by to him. The mausolea of these two
leaders of men still stand upon the hillside of Nikko, and to them
is owing the unparalleled glory of the place.

What the Taj Mahal is to India, Nikko is to Japan. It is, in
the first place, one of the most beautiful spots in the country,
while the buildings which have gathered around the tombs of the
two famous dictators are — according to their kind — without an
equal in the East.

Nikko was chosen as a burying place because it was in the
heart of the country, remote from towns, a lonely valley among the
hills where any might rest in peace. leyasu and his grandson were

383

384 JAPAN.

brought hither on their last march, just as the dead Kings of
Egypt were carried ceremoniously forth into the silent desert.

Nikko is some ninety miles north of Tokyo, and stands about
two thousand feet above the level of the sea. A village which has
sprung up near by the sacred hill has changed a little the solitude
of the place. It lies in a small, homely valley among the moun-
tains, by the side of a torrent which rushes seawards through a
gully of blue rocks. The near hills are covered with pine trees,
but the far away heights are bare, and at the time of my visit —
early in May — were deep in snow. The little town is no more than
a mountain village in a mountain valley, just such a settlement as
is found in a hundred crannies among the foot hills of Switzerland.
The village creeps up to one bank of the torrent, while on the
other is that steep hill among whose pines the tombs of the two
Tokugawa are hidden.

Crossing the water at the end of the one long street of the
place is the sacred bridge, which is the centre of Nikko. From
the south the bridge is approached by an avenue of cryptomeria.
This avenue — four miles in length — is straight and profoundly
solemn. Self-absorbed and with determined purpose it passes
across the level fields of rice and maize to the crossing of the holy
bridge. It is a processional road, the road of the dead, as well as
the path which would needs be followed by those long trailing
retinues which attended upon the great who came to pay their
homage to the unforgotten. The avenue is dark, funereal, and
pitiless, yet most impressive. The way along it is narrow. On
either side stand the tall cryptomeria trees in formal line, an
unbroken rank of towering trunks, bare and erect as masts. The
stem of each is a ruddy brown softened by the silver grey of lichen.
The foliage of each is a soft sombre green which is almost blue.
The boughs meet high above the road, and make of the way a
rustling aisle. They shut out the sky, so that the causeway is
dim ; while about the topmost arches hangs a mist like the smoke
of incense. There is no more solemn road than this, none perhaps
so sad, for it is tuned only to the music of a funeral march.

The sacred bridge was washed away a few years ago, and has
not yet been rebuilt. It was of vermilion coloured lacquer, orna-

NIKKO.

NIKKO. 385

merited with plates of gilt bronze. It was a fragile bridge suited
for a place of lawns and flowers, but here it crossed a rude torrent
hissing along the chasm of a savage gorge, filled with sharp rocks
and dead pine trees, which had been torn up by the flood. From
the opposite bank there is again the stern avenue of cryptomeria
which now winds up hill to the tombs of the two Shoguns.

The hill is steep, and is draped from its foot to its summit with
trees, cryptomeria, firs and pines, a forest of dark, everlasting green.
In places it is rough with immense outjutting rocks. In places it
is smooth with the velvet of moss or the plumes of innumerable
ferns, while from twenty points a little frightened stream hurries
noisily down the slope. Far up on this gaunt hillside, and in the
deepest part of the forest, are the mausolea. They are approached
through courts crowded with fair buildings, brilliant with polished
lacquer and gilt bronze, and laden with such ornament and such
carving as befits a rare cabinet. This is the marvel of Nikko, that
among the wilds of a rough, untended height should be found the
daintiest and most exquisite buildings which the art and ingenuity
of the country have ever produced

The road to the mausoleum of leyasu is long and steep, but
there is much by the way. The funereal avenue ends at a hugt
granite torii, four centuries old. By the side of it, and almost
hidden by tall trees, is a five-storied pagoda. Against a back-
ground of bluish green there rise five black roofs, the underparts of
which are in colour a fervid red. The end of each beam and each
row of tiles is capped with gold. To each storey is a balcony
with a shining balustrade of vermilion lacquer. The wall of each
storey is of carved wood painted in faint reds, blues, and greens, in
white and in gold, so that at a distance the colouring is that of
lichen on a wall.

The ascent is by a series of terraces, approached by stone
stairs and entered by resplendent gates. The buildings passed on
the way are beyond remembering. As the climber looks up there is
ever before him the same background of green pines, against which
stand out black roofs shining like ebony and edged with gold,
dazzling walls of scarlet lacquer, balustrades of grey stone, great
bronze lanterns, with here and there a cherry tree in bloom.
z

386 JAPAN.

The gate leading to the first terrace is weighed down with
coloured carvings of fabulous beasts, of lions and peonies, of tigers
and bamboos. Within are store-houses whose huge black beams
are stamped by medallions and clasps of gold, a granite cistern
under a canopy of winged dragons, and a gaudy building in lacquer
and gilt for the holy scripts. Higher and higher the steps toil
up, past torii of bronze, standard lanterns of iron, centuries old,
brown candelabra and rusting bells.

On the upper terrace is the gate Yomeimon, the most beautiful
gate of all. No part is free from wonders in graven wood. Its pillars
are white, its roof dead black crested with gold. Strange beasts
form the capitals of the columns as well as the supports of the small
white and gold gallery. Scaly dragons with gaping red mouths
crawl from under every eave, while gargoyle-like heads project
from every shadow. The balustrade is in carved wood gently
coloured, showing children at play, while beneath the balcony are
Chinese sages and immortals, peonies and birds. Each white beam
of the gate is clamped with yellow bronze.

In due course the main shrine is reached. It has beyond it and
around it only the forest. The whole of the front of the shrine,
as well as its gate, is a mass of gold — gold toned with mauve, lilac,
faint blue, and fainter green — for the ornamentation is made up of
an arabesque of peonies in gold relief surrounded by birds and
flowers in natural tints. The decoration of the interior of the
shrine is gorgeous beyond words. In panels of lavender, primrose,
and forget-me-not blue are phoenixes, chrysanthemums, eagles,
and lions wrought in lines of gold The panels are framed by
beams of black lacquer, whilst like beams, highly polished, traverse
the low ceiling.

Beyond these brilliant buildings the visitor passes through a
humble gate to mount up the hillside once again. The way is cut
out of the rock of the mountain and climbs up into the forest.
The stair of two hundred steps is plain and solitary. The build-
ings of lacquer and gold have vanished ; the funereal avenue is far
below. There is nothing now but the grey stairs and the brown
earth. At the end, within a simple stone wall, is the tomb — a
small pagoda of bronze. In front of it are a low stone table, green

NIKKO. 38;

with moss, a bronze stork, and an incense burner.. This is all.
Here then, alone, on the wind-blown height, among the sturdy
boulders and the murmuring pines, rests the man who is said to
have been the greatest ruler of Japan.

lemitsu'stombisatsome little distance, but it is upon the same
hillside, and is approached by a like steep way, by like proud gates
and gorgeous buildings. The main temple stands far up the
mountain in a deep well or court quarried out of the wood- covered
height. Enormous cryptomeria crowd down from the hilltop to
the very edge of this sunken terrace. They so shut it in on all
sides that the sky becomes a gap but little larger than the court
itself. A lofty wall of rough masonry holds up the sides of this
cutting in the cliff. Every stone in the great scarp is covered with
gleaming moss. Among the pines about the summit of the wall are
clusters of rhododendrons. The boughs hang down into the court
so that the flowers are as patches of pink against the gold-green
moss ; while below, on the blue pebbles with which the terrace is
strewn and on the bronze lanterns which stand therein, a shower 01
pink petals has fallen.

Still higher up the slope, in an absolute solitude among the
pines, is a tomb of severest simplicity, where rests the grandson of
the founder of the dynasty.

XVIII.
THE CHERRY FESTIVAL.

Among the many childlike qualities of the Japanese is a love of
flowers. Flowers make the chief attraction of their holiday resorts,
and of not a few of their places of pilgrimage. Often at railway
stations are notices to be seen giving the distances to the Plum
Blossoms of a village, or the Iris Pools of a monastery. The
Japanese man or woman will trudge miles to see a favourite tree
in bloom, which tree they have probably watched each springtime
for years. During the first week of April thousands pour into
Kyoto to admire the great cherry tree there and to make a temple-
rambling holiday of the occasion. Every little tradesman has
before him in his shop either a vase containing a single select
flower, or, what is more usual, a dwarf tree of his own upbringing.
If in due course a few blossoms break out upon the tree his delight
is complete, and the street is envious of him.

I could not fail to notice at a certain fair the stall of a quack.
He was a sinister-looking rogue, who sold nostrums to the ignorant.
His booth was hung with appalling coloured diagrams of human
viscera and of crude human dissections. On his table was a
decayed spirometer (with an English maker's name on it), with
which he essayed to test the lungs of the innocent. He had also
an ancient dynamometer (of British origin) by means of which he
demonstrated the muscular power of any who could be induced to
think that they were failing. From the tellings of these dire
instruments, as well as from the awful writings on the wall in the
form of his lurid diagrams, he drew deductions which would make
the strongest uneasy, but which led to the selling of his messes.
He was, no doubt, a contemptible old scoundrel, who had learned

THE CHERRY FESTIVAL. 389

his villainy in the West; but prominent upon his death-
suggesting table was a white dish full of water, in which was a
rock island with a dwarf pine on it There were other rocks in the
lake besides, as well as a toy tortoise. He evidently regarded his
lake with great pride, and this atoned for much it was hard to
forgive in him.

At Kyoto, at the time of the cherry blossom, the two chief
attractions of the district are Arashi-Yama and the great cherry
tree. Arashi-Yama is a steep hillside some few miles from the
town. At the foot of the slope is a clear river sweeping over
brown pebbles. Here long timber rafts, which have just descended
the rapids, swing by, for Arashi-Yama is at the mouth of a gorge.
A long grey wooden bridge crosses the stream within sound of the
rushing water in the ravine, and from it is afforded a fine view of
the hillside. It is a slope entirely covered by trees — mostly
pines. From the sentinel firs along the sky line to the brink of
the torrent is a bank of dark green tree tops, out of which masses
of cherry blossom rise up as pale pink clouds.

This is the charm of Arashi-Yama, the badge of the pale flower
on the escutcheon of weather-beaten pines. It looks as if a white
wedding party of girls had become entangled among an army of
dour veterans. As the cherry trees are planted in patches among
the pines, it happens that wherever they stand there is on the
harsh green a sudden gleam, like a puff of white smoke. On the
flat beyond the river people are picnicking among the temporary
tea houses which have been erected on the stretch of grass, and
which are brilliant with hundreds of red paper lanterns.

The great cherry tree of Kyoto is near the outskirts of the
town at the foot of the eastern hills. Here is an open space with
gravelled roads, with an orchard of plum and cherry trees, a pond
surrounded by Japanese willows, and certain stalls and tea houses
which complete the conception of a public park in the eyes of the
Japanese.

On one day, early in April, this park becomes a scene of
astounding activity. Booths are erected everywhere, and a cohort
of adventurous tea houses assails the usual quiet of the place.
These latter consist of bamboo sheds about an enclosure in which

590 JAPAN.

are a number of benches covered with red blankets or mats. There

are, moreover, orange stalls, cake stalls, restaurants on barrows,
hawkers of every kind of ware, bow and arrow galleries, stages for
wrestling matches, peep shows, and bands giving utterance to a
desolating music.

At night the place is packed with holiday folk, so that the
amused, good-tempered crowd can hardly move along. There is
a subdued clatter of clogs, and an unrestrained chatter of tongues.
Everywhere are paper lanterns swinging from poles, suspended on
linesf or dimly seen among the feet of the crowd, where they serve
to lignt trays on the bare earth on which are laid out china, toys,
chopsticks, pipes, and endless other things for sale. The air,
indeed, is full of lanterns, so that in the small clearing around the
famous cherry tree there will not be less than ten thousand lights.
It is to welcome the blossoming of this tree that the immense
concourse of people have come together.

\/ The tree is of extraordinary size, as well as some centuries old.

It stands alone on the summit of a green mound by the pond.
Its wide spreading boughs, weighed down by age, are supported by
fifty timber props. On the lawn around the tree are braziers of
blazing wood, aloft on iron poles. The eddies of smoke from these
cressets and the flickering flames from the baskets cast a fantastic
and unearthly light upon the overhanging flower-covered branches.
Near by are arc electric lamps on immense standards, so that, what
with the paper lanterns, the cressets, and the great lamps, the place
is as light as at noon-day.

The spectral tree towers above all, a cloud of pink and white.
Its branches bend earthwards, so that the great outspreading mass
of flowers makes a pale cascade against the indigo sky. Standing
above the glaring lights and the restless sea of a thousand upturned
faces, the old tree looks like a phantom. Its vitality, moreover, is
wonderful, for its blossoms never fail. One day it stands bare and
leafless, by the next evening a pink glow has spread over it, and on
the third day it has burst into bloom.

The crowd gazes up at it with admiring affection. To them it is
the symbol . of so much/ As the poet Motoori exclaims, " If one
should enquire of you as to the spirit of Japan, point to the cherry

THE CHERRY FESTIVAL. 391

blossom shining in the sun." /The sleeping baby, nodding on its
mother's shoulder, is wakened to look at it. The small boy is held
aloft so that he can see the great soft dome of pink^i he husband
and wife come together because the blossoming of the tree marks
the years of their lives, years which date from one springtime when
they first made their way to Kyoto together. >

Among the crowd is an old man who — oblivious of the press —
keeps his eyes fixed upon the tree in speechless adoration. It may
be that of late, year by year, he had felt that each springtime as it
came would be the last on which he would see the flowering of the
cherry tree he could remember from a boy. The majestic tree
is a part of old Japan, of the old, cultured, world-forgetting country.
It had budded and blossomed for centuries before the troublous and
uneasy men from the West had broken in rudely upon its monastic
calm. It was still an old tree when Japan was yet alone, dreaming
out its own dream in a far away corner of the Pacific.

I should imagine the old man to have been about seventy-five.
If so, he would have been twenty-four years of age when
Commodore Perry landed upon the slumbering island with his
importunate message. The old worshipper of the cherry tree must
therefore have known the country as it was, before the coarse,
inquisitive world burst in upon it. He must have watched, many a
time, processions of Daimyos trail into the town, followed by
retinues in strange dresses, and by marching men with bows and
arrows, wearing fantastic helmets.

Since these heroic days, dignified by old ceremonies and by the
picturesque costumes of a thousand years, he would have seen the
quiet of the land depart, and its peace become troubled by uncouth
inventions, which scattered the romance of Japan, as a Catling
gun would scatter a circle of dancing fairies. He would have seen
the idyllic town encompassed with telegraph wires, cleft in twain
by tramway lines, deafened by steam whistles, and blinded by
flaring gas.

It almost surpasses belief that any one individual, in a lifetime
by no means unduly extended, could have viewed with his own eyes
changes such as these. Yet the old man who gazes at the cherry
tree by the light of an arc electric lamp could remember the very

392 JAPAN.

Japan that was depicted by Hokusai and Hiroshige, for in that
Japan he lived

The idea is uncanny and full of marvel. To conceive of it is
to imagine— as an actual parallel — that a man of seventy-five, alive
in London at the present moment, could remember the capital of
England as it was in the days of Queen Elizabeth, could recall the
narrow streets, the ruffles, the slashed doublets, and the clanking
swords. Such a man, frock-coated and tall-hatted, a user of electric
railways and of telephones, would yet have seen with his own eyes
Raleigh on his way to the Tower, and would have talked with
Drake when he lancjed at Deptford from the Golden Hind.

XIX.

THE PEOPLE OF THE COUNTRY.

To the stranger from the Occident the Japanese are a some-
what inscrutable folk, bristling with the unexpected, full of sur-
prises and apparent contradictions. They take upon themselves
with astonishing ease the outward and visible signs of Western
civilisation. They would seem to be wholly transformed, and yet
beneath the ingenious disguise there ever remains the man of the
East with his strange beliefs, his mysticism, his unintelligible
thoughts. This double existence, this feigning of Dr. Jekyll and
Mr. Hyde, may well lead to anomalies which startle the unimagina-
tive.

The Japanese appear to be easy-going and unbusinesslike,
while those who have lived long with them speak of their hosts
as " casual and sketchy," and as incapable of great intellectual effort.
Yet these very people are conducting a war as no war has ever been
carried on before. They are the most artistic people in the world,
and yet their exports consist largely of porcelain and other goods
which for vulgarity and poverty of design are utterly deplorable.

As has been many times said, the Japanese are acutely imita-
tive ; but to this must be added the further fact that they have
improved whatever they have copied. From China they acquired
a knowledge of lacquer-making, with the result that very soon they
far surpassed their teachers in this exquisite industry. From Korea
they learnt the art of porcelain-making, which they proceeded to
develope to such heights that their masters must needs have stood
aghast. From the Continent also came to them silk weaving, yet
no country has brought this manufacture nearer to perfection than
has Japan.

Long after the East had been exhausted the Islanders turned

393

394 JAPAN.

their faces to the West to learn whatever was to be gathered there.
With their astounding capacity for absorbing knowledge they soon
acquired the much that was learnable, and now they are improving
upon it, criticising it, remodelling it in the light of Eastern subtle-
ness. In illustration of this I may allude to one branch of know-
ledge, that of surgery. When Japan was opened in 1853, surgery
— as it is known in the West — had no existence. What was to
be learned from China, Japan had learned, but it was little enough.
Japanese surgery at the middle of the last century was that of
mediaeval times. When this inquisitive people turned Westwards
they cultivated surgery at first mostly in England, and later in
Germany and America.

So far as there is any character in modern surgery, that of
Japan is German. It is, however, being improved upon in count-
less details. The Japanese surgeon is no longer a servile imitator.
He is introducing into his methods the results of his own in-
genuity. Many features which in Europe are of the latest sug-
gestion have already been anticipated in Japan. There is every
probability that the Japanese school of surgery will become a great
school, for the native of Japan has qualities which are excellent in
the making of a surgeon: he is not troubled by "nerves," he is
infinitely patient, fastidiously clean, as well as most neat and dex-
terous with his hands. Morever, he has a love of ritual as well as of
precision in ritual, and in the prosecution of antiseptic surgery this
counts for much.

The Japanese are shrewdly observant, nimble of apprehension,
receptive, and of large-minded and catholic views. It is said that
they are neither logical nor profound. If this be true, they seem
to have come to small ill from the lack of these qualities.

It is acknowledged by all that they are not original, and it is
interesting to hear what a learned Japanese Professor, Inazo
Nitobe, says upon this point. " It is true that in a sense we certainly
possess imitativeness. What progressive nation has not possessed
and made use of it? Just think of how little Greek culture has
originated on Hellenic soil ! It seems to me that the most original
— that is the least imitative people — are the Chinese, and we see
where their originality has led them. Imitation is educative, and

THE PEOPLE OF THE COUNTRY. 395

education itself is, in the main, imitation. . . . We shudder to
think what might have been our fate, in this cannibalistic age of
nations, had we been always consistently original. Imitation has
certainly been the means of our salvation."*

In this matter of imitation the Japanese, sitting at the feet of
the Western world, have copied a few of our failings, while they
have been busy imbibing our virtues. We have taught them —
this people of infinite neatness and of exact and perfect finish —
to be slovenly, and to turn out any kind of work, however bad, so
long as it will sell. In any large porcelain depot in Japan will be
seen a few pieces of exquisite china together with a lamentable
amount of coarse, gaudy, ignoble stuff which is beyond pity. The
Japanese merchant will tell you that this flaring output is for the
" art furnisher " in the West With his natural politeness he will
assure the American that these fearsome vases and urns are made
for the London market, while he will inform the Londoner that
they are made for New York.

One thing is certain — the great bulk of Japanese " art goods "
are entirely unknown to the inhabitants of Japan, and find no
place within their walls.

The Japanese have imitated us in the science and art of adver-
tisement. An advertisement is intended to meet the eye, and the
Japanese make their efforts in this direction so blatant and violent
that the intention can never fail. Much of the fair country of
England is marred by the hideous advertisements which shriek in
fields and meadows, by comely villages, and by shrinking woods.
In Japan they have intensified the vileness of this, and have
crowded the country, through which the main railways run, with
hoardings and placards which would make the most offensive field
advertisement in England appear modest and pleasant. In
England we are fortunately becoming advertisement-blind, but
the most exhausted retina will still respond to the shocks of the
bill-poster in Japan.

Recent events have demonstrated with dramatic emphasis the
bravery of the people, their superb loyalty, their powers of self-
sacrifice, and their heroic manliness. When the interests of their

* "Japan by the Japanese.1' London, 1904, p. 280.

396 JAPAN.

country are concerned they move as one, and no Japanese soldier
need be told that he is expected to be obedient, to be regardless
of self, and to be " faithful unto death." All this he is, and more.

The native of Japan is not troubled by " nerves." He is not
neurotic. Among the many things of his adoption is not included
the fashionable disorder known as neurasthenia. He does not
waste his time over " nerve storms," and he declines the fascina-
tion of a " rest cure." His men do not worry and fuss. His women
do not fidget. If he misses the man of energy who is " a bundle
of nerves," he also misses " the managing woman " and the lady
of " the nervous breakdown."

As an instance of the solidity of the Japanese nervous system,
I might mention the following circumstances. Through the kind-
ness of the eminent surgeon, Professor Ito, I had an opportunity
of visiting the chief civil hospital in Kyoto. This splendidly
equipped institution is not only up-to-date from the standpoint of
the Western world, but it also possesses features which Europe will
no doubt copy when it is up-to-date from the standpoint of Japan.

To a bed here and there was affixed a red ball on a stick.
Outside the door of the ward was a like-coloured disc, upon which
was shown what number of beds in the ward were distinguished
by the red ball. This insigne, I found, served to indicate that
the occupant of the bed was so dangerously ill that he must neither
be disturbed nor talked to. I wonder how this method would
answer in England, and what would be the feelings of the sick
man, full of doubts as to how his malady would end, when he saw,
after the surgeon's visit, the red ball hoisted above his bed!

In the operating theatre a man was being anaesthetised prior
to a serious abdominal operation. In the arena, strange to say,
was another operating table, upon which was another man who had
been " prepared " according to the ritual of antiseptic surgery. He
was to undergo an operation identical with that which was soon in
actual progress. It was explained to me that it was more con-
venient to prepare two patients at a time than one. The second
man watched with interest the operation upon his ward companion,
saw the abdomen opened and the viscera protrude. It was quite
possible that the first man might die on the table, in sight of the

THE PEOPLE OF THE COUNTRY. 39;

patient who was waiting his turn. Knowing the extreme kindness of
the Japanese to one another, and their consideration for one
another's feelings, I asked if this ordeal was not an indifferent pre-
lude to an operation, and if the second man was not likely to be
upset. The surgeon's answer was, " Please feel his pulse ! " I did.
It was beating as quietly as if the man had been asleep.

The Japanese are light-hearted and pleasure-loving, amiable
and generous, and above all things gentle. In the street are never
to be heard the sounds of quarrelling men, nor of wrangling women.
If current events are discussed they are debated quietly, without
either brawling or hammering of fists. The children neither cry
nor squabble, and never once in Japan did I see a child punished.
There is no place in any part of the islands, nor in any phase of
Japanese life, which could reproduce the features of an East
London alley on a Saturday night. The sobriety of the people
has no little to do with this.

The exquisite manners of the Japanese, their invariable
courtesy and most gratifying politeness, have been rapturously
described by all who have written upon the country, and it is
worthy of note that this excellent good-breeding is apparent in all
grades of society. It has been shown in the Occident that manners
are not necessary to existence, and thus it is that they are being
gradually abandoned. The manners of the courtier and of the
lady of the minuet are being replaced by those of the chauffeur
and the modiste, so that in a decade or two we may expect to be
comfortably mannerless. In the meantime those who wish to
understand the full charm of " pretty manners " must go to Japan.

Of the actual soul of the people the wayfarer will glean but
little, and that little will be hard to understand. Lafcadio Hearn,
of all students of this wondrous folk, seems to have come nearest
to an appreciation of their sentiments and to a knowledge of
their inmost thoughts.

There is much that is childlike in the Japanese, especially in
their fancies and in their powers of " make believe." The world
they have imagined around them is a child's world, their gardens
a child's garden, and their pictures the outcome of one little
budding idea.

398 JAPAN.

They seem, moreover, to see a world that is preternaturally
small and strangely near at hand, as if their minds were influenced
by a kind of myopia, or fantastic shortsightedness. This is as well
to be seen in their little carvings as in their mimic landscapes.

The men, judged from the standpoint of the Aryan, may be
said to be plain, if not ugly. Their cropped hair and wrinkled
foreheads do not add to their attractiveness. The costume of the
country gives them a monastic appearance. The younger men may
be undergraduates of some undiscriminating university, while the
old men, with their ascetic faces, may be dons made wizen by study,
or cathedral vergers who have meditated much among the tombs.

According to the European standard very few Japanese women
could be considered pretty. Their heads appear too large for their
bodies, their eyelids are often puffy, and their features coarse.
They are, however, neat to a fault, dainty, graceful, and full of
fascination. They have beautiful necks and hands, and exquisite
voices. Bare legs ended by feet cased in white socks are features
too strange to be at once admirable.

Owing to much wearing of clogs the Japanese woman walks
awkwardly. She totters or stumbles along with little mincing steps
and in a semi-paralytic manner. She walks a little as water birds
walk on land, while the white sock with only a division for the
great toe is curiously like a webbed foot.

The English girl is all curves, the Japanese girl is all angles.
The sleeves of her kimono form great squares. Her obi, or sash,
is tied in a stiff square bow behind, and follows rectangular lines
in front. The opening in her jacket at the root of the neck is
angular, so that from head to foot she is picturesquely geometric,
save for her oval face. The lower part of her ceremonial dress
tapers away so suddenly that she looks top-heavy, although the
padded edge of her gown spreads out on the floor like the stand of
a wine-glass.

These gentle women all appear to be pleased and contented,
even if their faces are apt to be sometimes a little expressionless
or a trifle moonish-looking.

The children are the best known of the inhabitants of Japan,
They crowd everywhere in every part of the country. Their round

THE PEOPLE OF THE COUNTRY. 399

ruddy cheeks, brown lacquer, almond-shaped eyes, and circular
mats of hair are familiar enough. They affect long dresses as soon
as they can walk ; the boys scuffling along like old men in gaudy
dressing gowns and slippers, the girls waddling like stubby matrons
with their waists under their arms. There is no " leggy " period
in the growth of a Japanese girl. She begins as a bundle, and con-
tinues as a bundle until she blossoms forth into a kimono.

As soon as she can walk she has a lump of rag tied to her back
to represent a doll, and whenever her sturdy legs can bear the
weight the doll is replaced by a live baby of the smallest size. The
woman without an infant on her back is comparatively uncommon
among the denizens of the streets.

The children are wise-looking because they have seen so much.
They are always swinging on somebody's back with their heads
nodding over somebody's shoulder. Thus they become familiar
with many industries, with house cleaning, with shopping, with
worshipping at temples, and the elements of street gossip. They
are not always carried by women either. I have seen an old man
gardening with a baby on his back, and by the side of Biwa Lake
I came upon two boys fishing, each with the head of a wise baby
nodding sleepily over his shoulder.

XX.

SIGNS OF THE TIMES.'

In the passage through the Inland Sea from Nagasaki to Kobe
we came upon many transports on their way to the front Their
decks were lumbered with bald hoardings and packing-case-like
erections, after the peculiar manner of transports, so that they were
strangely like the untidy vessels that lurched into Cape Town Bay
in 1899. Many hundreds of those who crowded the decks were
taking their last look of Japan, for many were never to return. It
was a pleasant scene to carry away in their memories — this
glimpse of the picturesque coast of the Inland Sea.

Ashore there were signs on all sides of the progress of the war.
Railway travelling was slow, uncomfortable, and uncertain, for the
lines were of necessity occupied in transporting men and arms,
stores and ammunition to the coast There were evidences neither
of confusion nor of hurry. In the large towns regiments were being
mobilised, while from morning till night ranks of sturdy little men
were being drilled on the many parade grounds. When the com-
panies were disbanded for the day they strolled about the streets,
or flocked around the humbler tea-houses. In physique they ap-
peared to be splendid, while in the matter of cheerfulness they
could not be surpassed. They behaved like a posse of school-boys
out of school. They rehearsed items of drill in the street, drilled
one another, pretended to engage in mortal combat, and filled not
a few rickshaw coolies with panic by kneeling in the roadway as
they advanced, and levelling rifles at them. They appeared to
find soldiering a most excellent jest, which they appreciated with
keenness and exuberant enjoyment. It is needless to say that

400

SIGNS OF THE TliMES. 401

there was an absence of that drunkenness which, in mye countries
than one, makes the surroundings of gallant men squalid and
pitiable.

I saw many regiments entrained for the front. There was much
enthusiasm in these leave-takings, much cheering, much waving of
paper flags. It was a little curious to see the sweetheart pressing
upon her hero a bunch of flowers in place of the whiskey bottle,
which to many is inseparable from the ceremony of seeing soldiers
off.

There was everywhere an absence of swagger and bravado.
The enemy were spoken of neither in terms of hatred nor of con-
tempt The war, they said, was most regrettable ; and I never
once congratulated a Japanese acquaintance upon a victory when
he did not reply by expressing regret that so many Russian lives
had been lost. This might have been mere politeness, and possibly
a little insincere ; but, at least, it was not brutal.

The crowds which collected to celebrate a victory were curiously
restrained. They moved through the streets in thousands, but their
rejoicing was dignified. Save for the clatter of clogs or the shuff-
ling of sandals, and an occasional cheer, they were almost silent.
There was no rioting, no aimless yelling, no horse-play, no raucous
buffoonery. The Japanese crowd has not yet learnt the savage
cult of " mafficking." That they can rejoice without knocking off
hats or fighting with sticks might be due to the fact that few wear
hats and none carry sticks. If the manner in which a victory is
celebrated can be regarded as a criterion of national taste, then
the taste of the Japanese is much to be commended.

I gathered from those with whom I discussed the position that
there was a general belief that the war could be maintained, as it
had been begun, for at least two years, and that for that period
there would be no lack in the matter of the sinews of war. I
further deduced that when two years had passed the way might
be a little less clear to see.

Owing to the kindness of the Minister for War and the Director
General of the Army Medical Service, I was able to see the Medical
Field Equipment, the Military Hospitals, as well as the general
arrangements for the reception of the sick and wounded. I also

A A

402 JAPAN.

became acquainted with the Japanese Red Cross Society. This
business-like organisation is the most remarkable and efficient of
its kind in the world. It not only undertakes to look after the sick
and wounded, and so relieve the War Department at a critical
moment of an enormous responsibility, but it concerns itself with
the soldier's comfort from the beginning of the campaign to the
end. It " mothers " him in a sensible manner, without either ex-
travagance or hysteria, and makes him feel that all that is done
is merely the endeavour of the country to show its appreciation
of his services and its sympathy with his hardships. The society
continues its work when the war is over, and does not depend for
its maintenance upon a fitful and ecstatic outburst of sentiment
which barely survives the crisis that evoked it This is the noble
feature of the Red Cross Society of Japan, that after the glamour
of war has faded the soldier is not forgotten.

I will not add to the much that has been already written upon
this unique organisation. In Miss McCaul's admirable book,
" Under the Care of the Japanese War Office," will be found a de-
tailed account of the Society, of its aims and intentions, and of the
manner in which they are carried into effect.

The Japanese woman, when she has been suitably trained,
makes a splendid nurse. Her neatness, quickness, and dexterity
are marvellous to see. What her small hands can do with a pair
of forceps only a prestidigitateur could mimic and only a life-long
use of chopsticks could explain. She has that passion for cleanli-
ness which is a feature of her race, she is quiet and gentle, she is
perfect in discipline, and — last but not least — she has the exquisite
soft voice which is common to all her countrywomen.

The army medical outfit, as supplied in the recent campaign,
is most ingenious. It is simple, light, efficient, and economical.
The panniers used in the British Service have the merit of being
substantial arid strong. The Japanese panniers are comparatively
frail. When I commented upon this an army surgeon replied,
" Please reflect that the science of medicine changes quickly ; these
cases are made for the war, not for posterity." The Japanese Army
Medical System presents many features which might with advan-
tage be imitated, as can be gathered from the following report by

SIGNS OF THE TIMES. 403

an American army surgeon, who has recently returned from the
seat of war in Manchuria: — "Major Seaman found that the care
of the sick and wounded occupied but a small share of the time
of the medical officers. The solution of the greater problem of pre-
venting disease by the careful supervision of the smallest details of
subsistence, clothing, and shelter was their first and most important
duty. Nothing was too small to escape their vigilance, nor too
tedious to weary their patience, and everywhere, in the field with
the scouts, or in the base hospitals at home, the one prevailing
idea was the -prevention of disease,

" The medical officer was to be found both in the front and in
the rear. He was with the first screen of scouts, with his micro-
scopes and chemicals, testing and labelling wells, so that the army
which followed should drink no contaminated water. When scouts
reached a town, he immediately made a thorough examination of
the sanitary conditions, and if cases of contagious or infectious
disease were found, he put a cordon around the quarter where
they were. A medical officer accompanied foraging parties, and,
with the commissariat officers, sampled the various foods, fruit, and
vegetables sold by the natives before the arrival of the army. If
the food were tainted or over-ripe, or if the water required boiling,
notices to that effect were posted in suitable places. So strict was
the discipline from commanding officer to rank and file that
obedience to the orders of the medical officer was absolute.

" The medical officer also supervised the personal hygiene of
the camp. He taught the men how to cook, how to bathe, how to
cleanse the finger-nails so as to free them from bacteria, as well as
how to live in general a healthy, vigorous life ; and it was part of
the soldier's routine to carry out these instructions in every par-
ticular. As a result of this system the medical officer was not
obliged to treat cases of dysentery and fevers that follow the use
of improper food and the neglect of sanitation. During six months
of terrible fighting and exposure in a foreign country there was
only a fraction of I per cent, of loss from preventable disease."*

In the Boer War 13,250 soldiers died of disease. It may be
safe to conclude that the greater proportion of these deaths were
* "British Medical Journal," November i2th, 1904, p. 13.

404 JAPAN.

due to preventable disease. It is a little distressing to reflect how
many lives might have been saved if the methods of the Japanese
Medical Service had been adopted by the British Army.

Major Seaman may well remark that " the Japanese are the
first people to recognise the true value of the Army Medical
Corps."*

* " British Medical Journal," November i2th, 1904, p. 13.

part Wfi

AMERICA
i.

THE SANDWICH ISLANDS.

THE journey of five thousand five hundred miles across the Pacific
from Yokohama to San Francisco was delightful, because the
weather was faultless and the Pacific pacific. As the ship was
moving from east to west it was possible to see at night the Great
Bear in the northern sky, and the Southern Cross in the south.
During the week in which Honolulu was reached a day was
doubled. It was a Monday ; so that many experienced the novelty
of a week of eight days with two Mondays in it.

The Sandwich Islands lie just within the circle of the tropics,
in the centre of the great ocean, and two thousand miles from the
nearest town. As they are approached they appear as a line of
low bare hills presenting sharp peaks and ridges. The hills seem
as if made up solely of crests and spines, so that the sky-line is
jagged like the edge of a broken shell. The sides of the heights are
of seal-skin brown. They slope seawards to a yellow-green flat.
Then come white beaches with black rocks on them, the breaking
sea, and the coral reef. The islands are of volcanic origin, and in
many places the outlines of old craters are to be seen.

On nearer access the land becomes less bare, and the flats by
the sea are seen to be wooded by many trees. On one such plain
lies Honolulu, at the outlet of a verdant valley, with ever before its
eyes the incoming lines of breakers, and ever ringing in its ears
the roar of the surf.

405

4o6 AMERICA.

The towrytself is bright and pleasant. It is springing up under
the eye of the American, and the native of the United States is
an adept at rapid town making. There are tram-lines and parks,
wide streets and Western shops, while everywhere fine buildings
are bursting into existence. Many Chinese and Japanese find a
home in the settlement, and their quarters in the town bear the
characteristics of the two races, much chastened and modified by
close association with a people of extreme modernness.

The outskirts of Honolulu are singularly beautiful. There is
the lavish growth of the tropics without the too generous heat and
too liberal fume of moisture in the air. All the villages and cot-
tages have charming gardens with lawns as green as those about
the homesteads in England. Here flourish cocoanut palms, royal
palms, fan palms, the banyan tree, the mango, the guava, the bread
fruit. The place is glorious with flowers and flowering shrubs, as
well as with whole hedgerows of hibiscus in bloom. By the beach
are noisy duck farms kept by the ingenious Chinese. Towards sun-
down one lean Chinaman with a long wand will be seen driving a
flock of three hundred ducks home, from dabbling in the seaweed,
to their inland quarters. He keeps them in a compact waddling
patch with as much skill as a sheep dog " rounds up " sheep.

The climate is delightful all the year round, for the islands
know only an eternal summer. The temperature ranges from
52° F. at the coldest, to 90° F. at the hottest, while the rainfall in
Honolulu is only 40 inches in the year. The natives are rapidly
becoming extinct or absorbed. They are tall, of handsome bear-
ing, with beautiful, sad eyes. They look lazy and they are lazy.
They are quite content with an idyllic life which is free from the
fever of ambition and the weariness of work. Like many other
elementary people they only wish to be left alone to doze their lives
out This joy has been denied them now for many a year. Their
quiet bay has been invaded by the whirl of the screw and the
slashing of the paddle-wheel. The waters are churned up with soot
and coal dust, the grove of palm trees is filled with the mist of
steam and the clang of anvils. In the stress of all this trouble they
have either fled or died, for the visitation from the enlightened
world has been to them as a visitation of the Black Death. They

THE SANDWICH ISLANDS. 40;

appear to be extremely fond of flowers, since flowers mark all their
ceremonies and furnish their chief means of adornment and
decoration. The men have adopted the costume of Europe as it
is translated colonially. The women wear a school-girl type of
straw hat and a long skirt which hangs sheer from their necks to
their feet. There is no attempt to indicate a waist, and as most
of the women are distressingly fat this is wise.

Everyone who lands at Honolulu is constrained to visit the
Pali, six miles from the town. The range of hills at the back of
Honolulu presents, on that side which is towards the city, a gentle
slope seawards. On the other side the slope is replaced by a
mighty cliff. The Pali is a gap on the jagged summit of these
hills, at the spot where the slope is ended by the drop of the pre-
cipice. After a long toiling up-hill the road comes upon a crack on
the skyline, between ashen crags — an abrupt mountain pass.
Here the traveller finds himself at the brink of a sudden cliff,
steep as a wall. At the foot of this lies the mysterious " back of
the island," a great level country which sweeps away for miles and
miles, and is bounded by the circle of the sea.

To right and left the immense black precipice extends — in
front and far below is the immeasurable plain. The plain is green
with every tint of green — apple-green, olive-green, the green of old
bronze, the blue-green of old pines. There are little hills on the
flat upon which one looks down as would a soaring bird in the
sky. On the border of the plain is a glorious bay open to three
thousand miles of sea. Its beach is a curve of dove-coloured sand
which alone divides the green of the island from the blue of the
deep. The sea is iris blue, so calm that masses of white cloud are
reflected on its surface, so clear that there can be seen the streak
of mauve which marks the submerged coral bank and the splash
of amber where is a fathom-deep meadow of golden weed.

One great joy of Honolulu is the sea-bathing, for nothing can
surpass it Those who find delight in this rudimentary pursuit
must go to the Sandwich Islands to understand it in perfection.
It may be claimed that there is luxurious bathing on the Lido by
Venice, or at Atlantic City, or on the coast between Cape Town
and Durban. These places, as Mercutio said of his wound, " will

4o8 AMERICA

serve," but they fail to approach such bathing as can be found
in the cove' which lies in the shelter of Diamond Head

The day is hot and tiring, while the roads and the bare heights
seem famished by drought The sea is grey-green and glistening
in the sun. The heated man plunges into it and swims out, with
panting eagerness, towards the coral reef. The water is soft, silken,
and caressing. His hands, as they move forward at each stroke,
look already cooler under the ripples. The sea dashes upon the
reef with a thundering roar as if a white-crested multitude were
storming a long trench. Within the reef the high wave rolls shore-
wards. As it sweeps along, hurrying and hissing, the summer wind
blows a mocking spray from its angry ridge. As it nears the
swimmer it is curling to break, its walls stand up green, smooth,
and polished, like a section of a great glass tube. Through it he
can see the light in the sky. He dives into the rushing comber and
comes up into the sun on the other side of it It tears past him
to the beach with imperious hauteur, leaving in its track a dazed
waste of white foam which is whirled into circles by bewildered
eddies. Then comes " the hurl and the crash " upon the sloping
shore, and, after a moment of hush,

"The scream of a madden'd beach dragg'd down by the wave."

If the swimmer turns seawards he can watch line after line of
white horses "girth deep in hissing water," galloping in from the
coral reef towards the shore. Beyond the surf on the reef are the
untroubled sea and a black-hulled schooner sailing away to the
uttermost island.

If the swimmer turn landwards there are the biscuit-coloured
beach, a thicket of palms, with a brown thatched house in its
shadows, and behind a line of purple hills which shimmer in the
heat.

II.

THE YOSEM1TE VALLEY.

On nearing the " Golden Gate," which opens into the superbly
beautiful harbour of San Francisco, those who were early on deck
had an opportunity of witnessing a great sea fight It was a
combat, on a Titanic scale, between a sperm whale and an in-
visible bravo. Experienced mariners assured us that the whale
who took part in this fearsome drama was forty feet in length,
but whether this was based upon the sea-serpent-standard of
measurement, or upon that of King Edgar, I know not. In the
absence of marines they beguiled us with the attractive story of
the fighting alliance between the thresher and the sword-fish ; al-
though it is probable that the aggressor in the present disturbance
was that wild sea brigand, the Orca.

The battle was terrible to behold The smooth ocean was
convulsed at one spot into a circle of terror-stricken waves, as if
it shuddered. In the centre of the arena was the harassed whale.
At one time he would be invisible. Then a column of water
would shoot into the air as if from a submarine mine that burst
through the waters. Afterwards a huge square fabric would lift
out of the sea, like the apparition of a sunken ship rising from the
bottom. This was the tank-shaped head of the whale. The arena
boiled like an acre-wide kettle. Out of the foam would climb
a round, shining hillock — the back of the beast — as if an island had
come up in search of the ship. Here was, indeed, to be seen a
mountain that moved. Then, with an awful earthquake effect,
the creature of many tons leapt from the sea like a minnow, so
that its great tail was at one moment black against the sky, and
was, at another, hacking a whirlpool out of the deep. Of the

409

410 AMERICA.

Orca that wrought this evil nothing was seen, so that the writhing
cachalot seemed to be wrestling with a ghost.

It was such a fight as might have taken place in antediluvian
waters while yet the earth was without form. An ancient-looking
mist hung over the waste, such as possibly exhaled from the cool-
ing world ; while above the haze was a rose-pink sky which might
have been lit by the rays of a still unfamiliar sun.

Of San Francisco, of the amazing country of California — where
must have grown both the bean and the story of "Jack and the
Bean Stalk " — of the long journey across the continent, and of
the many great and astounding cities which are encountered on
the way, it is needless to write, for the story is already familiar by
reason of much telling. It may be tempting to discourse of a
city which has a score of Towers of Babel in its midst, all of
which have been built and completed without confusion of tongues,
and which, when viewed from Mars, must look like hairs on the
back of a rolled-up caterpillar. But the tale of the city is already
commonplace. It would be inviting to deal with the old world
conceptions and insular prejudices with which America and the
Americans are, even to the present day, regarded by the un-
travelled in Europe ; but the occasion is hardly opportune, nor has
the topic lacked consideration.

Among the many astonishing " sights " in the United States
two might be selected for some brief notice, viz., the Yosemite
Valley and the Grand Canyon of Arizona,

The distance from Raymond — where the railway ends — to the
Yosemite Valley is seventy miles. This has to be travelled by
road in a " stage " or open waggon drawn by four horses. Allow-
ing for a halt for lunch, this drive occupies over twelve hours. It
is a journey through seventy miles of wild forest land, along a
road which is rough and reckless as well as enveloped in dust.
It winds over hill and across valley, it climbs to the height of six
thousand feet, but it is ever through the forest and ever the same.
Hour after hour the " stage " rocks along through clouds of
dust, until the aching traveller changes to the colour of the earth
and his mind to the blank of infinite weariness. The monotony
becomes oppressive. It is ever the pines and the rocks, the rocks

THE YOSEMITE VALLEY. 411

and the pines, the firs and the dogwood, the dogwood and the firs.
With the exception of the charming hamlet of Wawona and a few
squatters' settlements by the way there are no signs of man.
Here is a lumber camp on a hillside which has been laid waste by
hatchet and fire, and there a house of rough logs with a post bag
hanging from a tree for the driver to snatch at, or a soap box on a
pole, into which he can drop a letter if he has one.

When any height is gained there is to be seen, as far as -the
eye can stretch across the immense expanse, nothing but hills and
pines. The circle of the horizon is bounded by pines, and with
pines every hill is draped from summit to base and for mile upon
mile. The landscape has only the one feature of endless trees
on endless hills. It is all in one colour — the dull green of pines.
Along each side of the road, away from the clearings, are aisles
of brown resinous trunks springing in unwearying thousands out
of an unvarying undergrowth. Above is the green cloud of trees,
below is the drab cloud of dust.

By the time that the last hill is climbed the traveller has
become numbed by monotony ; he is weary of the eternal swaying
hour after hour, through a world of many ups and downs, but of
one persistent sameness.

At the summit of the height is a bend in the road and a gap
in the trees which serve to show that the track is skirting the edge
of a sloping precipice. The spot is called " Inspiration Point."
Those who step to the brink come upon a scene which is hard to
forget. There is a sudden view down a long, winding valley, a
sudden glimpse of an unexpected world, a sense of indescribable
charm and of infinite relief. The whole landscape has changed.
After the tiresomeness of hundreds of square miles of dingy pine
trees, here is a silver-grey valley shut in by dazzling cliffs, on the
floor of which are homely meadows skirted by woods and traversed
by a river sweeping over bronzed stones. The valley is only seven
miles in length, and about half a mile in width — a mere span when
viewed from a height like this. What is remarkable is that its
great walls close it in so jealously that the everlasting pine hills
have all vanished. The glen is barricaded against the world as
if it were an enchanted secret place, while at the end of the valley

412 AMERICA.

there would seem to be a pass leading into a new, unimagined
country.

So far is this pearl-coloured gorge removed from the haunts of
men that it remained undiscovered until 1851, when a small party
of soldiers, in pursuit of Indians, came upon it suddenly.

The walls which encircle this pale valley rise sheer from its
floor to the height of three-quarters of a mile. Nay more, there
is at the end of the gorge an erect precipice which is nearly a mile
in height, from the pool at its foot to the cap of snow which
smooths its summit of bare stone. The glen is filled with an
unearthly light. After the forest of dinginess it is as a place
flooded by the moon. Above is a canopy of the bluest sky. The
sky and the grey cliffs blend. The earth and the heavens meet,
for the air in the valley is blue as if the sky had come down and
filled it to the river's brink. There is a sense that on descending
into the valley one would dip into an azure depth. After the
forest shades the light in the valley is as the cold, silvery gleam
at the mouth of a cavern.

The spot would seem to be the " heart of the hills," and such a
" hiding place " as is spoken of in the Psalms of David. It would
be a fitting scene for some great drama of the world. So apart is
it that it affords no mean conception of the garden which was
planted "eastward in Eden."

On one side of the gorge, on that wall which is in shadow,
a white river drops down from a ledge into the valley — a fall of
nine hundred feet. Whence it comes no one can tell, for it seems
to gush forth, in a torrent thirty feet wide, from the black rock.
Below it dives into a thicket of mist-shrouded firs. It may be that
one of the four rivers of Eden entered the garden in this wise, and
that this is the river named Pison, which " compasseth the whole
land of Havilah, where there is bdellium and the onyx stone."
By the narrow gap at the end of the gorge the first two wondering
folk may have been driven out of the garden.

In the way through the valley there is always the contrast
between the soft meadows of flowers and the stern, terrific walls
which stand guard over them. One precipice, called El Capitan,
rises perpendicularly to the height of nearly three -fourths of a

THE YOSEMITE VALLEY.

THE YOSEMITE VALLEY. 413

mile, a pearl-grey battlement, bare as an iceberg, with winter on
its summit as a drift of snow, and with summer at its foot in the
guise of opening ferns.

Into the glen project enormous bastions of rock, half a mile
high, like buttresses of a rampart, or great capes along a coast of
precipices. A quarter of a mile up the face of a bald cliff there
may be a ledge — apparently an inch in width — on which are three
old pine trees looking like blades of grass. There are ravines and
chasms, immense slopes of pigeon-blue stones, slopes also where
the green of the valley climbs up the height like moss, only the moss
is a forest of ancient oaks. There are rocks with splinters, many
hundreds of feet high, like cathedral spires, heights crowned by
round spheres of granite like temple domes.

At the far end the valley closes mysteriously. It bends sharply
behind a buttress and is lost to view. Here it is that the wall of
the great fosse had a drop of nearly a mile, and here it is that
the landscape is reduced to primeval elements — bare granite and
blue sky.

On the floor of the valley, besides the water meadows and the
great river, the flowers and the bracken, are rapids tearing through
savage glens, islands that cling to the half-drowned stones of
foaming streams, pathways in woods and Devonshire lanes, a tiny
hamlet and the smoke of camps.

On every side waterfalls tumble over the brink of the great
scarp into the gorge. The most wonderful of these is the Yose-
mite Fall, where a pale river, from thirty to forty feet wide, drops
over a nude cliff. It appears to come from the heavens, for it
takes its leap from the skyline. It falls vertically a quarter of a
mile — a wild, howling column of frenzied water. It drops into a
black pit from which rises ever a steam as from an infernal
cauldron. There breaks from it a terrific roar which is startled
by the crashing of iceblocks and by hollow, cracking sounds like
the rattle of artillery in a cavern. To conceive of the magnitude
of this white column, imagine the Avon falling from the top of
the Eiffel Tower on to the pavement below. Then pile upon its
summit another Eiffel Tower, but four hundred feet less than the
first, and let the river leap from the higher pinnacle down into

4i4 AMERICA.

the roadway. In such wise some idea can be gained of this sheer
torrent. Tnis, however, is only one step of the fall. There are
two others below, each of which is three times the height of
Niagara, for the drop of the Yosemite from the rock ridge among
the snows to the trees at the cliff's foot is but little less than half
a mile.

On the way to this valley is the famous Grove of Big Trees.
America is the country of great things, but among its gigantic
products the " sequoia gigantea " of California is not the least
marvellous. A tree twice the height and twice the diameter of
the Colonne Vendome is difficult to realise, but there are many
scores of them. It is not their size, however, which is their most
impressive feature. It is rather, as Mr. Muir points out, the fact
that they are the oldest living things on the face of the earth.
" The Big Tree cannot be said to attain anything like prime size
and beauty before its fifteen hundredth year, or, under favourable
circumstances, become old before its three thousandth."* The
world that lived when they came into being has wholly perished,
and these sequoia alone remain.

It is in accord with the spirit of the times that these solitary
survivors of the great past should be usefully employed as adver-
tisements, and should be introduced to the modern world through
the medium of a trade mark.

* "Our National Parks," by John Muir. Boston, 1903, p. 275.

IN THE BIG TREE GROVE, CALIFORNIA.

111.

THE SCENE OF THE END OF THE WORLD.

In Arizona is a flat, arid, man-deserted plateau which is so vast
that it covers nearly 100,000 square miles. On the shrivelled sur-
face of this uplifted waste is a chasm — a stupendous crack in the
earth. It is 217 miles in length, some 12 miles wide, and its walls,
which are nearly vertical, are a mile in depth. At the bottom of
this fearful abyss runs the Colorado River. This same Colorado
is " one of the great rivers of North America. Formed in Southern
Utah by the confluence of the Green and Grand, it intersects the
north-western corner of Arizona, and, becoming the eastern bound-
ary of Nevada and California, flows southward until it reaches
tidewater in the Gulf of California, Mexico. It drains a territory
of 300,000 square miles, and, traced back to the rise of its princi-
pal source, is 2,000 miles long."*

This riverway is called the Grand Canyon of Arizona, and is
claimed to provide " the most sublime spectacle of the Earth."

Among the many conceptions which have been formed of the
circumstances which shall attend the end of the world is one which
imagines that life shall gradually vanish from the face of the globe,
grade by grade, the lower following the higher. Into the details
of such an idea comes the supposition that the races of men would
pass away, that the beasts of the field and the birds of the air
would die in turn, and that a slower decay would fall upon the
more gracious trees and flowers until the great world became a
fruitless waste. On such a desert only the hardiest things that
grow would linger, while, at the last, the dried-up earth itself would
crack and crumble into nothingness. Any who incline to such a
* "The Titan of Chasms." Chicago, 1904, p. 3.
415

4i 6 AMERICA.

foretelling as this will find in the country of the Grand Canyon
some realisation of what they have pictured in their fancies.

From a land of fields and prosperous villages, from a point not
far distant from the vineyards and peach orchards of Los Angeles,
the road crawls upwards on to the great table land. It is a miser-
able track, through a parched and dying country, which is grey
with the burden of unnumbered years. The earth has the pallor
of cinders, and is strewn everywhere with a harvest of lean stones.
The sickly grass is sapless and harsh. The few bushes are
blanched of all colour; their branches are spidery and emaciated,
their leaves rustle like shreds of dried skin. There are mummified
shrubs which have still a semblance of life, and still bare their
sterile tendrils to the unheeding air.

The only trees are firs and pines, but they are dwarfed and
stunted, or are bent and deformed by drought and horrid winds.
Many have died, for the dead are standing dead in hundreds.
Their bare boughs rattle in the passing gust, like bones in a
gibbet, while the skeletons of those that have fallen are stretched
in every shadow upon the stones. Only the sturdiest things that
have life have survived — the fir, the pine, the sage bush, and the
outcast of the desert.

It may be that at one time, on this drear plateau, there were
orchards and cornfields, meadows and the abodes of men. The place
is now desolate and abandoned. The shrunken earth is waterless.
There are signs of neither bird nor beast, and upon the table land
has fallen the first hush of an eternal silence.

The country, indeed, that is traversed on the way to the Grand
Canyon may well be a realisation of the last struggle for life on
the face of the earth. If the ending of the world be slow, there
must needs be a time when the once luxuriant country will come
to look as wan and pitiable as this.

At the end of many miles of this Golgotha the traveller finds
himself at a moment on the brink of an incredible chasm. He
comes upon it suddenly and without warning. The whole expanse
before him is as level as the sea — a limitless stretch of earth and
stones and struggling pine trees. There is no shelving edge ; no
slope to the ravine. The chasm is a Titanic crack in the earth,

THE GRAND CANYON. 417

with edges as sharp and as abrupt as a crack in an earthenware
urn.

The first view of this undreamed-of abyss conveys, with
dramatic suddenness, only a sense of the awful and the stupendous.
Here is an unsuspected, clean-cut breach in the earth, so immense
that it is impossible to realise that to the pines on the opposite
side is a flight of ten miles, or that the drop to the bottom of the
trench is a mile sheer.

It would seem that the rent is fresh, that the world has burst
asunder but yesterday, for trees come to the very edge of the gap,
the face of the fracture is raw rock, and this jagged cape that
stands out from the side must have fitted — a day ago — into the
wedge-shaped bay on the other brink, ten miles across.

The sight of this portentous trough is so astounding, so sub-
lime, that all sense of distance or of proportion is lost. Here is a
spot where the planet is riven in twain. Here is the scene of a
terrific world-ending catastrophe. One expects to hear rumblings
far down in the depths, or to see smoke and tongues of flame
shoot up from the gulf ; but the chasm is silent as death, and
through its channel there sweeps a clear, untroubled air.

The view is not such as can be gained from a mountain top ;
it is a down- looking into a mile-deep gash in the earth, a peering
into a well or into a terrific trench many leagues wide.

It is useless to attempt any comparison of its proportions.
Since the Canyon is in places twenty miles across, one may
imagine that the English Channel, between Dover and Calais,
had become dry, that its floor had sunken almost out of sight,
and that those who looked into the trough, from the brink of
Dover cliff, would gaze down a wall from 5,000 to 6,000 feet deep.

This great fissure in a forlorn land may well be one of the
rents in the crust of the world which shall herald its final rupture
into fragments.

The chasm is in vivid contrast to the drab level on either side
of it, for it is a gulf of colour. Its walls and its floor are red —
brick-red where the sunlight falls, claret-red in the shadows — a
glowing channel of fervent tints, whose slopes and cuttings and
piles of riven stone appear to be red hot.

B B

4i8 AMERICA.

It is no mere depth of wall and gulley. The floor of the
Grand Canyon presents a gigantic sunken landscape, in which
are rugged mountains, boding cliffs, fathomless ravines, and level
plains. Hills of rock rise out of the abyss, peak after peak, and
spire upon spire. There are prodigious coves and gulches. There
are black pits miles in width, like counter-sunk mountains, and
in such Titanic moulds Alps might have been cast.

The earth seems to have been cracked by fire, and these masses
of rent and tumbled rock may have been plucked out of its
depths by bursting heat and be still aglow.

Red is the prevailing colour of the Canyon, but it is not the
only one. There is, in this underworld landscape, every tint of
garnet, orange, and rose. There are the colours of the Alpenglow,
the colours of the dawn ; a cliff of Pompeian red, a plateau of
brimstone yellow and copperas green, with a lavender shadow on
it a mile in length. At one place is a blue-grey gorge, called
Bright Angel Canyon, in which is a sapphire stream with an edge
of emerald on either side of it.

The very bottom of the chasm can only be seen at rare spots.
Elsewhere the remotest floor of the gorge is a ragged fissure in
black rocks, where, far down in the sunless hollows of the sinister
cleft, the mysterious river roars on its way.

On closer viewing of this ghostly landscape there is some sug-
gestion of artificiality about it. The strata are horizontal, and the
great torn masses of red rock look like colossal ruins of heaped-up
brick with broken edges. The whole Canyon is a labyrinth of
tumbled masonry. Here are, it would seem, the ruins of huge
pyramids, ten miles square, rising from a slope made up of the
dust of ages. Here are fractured battlements, roofless subterranean
passages, cellars that would hold a city, great stairs with steps
three hundred feet high, and level terraces on which an army
could be marshalled.

There are wall sculptures of incredible proportions, curved
mounds of stones, which might have borne aloft some fearsome
amphitheatre, or which may mark the ruins of cirques and cloisters
of a girth beyond the imagination of man. There are fragments
of castles and of majestic temples, as well as towering masses of

THE END OF THE JOURNEY. 419

brick-like rock, which stand in rows as if they were the plinths and
pediments of cloud-reaching pillars.

Viewed in this wise it would seem that the mighty Canyon
presents an allegory of the Foundations of the World which
have been laid bare as the great planet became rent and shaken
ere it crumbled into space.

Far down, on a cliff side, are certain holes, such as sand-martins
make in the wall of a quarry. They say that they belong to men
of the Stone Age, and that they are many thousands of years old.
On the other hand, they may be imagined to be the habitations
of the very last human beings who eked out a vanishing life upon
the surface of the earth.

Seven days across the sea and the dawn breaks upon the white
cliffs of England, upon the still twinkling spark in the lighthouse
on the Needles, upon the gentle downs above Freshwater, and
the still slumbering village of Yarmouth, with its grey fort, its old
red roofs, and its guardian company of homely trees.

Here is a land of kindly-tended fields and of hedges trim with
the care of centuries, a country with all the graciousness of a
pleasure garden and all the dignity of an ancient husbandry, a
modest and comfortable country without the uneasy exuberance of
the tropics, or the homelessness of the unbounded Indian plaini

Across an upland creeps a soft, white cloud of sheep, in place
of the herd of lean kine who prowl the dust of the Great Penin-
sula ; along the beach the languid palm has changed into the
sturdy English oak ; a bell rings out from an ivied tower, and the
sound of the Buddhist temple gong is forgotten, while dancing
over the sea, instead of the sampan, is a Portsmouth wherry.

"God gave all men all earth to love,

But since our hearts are small,
Ordained for each one spot should prove
Beloved over all."

THE END.

INDEX

Aden, 27
Agra, 57

, Fort of, 63

, Palace of, 64, 65.

Akbar, 57, 58, 85, 88

Amber, 123, 131

America, 405

Ancestor Worship, 278, 327, 333

Arashi-Yama, 389

Arizona, Grand Canyon of, 415

Arjumand Banu, 60, 78, 84

Army Medical Outfit, Japan, 401

Atkinson, Dr., 260

Aurangzeb, 61

" Austin's Wall," 97

Babar, 57, 58
Barnes, Sir Hugh, 194
Bathing at Honolulu, 408
Bay of Biscay, 6
Bazaar at Night, 55

in India, 51

Bell of Chion-in, 358
Benares, 158

, Ghats of, 163

, Temples of, 158

Bibi-Garh, Cawnpore, 177
Big Trees of California, 414
Binzuru, 353
Biscay, Bay of, 6
Biwa Lake, 326, 328
Bombay, 29, 55
Bridge in Tokyo, 346

of Nikko, 384

Buddhist Temple, Japan, 349, 353
Burlengas, 6
Burmah, 189

, Country of, 208

, Monastery in, 219

, Natives of, 194, 196

Burning Ghat, Benares, 165
Bushido, 336

Calcutta, 189, 225
California, 409

— , Big Trees of, 414
Canal, Suez, 19
Canton, 261, 267, 271, 283
Cantonments, 43
Canyon, The Grand, 415
Cawnpore, 167

— , Massacre at, 175, 178
, Mutiny at, 167

— , Wells of, 173, 174, 178

, Wheeler's Entrenchment at,

Ceylon, 225

, Country of, 236

, Natives of, 230

Cherry Festival, Japan, 388

- Tree, Kyoto, 389
Children in Japan, 398
China, 252

— , Natives of, 293
Chinese, 273

— Burial Customs, 278
— , Characters of, 293

Executions, 288

Food, 275

Medicine, 283

Prisons, 288

Theatre, 258

- Tortures, 288

- Women, 297
Chion-in, 358
Chitor, 14
Cingalese, 230
Cloisonne^ 313
Coaling at Port Said, 16
Colombo, 225
Colorado River, 415

167

422

INDEX.

Crete, n
Curzon, Lord, 190

Daibutsu, 377
Damietta, 12
Delhi, 90

, Assault of, 109

, Bazaar in, 51

, Forts of, 92

, Kashmir Gate of, 109

, Magazine at, 101

, Mosques of, 93

, Palace of, 96

, Ridge at, 100

, Town of, 90

Devil Dancing, 232
Dinner, Japanese, 360
Doctors, Chinese, 283
, Cingalese, 232

Egypt, 12

Emperor of Japan, 369
Empress of Japan, 373
Enoshima, 378
Executions in China, 288

Fatehpur-Sikri, 58, 85
Fayrer's House, Lucknow, 181
Fish Festival, Japan, 307
Food, Chinese, 275

, Japanese, 360

Fort of Agra, 63
Fuji, 375

Garden of the Unforgotten, 115
Gardens of Japan, 318
Gaumukh, 147
Gem Mosque, 68
Ghat, Massacre, 175
Ghats at Benares, 163
Gibraltar, 7
Ginkakuji, 323
Golden Gate, 409

Pagoda, Rangoon, 191, 201

Grand Canyon, 415

Havelock, 183, 188
Higashi Hongwanji, 349
Hirano Jinja, 328
Hongkong, 252
Honolulu, 405
Hooghly, 189, 225
Hospital at Hongkong, 259

in Japan, 396

Humayun, 58

Icmitsu, 383
leyasu, 383
Inari Temple, 356
Irrawaddy, 222
India, Arrival at, 29

Bazaar in, 51

British Residents in, 43

Colours of, 37

Founding of, 42

Impressions of, 33

Kings of, 57

Melancholy of, 38

Peoples of, 42

Population of, 34

Religions of, 39

Streets of, 51

Women of, 48

Indian Mutiny, 100, 167, 180
Inland Sea of Japan, 305
Isle of Wight, 419
Itmad-ud-Daulah, 59

, Tomb of, 84

Jahanara, Tomb of, 118
Jahangir, 59,
Japan, 301

Changes in, 391

Emperor of, 369

First Sight of, 301

Gardens of, 318

Impressions of, 301

Inland Sea of, 305

People of, 393

Religions of, 326, 333

Japanese Army Medical Service, 401

Child, 398

Dinner, 360

Garden, 318

House, 316

Palace, 364, 370

People, 393

Temple, 326

Theatre, 338

Town, 309

Village, 375

Woman, 398

Jeypore, 123
Jizo, 356

Jumma Musjid, Delhi, 93
Jumna, 63, 73, 90

Kalan Musjid, Delhi, 95
Kalka, 149
Kamakura, 377

INDEX.

423

Kameido, 347

Kandy, 238

Kashmir Gate of Delhi, 109

Kasuga, 380

Katsura Palace, 321

Kitano Tenjin, 329

Kiyomizu-dera, Kyoto, 352

Kobe, 306

Kobukugi, 379

Kurodani, 322

Kutab Minar, 120

Kwannon, 353

Kyoto, 309, 313, 321, 322, 326, 328,

33°» 332> 338, 349. 35 2> 3^5. 3^8

Palace, 367

Lake Biwa, 326, 328
Lawrence, Sir Henry, 180
Lintin, 262
Lovers, God of, 355

Tree, 381

Lucknow, Relief of, 183

Residency, 180

, Siege of, 180

MacDonald, Sir Claude, 371
Malabar Hill, 31
Malay Peninsula, 243

Village, 249

Mandalay, 211

, Moat at, 213

, Palace of, 211

Mangrove Swamp, 250
Marseilles, 8

Massacre at Cawnpore, 175, 178

Ghat, Cawnpore, 175

Mausolea at Nikko, 383
May, Mr. Francis, 257

Medical Outfit for War, Japan, 401

Medicine in China, 283

Mediterranean, 6

Meywar, 136

Mikado of Japan, 369

Mutiny, Indian, 100, 167, 180

Nagasaki, 302

Nana Sahib, 168

Nara, 377, 379

Nicholson, Death of, 112

Nijo Palace, 365

Nikko, 383

Nizam-ud-din, Tomb of, 115

Ohashi, 346

Pagoda, Golden, 191, 201
Pagodas, The "450," 218
Palace, Japan, 364, 37^

of Agra, 64, 65

Delhi, 96

Mandalay, 211

Pearl Mosque, 75, 99

River, 261, 267

Penang, 243

People of Japan, 393

Perim, 23

Perry, Sir Allan, 232
Pirates, 264
Port Said, 12, 16
President Roosevelt, 374

Rangoon, 191, 193, 201

, Golden Pagoda of, 191, 201

Red Sea, 23

Relief of Lucknow, 183

Religions of India, 39

Japan, 326, 333

Residency, Lucknow, 182

Ridge at Delhi, 100

Roosevelt, President, 374

Russian Wounded at Hongkong, 259

St. Peter's of Japan, 349

Sandwich Islands, 405

San Francisco, 409

Shah Jahan, 57, 60, 65, 78, 96

Shanghai, 299

Shiba, 346

Shimonoseki, 305

Shinto Religion, 326

— Temple, 328, 356
Shogunate in Japan, 364, 383
Siege of Lucknow, 180
Sikandra, 59, 88
Simla, 149
Singapore, 247
Stromboli, 10
Suez, 21

Canal, 19

Sugita, 375

Surgery in Japan, 394, 396

Taj Mahal, 75, 78

, The Lady of, 60, 78, 84

Temple, Buddhist, Japan, 349, 353
, Inari, 356

of the Tooth, 239

, Shinto, 328, 356

Thames, i

INDEX.

Theatre, Chinese, 258

, Japanese, 338

ThebaWj King, of Burmah, 214, 217

Tiger Island, 264

Tilbury, i

Tokugawa Dynasty, 383

Tokyo, 343, 370

Palace, 370

Tomb of Akbar, 88

Itmad-ud-Daulah, 84

• Nizam-ud-din, 115

Tooth, Temple of, 239
Torture Practices in China, 288
Trees, Big, of California, 414

Udaipur, 136, 141
Ueno, 346

United States, 409

, President of, 374

Valley of the Yosemite, 409
Village, Japanese, 375

War Movements in Japan, 400
Washington, 373
White Cloud Hill, 278

House, Washington, 374

Women, Burmese, 196
, Chinese, 297

in Japan, 398

Yellow Peril, 293
Yokohama, 307, 375
Yosemite Valley, 409

PRINTER BY CASSELL AND COMPANY LIMITED, LA BELLH SAUVAGE. LONDON, E.G.

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