Chapter XVIII: Missions and Missionaries 213-223 (2)

That walls of partition are breaking down under the influence of Christianity, was made plain to us by invitations to take breakfast with a noted Parsee barrister, and to take afternoon-tea with a wealthy Mohammedan gentleman, both of them citizens of Rangoon. The courtesy and intelligence of these hosts of ours will always be a delightful memory, while their novel and beautiful homes revealed to us what art and nature can do when united in other than Christian surroundings. Our Parsee barrister had obtained his education largely in England, and the Mohammedan gentleman had enjoyed intercourse with the best of our American missionaries. The Moslem friend still maintained a sort of seclusion for his wife, and only the ladies of our party visited her in her private apartments. But when we rose to depart, he surprised us all by asking that we offer prayer, and he endorsed the prayer that was offered by uttering a hearty "Amen." As we stood ready to go, it was easy to pray for a blessing upon the house and the family which we were leaving behind us. Respect for Christianity, and a conviction that Christian education is the great need of the future, are already permeating the higher classes of Burman society.

The climax of our stay in Burma was reached when Lord Chelmsford, the viceroy of India, visited Rangoon, and the lieutenant governor invited us to an afternoon-tea in his honor. The pandal, or reception pavilion, erected at the dock where the viceroy landed and where he was received with a salute of thirty-one guns, had been filled that morning by the élite of Burman society, fifteen hundred in number, and the address of welcome had drawn from the viceroy a fitting response. All Rangoon was a wonder of decoration. Arches with Saracenic domes built by the Moslems, pagodalike structures built by the Buddhists, Parsee towers, and Hindu temples, appeared at many street-crossings, and one long avenue was lined on either side with elevated rows of benches upon which were seated thousands of children from the schools. The viceroy passed in triumphal procession between files of soldiery, with cavalry for a body-guard and a dense mass of humanity thronging the sidewalks, looking on and cheering. At night, the streets and public buildings were brilliantly illuminated, and the great pagodas glittered like gems from top to bottom, encircled with rings of electric lights.

We reached the Government House, the scene of the afternoon lawn-tea, through clouds of dust raised by four lines of vehicles that struggled for precedence. At last we emerged in the grounds before the stately edifice where the lieutenant governor resides, and we were presented to Lord and Lady Chelmsford. The viceroy and his wife were simple and gracious in manner, and they made us feel that we were conferring as well as receiving honor. A group of forty dancing-girls, in antique Burmese costumes, were giving a performance on one part of the emerald lawn, while on another white-robed servants were setting before the guests all manner of refreshments. So, amid music and feasting, the day ended. With the oncoming darkness the viceroy and his lady retired to their apartments in the great government residence, and at the same time the whole company joined in singing "God Save the King!" It was a striking close to our experiences in Burma, for fully half of the guests that day were Hindus and Mohammedans, each one of them arrayed in gorgeous garments and decorated with jewels. It left in our minds the fixed impression that the hold of Great Britain upon Burma and indeed upon all India is largely due to the Christian character of British rule, and that missionary work of evangelization and of education is to be given large credit for India's present universal loyalty to the British Crown.

This chapter would not be complete without special mention of the dinner of our Rochester men. We number thirteen of them in Burma, and they fill very important places in the work of missions. Two are graduates of our university, but not of our seminary--Mr. F. D. Phinney, the superintendent of our Mission Press, and Dr. David Gilmore, the acting principal of our Baptist College. With the wives who graced the company, seventeen persons sat down at table. Singiser presided; McGuire gave us welcome; Dudley, Cochrane, Rogers, Hattersley, Crawford, added spice to the occasion. The rewards of a teacher sometimes come late, but they are very sure. When I saw that gathering of missionary workers, and remembered Geis, Cope, and Streeter, who were prevented from coming, I felt that my labor had not been in vain in the Lord, since Burma is being transformed by Rochester.

And I shall never forget a final reception given us at an afternoon-tea by Dr. D. W. A. Smith, the president emeritus of the Karen Theological Seminary at Insein, and by his estimable wife, to whom I had had the privilege of presenting a memorial album, on behalf of all the teachers and missionaries, on the occasion of her seventy-sixth birthday. Doctor Smith and Mrs. Smith are honored and beloved by all who know them. Like myself, he has served the cause of theological education for forty years, and has now retired for partial rest. I am glad that my name can be in any way connected with his, for I am sure that his works will follow him.

V

MANDALAY AND GAUHATI

These two places are types of two different religions, the Buddhist and the Hindu. Mandalay in Burma is the representative of Buddhism; Gauhati in Assam illustrates Hinduism. The hill of Mandalay is crowned by a pagoda so unique and splendid that it draws pilgrims from every part of Burma; the hill at Gauhati is similarly attractive in Assam. I have thought that a description of the two, and of the worship at each of them, might serve to fix in memory the differences between these leading religions of the British Empire in India.

Mandalay was the terminus of our third excursion into the more remote parts of Burma. From Rangoon as a center of operations, we went first to Bassein, where our Burman and our Karen schools for boys and girls are beautifully located. Bassein is one hundred and ninety-two miles west of Rangoon. Maulmain, our second object of interest and visitation, is one hundred and seventy-one miles distant from Rangoon on the south and east. Here our great missionary, Adoniram Judson, began his work, and here are two of our chief schools for girls.

Mandalay is farther removed from Rangoon than are either Bassein or Maulmain. It lies three hundred and eighty-six miles to the north. It was a former capital of Burma. It contains the palace of King Thebaw, the foundations of which are reputed to have been laid upon human sacrifices, and from which the king was driven after a long and fierce British assault. Ancient tradition decreed that only sacred edifices should be built of brick. Thebaw's palace is therefore of wood, though it is gorgeous with carving and gilt. Surrounded by a wide and deep moat, there is a walled enclosure of more than a mile square, whose gateways are picturesque in the extreme, and which to all but modern cannon would be an impregnable fortress.

But it is the Hill of Mandalay that most excites the traveler's wonder and admiration. Upon its summit, commanding a far-reaching view of the winding river and of endless paddy-fields, with mountains in the distance, stands a pagoda which is in many respects more remarkable than the great Shwe Dagon pagoda at Rangoon. This one at Mandalay might indeed be called four separate pagodas, on successive heights, and connected with one another by a straight stairway in part hewn out of the solid rock and in part built of masonry. The stairway consists of eight hundred and twenty-two steps, in four different series, each series leading to a broad open platform on which rises a separate temple with a colossal image of Buddha in its center.

From below, this long stairway, with its railing of brick or concrete and its quartet of gilded pagodas shining in the sun, is a picturesque and unique object. The crowning pagoda seems almost impossible of access. It is set upon such a height, however, for the purpose of making the ascent to the altar difficult, and so of adding to the "merit" of its worshipers. The stairway, even when cut in the rock, has often forty or fifty steps so narrow, that the ascent from platform to platform is actually precipitous. The entire series of steps, from the bottom of the hill to the top, is roofed over with sheets of corrugated iron, until the whole looks like a covered way to the clouds. Going up seemed an exciting adventure. My physician had forbidden my climbing, and my wife declared that she could not attempt the walk. The problem became serious.

The difficulty was removed by bringing from the missionary's house two solid teak-wood armchairs, to serve us after the sedan fashion. Long poles of bamboo were lashed underneath them, and, after we had seated ourselves, eight men, four for each chair, lifted these poles, with their superimposed American pilgrims, upon their shoulders. Then began a triumphal march, which at every step of the ascent threatened to become a funeral march. The bearers all had bare feet, feet twice as long as the steps were broad, so that they practically went upward on their toes. A single misstep would have caused disaster--nothing less than an avalanche of coolies, chairs, and pilgrims. But my secretary guarded me, the missionary guarded my wife, and we went up in safety.

Going upward some two hundred steps, we rested upon a platform with a pagoda which enshrined the statue of a Buddha perhaps twenty feet in height and covered with gold-leaf from top to toe. Any worshiper can prove his faith by clapping a bit of gold-leaf upon the statue. The result is that the hands and feet of Buddha are thick with encrusted gold. He holds out his hands in seeming invitation. Two hundred feet more brought us to a second platform and a second pagoda in which Buddha also appears; but now he is in the attitude of teaching. Still another ascent, and we come to a pagoda in which Buddha stands, a towering form fifty feet in height, with his finger extended in expectation toward the plain. And a final ascent brings us to a colossal Buddha, now reclining, as if his work were done and he were entering upon the bliss of Nirvana. At this last stage there is also a series of waxwork figures which symbolize the vanity of life and of human desire. Four forms represent, first, the babe at its mother's breast; secondly, the youth full of vigor; then the older man haggard with care; and finally, the corpse, upon whose vitals the birds of the air are preying.

From the summit of this Mandalay Hill, another pagoda, almost as famous, is to be seen. I mean the Kuthodaw, in the plain below. This is four hundred and fifty pagodas in one, all but one of them little edifices, each with a small sitting statue of Buddha within it. An even more remarkable thing is that each of these diminutive pagodas has also within it a portion of the Buddhist scriptures, engraved upon a solid block of stone, and all of these together make up the Tripitaka, upon which the Buddhist pins his faith. In the center of the grand enclosure stands a beautiful white pagoda, with wreaths of gold about its graceful spire. The long rows of little temples, with their attempt to preserve the holy book in an enduring form, are a monument to the faith of King Thebaw's uncle who planned it. Few people, however, read the writing upon the stones. For any practical result it is necessary to have the law of the Lord written upon the tables of the heart.

The descent from Mandalay Hill was even more hazardous than the ascent, for we were in continual danger of slipping from our chairs and knocking over the bearers. We were profoundly grateful when we reached the level ground again and found that we had survived. Our experiences with Buddhism were instructive. The saffron robes of the omnipresent priests and monks undoubtedly cover much laziness and much willingness to depend for a living upon others. But every Burman boy expects to spend some time, though it may be only a week or a month, in a monastery. There he usually learns to read, though his main work is that of memorizing certain portions of the Buddhist scriptures. So far as I have been able to learn, there are no positive immoralities connected with Buddhistic worship. The example of Buddha has in it some worthy elements, such as the renunciation of earthly and sensual ambitions. But Buddhism, for all that, is a pessimistic religion. It denies to man the existence of a soul, and it gives him no hope for anything but practical extinction. Buddha no longer lives to help his worshipers. In the struggle with sin, there is no atonement for the transgressions of the past, and no prospect of perfection in the future. Hence the preaching of Christ, crucified for our sins and ever present with his people, is to the Buddhist a revelation so novel and so entrancing, that it captivates and transforms him. Christianity humbles pride, but it saves the soul. It shows the impossibility of obtaining salvation by merit of our own, and our absolute dependence upon the grace of God. Christianity awakens gratitude, and leads to unselfish devotion. It turns a Saul into a Paul, and makes him a missionary and a hero.

Gauhati is the present capital of Assam, as Mandalay was once the capital of Burma. Like Burma, Assam is overrun by Hindus, who seek employment in the tea-plantations and in every other species of labor. These Hindus have brought their religion with them, and in Assam the animistic religions of the natives very commonly give way to the more poetic and philosophic faith of the Hindus. In Gauhati the Hindus have established a temple which attracts thousands of pilgrim worshipers from all parts of Assam and indeed of India, as the pagoda of Mandalay attracts pilgrims from all parts of Burma. The Gauhati temple, like that at Mandalay, is set upon a beautiful hill not far from the town, approached only by a long and stony climb, though with many a rest-house on the way. This temple and its worship so illustrate Hinduism, that a slight account of its origin and beliefs seems to be necessary.

The god Siva had a goddess for a wife. Displeased with her unfaithfulness, he seized her, and with her as his captive he flew through the air, and as he flew, he cut her in pieces. The middle portion of her body fell to the earth on this hill, and consecrated forever this spot near Gauhati. In the temple and grove of this hill the goddess is worshiped by such rites as will please one of low and licentious tastes. In fact, the rites of this temple are said to be the most obscene of any in the British possessions. There are reputed to be a thousand "virgins," who subsist in and upon the temple. The extent to which they are virgins may be judged by the number of fatherless children clinging to their robes or carried about. These "virgins," as is well known, are "married to the god of the temple"--which may mean married either to the priests of the temple, or to the worshipers of the temple. I asked a missionary whether these "virgins," after their term of service, could contract an ordinary marriage. I was answered that the girls were "married to the temple for life." One of these unfortunate women led by the hand a beautiful little daughter. On being asked who the father was, the mother replied: "How should I know? I am a temple-woman." So the gratification of illicit passion becomes a religious act. The residents of Gauhati are free to visit the temple, and so, alas! are the eight hundred students of the English college only two miles away. Who can measure the corrupting influence of this temple upon the lives of the people over a wide area in Assam?

A student of the college, who was also a priest of the temple, met one of our party on his visit. This student-priest was a young man of more than ordinary intelligence. He endeavored to palliate the evil of the temple-worship, and to clothe its acts with spiritual significance. He pointed to the spot where goats and buffaloes were offered in sacrifice, and he claimed that this offering was made in expiation of sin. Such an explanation of Hindu sacrifices is altogether futile. The sense of guilt is so dull in Hinduism, that sin is little more than external and physical impurity, and may be simply failure to conform to a prescribed act of ceremonial worship. The true meaning of sacrifice for sin has, in India, been derived solely from Christian preaching. This particular student had many an opportunity to hear such preaching, and the knowledge of atonement which he tried to mix with his Hindu theology was probably gained from missionary sources. It was an illustration of the incidental and indirect ways in which Christian missions are permeating these Oriental lands, and are forcing these old religions to adopt some of the fundamental ideas of Christianity. These ideas are misunderstood and misstated, so that they become in large part forms of error. But notwithstanding, they may pave the way for a fuller knowledge of the truth, and for the entrance of Christ into the heart and into the life.

VI

CALCUTTA, DARJEELING, AND BENARES

Calcutta is the largest city of India. It numbers more than a million inhabitants, of whom 600,000 are Hindus, 300,000 are Mohammedans, and less than 100,000 are Christians. The name of the city is derived from Kali, the goddess-wife of Siva, the Destroyer; and her temple is one of the most filthy and disgusting in all India. In this temple I saw one of its many priestesses cutting into bits the flesh and entrails of a goat, which had been offered in sacrifice, in order that the poorest worshiper might have for his farthing something bloody to present at the altar. It was the altar of a fierce, cruel, and lustful goddess, whose black and ugly image could be dimly seen within the shrine. A stalwart priest followed me with hand outstretched for a contribution. It was a novel sensation to hear him utter, in excellent English and with seeming reverence, the words, "the great goddess Kali," as if no one could doubt her power. It reminded me of "the great goddess Diana," whom all Asia and the whole world once worshiped, but whose temple is now an indistinguishable heap of ruins. The worship of a goddess so vengeful and sensual as Kali throughout India, a worship both of lust and of fear, shows how ineradicable is the religious instinct, but how perverted it may become when existing apart from divine revelation.

There is another temple in Calcutta of a somewhat better sort. I refer to the temple of the Jains, that mongrel sect which is partly a reformed Hinduism, and partly a worship of Buddha. Its temple is a model of cleanliness and of Oriental art. Its decoration consists largely of inlaid glass of all the colors of the rainbow. Walls, ceilings, and columns are fairly ablaze with tinted arabesques that reflect every ray of the sun. Fountains and lawns and statues mingle their attractions. The effect is one of splendor and beauty. Jainism is conservative Hinduism, recurring to the ancestral worship of the Vedas, exaggerating its doctrine of the sanctity of animal life, repudiating its later licentious developments, and taking in Buddha, not as the supreme and sole teacher of religion, but as only one of its great saints and heroes.

The real glory of Calcutta is its relation to modern missions. Here is the chapel in which William Carey preached, and in which Adoniram Judson was baptized. Its spacious construction evinces the faith and hope of its founders. But it is in Serampore, which, though fourteen miles away, is almost a suburb of Calcutta, that Carey's work was done. How wonderful that work was! "A consecrated cobbler," he mastered the languages of the Orient, and gave the Bible to India in several of its tongues. He received from the British Government large compensation for his services as interpreter and translator, but he gave back all the money he received, in order to support schools and missions. The noble college at Serampore, with its hundreds of students, is his best memorial. His tomb in the cemetery witnesses to his humility of spirit. It stands at one corner of a triangle, with the tombs of Marshman and of Ward at the two remaining corners, but the only inscription he permitted to be engraved upon it is the two lines of the hymn,

A wretched, lost, and helpless worm,
On thy kind arms I fall.

So he left his testimony to the need, and the power, of Him who will ultimately demolish Hindu temples and enthrone Christ in India.

From Calcutta we traveled about three hundred and seventy miles northward to Darjeeling. We wished to see the Himalayas. A most tortuous narrow-gage railway lifted us gradually to a height of seven thousand feet. And there we had the unusual privilege of seeing the sunrise tipping with rosy light the snowy peak of Kinchinjinga, twenty-eight thousand feet high and forty-six miles away. Mt. Everest, a hundred miles distant, is twenty-nine thousand feet high, but from Darjeeling is invisible. Kinchinjinga is nearly twice as high as Mont Blanc, and its glittering mass is a spectacle never to be forgotten. Curiously enough, upon the summit of Observatory Hill, from which we gained our view, the immigrant Tibetans had erected their shrine, and long, inscribed paper and muslin streamers, enclosing a large quadrangle, gave to the winds their prayers. No idol was to be seen. The worship seems to be far more spiritual than that of the Hindus. Nature seems to have taught that secluded race of Tibetans a more primitive religion than modern Hinduism. It is a religion mixed with Buddhism, but preserving the earlier view of a divinity in natural objects, which Hinduism has almost wholly outgrown.

Our next point of investigation was Benares, "the holy city," the Mecca and Jerusalem of the Hindus. It is a hotbed of heathen enthusiasm and of blinded devotion. The sacred river Ganges flows by, with tier upon tier of temples rising from its steep banks--such a congestion of religious edifices that one might almost doubt whether they had left room for any but priests to live. Every day, hundreds of pilgrims troop through its streets and throng these temples, presenting their flowers and their offerings, making their sacrifices, and listening submissively to the instructions and threatenings of the priests. Every temple has its sacred animals, to be sacrificed or worshiped. The "Golden Temple," so-named, is covered with gold-leaf from its spire to its base. The noisy crowd in its corridors, the noisome odors of its sanctuaries, the adjurations of its priests and their evident aim to turn religion into financial gain, disgust the Christian traveler, while they show him how deeply rooted in the human heart is this towering system of idolatry and superstition.

But only the water-view of Benares presents Hinduism in its most characteristic aspect. It is the sacred river that makes sacred the town. This river is regarded as itself divine, for it had its source in the mouth of Brahma. Hence it is endowed with life-giving and purifying powers. It is bordered for a full mile by a grand succession of palaces and temples, of bathing ghats and of burning ghats. Here the Hindu, often after long pilgrimage, washes away his defilement and prepares himself to die. When death actually comes, his relatives wash his body in the holy stream. But the bathing ghat only makes ready for the burning ghat. These burning ghats are castle-like edifices, from which the smoke of burning flesh ascends continually. Cremation, with the Hindu, takes the place of burial. The ashes are collected and are preserved in a tomb. To die in Benares, and to have a temple for a tomb, is the surest passport to happiness in a future state, since the transmigration of souls into higher or lower forms is an essential doctrine of modern Hinduism.

A wealthy resident of Benares courteously offered us the use of his observation-boat to view the scene upon the river in the early morning. This river-craft was a double-decker, propelled by oars from the lower deck. From the upper platform, one could overlook the ceremonial washings of hundreds of pilgrims. Stalwart men plunged themselves three times into the stream, looked toward the sun, joined their hands, spoke a prayer, rinsed their sacred cord, cleansed their raiment, and then, reclad, went to the priest on his platform, to be smeared with ashes on the forehead and marked with a little colored dot, as a certificate that they had correctly performed their vow. Brahma, Vishnu, and Siva, had each his worshipers and his priests, to give the appropriate mark. The "holy man" was there, either upon his bed of spikes or in an attitude which suggested torture, and ready to receive the homage, and the money as well, of his benighted admirers. Mothers were present, immersing not only themselves but also their children. All the bathers must drink of the muddy and fetid water, for purification internal is as needful as purification external. And so, hundreds of worshipers every day, and on special feast-days thousands, drink this water of the "sacred Ganges," foul with the stains of disease and reeking with the sweat of the dead. It is no wonder that the burning ghats have no lack of business, and no wonder that medical experts have traced epidemics of cholera, smallpox, and plague, in Western lands, to this city of Benares, where "Satan's seat is." The throne of the great adversary, however, seems to be built on very insufficient foundations, for not a few of the temples which line the steep banks of the river have toppled over, or have sunk into the yielding sand. Their massive fragments, at the base of long stairways of stone, show how hideous is the ruin of any system of religion which is not founded upon Christ, the Rock.

VII

LUCKNOW, AGRA, AND DELHI

At last we are on Mohammedan ground--at least on ground where Mohammedanism has a powerful, and perhaps a controlling, influence. This northwest part of India was the scene of Moslem conquest in the ninth century. Mohammedans have always proudly contemned idolatry, and they have often been iconoclasts, as many headless Hindu images can witness. Northwest India saw the rise and the strength of the great mutiny of half a century ago, but it was Moslem rajas and faithful Moslem troops who helped to put it down.

Mohammedan faith in the unity and personality of God might at first sight seem to render its adherents more accessible than are Hindus to the gospel of Christ. As a matter of fact, however, the very elements of truth in their belief make them too often stout opponents of Christianity. They are religious bigots, as the Hindus are not. The Hindu has a pantheon to which he can, with some show of consistency, invite Christ. The Mohammedan declares that there is but one God, and that Mohammed is his prophet. So he denies Christ's claim to be either God or Saviour.

Lucknow was deeply interesting, for here was exhibited one of the most heroic and thrilling defenses ever made in history. More than two hundred women and children spent three months of agony in the cellars of the British residency, while husbands and fathers and friends, to the number of seventeen hundred, were exposed to the besieging force and the murderous fire of fifty thousand mutineers. The headquarters of the defenders were riddled with shot and shell, and the residency is now a ruin. But only one shot penetrated the retreat of the women and children below, and of these only one woman lost her life. Crowded together in the heat of the summer, tormented by flies, half famished for lack of food, these brave women held out themselves and encouraged the protecting garrison, though of the seventeen hundred men only seven hundred at the end of the siege remained alive. Sir Henry Lawrence died of a cannon-shot, exhorting his soldiers to the last man to die, rather than to surrender. We were glad to pay reverence to his bravery, by a visit to his tomb. Although he died, the flag of England flew over the fortress, in spite of innumerable efforts of the enemy to bring it down. And to-day, in memory of that fact, it is the only flag in the British Empire that is not lowered at sunset. The joy of the defenders and of those whom they defended may be imagined, when General Havelock appeared in their relief, and the great mutiny was suppressed. That victory settled the prestige of the English in India. All classes now recognize the military strength as well as the judicial fairness of British rule. Without it, India would be a country of warring races, for Mohammedan and Hindu even to-day live in slumbering jealousy of each other.

This latent hostility, I am happy to say, shows some signs of wearing away. The desire for more of home-rule is bringing these two great races together in conventions, with a view to the discovery of some method of cooperation between them. Parliamentary government in China and Japan has had its effect in India, and Britain will soon be compelled to admit her Indian populations to a larger share in municipal and provincial administration. But democracy can be successful, only when conflicting classes find some basis for harmony. English missionary and educational institutions are doing much to reconcile Hindus and Mohammedans to one another, and this may prepare the way, not simply for free government, but also for the acceptance by both parties of a religion in which all their elements of truth are included, while their perversions of truth are sloughed off.

By English educational and missionary institutions I mean much more than Church of England schools and colleges. In Lucknow we visited the Isabella Thoburn College, under American Methodist control, and were greatly impressed by its noble equipment in the way of buildings and teachers. Both boys and girls have here the opportunity of securing an education as high in grade as the sophomore years of our American colleges, and of preparing themselves for the advanced work of a great Indian university. All this is under Christian influences, and has its fruit in many a conversion to Christ. Martinière College is also nobly equipped and endowed, but it is solely for English boys, who are generally the sons of British officials in India. I cannot speak too highly of these means of education now furnished by all our great denominations, in all the cities of India. I could only wish that our Baptist people at home might see how far Christians of other names have often surpassed them in their gifts and preparations for the future of a country whose population is three times as large as our own.

At Lucknow we had the rare opportunity of seeing "the mango trick" performed by an expert juggler. He first showed us a jar, filled with innocent sand, so dry that it fell easily through his fingers as he lifted a handful. Then he presented a dry mango seed, which he planted in the sand and watered. The jar was placed on the stone pavement of the hotel, not ten feet away from our eyes. He covered the jar with a little tent not two feet in diameter. After a few passes of the hand, the tent was lifted. The seed had already sprouted, and had become a twig with leaves. Covering the plant once more, he called our attention to a cobra-charmer, who played harmlessly with a hooded and venomous snake. At last he threw the tent wholly aside, and there stood a fully developed little mango tree, perhaps two feet high. It seemed impossible that the folds of the tent, which had been shaken out at the beginning, could possibly have held it. The juggler's method was simplicity itself. If I had not previously seen in America a necromancer cut his wife's head off, and then put it on again so slick that she seemed to have received no injury, I might have begun to believe that this Indian juggler had supernatural powers.

To Lucknow succeeded Agra. The great wonder and prize of Agra is, of course, the Taj Mahal. So we made our way to it before sunrise, and saw its exquisite columns and its white minarets in the rosy light of the earliest morning; then again, as the sun was setting, we saw its last rays fall upon the snow-white dome. As one looks upon the Taj from the noble gateway through which one enters the enclosing park, he sees also its reflection in the long lines of water that lie between, and it seems a miracle of beauty. But when you reach the edifice itself, and perceive that its simplicity is combined with lavish richness of decoration, marble and precious stones being so woven together that they form one gorgeous and splendid whole, you can only admire the affection that planned this memorial to a beloved wife, and the art which has succeeded in constructing an edifice which, after six centuries, is still recognized as a wonder of the world. Yet the Moslem emperor who built it was deposed by his son, and then imprisoned not far away, the chief solace and recreation granted him being this, that from his prison-roof he could look out upon the Taj Mahal.

The Pearl Mosque and the Jasmine Tower, the Courts of Public and of Private Audience, in the palace which the Moslem emperor once occupied, are monuments of architecture so remarkable and so beautiful, that no description of mine can fairly represent the impression which they made upon me. They are surrounded and protected by the Fort, an enclosure half a mile square, whose massive wall is itself a wonder. In the days when these structures were built, labor was cheap, for the monarch had only to impress and to feed his laborers. But artistic genius is always rare. The Mohammedan conquest and sovereignty of the past produced and encouraged a flowering out of art, comparable to that of the days of cathedral-building in England, and of the time of Pericles when sculpture and architecture so flourished in Greece. In all the world there is nothing more elaborate or beautiful than the perforated marble of these Oriental screens, and the intricate carving of these Oriental pillars. The Alhambra in Spain has its superiors in India, both for splendor of color and for beauty of pattern. The arabesques of these Oriental mosques exhibit powers of invention of the highest order. It has been well said that their architects "designed like Titans, and finished like jewelers." Both the throne of the Mogul Emperor Akbar and his tomb in Agra are proofs that even the grain of truth in Mohammedanism can awaken intelligence and enthusiasm in those who receive it, and that, in the conflict with idol systems, it has power to conquer the world.

An account of our visit to Delhi may well complete my summary of Mohammedan influences in India. Delhi was the capital of India long before Akbar reigned and the lofty tower of the Kutab Minar was built. But Hindu influence has combined with Mohammedan in leading the British to restore Delhi to its former position as the center of governmental authority. Tradition has handed down a prediction that making Delhi its capital marked the end of each power that asserted itself. Hence there have been many Delhis, as there have been many ancient Romes, and this present Delhi must be succeeded by a new Delhi which British authority and resources will build. The new Delhi will be the ninth, as the present Delhi is the eighth, of the long series. Ruins of the earlier Delhis are about it on every side. Now, at last, a great tract of land has been appropriated for the new seat of government which will rise from the dust. Temporary buildings have been erected. The permanent ones will soon follow. We may be sure that they will be splendid and suited to modern tastes, while they still preserve the characteristic features of Indian architecture.

By making this new Delhi the British capital of India, it is sought to impress the Oriental mind with Britain's claims to be supreme, while at the same time the old traditional prediction is evaded. Let us hope that the device will accomplish its purpose. The prosperity of India is bound up with the recognition by all races and parties of England's right to rule. I would not justify all the steps by which Britain has gained her power, nor would I ignore certain defects of her later administration. But there is no question as to the general justice of British rule, nor as to the fact that, without it, India's warring races and religions would now be the ruin of all peace and progress. When we remember that in this land of former famines the population has increased since 1858 by one hundred millions; that forty-six thousand miles of canals have been dug for irrigation, and more than twenty-two million acres have thereby been reclaimed; that trade has increased in the last half-century from three hundred millions to fourteen hundred millions; that the value of land is now larger by fifteen hundred millions than it was fifty years ago; that there are now thirty-two thousand miles of railway in operation and seventy-six thousand miles of telegraph; that the Indian Post Office now handles nine hundred millions of letters, newspapers, and other matter every year; we may well doubt whether any conquest of history has brought about so great or so beneficent results as have followed what we must regard as England's commercial absorption of India.

There are doubtless seditious and anarchistic elements in the Indian populations which need to be kept under and subdued. Let us remember that only one-tenth part of the men, and only one-hundredth part of the women, know how to read. There is a vast proletarian mass, ignorant and inflammable, ready to follow leaders of better education, but less principle, than themselves. This mass the British Government has failed to educate, so that, while ninety per cent of the people in Japan can read, in India only one-tenth as many can read. One of the greatest mistakes of English administration has been its beginning of education at the top, instead of at the bottom. It has established universities, but not elementary schools. The excuse, of course, has been, that differences of caste and of religion have made it impossible to put Hindu children and Mohammedan children, Brahman children and Sudra children, together, in the same schools. And yet, in the universities, pupils of all these various classes sit side by side, and some plan, it would seem, might have been devised to apply the same rule, so as to secure universal and compulsory elementary education. The higher education, taken alone, has its dangers; it is sought only by people of means and intelligence; many seek it from no love of learning, but only in order to prepare themselves for government offices. But there are not enough offices to go round. The disappointed men will not work with their hands; they find their avocation in the plotting of sedition. It is the high-caste educated Brahmans who have edited the malcontent periodicals, and have organized the revolutionary conspiracies, which have of late bred so much trouble for the government in India. I rejoice therefore in the rise of factories, and in the new emphasis that is being laid on industrial education. These will do much to develop the resources of India. But what is most needed is the spirit of peace and justice; this is furnished by the gospel of Christ. I therefore believe that the gospel is the only real guaranty to India of its political as well as its religious welfare.

The Friday prayer-service in the great mosque of Delhi was a striking spectacle. The open court in front of the mosque is four hundred and fifty feet square, surrounded by a cloister, and paved with granite inlaid with marble. Three or four thousand worshipers, in parallel rows, stretched from side to side of the great enclosure. At the summons of the mollah, or officiating priest, all these worshipers, in perfect unison, prostrated themselves with folded hands, and repeated in a loud voice, "God is great." Each devotee had previously purified himself, by cleansing his mouth and hands and feet in the open tank in the center of the great esplanade. Inasmuch as the Delhi mosque is the largest and most splendid east of Cairo, the entire spectacle was most impressive.

If Turkey had not joined a Christian power by her alliance with Germany, Mohammedans throughout the world might have taken Germany's side against the Allies, and might have threatened the peace of India. That danger is now providentially averted. The Moslem rulers have held fast to their allegiance to the British Crown. This city of Delhi, with the schools of the Methodists, the Anglicans, and the English Baptists, is permeated with religious influences that attract its native populations, and these influences are continually lessening the prospect of any future rebellion such as the mutiny of fifty years ago.

VIII

JAIPUR, MT. ABU, AND AHMEDABAD

India, as is well known, is a part of the British Empire, and is under the sway of the British Government. Yet, for administrative purposes, it is divided into presidencies, provinces, and native states. The presidencies and provinces are wholly administered by British officials. The native states are administered by rajas and other Indian rulers, with the presence in each capital of a resident officer who represents the British Government and who is accessible for consultation in case of necessity. The relations between the rajas and the residents are friendly, and only the gravest matters are referred to the representative of the Crown. All other affairs are cared for by the native ruler, who is attended by a distinguished suite and who maintains quite a royal court. This species of self-government is the reward, granted by the British Government after the mutiny of 1857, to the rulers of the native states, who remained faithful to British interests and assisted in the suppression of the great rebellion. The government of these native rulers is in general worthy of praise. Many of them are progressive men; they have traveled abroad; they have been affected by Western thought; they have introduced modern reforms and systems of education, to the great benefit of their subjects. In this present hour of crisis, the majority of them have been loyal to the British Government, and have contributed men and means for the cause of the Allies. It was interesting in our journey across India to traverse several of these native states; and it was difficult to observe any difference between these sections and the portions of the empire officered solely by the British. We saw no British soldiers, but only native troops. There was less of English language and custom prevalent. The Hindu, Mohammedan, and Jain seemed to have things very much to themselves. They, after all, are the real India, the hereditary India, while at the same time they are feeling the influence of modern railways and modern commerce.

Jaipur, which is the capital of a native state, was especially interesting. It has been called "The Pink City," either because the maharaja owns all the property on the business streets and himself sees that every building is painted of a pink color, or because he compels every private owner to conform to his fixed rules of construction and decoration. At any rate, the wide streets of Jaipur are laid out like those of the homeland, and are lined with pink structures of only one type of architecture and only one type of ornamentation. Even Paris can present no better illustration of the value of supervision in building. There are no sky-scrapers. There are long rows of shops and residences, with arcades in front of them, and with many variations in plan and decoration, while at the same time one tone of pink, together with the sky-line and the arcade-line is preserved without important change; the Oriental type of building is preserved; and there is a uniform style of architecture from one end of the street to the other. No city in the world so well illustrates Mrs. Humphrey Ward's quotation of the poet's words,

A rose-red city, half as old as Time.

It is not the city of Jaipur, however, which merits our chief attention, though the maharaja's town-palace and his quaint astronomical observatory are both of them deeply interesting. This observatory has no tower and no telescope. It shows what can be done by sun-dials and structures almost level with the ground to mark the movements of the heavenly bodies, and thus demonstrates that primitive stargazers might even thus early acquire a very considerable knowledge of astronomy. The scientific and literary tastes of this Oriental monarch are also indicated by a noble public library of his own foundation, which contains a priceless collection of books and manuscripts in all the languages of the East.

But it is Amber that constitutes the chief attraction of a visit to Jaipur. Amber is the original metropolis and the ancient seat of government, five miles distant from the present Jaipur, and even now the summer residence of the maharaja, though the old city which once lay around the rocky fortress has become a waste of ruin. The palace at Amber is situated on a hilltop several hundred feet above the level of the plain, and commanding magnificent views of the surrounding country. Next to the sight of river or sea from a mountain summit, the view of broad and level plains stretching far away is most beautiful, and such a view the Indian ruler secured when he built his summer residence upon this eminence.

We came expecting to find India hot, but we have found the northern part of India very cool. So it was reviving and refreshing to take the drive from Jaipur to Amber in an automobile, over a noble roadway with slightly ascending grade and skirting an originally splendid palace, once in the center of an island, but now in the bed of a dried-up lake. When we left the motor-car at the final lofty hill, the deserted city of Amber towered above us. How should we reach that threatening height? Three gorgeously caparisoned elephants solicited our patronage for the ascent. But before making that ascent, there was another ascent to make. We had to ascend the elephants. Ladders were brought to our assistance, and up the ladders we climbed to the howdah, or square seat on the top of the bulky beasts. Each elephant had to carry two passengers. I, on one side of the animal that bore me, had my weight balanced by that of my courier, who rode on the other side. Each of us was compelled to let his legs dangle over the edge of the howdah. All went well until the elephant came to the narrow part of the road. There he evinced a vicious propensity to plant his feet close to the edge of the precipice. There was indeed a railing beneath me, but, clinging as I was somewhat convulsively to my slippery seat, the railing was invisible. So I seemed to myself at times to be hanging over the abyss. If I slipped from my seat, I might fall four hundred feet. It was not a pleasing situation. But the elephant knew his business. He trod the path in perfect confidence. And so, in royal state, though in mind tremendously afloat, we made the long and steep climb, until we reached the palace of the king. The maharaja, however, was not at home that day to receive us. He is a Hindu devotee, and at the time of our visit he was making a pilgrimage to Benares, the sacred city. The first thing we saw, when we entered the court of his excellency, was the spot where every morning a bullock or a goat is sacrificed as an offering to his heathen god.

Still, "every prospect pleases." The views of mountain and plain from this elevation among the hills are so beautiful that one can only admire the taste of the prince who made this his chosen dwelling-place. And the palace itself is a fascinating study in art and architecture. Long corridors are turned into cloisters arched and shaded from the sun. Tanks of water, with fountains playing in the center, provide refreshing baths. Halls of public and of private audience are gorgeous with crimson and gold. Temples for worship are added, both for daily devotion and for great state occasions. In short, here are all the appurtenances of an Oriental court, combined with private luxury and seclusion. While the multitudes must toil and suffer in the plains below, the maharaja may rest and enjoy himself in his hilltop palace. I would not, however, imply that this particular monarch is not in many respects a large-minded and liberal man. The many evidences of his taste and public spirit in Jaipur rectify any wrong impressions one might gain from a visit to Amber.

The next day we reached a station called Abu Road, four hundred miles to the south of Delhi, and about half-way to Bombay. True to its name, Abu Road furnished us the road to Abu Mountain. Again we proceeded by motor-car, that great annihilator of distance in a foreign land. This road, in its gradual ascent, is a noble piece of engineering. It is exceedingly tortuous, for it follows the contour of the mountain in marvelously skilful curves. All the way for two hours, and covering an ascent of four thousand five hundred feet, there are enchanting views. Tropical birds and trees were on every hand, together with cactus of many varieties; green and red parrots screamed through the air; peacocks spread themselves in the sun; and monkeys scampered across our path.

One of the spurs of Mt. Abu is called Dilwarra. It is the seat of the chief temple in India of the Jains, that Hindu sect which claims to have preserved the ancient religion of the Vedas, and to have kept it true to the ancestral faith. As I have before remarked, the Jains aim to escape the possible miseries of transmigration, and to attain the bliss of Nirvana, even in the present life. Jainism, like every other heathen system, is an effort to earn salvation by labors and sacrifices of one's own. Its works of righteousness, however, are often uncalled-for exaggerations of natural virtues, such as counting sacred all forms of animal and vegetable life. The most devoted of the sect wear a cloth over their mouths, lest they should destroy an insect by swallowing it. To found hospitals for the care of parrots and monkeys is one of the most approved works of merit. So also it is a work of merit to build a temple or to endow it. Jain temples are full of images, and the chief object of worship is honored by their multiplication. Buddha is recognized as one of the divine incarnations, and in some sense Buddha is worshiped. But it must be remembered that even in Jainism Buddha is only a memory. He has entered into Nirvana, and has passed out of conscious existence. Now that he has attained that state of passivity, he has no eye to pity and no arm to save. And yet in this Jain temple images of Buddha are worshiped, and these images are numbered by the hundreds.

All this aberration from the truth does not prevent the temple from being almost a miracle of art. There is a scrupulous cleanliness about it which differences it from other heathen temples, like that of Kali. In the Jain temples there are no animal sacrifices, for all animal life is sacred. But there are little houses for feeding the birds; larger houses for feeding the beasts; and tombs for departed saints and teachers. And let it be specially borne in mind that in all the world there are no more splendid examples of arches, domes, and shrines, decorated with elaborate and intricate carvings, than are found here in Dilwarra. Its arabesques of perforated white marble an inch and a half thick are like lace-work in their delicacy and beauty. Invention could go no farther in devising an infinite variety of geometric traceries. We in the West have much to learn from the artistic genius and labor of the East.