CHAPTER XI.
LEAVING BOMBAY—TRAVELLING IN INDIA—ALLAHABAD—THE MELA.
We had been in Bombay a week, and began to feel quite at home, when we had to leave. A man who undertakes to go around the world, must not stop too long in the soft places. He must be always on the march, or ready to start at the tap of the drum. We had a long journey before us, to the North of India, and could not linger by the way. So we set out just at evening. Much of the travelling in India is at night, to avoid the heat of the day. The sun was setting over the waters as we moved slowly out of the station at Bombay, and sweeping around the shores, caught our last glimpse of the Western sea, and then rushed off for the mountains.
"You'll need to take beds with you," said our friends, foreseeing that we might have to lie down in rough places. So we procured for each of us what is called a resai, a well-stuffed coverlet, which answered the purpose of a light mattress. There are no sleeping-cars in India; but the first-class carriages have generally a sofa on either side, which may be turned into a sort of couch. On these sofas, having first secured a whole compartment, we spread our resais, with pillows on which to rest our weary heads, and stretch ourselves "to sleep—perchance to dream." But the imagination is so busy that sleep comes but slowly. I often lie awake for hours, and find a great peace in this constant wakefulness.
It was quite dark when we found ourselves climbing the Ghauts (what in California would be called the Coast Range), a chain of mountains not very high, but which separates the coast from the table-land of the interior. As the train moved more slowly, we perceived that we were drawing up a heavy incline. This slow motion soothes one to slumber, and at length we closed our eyes, and when the morning broke, found that we had passed the summit, and were rushing on over an open country, not unlike our Western prairies. These were the Plains of India—a vast plateau, broken here and there, but preserving its general character across the whole peninsula from Bombay to Calcutta, and North to the Himalayas.
In this month of January, these plains are without verdure to give them beauty. The trees keep their foliage, and here and there is a broad-spreading banyan, or a mango grove, with its deep shade. But we miss the fresh green grass and the flowers that come only with the Spring. Landscapes which are not diversified in surface by hills and valleys are only relieved from monotony by varieties of color. These are wanting now, and hence the vast plain is but "a gray and melancholy waste" like the sea. We visit India in winter because the summer would be too oppressive. But in choosing this season, we have to sacrifice that full glory when nature comes forth in all the richness of tropical vegetation. It is in the rainy season that the earth bursts suddenly into bloom. Then the dead plain, so bleak and bare, in a few days is covered with a carpet of green, and decked with innumerable flowers. But there are drawbacks to that gorgeous time and that prodigality of nature. With the bursting into light of the vegetable world, the insect world also comes forth. All the insects that buzz and sting, fill the summer air; and then the reptile world creeps abroad. Out of millions of holes, where they have slept all winter long, crawl cobras and other deadly serpents, and all slimy things. On the whole, therefore, I am content to see India in its sombre dress, and be spared some other attendants of this tropical world.
Nor is there much animal life to give animation to the scene. A few cattle are grazing here and there. Now a deer startled looks up, as we go by, or a monkey goes leaping across the fields, but not a wild beast of any kind is seen—not even a wild-cat or a jackal. As for birds, storks are at home in India as much as in Holland. Red flamingoes haunt
"The plashy brink, or marge of river wide,"
while on the broad open plain the birds most seen are crows! They are very tame, and quite familiar with the rest of the animal creation, a favorite perch being the backs of cows or buffaloes, where they light without resistance, and make themselves at home. They are said to be very useful as scavengers. That is quite possible; but however useful, they are certainly not beautiful.
In these long stretches of course we pass hundreds of villages, but these do not attract the eye nor form a feature in the landscape, for the low mud hovels of which they are composed hardly rise above the level of the plain. There is no church spire to be seen, as from a New England village, nor even the dome or minaret of a mosque, for we are not yet in the Mohammedan part of India.
One feature there is which relieves the monotony—the railway stations are the prettiest I have seen out of England. Simply but tastefully built, they are covered with vines and flowers, which with irrigation easily grow in this climate in the open air at all seasons of the year. The railway administration has offered prizes for the embellishment of stations, so that the natives, who are fond of flowers, and who are thus tempted by the hope of reward, plant roses and trail vines everywhere, so that the eye is relieved from the glare of the barren plain by resting on a mass of flowers and verdure.
In their internal arrangements, too, these stations are models of comfort, which might furnish an example to us in America. Wherever we are to breakfast or lunch ("take tiffin") or dine, we find a table neatly spread, with soft-footed Hindoos gliding about to serve us, and with plenty of time to eat in peace, without that rushing which makes travel in America such a hurry and fatigue. I am often asked about the difficulty of travelling in India, to which I answer that there is no difficulty, except from the climate, and that is to be guarded against by going in the cold season. There are railroads all over the country, and if Mr. Pullman would only introduce his sleeping-cars, made more open to give more ventilation in this hot climate, one might travel in India with as perfect comfort as in any part of Europe or America.
But with all these comforts, and all that there is to divert the eye, the way seems long. It is not till one reaches India that he comprehends how vast a country it is—not only in density of population, but in extent of territory. In "magnificent distances" it is almost equal to America itself: all small ideas are dispelled as soon as one leaves the coast, and penetrates into the interior. Our first stage from Bombay to Allahabad was 845 miles, which took us not only the first night and the day after, but the second night also, so that it was not till the morning of the third day that we found ourselves crossing the long bridge over the Jumna into the city which is the great railroad centre in India—a sort of half-way station, both on the "trunk line" from Bombay to Calcutta, and on the line to the North of India.
By this time we were glad of rest, and willingly exchanged our railway carriage for a hotel, where we found the luxury of baths, which refreshed us so that in an hour or two we were able to come forth "clad in fine linen, white and clean," and ride about to see the sights of the town.
Allahabad is not a city of so much historical interest as many others, but it has grown very much within a few years. The railroads have given such an impulse to its business, and increase to its population, that it has now 130,000 inhabitants. It is the capital of the Northwest Provinces, and thus has a political as well as a commercial importance. Owing to its position, it has been chosen as a convenient centre for missionary operations, and is the seat of one of the best organized missions of our Presbyterian Board. Here we met some excellent countrymen, who at once took us to their hearts and homes: and though reluctant to accept hospitality, or to trespass on their kindness, yet it was impossible to refuse an invitation so cordially given, which took us from a great barrack of a hotel to a refined American home. Our Board is fortunate in owning for its mission premises a large "compound," an enclosure of many acres, on the banks of the Jumna—obtained years ago at a nominal price, and which costs now only the small tax of fifty rupees (twenty-five dollars) a year. Here under one broad roof were Rev. Mr. Kellogg and his family—a wife and four children—and Mr. Wynkoop, and Mr. Heyl: Dr. Brodhead had just left for America. In the compound stands a neat chapel, in which met three years ago the great conference of missionaries of different denominations from all parts of India, the most memorable gathering of the kind ever held in this country. Here there is a service in Hindostanee every Sabbath. In another building is a school of 300 pupils, under charge of Mr. Heyl. He has also, to give sufficient variety to his occupation, to look after an asylum for the blind, and another for lepers. Rev. Messrs. Holcomb and Johnson live in other parts of the city, where there is a Printing-press and a large Depository for the sale of Bibles and Tracts in the different languages of India. All of these missionaries, besides preaching in churches, preach in the streets and bazaars, and spend some months of the year in itinerating through the villages in a large circuit of country, living in tents, and speaking to the people by the roadside, or in groves, or in their houses, wherever they can find them—a work which they enjoy greatly. Thus with preaching in city and country, and keeping up their schools, and looking after printing presses, writing and publishing books and tracts, they have their hands full.
Nor can I overlook our countrywomen in Allahabad. There is here a "Zenana Mission," supported by the society of the good Mrs. Doremus, and also two ladies connected with the Presbyterian Board, one of whom, Miss Wilson, devotes herself to visiting in the Zenanas, while the other, Miss Seward, is a physician, practising with great success in many of the best native families, thus rendering a physical as well as a spiritual service. She is a niece of the late Secretary of State, William H. Seward, who when in India paid her a visit, and was so impressed with what she was doing so quietly and yet so effectively; with the access which her medical skill and her feminine tact gave her to the interior life of the people; that on his return to America he summed up the result of all his observations of missions in this brief counsel: "Make all your missionaries women, and give them all a medical education."
Allahabad has a proud name—the City of God; but one sees not much to render it worthy of that exalted title. It is however, in the estimation of the Hindoos a sacred city, as it stands at the junction of the Jumna and the Ganges, the two sacred rivers of India, which issuing out of the glaciers of the Himalayas, hundreds of miles to the north, here unite, and flow on in a broader stream, and with an increased volume of sanctity. The point of junction is of course a very holy place—one of the most sacred in India—and draws to it more pilgrims than Mecca. Every year hundreds of thousands of pilgrims, come from all parts of India to bathe in these holy waters. This is the Méla—or great religious festival—which was now in progress. The missionaries congratulated us that we had arrived at such an opportune moment, as we had thus an opportunity of witnessing a spectacle which would show more of Hindooism than any other that we could see in India, unless it might be in the holy city of Benares.
On a Saturday evening we rode down to the place of the encampment, which we found covering a wide sandy plain at the junction of two rivers. It was a camp-meeting of magnificent dimensions. The tents or booths were laid out in streets, and sometimes grouped in a hollow square, which for the time being was a compact and populous city. As the evening was not the hour for bathing, we did not go down to the river bank, but strolled among the camps to see the people. At every tent fires were burning, and they were cooking their food.
Our friends led the way to the camp of the Sikhs, the famous warrior race of the Punjaub, who form a sect by themselves, and, strange to say, are not idolators. They follow the teachings of a prophet of their own, and like the Mohammedans, make it a special virtue, that they do not worship idols. But the old instinct is too strong for them, and while they do not bow to images, they pay a reverence to their sacred book—the writings of their teacher—which is little short of idolatry. At several places in their camp was something like an altar, a raised platform which was too holy for us to ascend, where sat a priest reading from this volume, before which all knelt as at the shrine of a saint, while they scattered flowers around it as a kind of incense or adoration.
In other parts of the camp men were blowing horns and making all sorts of hideous noise, as an intense way of offering devotions. This mockery of religion moved the indignation of our friends, who opened their mouths boldly in exposure of such folly and superstition, but they found that those whom they addressed did not shrink from the encounter. Some of them were very keen in argument. They have a subtle philosophy at the bottom of their worship, which they explained with a good deal of ingenuity, and tried to illumine by apt analogies and illustrations. Like all Hindoos, they were most liberal in their tolerance of other religions—much more so than the Mohammedans—generously conceding that our religion was best for us, while claiming that theirs was best for them. They did not try to convert us, and saw no reason why we should try to convert them. This was the Broad Church indeed, large enough for "all sorts and conditions of men." They even went further, and paid us not only the respect due to men, but to gods. One of the fakirs said to us in so many words: "You are God and I am God!" This tells the whole story in a sentence. Their creed is the baldest Pantheism: that God is in everything, and therefore everything is God. As all life comes from Him, He is in everything that lives—not only in man, but in beasts, and birds, and reptiles. All alike are incarnations of a Divine life, and hence all alike are fit objects of adoration. Man can adore himself. He need not carry any burden of sorrow or guilt; he need not know repentance or shame; for how can he mourn for impulses which are but the inspirations of the God in him, or for acts which are but the manifestations of the Universal Soul?
This was our first close contest with Hindooism, but still we had not seen the Méla till we had seen the bathing of the pilgrims in the Ganges, which was still in reserve. The Festival lasts a month—like the Ramadan of the Mohammedans—and is regulated by the changes of the moon. The day of the new moon, which was last Wednesday, was the great day of the feast. On that day there was a grand procession to the river, in which there were twenty-five elephants, mounted by their mahants (a sort of chief priests), with hundreds of fakirs on foot, and a vast crowd in all the frenzy of devotion. On Monday, as the moon was approaching her first quarter, there was likely to be a large concourse, though not equal to the first, and we made arrangements to be on hand to witness a spectacle such as we had never seen before, and should probably never see again. Rev. Mr. Holcomb came very early in the morning with his carriage, to take us to the riverside. As we drove along the roads, we passed thousands who were flocking to the place of bathing. Some rode in ox-carts, which carried whole families; now and then a mounted horseman dashed by; while a long row of camels told of a caravan that had toiled wearily over a great distance, perhaps from the foot of the Himalayas or the Vale of Cashmere, to reach the sacred spot. But the greater part of those who came were on foot, and looked like pilgrims indeed. Most of them carried on their shoulders a couple of baskets, in one of which was their food, and in the other the ashes of their dead, which they had brought from their homes, sometimes hundreds of miles, to cast into the sacred waters of the Ganges.
The carriage brought us only to the Bund, near the Fort—a huge embankment of earth raised to keep out the waters at the time of the annual risings, and which during the past year had saved the city from inundation. Here our friends had provided an elephant to take us through the crowd. The huge creature was waiting for us. The mahout who stood at his head now mounted in an extraordinary manner. He merely stepped in front of the elephant, and took hold of the flaps of his ears, and put up a foot on his trunk, which the beast raised as lightly as if the man had been a feather, and thus tossed his rider upon his head. A word of command then brought him to his knees, when a ladder was placed against his side, and we climbed to the top, and as he rose up, were lifted into the air. An elephant's back is a capital lookout for observation. It raises one on high, from which he can look down upon what is passing below; and the mighty creature has not much difficulty in making his way through even the densest crowd. He moved down the embankment a little slowly at first, but once on level ground, he strode along with rapid strides; while we, sitting aloft, regarded with amazement the scene before us.
Indeed it was a marvellous spectacle. Here was a vast camp, extending from river to river. Far as the eye could reach, the plain was covered with tents and booths. We had no means of estimating the number of people present. Mr. Kellogg made a rough calculation, as he stood in his preaching tent, and saw the crowd pouring by. Fixing his eye on the tent-pole, with watch in hand, he counted the number that passed in a minute, and found it to be a hundred and fifty, which would make nine thousand in an hour. If this steady flow were kept up for four hours (as it began at daylight, and was continued, though with varying volume, through the forenoon), it would make thirty-six thousand; and reckoning those encamped on the ground at twenty thousand, the whole number would be over fifty thousand.
This is a very small number, compared with that present at some times. Last Wednesday it was twice as great, and some years the multitude—which overflows the country for miles, like an inundation of the Ganges—has been estimated at hundreds of thousands, and even millions. Every twelve years there is a greater Méla than at other times, and the concourse assumes extraordinary proportions. This came six years ago, in 1870. That year it was said that there were present 75,000 fakirs alone, and on the great day of the feast it was estimated that a million of people bathed in the Ganges. So fearful was the crush that they had to be marshalled by the police, and marched down to the river by ten or twenty thousand at a time, and then across a bridge of boats to the other side, returning by another way, so as to prevent a collision of the entering and returning mass, that might have occasioned a fearful loss of life. That year it was estimated that not less than two millions of pilgrims visited the Méla. Allowing for the common exaggeration in estimating multitudes, there is no doubt whatever that the host of pilgrims here has often been "an exceeding great army."
I could not but look with pity at the ignorant creatures flocking by, but the feeling of pity changed to disgust at the sight of the priests by whom they were misled. Everywhere were fakirs sitting on the ground, receiving the reverence of the people. More disgusting objects I never looked upon, not even in an asylum for the insane. They were almost naked; their hair, which they suffer to grow long, had become tangled and knotted, and was matted like swamp grass, and often bound round with thick ropes; and their faces smeared with filth. The meagerness of their clothing is one of the tokens of their sanctity. They are so holy that they do not need to observe the ordinary rules of decency. Yet these filthy creatures are regarded not only with reverence, but almost worshipped. Men—and women also—stoop down and kiss their feet. On Wednesday some three hundred of these fakirs marched in procession absolutely naked, while crowds of women prostrated themselves before them, and kissed the very ground over which they had passed. One is amazed that such a disgusting exhibition was not prevented by the police. Yet it took place under the guns of an English fort, and—greatest shame of all—instead of being suppressed, was accompanied and protected by the police, which, though composed of natives, wore the uniform, and obeyed the orders, of Christian England! There are not many sights which make one ashamed of the English government in India, but surely this is one of them.[1]
How such "brute beasts" can have any respect or influence, is one of the mysteries of Hindooism. But the common people, ignorant and superstitious, think these men have a power that is more than human, and fear to incur their displeasure. They dread their curses: for these holy men have a fearful power of imprecation. Wherever they stroll through the country, no man dares to refuse them food or shelter, lest one of their awful curses should light upon his head, and immediately his child should die, or disaster should overtake his house.
But let us pass on to the banks of the river, where the crowd is already becoming very great. To go among them, we get down from our elephant and walk about. Was there ever such a scene—men, women, and children, by tens of thousands, in all stages of nakedness, pressing towards the sacred river? The men are closely shaved, as for every hair of their heads they gain a million of years in Paradise! Some had come in boats, and were out in the middle of the stream, from which they could bathe. But the greater part were along the shore. The water was shallow, so that they could wade in without danger; but to afford greater security, lines of boats were drawn around the places of bathing, to keep them from drowning and from suicide.
It would not have been easy to make our way through such a crowd, had not the native police, with that respect for Englishmen which is seen everywhere in India, cleared the way for us. Thus we came down to the water's edge, passing through hundreds that were coming up dripping from the water, and other hundreds that were pressing in. They were of all ages and sexes. It was hard to repress our disgust at the voluntary debasement of men who might know better, but with these there were some wretched objects, who could only excite our pity—poor, haggard old women, who had dragged themselves to this spot, and children borne on their mothers' shoulders! In former times many infants were thrown into the Ganges. This was the most common form of infanticide. But this practice has been stopped by the strong hand of the government. And now they are brought here only to "wash and be cleansed." Even the sick were carried in palanquins, to be dipped in the healing waters; and here and there one who seemed ready to die was brought, that he might breathe his last in sight of the sacred river.
I observed a great number of flags flying from tall poles in different parts of the ground, which made the place look like a military encampment. These marked the headquarters of the men who get up these Mélas, and in so doing contrive to unite business with religion. During the year they perambulate the country, drumming up pilgrims. A reputation for sanctity is a stock in trade, and they are not too modest to set forth their own peculiar gifts, and invite those who come to the holy water to repair to their shop, where they can be "put through" in the shortest time, and for the least money. This money-making feature is apparent in all the arrangements of these pious pilgrimages.
In keeping with these coarser features of the scene, was the presence of dancing girls, who gathered a group around them close to the bathing places, and displayed their indecent gestures on the banks of the holy river, to those who had just engaged in what they considered an act of moral purification.
In other parts of the camp, retired from the river, was carried on the business of "religious instruction." Here and there pundits, or learned Brahmins, surrounded by large companies, chiefly of women, were reading from the Shasters, which, considering that they got over the ground with great velocity, could hardly be very edifying to their hearers. This mattered little, however, as these sacred books are in Sanscrit, which to the people is an unknown tongue.
I was glad to see that these blind leaders of the blind did not have it all their own way. Near by were the preaching-tents of several missionaries, who also drew crowds, to whom they spoke of a better religion. Among them was Rev. Mr. Macombie, who is a famous preacher. He is a native of India, and is not only master of their language, but familiar with their ideas. He knows all their arguments and their objections, and if a hearer interrupts him, whether a Hindoo, or a Mohammedan, he is very apt to get a shot which makes him sink back in the crowd, glad to escape without further notice. Whether this preaching converts many to Christianity, there can be no doubt that it diffuses a widespread sense of the folly of these Mélas, and to this as one cause may be ascribed the falling-off in the concourse of pilgrims, who were formerly counted by millions and are now only by hundreds of thousands.
While "religion" thus went on vigorously, business was not forgotten. In the remoter parts of the camp it was turned into a market-place. A festival which brings together hundreds of thousands of people, is an occasion not to be lost for traffic and barter. So the camp becomes a huge bazaar (a vast fair, such as one may see in America at a cattle show or a militia muster), with streets of shops, so that, after one has performed his religious duties, as he comes up from the holy waters and returns to "the world," he can gratify his pride and vanity by purchasing any quantity of cheap jewelry.
There are shops for the sale of idols. We could have bought a lovely little beast for a few pence. They are as "cheap as dirt;" in fact, they are often made of dirt. As we stood in front of one of the shops, we saw a group rolling up a little ball of mud, as children make mud pies; who requested a lady of our party to step one side, as her shadow, falling on this holy object, polluted it!
It is hard to believe that even the most ignorant and degraded of men can connect such objects with any idea of sacredness or religion. And yet the wretched-looking creatures seemed infatuated with their idolatries. To bathe in the Ganges washes away their sins. It opens to them the gates of paradise. Such value do they attach to it that even death in its sacred waters is a privilege. Formerly suicides were very frequent here, till they were stopped by the Government. Fanaticism seems to destroy the common sympathies of life. Last Wednesday, while the great procession was in progress, a fire broke out in one of the booths. As they are made of the lightest material it caught like tinder, and spread so rapidly that in a few minutes a whole camp was in a blaze. But for the presence of mind and energy of a few English soldiers from the Fort who were on the ground, and who seized an engine, and played upon the burning wood and thatch, the entire encampment might have been destroyed, involving an appalling loss of life. As it was, some thirty perished, almost all women. Mr. Kellogg came up in time to see their charred and blackened remains. Yet this terrible disaster awakened no feeling of compassion for its victims. They were accounted rather favored beings to have perished in such a holy spot. Thus does the blindness of superstition extinguish the ordinary feelings of humanity.
Weary and heart-sick at such exhibitions of human folly, we mounted our elephant to leave the ground. The noble beast, who had waited patiently for us (and was duly rewarded), now seemed as if he could stand it no longer, and taking us on his back, strode off as if disgusted with the whole performance, and disdaining the society of such debased human creatures.
This Méla, with other things which I have seen, has quite destroyed any illusions which I may have had in regard to Hindooism. In coming to India, one chief object was to study its religion. I had read much of "the mild Hindoo" and "the learned Brahmin," and I asked myself, May not their religion have some elements of good? Is it not better at least than no religion? But the more I study it the worse it seems. I cannot understand the secret of its power. I can see a fascination in Romanism, and even in Mohammedanism. The mythology of the Greeks had in it many beautiful creations of the imagination. But the gods of the Hindoos are but deified beasts, and their worship, instead of elevating men intellectually or morally, is an unspeakable degradation.
Hindooism is a mountain of lies. It is a vast and monstrous system of falsehood, kept in existence mainly for the sake of keeping up the power of the Brahmins. Their capacity for deceit is boundless, as is that of the lower castes for being deceived. Of this I have just had a specimen. In the fort here at Allahabad is a subterranean passage which is held in the highest veneration, as it is believed that here a river flows darkly underground to join the sacred waters of the Jumna and the Ganges, and here—prodigy of nature—is a sacred tree, which has been here (they tell us) for hundreds of years, and though buried in the heart of the earth, still it lives. It is true it does show some signs of sap and greenness. But the mystery is explained when the fact comes out that the tree is changed every year. The sergeant-major, who has been here four years, told me that he had himself given the order three times, which admitted the party into the Fort at midnight to take away the old stump and put in a fresh tree! He said it was done in the month of February, so that with the first opening of spring it was ready to bloom afresh! How English officers can reconcile it with their honor to connive at such a deception—even though it be to please the Brahmins—I leave them to explain. But the fact, thus attested, is sufficient to show the unfathomable lying of this ruling caste of India, and the immeasurable credulity of their disciples.
A religion that is founded on imposture, and supported by falsehood, cannot bear the fruits of righteousness. In the essence of things truth is allied to moral purity. Its very nature is "sweetness and light." But craft and deceit in sacred things breed a vicious habit of defending by false reasoning what an uncorrupted conscience would reject; and the holy name of religion, instead of being a sacrament of good, becomes a sacrament of evil, which is used to cover and consecrate loathsome immoralities. Thus falsehood works like poison in the blood, and runs through every vein till the whole moral being is spotted with leprosy.