Chapter V: Part III (2)

You will observe, that the whole skin does not produce feathers, and that it is very tender where the feathers do not grow. The bare parts are admirably formed for expansion about the throat and stomach, and they fit into the different cavities of the body at the wings, shoulders, rump, and thighs, with wonderful exactness; so that in stuffing the bird, if you make an even rotund surface of the skin where these cavities existed, in lieu of re-forming them, all symmetry, order, and proportion, are lost forever.

You must lay it down as an absolute rule, that the bird is to be entirely skinned, otherwise you can never succeed in forming a true and pleasing specimen.

Wire is of no manner of use, but, on the contrary, a great nuisance, for where it is introduced a disagreeable stiffness and derangement of symmetry follow.

The head and neck can be placed in any attitude, the body supported, the wings closed, extended, or elevated, the tail depressed, raised, or expanded, the thighs set horizontal or oblique, without any aid from wire. Cotton will effect all this.

A very small proportion of the skull bone, say, from the forepart of the eyes to the bill, is to be left in, though even this is not absolutely necessary. Part of the wing-bones the jaw-bones, and half of the thigh-bones remain; every, thing else, flesh, fat, eyes, bones, brains, and tendons, are all to be taken away, and the skin anointed thoroughly with a solution of corrosive sublimate or with arsenical soap.

Introduce the cotton for an artificial body by means of a little stick like a knitting needle, and without any other aid or substance than that of this little stick and cotton, your own genius must produce those swellings and cavities, that just proportion, that elegance and harmony of the whole so much admired in animated nature, so little attended to in preserved specimens. After you have introduced the cotton, sew up the orifice you originally made in the belly, beginning at the vent. And from time to time, till you arrive at the last stitch, keep adding a little cotton, in order that there may be no deficiency there. Lastly, dip your stick into a solution of corrosive sublimate, and put it down the throat three or four times, in order that every part may receive it.

When the head and neck are filled with cotton quite to your liking, close the bill as in nature. A little bit of bees wax at the point of it will keep the mandibles in their proper place. A needle must be stuck into the lower mandible perpendicularly. Bring also the feet together by a pin, and then run a thread through the knees, by which you may draw them to each other as near as you judge proper. Nothing now remains but to add the eyes; with your little stick make a hollow in the cotton within the orbit and introduce the glass eyes into it. Adjust the orbit to them as in nature, and that requires no other fastener.

Great attention must be paid to the size of the orbit, which will receive within it an object much larger than the eye, so that it must be drawn together with a very small delicate needle and thread, at the part farthest from the beak.

A small quantity of the solution is now applied to the bill, orbits, and feet.

Take any ordinary box large enough for holding the bird, and fill three-fourths of it from the top at one end, and the other end forming an inclined plane; make a hollow in it sufficient for the reception of the bird, place it in the box with its legs in a sitting posture; take a piece of cork into which three pins have been stuck for legs, like a three-footed stool; place it under the bird’s bill, and the needle which was formerly run through the bill is stuck into the cork, which will act as a support to the bird’s head. If the neck is wished to be lengthened, put more cotton under the cork, or _vice versa_; and if the head is wished to be projecting forward, it has only to be brought nearer the front of the box, humoring the cork, so as to place it in the position you require.

As the back part of the neck shrinks more in drying than the fore part, a thread must be tied to the end of the box, mid fastened to the beak, to prevent the face from looking too much upward. If the wings are wished elevated, support them with cotton; and if it be very high, place a piece of stick under them.

Should you desire to expand the wings, the order of the feathers must be reversed, commencing with the two middle ones. When perfectly dry, place them in the natural order, and they will ever afterwards continue as you wish them. If the crest is wished to be erect, the feathers must be moved in a contrary direction for a day or two, when they will soon take the position wished for.

The box must now be placed out of the reach of the sun, air, or fire, so that the skin may dry slowly. The corrosive sublimate is of much service in this respect, for it renders the skin moist and flexible for many days. The bird should be lifted every day, so that any faults may be corrected which take place while drying.

The small wing-coverts are apt to rise, owing to the skin coming in contact with the wing bones. The part which rises should be gently pulled with the finger and thumb for a day or two, and the feathers pressed down.

The feathers should be frequently adjusted so as to render them distinct and visible.

The legs begin to stiffen in three or four days, when it will be time to place them in the desired position; and the toes either arranged, or curved, so as to hold a branch, in which two spikes must be placed for the reception of the feet, whereon they are to be stuck, and can afterwards be removed at pleasure. All the threads which kept the different parts in their places may now be removed.

Touch the whole feathers with a solution of corrosive sublimate, so as to preserve them from the attack of moths. The surest way of proceeding is to immerse the bird in the solution of corrosive sublimate, and then dry it before you begin to dissect it.

If it is intended to represent the bird flying, its wings are extended to their utmost stretch, the tail placed horizontally, and expanded, the neck forced forward, the legs and feet drawn up close to the breast, with the toes closed. It may then be suspended from the ceiling, by a piece of very fine _brass_ wire, such as is used for piano-forte strings.

A very spirited and striking position is, when the bird is about to take flight. In this attitude, it is placed with the body reclining forward, and the wings slightly raised, which can be managed without the assistance of external wires, by merely placing a little cotton or tow under the wings, while the skin is yet wet.

Descriptions of this kind are endless; let those who intend stuffing birds study nature in its various details, and, where this can not be come at, good books and prints will be found an excellent substitute.

GYMNASTICS.

The lack of proper muscular exercise is the cause of a large portion of the irritability, nervousness, back-ache and lassitude of the majority of people. Every person has in his bodily organization the means of preserving health and overcoming disease. The failure lies in the individuals refusing to use available means. A few simple gymnastics, practised daily, in a well-ventilated space, and in a light and loose dress, will, with careful diet, and frequent cold baths, preserve health and remove disease. Nor are these exercises complicated, they are within the reach of every one.

“An excellent plan,” says Prof. Hartelius, “is to have two thick vertically hanging ropes fixed to the ceiling, at two feet distance from each other, for all the members of the household to perform daily a hanging or trunk-lifting exercise. The hands grasp the ropes at equal heights above the head, and support, for a short moment, the whole weight of the body, either by simply hanging with straight arms or—if the person be sufficiently strong—by slowly bending the elbows, thus lifting the body. This trunk-lifting should be repeated three to six times, and, when the body is lowered in the intervals between, this should be done slowly, with the toes always touching the ground before the heels, to avoid nervous commotion.” But there are simpler exercises, which may be practised without even apparatus as simple as the above, and nothing on this line can be better than the same author’s series of gymnastic prescriptions for different diseases. If your daily occupation does not afford sufficient exercise, and, in consequence, your blood is thin, you are weak and nervous, or troubled with gout or obesity, he offers a series of exercises, simple and effective. Standing with arms stretched to full length, move them slowly sideways and upward, till they attain a vertical position above the head, hands and fingers well stretched. While moving to this position, the arms are gently rotated outwards, so as to make the palms face each other when stretched overhead; the arms are then lowered through the same plane. This exercise should be repeated eight to sixteen times, remembering that the head and trunk are to be kept straight, chest arched forward and arms kept well back during the movement. The movement may now be changed by moving the stretched arms slowly forward, upward and sideways, so as to describe a circle. Now standing straight, with arms dropped, raise the heels so as to throw the whole weight of the body on the toes, then the heels are lowered simultaneously and the toes raised, thus throwing the weight of the body on the heels. After repeating several times the heel-and-toe raising, move the shoulders so as to describe a circle forward, upward, backward and downward, keeping the head well up and the back stretched. Now stretch the arms and raise them quickly forward and upward, until they reach a vertical position at each side of the head; then they are slowly lowered sideways, downward, close to the side. The next motion, which the author calls by the expressive name of the “wing-stride-standing-trunk-circling,” is performed chiefly by means of the muscles of the trunk situated around the hips. The commencing position is, hands on the hips, feet placed sideways with a distance of two feet between them. The trunk is moved from the waist, describing as large a circle as possible, first to the left, then to the right. The legs should be kept straight, the head and hips steady. Motions with the head follow, and consist simply in bending the head, first slowly forward then raised and bent as far back as possible. Then bent from left to right as far as possible without moving the rest of the body. The head is turned from left to right and followed by the _head-circling_, in which the head describes slowly as wide a circle as can be done without straining, several times to the left and then as many times to the right. After the exercise with the head come trunk movements, to be performed in the following directions, forward, backward, to the sides, and turning in a circle, the hands being kept on the hips, the chest arched and the legs straight. This is but one _prescription_, each exercise, of course, being repeated several times. Prof. Hartelius gives a great variety of exercises, a careful use of which will certainly do much for any one. There can be no vigorous, bounding life in the frame which is inert. Motion is the sign of life through all the earth and bodily motion is absolutely necessary to health.

ETCHING.

A style of picture most popular of late among artists and buyers is the etching. Not that it is a new style, but simply that it has been revived, perfected, and made the fashion. Etching is not new, for it dates back at least to Albert Dürer, in the first of the sixteenth century, and very probably was known before his time.

The methods are very interesting and simple. To etch means to eat. Thus from the very name we gain insight into the mode of work. The tools are easy to obtain, for as Hamerton, the most interesting of modern etchers, says, “Almost any bar of metal that can be sharpened to a point will do to etch with. Turner used an old fork. A nail at the end of a stick would answer the purpose; common sewing needles have often been used. There are, however, various degrees of usefulness even in things so easily made as etching-needles, and different artists have different tastes.” But, as the art has grown popular, these primitive tools have been replaced by better styles. The shops contain several styles of needles and instruments. The etching-needle is ordinarily a piece of stout steel wire inserted in a handle, and ground to a fine point. Two or three of these needles of different thicknesses are used, some for broad and some for fine lines. Having needles, the etcher prepares a copper plate by covering it with a coating of asphaltum and wax, and _this_, if you wish to speak technically, must be called the etching ground. It is blackened by lampblack mixed with the varnish. Upon this the drawing is made. The lines can be made broad or fine, as the needles are of different degrees of fineness, and, of course, these lines cut through the _ground_ to the plate beneath. Upon the plate where the picture has been drawn dilute nitric acid is poured. The result of pouring nitric acid on copper is well known: it eats or corrodes, or etches the copper; but upon our ground of wax makes no effect. The eating of the acid is called _biting in_. When the work is well bitten in, the acid is poured off, and the plate cleaned and examined. If the lines of the lighter parts appear to be sufficiently etched, they are painted over with the asphaltum, ground and dissolved in spirits of turpentine, while the rest of the work is re-bitten, _i. e._, the acid is applied to the other parts again.

This covering of a part of the plate is called stopping out.

Stopping out and biting in are continued until all the lines are of the required depth. If, by accident or oversight, a line is too deeply bitten in, it is rubbed with an instrument called the _burnisher_. This tool polishes the plate when scratched, and softens the too deep lines.

This process is old. It has been used with various modifications since the time of the first etchers. A new method, called by its author, P. G. Hamerton, the _positive process_, is gaining very general favor. Let him state its merits:

“By my positive process the artist, whilst etching, sees his work in black upon a white ground, as distinctly as if he were drawing with a lead-pencil on white paper, instead of seeing it in copper on a black ground. The old negative process is objectionable not only because it is negative, but because the lines are brilliant, which causes them to appear more numerous than they really are.” Hamerton prepares his plate by brightening it, first with cyanide of silver, and then laying on a ground of white wax. The plate is fastened into a tray, or shallow bath, and the mordant, as the acid preparation is called, is poured over it. The etcher draws his picture while the plate lies in the mordant. The lines blacken as soon as drawn. If a second or third biting is necessary, the plate is cleaned and re-waxed.

This is the mechanical part of etching. So simple it is that it seems that any one could be a successful etcher. But there is a knowledge and skill apart from the mechanical work. What is it? Haden well answers the question: “It is an innate artistic spirit, without which all the study in the world is useless. It is the cultivation of this spirit, not arduously but lovingly. It is a knowledge that is acquired by a life of devotion to what is true and beautiful; by the hourly and daily comparing of what we see in nature and the thinking of how it should be represented in art. It is the habit of constant observation of great things and small, and the experience that springs from it. It is the skill to combine and the skill to separate—to compound and to simplify—to fuse detail into mass—to subordinate definition to space, distance, light, and air. Finally, it is the acumen to perceive the near relationship that expression bears to form, and the skill to draw them—not separately, but together.”

THE TWO SOWERS.

By ALEXANDER ANDERSON.

Death came to the earth, by his side was Spring,
They came from God’s own bowers,
And the earth was full of their wandering,
For they both were sowing flowers.

“I sow,” said Spring, “by the stream and the wood,
And the village children know
The gay glad time of my own sweet prime,
And where my blossoms grow.

“There is not a spot in the quiet wood
But hath heard the sound of my feet,
And the violets come from their solitude
When my tears hath made them sweet.”

“I sow,” said Death, “where the hamlet stands,
I sow in the churchyard drear;
I drop in the grave with gentle hands,
My flowers from year to year.

“The young and the old go into their rest,
To the sleep that awaits them below;
But I clasp the children unto my breast,
And kiss them before I go.”

“I sow,” said Spring; “but my flowers decay
When the year turns weak and old,
When the breath of the bleak winds wears them away,
And they wither and droop in the mould.

“But they come again when the young earth feels
The new blood leap in her veins,
When the fountain of wonderful life unseals,
And the earth is alive with the rains.”

“I sow,” said Death; “but my flowers unseen
Pass away from the land of men,
Nor sighs nor tears through the long sad years
Ever bring back their bloom again.

“But I know they are wondrous bright and fair
In the fields of their high abode;
Your flowers are the flowers that a child may wear,
But mine are the blossoms of God.”

Death came to the earth, by his side was Spring;
The two came from God’s own bowers;
One sow’d in night and the other in light,
Yet they both were sowing flowers.

A TOUR ROUND THE WORLD.

By MRS. JOSEPH COOK.

[Continued.]

On a voyage from Suez to Bombay there is no debate as to what line of steamers to take, for those of the Peninsular and Oriental Line, commonly spoken of as the P. & O. steamers, are acknowledged to rank first in comfort, cleanliness, and safety.

It is on the day before Christmas that the Chautauquans embark on the stately “Siam.” At four o’clock in the afternoon all is ready, the word of command goes forth, the chains rattle, the gang-plank is drawn, and under bright skies and on a smooth sea we start on our voyage from the Levant to the Orient. We are on deck at seven o’clock Christmas morning, but the mountain region of Sinai is already far behind us, as dim as cloudland, and we have fairly entered the Red Sea. Our pocket thermometer indicates 75° of heat, and when we go to breakfast we find the _punkahs_ swinging. The stewards are immaculate in their white trousers and black alpaca jackets.

This is our first introduction to the _punkah_, which becomes our best friend in India. It is simply a fan some three feet wide, and from five to ten feet long, suspended from the ceiling by cords, hanging over the dining table, the drawing-room, or over your bed, and manipulated by a mild Hindu, who, if he were not doing this, would probably be seated in the same position doing nothing. It is a wonder that our midsummer American heats have not been alleviated by similar contrivances, only with our inventive genius we should have them propelled by machinery. Alexander Duff complains of suffering more in public speaking in America than in India, from the absence of the _punkah_, which is hung over preacher as well as people in the churches of the principal Indian cities.

A voyage to India is a prolonged pleasure excursion. Day after day your ship steams through unruffled seas and under unclouded skies. The mercury ranges from 75° to 85°. Thick canvas stretched over the deck protects us from the sun’s fierce rays, and in these shortest days his course is quickly run. July, August, and September are the months when the Red Sea, which is like a chimney between two deserts, becomes almost intolerable. Late in the afternoon of our fourth day out, we pass certain islands which rear their sharp, barren tusks above the waters, and the sun sinks behind verdureless mountains some two thousand feet high. At an early hour the next morning we pass the Straits of Babel Mandeb, and reach Aden at eleven o’clock. This Gibraltar of the Arabian Seas is owned by the English, and, in the extinct crater of a volcano, has sprung up a flourishing town of thirty thousand inhabitants. Rain comes here only once in three years, when it descends copiously during the greater part of September. This precious downfall is caught in wells excavated out of the solid rock; and this, together with what is manufactured from sea water, supplies the inhabitants during the dry season at the rate of six shillings for one hundred gallons.

As our steamer stopped in the roadstead off Aden we discerned small boats coming toward us, and numerous black heads bobbing up and down in the clear, green waters. These boats contained African boys, of the Somali tribe, from eight to fifteen years of age, who, perfectly naked, except a strip of cloth about the loins, climbed up like squirrels on our ship, shouting continually, in good English, “Have a dive, sir? have a dive? have a dive?” As soon as a bit of silver was thrown into the water half-a-dozen of them would plunge for it and, after a moment’s disappearance of the black heads, up they would come again, one of them having in his mouth the coveted coin. The water seemed to be as natural an element to these boys as though they were the descendants of Undine. When neither diving nor swimming they would tread the aqueous fluid in such a way as almost to sit on the waves. One poor little fellow had had one leg bitten off by a shark, close up to the thigh, but he hopped about as merrily as any of them and performed as marvelous aquatic feats. During the five hours we remained in port our ship’s deck was filled with traders, who had brought for sale white and gray ostrich feathers, pieces of amber with imprisoned insects, photographs of Aden, grass cloth from Madagascar, and Turkish embroideries. They began by asking most exorbitant prices, and when you offered about half what they asked, such sad, reproachful glances as they cast upon you! Eventually they would accept fair terms rather than lose the trade. Throughout India, Europeans, in dealing with natives, have found by long experience that the real worth of their merchandise is about one-third of the asking price. It was interesting to see the various nationalities as they gathered on our ship’s deck: there were Parsee and Mohammedan merchants from Bombay, Jewish traders with their close-shaven heads and long cork-screw curls hanging in front of their ears, and the merry Somali boys, with their woolly heads and gleaming white teeth, and bronze figures so slightly covered.

After leaving Aden we turned from the Red Sea into the Indian Ocean, and for six days our course was due east. At sunrise on the seventh morning the coast of India was visible, and at nine o’clock our ship dropped anchor in the harbor of Bombay. “Fair haven” is the meaning of Bombay, and, built on an island, or chain of islands, it encloses a splendid harbor of forty square miles. To the north and east are numerous islands, and on the mainland there are hills from one thousand to two thousand feet high, while the handsome government buildings are seen on the west, prominent among them being the lofty and well-proportioned tower of the University.

The drive to our hotel, although it was two miles distant, seemed but a step, such were the strange sights on which we looked with wide-eyed amazement. Here were men wearing all their clothes on their heads, immense turbans of white or red cotton, and a loin cloth, while all the rest of the body was innocent of covering. On their foreheads were lines of yellow and red paint, which indicated their religious sect, while the single dot of paint between the eyebrows proclaimed the fact that the man had been to the temple and received purification for the day. Children, as naked as the cherubs in Italian art, wore, instead of the cherubic wings, silver bands about the ankles, and women, with scanty drapery, were adorned with bracelets; necklaces, and the hideous nose rings. The Parsees in their white garments and towering hats made a pleasant contrast with the scantily-clothed natives, while the yellow-turbaned Sepoy in policeman’s uniform, and the European, with his topee hat and inevitable white umbrella, made still another variety. It is possible to visit India and come away without seeing anything more of native life than can be observed in the streets. English life in the presidential cities is precisely the same as in London or Edinburgh, but when it was understood that the Chautauquans desired chiefly to study the manners and customs of the people of the land, ample opportunities offered to visit government and mission schools, native Christian churches, and those desolate apartments called zenanas, where, after marriage, Hindu and Mohammedan ladies are immured.

An afternoon’s excursion to the Elephanta Caves gives us an idea of the rock temples of the Hindus. These famous caves are on an island in Bombay harbor and are all hollowed by laborious excavation out of trap rock. The largest one is about one hundred and thirty feet deep and equally wide, and rests on huge pillars twenty feet high. Bas-reliefs, staring passively from the rocky walls, represent Siva in various forms, with his wife, Parvati. Facing the entrance of the temple is a colossal trimurti, representing the Hindu trinity, Brahma, the creator, in the center, Vishnu, the preserver, on the left, Siva, the destroyer, on the right. Glimpses of the outer world, with its tropical luxuriance of vegetation, bathed in the ruddy light of the sinking sun, made a most striking contrast to the mysteriousness and gloom of this heathen temple, to which, in the days when worship was celebrated there, the costliest offerings were brought.

Horrible as the Hindu custom of cremation is to our ideas, the Parsee fashion of leaving the dead to be devoured by vultures, is a thousand times more repulsive. The Parsees are descendants of the ancient Persians, who sought refuge in India from religious persecution some thousand years ago. They are not only fire-worshipers, but they desire to maintain the purity of all the elements. Their “towers of silence” are circular white stone structures, perfectly plain outside, but the ghastly thing about them is the fringe of vultures sitting around the edge with their heads pointing inward. The bodies of the dead are placed, quite naked, in grooves within the enclosure; hundreds of vultures swoop down from the neighboring trees whenever a body is thus exposed, and in an incredibly short time the satiated birds move away with slow, heavy flight, having left nothing behind but a skeleton! After the skeleton has become perfectly dry in the sun and wind, the carriers of the dead, a separate and peculiar class who are not permitted to mix in social intercourse with other Parsees, gloved and with tongs remove the bones from the grooves and cast them into a central well, where rich and poor must literally meet in death.

Eight days in Bombay and we are off for Poona. The first-class railway carriages in India are wider and longer than those in England, with a small bath room attached, and are so arranged as to be easily converted into comfortable sleeping-coaches, but you are expected to furnish your own bedding. Poona, the capital of the Mahrattis, signifies “the holy city,” and is the stronghold of Brahminism. It is situated in a wide-stretching, treeless plain, surrounded with hills. Here are the government English schools, the Sanscrit College and the military headquarters for Western India. A quiet Sunday here in a delightful Scotch manse, twenty-four hours in Ahmednagar, where we are received most hospitably by Americans of the Mahratti mission, and on we go to Agra, to which point the Taj Mahal is drawing us like a magnet.

Approaching Agra in the freshness of the morning, an exclamation of delighted surprise from one of the quartette drew the rest of us to the window, and there, about a mile distant across a level country, rose that miracle of loveliness in white marble, the Taj Mahal. We saw it reflected in the Jumna as we crossed the railway bridge, two or three graceful palm trees intervening, and then the grim walls of the extensive fort became visible as we glided into the city. The Taj was built less than two hundred and fifty years ago by the Mogul emperor, Shah Jehan, as a tomb for his favorite wife, Moomtaj a Mahal. It is thought that he purposed rearing a similar tomb for himself on the opposite side of the river, and having the two mausoleums connected by a bridge, but this stupendous project was never executed, and Shah Jehan lies by the side of his beloved wife, whose best known name, from her surpassing beauty, was Noor Jehan, the “Light of the World.” The Taj is situated in a quadrangle measuring eighteen hundred by one thousand feet, enclosed with red sandstone walls, turrets at the angles and a gateway on each side. The colossal gateway itself is a grand object, with its lofty arches of red stone, through which one sees as in a frame the avenue of black cypresses leading up to the dazzling monument. Most attractive gardens stretch away on either side, where are walks, seats and umbrageous trees, and one is at liberty to wander over the soft turf and examine the roses which grow here, under the skilful care of an English florist, with unsurpassable prodigality of bloom and fragrance. The Taj, toward which all this loveliness is but the outer court yard, stands on a superb terrace of white marble 313 feet square, and at each angle rises a slender minaret. From the center of the building, which is an irregular octagon, springs the marble dome, slightly bulbous in shape, 70 feet in diameter, and rising to a height of 120 feet. The dome is surmounted by a gilt crescent 260 feet from the ground level. At each of the four corners is a light marble cupola. Around all the arches of the portals and the windows, around the cornice and the domes, on the walls and in the passages are inlaid chapters of the Koran, the graceful, flowing Arabic characters being formed of black marble. The real tombs of Shah Jehan and his wife are in a spacious vaulted chamber immediately below the one containing the sarcophagi, and this is reached by a sloping passage. Everything is exquisitely finished here, and all the materials are genuine, but the elaborateness of detail is in the grand hall above, which is a lofty rotunda lighted both from above and below by screens of marble perforated to a depth of two inches in most elegant lace-like patterns. Around this chamber is a wainscoting of sculptured tablets representing in bas-relief flowers, special prominence being given to the lotus and the lily. The octagonal marble screen, six feet high, which surrounds the sarcophagi is open tracery of most intricate design. The sarcophagi themselves are of the purest marble, inlaid with a mosaic, resembling the Florentine, in vines and flowers. Thirty bits of cornelian form the petals of a single flower, and the other stones most used in this rich ornamentation, which is lavishly employed over the exterior as well as the interior of the building, are bloodstone, agate, lapis-lazuli, turquoise, coral, chalcedony, amethyst, and other stones which have no name in our language. The dome contains an echo more remarkable than that of the Baptistery at Pisa, and even to ordinary conversation it sends down a shower of musical sounds like sweet bells jangled. During the five hours we spent here a constant crowd of natives had been coming and going. Toward sunset the Europeans began to assemble. We looked down on the gay scene from the great arch of the gateway. Green parrots with harsh scream darted in and out of the leafy branches; the familiar gray squirrel ran noiselessly up and down the tree trunks; the scent of innumerable blossoms filled the air; the Taj reflected the golden glory of the sunset, and after the sun had gone its color changed to a light blue, and as the brief twilight faded and the moon came out it looked like a pearl. The chattering crowd left one by one, until we were comparatively alone. We walked around the mausoleum and stepped inside the arch of one of the mosques. A flock of frightened doves flew out with whirring wings. Symmetry, purity, and perfection, such as are rarely seen in man’s work in all this round world were before us. Directly above the gilt crescent of the dome hung the full moon, over whose face light clouds were passing. As we watched the sky and the movement of the clouds, the dome itself seemed to float like an airy bubble.

In greatest contrast to this magnificent mausoleum is the simple sodded grave of that faithful daughter of Shah Jehan, who shared her father’s captivity, and who desired this inscription to be placed on her stone: “Let no rich canopy cover my grave. This grass is the best covering for the last resting-place of the poor in spirit.” This we turned aside to see as we drove the eleven miles out of Delhi to visit the Kutab Minar, which is perhaps, after the Taj, the most celebrated piece of architecture in India. It is a fluted column, 240 feet high, and supposed to be, not a Mohammedan, but a Hindu building, dating from the twelfth century. It is built in a series of five stories. The first three are of fine red sandstone, on which are horizontal bands of passages from the Koran carved in boldest relief, and these are harmonious in architecture, but the last two stories are of white marble, with a plain surface, and seem like a patch. The great mosque of Delhi is called the Jumma Musjid, or Friday Mosque. The arrangement is the same in all Mohammedan temples large and small. A quadrangle open to the sky, a fountain flowing into a square, shallow tank, in the center, for the ablutions of the faithful, a colonnade on three sides with open arches, and on the west, facing Mecca, stands a building surmounted with domes, open in front, and destitute of everything approaching a symbol. Pure monotheism is here—the worship of the invisible deity. In the midst of this revolting polytheism of the Hindus one hears with no little satisfaction the muezzin’s call from the minaret, “God is great. God is one. There is no God but God, and Mohammed is his prophet.”

One may travel day after day in India without meeting Europeans, but crowds of natives fill the third and fourth-class carriages, in which the rates are very low. India is in advance of America in one respect. On every train there is always one carriage provided for ladies who are traveling alone, called the “Ladies’ Reserved,” as is the custom in England and on the Continent. Here only, where we pride ourselves on our railway conveniences, do we have the odious fashion of herding together promiscuously in sleeping coaches, which may be endurable if one has an escort, but is most disagreeable when a lady is unattended.

Much of the scenery in India is monotonous and uninteresting, but the tropical vegetation is always attractive. We pass palms in all stages of growth, stalwart, untutored banyans, graceful, delicate bamboos, plantains, the scarlet-blossoming cotton tree, the feathery, fir like casuarina, some squares of sugar-cane and covered spaces for the cultivation of the betel-nut, which has a smooth green leaf, not unlike the plantain, and which, mixed with a preparation of lime and spices, is used by the natives for chewing, quite as much as tobacco is with the western nations. The scarlet lips, tongue and gums, which result from using this leaf, are quite as disagreeable to see as the disgusting effects of tobacco chewing.

White paddi birds hover over the marshes, and groups of cattle are grazing in the meadows. At the tanks, which abound everywhere in India, and which are often partially covered with a green scum, the natives are bathing, or washing soiled linen, or carrying water away for cooking purposes! The railway stations remind one of England, they are so neat and tasteful and attractive with their blossoming shrubs and potted plants. Dracænas grow here seven feet high, and these with other foliage plants, and the showy, scarlet poincettia and magenta bougainvillia are oftenest seen at the railway stations. Occasionally we pass near a small village. The mud huts, with their drooping thatched roof, are surrounded by palms and plantains, and stand near a tank of water. The native Indian has no idea of privacy. One sometimes sees a whole population out in the streets cleaning their teeth. No man in India thinks of shaving himself, but instead of our luxurious modern appliances, the barber and his victim go out on the sidewalk, sit opposite each other on their haunches, and the deed is done in the face of the world. The barber is an important member of the community. He often acts as village doctor, and, in some parts of India, helps to arrange marriages. There are very few beggars to be seen in India, except such as are religious mendicants by profession. There is no poor law, but the patriarchal system obliges every wealthy head of a family to provide for his poor relations to the twentieth cousin.

In Delhi, Cawnpore, and Lucknow memories of the Sepoy mutiny of 1857, and all its attendant horrors, fill the air. Cawnpore is pre-eminently a memorial town. Every trace of the buildings where the fiendish massacre occurred has vanished, and now one looks abroad on shaded avenues, beautiful gardens, a quiet cemetery, and broad stretches of green turf. Over the ghastly well stands the colossal white marble figure of an angel leaning against a cross and bearing palm branches.

The architectural beauty of Benares as a city of temples and palaces, and its characteristic features as a sacred, pilgrim city can best be seen by a sail on the river soon after sunrise. The city is built tier above tier on a cliff which stretches along the bank of the river for three miles. From the heights numerous flights of stone steps lead down to the water, and these are thronged by devotees who begin the day by a bath in the Ganges. It is evidently a religious act, for although there are crowds of men of all ages, there is no frivolity and very little conversation. The women keep by themselves, but they have no entirely separate bathing place. As our boat glided along we came to the burning _ghât_, where we paused and saw the flames already lighted about one body. Another body, wound about in red figured cotton, was lifted from the bier and placed on the funeral pyre. It seemed all the more shocking because life had so recently departed that there was none of the rigidity of death, and the limp form might, from all appearance, have belonged to one in sleep. While we lingered the clang of discordant instruments told of the approach of a funeral procession. The body is carried on a rude bier constructed like a ladder, and borne on the shoulders of men who shuffle and jostle along in no very reverent manner. The bearers carry the corpse into the Ganges and leave it there, that the sacred waters may flow over it before cremation. In the early morning we saw these three phases of a Hindu funeral and, sailing on, still another yet more shocking sight was revealed to us, for we caught a glimpse, just under the surface of the water, of a naked, swollen, floating human body, and above it the vultures were hovering. Leaving our boat, we walked a long distance through the narrow winding streets of the city to one of the largest and most frequented temples, where is the famous “Well of Salvation,” into which worshipers throw flowers until there is the most fearful stench rising from this putrid mass of decaying matter, and yet this loathsome stuff the deluded devotees drink, as they believe it will wash away the blackest crimes. Haste and dissatisfaction seemed the predominant mood of every mind.

Calcutta takes its name from Kali, the goddess of vengeance. Situated on the river Hooghly, ninety miles from the sea, its heat is more oppressive than that of Bombay, and in no respect is the city as attractive. A day at Serampore, an early morning visit to the Kalighat, an excursion to Darjeeling, from which point we had a view of the snowy range of the Himalayas, a morning in the botanical gardens, where we linger under the great banyan tree, which covers a space of ground eight hundred feet in circumference, and whose far-reaching branches are supported by nearly two hundred trunks, some of them a hundred feet in height, drives on the Maidan at sunset, and many visits to mission schools and zenanas, under the auspices of American ladies, fill with delightful experiences our two weeks in this city.

Four days by steamer across the Bay of Bengal and we are beyond the break-water in the harbor of Madras. As soon as our ship drops anchor we are surrounded by masulah boats and catamarans. The former are curious constructions, sewed together to outride safely the furious dashing of the Madras surf, while the latter are fishing boats, formed of three logs scooped out a little into the canoe shape, and manned by a single naked native. Nothing but British pluck and enterprise, or American daring, would have attempted to build a city on a site so utterly unpropitious as Madras. On an inhospitable coast, exposed to the northeast monsoon and to the unsheltered glare of a scorching sun, stands a thriving city of four hundred thousand inhabitants. Although warned against venturing into Southern India after the first of March, we find the heat less intolerable here than in Calcutta. Scotch hospitality makes our week in Madras altogether enjoyable, and then we are off to Bangalore, a hill station and the chief military post of Southern India. After a pause of two days, we proceed to Trichinopoly, where Bishop Heber met death from apoplexy, in his forty-fifth year.

On our railway journey to this place we passed cacti, with pale yellow and magenta blossoms. Strange aquatic birds stood lazily in the marshes. Numerous weavers’ nests hung on the trees along the wayside. These weavers are an industrious and happy community. They work diligently in the construction of their nests, and have harmonious relations with each other, stopping now and then in the midst of their activities, as if by mutual understanding, to indulge in a little concert, and when their burst of melody is over they resume their nest-building. It is said that they light up their homes by attaching a glow worm to a fresh bit of mud, which is plastered on the inside of the nest. The freshness of the early morning is succeeded by dry heat as the sun rises higher and higher with torrid beams. We see the natives quench their thirst with the milk of green cocoanuts, but we dare not indulge in its use. The pampas grass waves and glistens in the sunlight; enormous ant-hills are seen surrounding dead stumps or standing unsupported on level plains; green parrots and gorgeous butterflies chase each other unmindful of the heat, and toward noon we see the famous rock and huge _gopuras_ of Trichinopoly across the rice fields. In spite of the fierce heat which overwhelms us with drowsiness, we take a carriage in the middle of the afternoon for the temples of Seringham. On our way we pass a horse which has dropped dead with sun-stroke. Europeans are something of a novelty here, and we are followed by a crowd of men and boys as soon as we leave our carriage to walk through the pillared hall of the temple. From the flat stone roof we obtain an idea of the extent of this great pagoda, which is seven miles in circumference and includes many bazars and streets of Brahmin’s houses. From the summit of the rock of Trichinopoly, which rises two hundred and fifty feet above the town, we see the sun set, a fiery ball. Northward lies Seringham, with its dark gateways rising out of a sea of green foliage; eastward we look toward Tanjore, where the Danish missionary, Schwartz, lies buried; to the south and west stretches the town of Trichinopoly. The clang of heathenish music is going on in the adjoining temple of Siva. On our descent we come upon one of the temple elephants, with bells hung on each side to announce his approach. He makes a salaam to us and picks up most adroitly with his trunk a tiny bit of silver which we offer him, passing it up to his rider. It is curious to see the great creature come down the stone steps with apparent ease.

At Madura we were in a thoroughly American atmosphere of kindliness and cordiality. Even the American rocking-chair was not wanting to make us feel at home. Here we met the faithful workers in the Madura mission, and studied the fruits of their forty years of labor. Seven hours’ railway ride over a flat, fertile but uninteresting country, with the mercury at 95°, and we reach our last stopping place in India, Tuticorin, from which port we take steamer for Colombo, on the island of Ceylon. As our ship moved away from this southernmost point of the Indian Continent we looked back at the neat little town, once famous for its pearl fisheries, and all our memories since landing at Bombay seemed to gather into one entire and perfect pearl.

Twenty-four hours pass and we are in the harbor of Colombo within the shelter of the substantial breakwater of artificial pressed stone. The heat, although greatly tempered by the sea breeze, is like that of a vapor bath. One of the largest and best conducted hotels we have seen in this part of the world receives us, and we are immensely amused by the costume of the Singalese waiters, who present a most ladylike appearance. They wear long white petticoats and round-about jackets, while the hair is combed back from the forehead, fastened in a knot behind, and ornamented with a yellow tortoise shell comb. This extraordinary style of dressing the hair has existed since the days of Ptolemy, who describes it. It seems a strange incongruity to see a beard and mustache, a comb and a chignon on the same head. One of our party says that while he can affiliate the world over with “a man and a brother,” he declines to have anything to do with a man and a sister. A few hours in Colombo, and we are off to Kandy, a hill station seventy-five miles distant. We are fortunate in having with us Mr. Fergusson, one of the best botanists of this region. Vegetable life flourishes here in rank, riotous luxuriance. We pass palmyra, cocoanut, and talipot palms; cinnamon fields; coffee plantations, and rice growing on artificial terraces like hanging gardens. The red and pink lantennæ that we cultivate in our home gardens grows and blossoms by the wayside with the freedom of the commonest weed. At one of our stopping places we buy mangoes and rose-apples, and green cocoanuts containing a cool, delicious milk. The cocoanut water was most refreshing, but the mangoes were far inferior to our peaches, and the rose-apples were more agreeable to the eye than to the palate.

How exhilarating were the first whiffs of mountain air and the first glimpse of wooded hills and deep valleys after the steaming heat and monotonous flatness of the plains! All through the bright hours of this Saturday afternoon we climbed ever higher and higher through scenery combining Alpine grandeur with tropical luxuriance, until sunset found us at Kandy, the sacred city of the Buddhists. In the center of the town is a picturesque lake, fringed with tall, graceful bamboos, whose feathery branches sway with the slightest breeze, and in repose look like fountains of green spray shooting up into the deep blue sky. Hills rise on either side, on whose slopes are coffee plantations. There are a number of pagoda-shaped temples here, one of which contains that holy relic, the pretended tooth of Buddha. The people of this region are much more vigorous and manly than the Singalese of the coast, and the chignon and comb seem still more absurd when worn by this energetic, war-like race.

The seventy miles between Colombo and Galle is traversed the first third of the way by rail, and the remaining two-thirds by a somewhat primitive stage coach. Natives are in front and in the rear, but we have the whole interior to ourselves, the horn sounds its inspiriting strains, and we are off at good speed over excellent roads. We are never far from the sea. Sometimes we drive on the shore in sight of the rolling surges, again we see the gleaming blue water through the palms, and whenever we pause we hear the deep undertone of its mighty voice. The plantain, the mangrove, the dark, glossy, broad leaf of the breadfruit are almost the only varieties of foliage we have in contrast with the ever-present cocoanut, which casts its shadow on the ground with a central stem of light, instead of shade, running through the immense frond. The population of Ceylon is twelve times as dense in the western as in the eastern provinces, and all the inhabitants of the coast are supported by the cocoanut. The natives have a saying that the cocoanut palm loves the sound of the human voice, and, like the magpie and robin, will not flourish away from the habitations of men. Like the palmyra palm in the north of Ceylon, the cocoanut in the south yields most of the necessaries of life. Its fruit furnishes food, its shell drinking vessels, its juice palm wine and sugar, its stem materials for building, its leaves roofs, matting, baskets and paper. The number of these trees in the island is estimated to be twenty millions, which yield from seven to eight hundred million cocoanuts annually, and are worth ten million dollars. These trees are carefully guarded at night when the fruit is ready to pick. The natives climb these tall, smooth trunks with great agility, partly by the aid of bamboo ladders, and oftener with the help of a short band of cocoanut fibre between the feet or around the loins. Along the route we passed half a dozen or more school houses, admirably constructed for the climate, with a substantial roof, wooden walls about six feet high, and the upper portion left open to all the winds of heaven. We could see the blackboards and the teacher and the pupils as we dashed by. On the summit of Richmond Hill, two miles from the town of Galle, where the Wesleyan mission is situated, we can not do better than pause and await the steamer which is to bear us to Hong Kong and Yokohama. A broad verandah, furnished with tables, rattan couches and easy chairs, commands a magnificent outlook. A waving sea of palms leads up to distant mountains on the one side, while on the other a sea of palms stretches away to that far-flashing ocean which is soon to bear us on its bosom.

[To be continued.]

ART OF CONVERSATION.