The Taj Mahal from the River.

LIFE AND TRAVEL
IN
INDIA

BEING RECOLLECTIONS OF A JOURNEY
BEFORE THE DAYS OF RAILROADS

BY

Anna Harriette Leonowens

Author of "Siam and the Siamese"

ILLUSTRATED

PHILADELPHIA
HENRY T. COATES & CO.
1897

——
Copyright, 1884,
BY PORTER & COATES.
——

THIS LITTLE VOLUME OF TRAVELS

Is Inscribed to

MR. AND MRS. WILLIAM W. JUSTICE,

IN

GRATEFUL APPRECIATION OF THEIR FRIENDSHIP,

BY

THE AUTHOR.

CONTENTS.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

PREFACE.

In the following pages, gathered from voluminous notes of early travel, I have tried to give a faithful account of life in India, as well as of the sights and scenes visited by me, with my husband, before the days of railroad travel.

It is well known that the introduction of the railroad into India has in no sense affected the life of the people, and has only very slightly modified the general appearance of the country. India is still what it was in the Vèdic period, a land of peasant classes; she still invokes, as did the ancient Aryans in the Rig Vèda, the "Khe-tra-pati," or the divinity of the soil, for blessings on the land. The Hindoo to-day lives, as did his forefathers, close to the heart of Nature, deifying the mountains, streams, woods, and lakes, while the sun, moon, stars, fire, water, earth, air, sky, and corn are his highest deities. The most beautiful personification in the Ramâyânâ of womanly grace and virtue is called Sita, "a furrow," showing how deep was the national reverence paid to the plough; and to this day at the Rathsaptimi, the day on which the new sun is supposed to mount his heavenly chariot, a feast is observed in honor of the sun, and the ryots on this occasion decorate with flowers and paint their ploughs, and worship them as the saviors of the land.

I do not, however, mean to say that India has made no progress whatever in all these years—her imaginative and glorious youth has no doubt been succeeded by the calm reason of mature age—but this transition has been gradual and progressive rather than fitful and sudden.

The transfer of India by the East India Company to the British Crown, and the recent laws for the protection of the ryot—or more properly the raiyat, a leaser of land held in perpetuity—against the oppressions of the zemindars, or governmental landlords, with the right of underletting the land, have to an extraordinary degree awakened the inborn desire of the Hindoo to become possessor of the soil and to return to his hereditary occupation of agriculture. To these may be added the security which England has conferred upon India, now that she is no longer disturbed by frequent wars, which desolated the land, and every now and then forced the people to abandon their villages and fly to the jungles and mountains for safety, under the Afghans, Mohguls, Mahrattas, and other predatory chiefs. Among the lasting benefits to India it may be mentioned that sutteeism, infanticide, self-immolation to the idols, Thuggism, and slavery have all been partially, if not quite, abolished by the strong arm of the law. Railroads have been built, the country has been opened, schools established, civil service appointments thrown open to the natives and Europeans alike, good roads made, canals and huge reservoirs for water excavated, ancient water-courses reopened, giving an impetus to private enterprise and industry in every direction. All these happy changes have been the result of the more liberal policy of England toward India since the days of the terrible mutiny of 1857; and it may fairly be hoped that British India has before her as glorious a future as her brilliant youth and maturity have foreshadowed for her.

A. H. L.

Sunnyside, Halifax, Nova Scotia,
August 7, 1884.

LIFE AND TRAVEL IN INDIA

CHAPTER I.

The Island of Bambâ Dèvi.—Sights and Scenes round about Bombay.

In that most delightful of all Indian months, the cool month of November, with the distant booming of a great gun that announced its arrival, the steamer from Aden came to anchor in the harbor of Bombay, bringing me among its many passengers. Here I was in this strange land, a young girl fresh from school, now entering upon a life so different, one which I was to lead through a long term of years.

The sun shone through the mists and haze of the early dawn, and I could see from my cabin window, with a sense of mingled wonder and curiosity, the great stone quays and the long flights of stone steps which led to the beautiful island of Bombay, lying there like a gem in the water, and of which I knew nothing whatever, save that it was once the marriage-dowry of a queen of England.

According to some authorities, it takes its name from two Portuguese words, "Buon Bahia," Good Bay; but in reality it has a still more ancient origin, being called after a very beautiful Hindoo queen, afterward deified as Bambâ Dèvi, who long before the days of Alexander the Great was the presiding genius of the land. She was worshipped as "Mahimâ Dèvi," or the Great Mother, in one of the oldest and largest Hindoo temples which formerly stood in the great plain now called the Esplanade. It was pulled down about a hundred years ago, and rebuilt near the Bhendee Bazaar, and is to this day called by her name and set apart to her peculiar service.

The longer I looked on that bay, and on those ancient islands with their towers and spires, both pagan and Christian, gleaming in the pure morning sunlight, the more I felt that it was one of the loveliest scenes in the world and one of the best worth admiring.

The harbor is not only one of the safest known to navigators from all parts of the world, affording in its hollow rock-bound cup entire shelter from sudden storms to vessels of all burthens, large and small crafts of every imaginable size and color, but it is in itself a bit of landlocked water unrivalled in picturesqueness, furnishing a variety of beautiful views at every point, and, one might almost say, at every passing moment.

Its peculiar interest, however, depends much on the season of the year, the brightness of the lights, the softness of the shadows, and the picturesque character of the numberless native boats, which, with their well-filled lateen sails, skim like white sea-birds on the surface of the waters.

The islands of Salsette, Elephanta, and Versovah, abounding in luxuriant vegetation, rise like huge green temples out of the bay. A great part of its beauty, however, is derived from the singularly shaped hills that are found in its vicinity. Old as the world, they appear to have gone through the hands of some gigantic architect—some so exquisitely rounded, some regularly terraced, and others, again, sharply pointed, not unlike spires. Lifting themselves proudly above the broad glittering sea that bathes their palm-fringed base, they help to make the scenery distinct from that of any other bay in the world. Then, beyond question, there is nothing to equal in grace and beauty the palm forest. The cocoanut, the sago, the betel, the date, the wild plantain, and the palmyra, all cluster in such profusion here and there along the seashore that the whole seems too beautiful to be real, and you half expect to see the island melt away like a dream before you.

While I look on from the cabin window things take clearer shape and form. Far away is the dim outline of the mighty Ghauts, towering amid soft fleecy-white clouds, and extending farther than the eye can reach in the purple distance. The striking views of the adjoining mainland, with ruins innumerable of chapels, convents, and monasteries erected by the Portuguese conquerors, all covered with a rich tangle of tropical foliage; the strange shapes of pagan temples, each in its own peculiar style of architecture, Hindoo, Parsee, Jain, and Mohammedan; the noble remains of the old Mahratta[1] forts and castles, which in former days were the habitations of the famous Rajpoots, with a long line of native and European palaces,—gradually unfold themselves under the golden haze of an Indian atmosphere.

One sees in no other part of the world just such an assemblage as the passengers on an Indian-bound steamer. In the vessel that took me to Bombay the most touching object to my mind was a young married woman, who was looking anxiously out for her husband, a missionary in whose labors she was now about to share for the first time. He was weak, haggard, and spiritless, worn out, no doubt, by his combined efforts to acquire a foreign language, convince an obstinate people, and bear the enervating influence of a hot, muggy climate; all of which was enough to break down the stoutest of frames and the most hopeful of spirits that England has ever produced. A number of officers, civil and military, some in light-brown coats of China silk and wide-brimmed straw hats, others in frogged blue frocks and military caps, were seen pressing through the crowd. A young cadet just out rushed into the open arms of a handsome officer, like himself, but older by twenty or thirty years. The deck was being fast cleared of its eager crowd. Everywhere the passengers were separating amid almost sad adieux, enlivened only by the oft-repeated promises to write to each other regularly—promises which are never fulfilled. On the great continent of Asia all nations meet and hail each other as friends, only to part, perhaps never to meet again, as vessels do at sea. But we were all sincere enough at the moment, which is all that can be expected from travellers scattering over the vast unknown land of India. I remember I was very greatly troubled because I was about to part from a gentle, blue-eyed young friend, a frank, bright, innocent young Scotch girl, who had become very dear to me during the most tedious and sultry part of our voyage from Aden to Bombay.

We were thrown a good deal together, and were almost of the same age. One day, while passing through the Red Sea, we exchanged vows of eternal friendship. There was on board a sprightly young officer, Ensign W——, to whom she was already secretly betrothed. Why secretly she would not confide to me, or perhaps explain even to herself, for every one on the vessel knew it, and of her naturally tender and loving disposition, as well as of her peculiarly lonely position on board, being sent out under the charge of the captain. I only know that I shared her happiness and her anxiety, for she would have to break the news almost immediately to her father, whom she was expecting momentarily on board. She informed me that her father was a widower—that she had come out to India expressly to keep house for him in some remote inland province somewhere in Guzerat.

At last her father appeared on board, a fat, sun-burnt, frowzy-looking man, and inquired from the captain as to which was his daughter, in order to assert his ownership over her. Instead of rushing to greet a father, she shrank back and nervously clutched my arm; and it was not strange. She had not seen him for many years; in the mean time her mother had died, her little brothers and sisters had all died in their infancy; she alone had survived, and had been sent home to Scotland, where she had been educated by an aunt. Here, then, she was alone in the presence of an almost entire stranger, although he was her father; and this is not an isolated case, but the fate of the thousands of European children who are born in India.

No blood-relationship avails anything in such cases. The mysterious sanctities of a young girl's nature, be they more or less profound, interpose themselves as barriers between father and daughter at the best of times and under the happiest of circumstances. Those dim nooks and corners of her budding sentiment can only be reached by a mother, so justly called the mediator in the most ancient language of the heart.

Years after I learned that my young Scotch friend had married Ensign W——, the young officer to whom she had engaged herself on her voyage out to India. But in one short year after her sweet blue eyes were closed for ever on this world. She died in giving birth to a daughter, who sleeps side by side with her young mother in the quiet little European burial-ground at Deesa, a British station on the confines of the great province of Guzerat.

Very little was known about India until Alexander the Great led his conquering army across the Punjaub (or, more properly, "Panch jeeb," or five tongues, from the five rivers that water this portion of Northern India) to the banks of the Hydaspes and the Hyphasis. The armies of Alexander had hitherto visited no country which was so fertile, populous, and abounding in the most valuable productions of nature and art as that portion of India through which they marched. Fortunately for the Greeks, Alexander had with him a few men who were admirably qualified to observe and describe the country. At the mouth of the Indus the army and fleet of Alexander parted company. The troops proceeded by land. Nearchus took charge of the ships, sailed down the Indus, and from its mouth, round the southern coast of Asia, to the mouth of the Euphrates. The results of his observations during the voyage were taken down and preserved. This expedition, undertaken 325 B .C., furnished a vast amount of information in regard to India, its extent and wonderful resources. Rome and most of her prosperous and civilized provinces were also very familiar with the silks, brocades, fine muslins, gems of great value, spices, and many other manufactures and products of the remote East. The Latin name of rice, Oryza sativa, is derived from the country, Orissa, whence the Romans first obtained it. During the so-called Dark Ages which followed the subversion of their Western Empire the trade with India was greatly diminished, though it never entirely ceased in parts of Europe, especially as some of the productions of the East had been consecrated to the services of the Roman Catholic ritual, and have ever since continued in request with the Christian churches of Greece and Rome. Even in the remote island of Great Britain, and in the semi-barbaric Saxon period, some of the precious spices and scented woods of India had been carefully treasured by the Venerable Bede and his co-laborers in their bleak northern monastery at Jarrow. In fact, at the very dawn of European civilization, under the good and wise Alfred the Great, English missionaries are said to have found their way to the coast of Malabar.

The great seat of Eastern trade was, down to the eleventh century, the city of Constantine the Great. Amalfi, Venice, and many other enterprising Italian republics acquired about this time great commercial importance, owing to their Eastern trade, which they extended to Egypt and the Persian Gulf.

In the twelfth and thirteenth centuries some of the more adventurous Italians found their way to various parts of Hindostan. One of these, the famous Marco Paulo, has given to the world much curious information about the regions which lie between the Himalaya Mountains, the Indian Ocean, and the numerous islands bordering on the Celestial Empire and on India proper.

The first European traveller who has given us an account of the country near the island of Bombay was an Italian friar named Odoricus, who passed nearly a month at Tana—or more properly Thanah—where four of his family fell victims to the intolerant spirit of the natives, and suffered martyrdom. His narrative was published in Latin in 1330 A. D. by William de Solanga. The first Englishman who visited the western coast of India was Thomas Stephens, of New College, Oxford. He reached Goa in October, 1579, and in the year 1608 Pryard de Laval mentions him at the time as rector of a college at Salsette.

It was during the early career of the famous Zehir-ed Deen Mohammed, a descendant of the renowned Genghis-khân, and the founder of the so-called Mohgul dynasty, better known by his common name of Bâber, or "the Tiger," that the Portuguese, whose maritime discoveries were beginning to produce an important revolution in the commercial world, succeeded in accomplishing their long-desired object of finding a passage by the Cape of Good Hope to India. In the year 1498, just ten months and two days after leaving the port of Lisbon, Vasco da Gama landed on the coast of Malabar at Calicut, or more properly Kale Khoda, "City of the Black Goddess." Calicut was at that period not only a very ancient seaport, but an extensive territory, which, stretching along the western coast of Southern India, reached from Bombay and the adjacent islands to Cape Comorin. It was, at an early period, so famous for its weaving and dyeing of cotton cloth that its name became identified with the manufactured fabric, whence the name calico. The dyeing of cotton cloths seems to have been in practice in India in very remote ages. Pliny as early as the first century mentions in his Natural History that there existed in Egypt a wonderful method of dyeing white cloth. It is now generally admitted that this ingenious art originated in India, and from that country found its way into Egypt. It was not till toward the middle of the seventeenth century that calico-printing was introduced into Europe. A knowledge of the art was acquired by some of the servants in the service of the Dutch East India Company, and carried to Holland, whence it was introduced in London in the year 1676.

The town of Calicut, though repeatedly burnt and destroyed by Portuguese and Mohammedan conquerors, still stands, as it has done for many hundreds of years, on the seashore, in a somewhat low and exposed position, possessing neither a river nor any harbor within several miles of it, so that ships are compelled to cast anchor five or six miles from the landing-place, almost in mid-ocean. Its want of a convenient harbor does not seem to have detracted from its commercial importance. At the very beginning of the Eastern trade, when Constantinople was attracting to itself all the commerce of the East, Calicut was visited by vessels from Asia Minor, Egypt, and Arabia. It was so well known to the Arabians that in the seventeenth century a fanatical sect of Mohammedans named Moplahs immigrated to Calicut, and entered with great success into the commercial life of the city, and occupy in it, even to this day, a most important place, carrying on a very profitable trade between Calicut, the Red Sea, the Persian Gulf, and various parts of India, its chief exports being rice, cocoanut, ginger, cardamoms, and sandal- and teak-wood. At the time of the landing of the Portuguese, Calicut is described as a fine city, with numerous magnificent buildings, among which a Brahmanical temple and college are especially mentioned, so remarkable were they for their size and architectural adornments.

It would be out of place to enter into particulars of the long struggle that ensued, or the disgraceful acts of treachery and cruelty that attended the conquests of the Portuguese. It will suffice to say that in a very few years they were firmly established in the south of India. Having possessed themselves of the large maritime city of Goa, they formed a regular government, headed by a viceroy appointed by the king of Portugal. They soon turned the trade of Hindostan and the Deccan into new and more profitable channels, thus depriving the Venetians, Genoese, and many other nations of all the advantages derived from their long-established European commerce between the Persian Gulf, the Red Sea, Egypt, and the Mediterranean Sea. From that time the Italians began to decline in wealth, influence, and prosperity until the close of the sixteenth and in the beginning of the seventeenth century, when the English, Dutch, and French, sailing round by the Cape of Good Hope, began to appear upon the scene. No sooner was this accomplished than the Portuguese, who had monopolized the commerce with Europe during the sixteenth century, lost (almost as rapidly as they had acquired it) their immense influence in the East.

In 1585, Thomas Cavendish, one of the boldest and most adventurous navigators in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, had accomplished successfully a two years' voyage round the world. Among other places, he had visited and explored the spice islands called the Moluccas, but his discoveries resulted in no permanent benefit to the British traders. In the year following an English expedition consisting of three vessels, under the command of Captain Raymond, was sent out to India, but its object was rather more warlike than commercial, as it was intended to cruise against the Portuguese. Sickness, shipwreck, and other disasters overtook the vessels; Captain Raymond, one of the most spirited men of his time, was lost without even having seen the Eldorado of his dreams, and Captain Lancaster, his second in command, returned home a sad and almost ruined man. Francis Drake, afterward knighted by Queen Elizabeth for his many remarkable exploits at sea, succeeded in capturing five Portuguese vessels laden with the rich products of India. These, with the successes of the Levant Company and the accumulating information obtained from private sources, contributed to keep alive the excitement and to increase to an inordinate degree the desire of English traders and merchants for a more immediate participation in the Eastern commerce. Nevertheless, the ambition and jealousy of the British merchants were not fully aroused until they heard that the Dutch in 1595 had fitted out and despatched four ships to trade with India.

Then the British merchants immediately set to work. A fund was raised by subscriptions of a number of individuals amounting to £30,133 6s. 8d., a company was formed, and a committee of fifteen able men was elected to manage it, which was the origin of the "East India Company." On the 31st of December, 1600, just two hundred and eighty-four years ago, a royal charter of privileges was granted, conditionally for fifteen years, to the company. By means of this charter, and furnished with letters from Queen Elizabeth to various Eastern rajahs, who were probably unconscious of her existence, a squadron of five ships sailed on the 2d of May, 1601, from Torbay. It was placed under the command of Captain Lancaster, the companion of the unfortunate Raymond. Fortune now appeared to favor the brave Lancaster. The very first place which he and his crews visited was Acheen in the island of Sumatra. Owing to the fact that Northern Sumatra had already been repeatedly visited by European travellers, among whom were Marco Paulo, Friar Odoricus, and Nicolo Conti, Captain Lancaster was remarkably well received by Alaudin Shah, the then reigning sovereign; and, to add to his good fortune, while cruising in the Straits of Malacca he succeeded in capturing a large and heavily-laden Portuguese vessel having on board a cargo of fine calicoes, spices, and some of the fine gold for which Acheen was then celebrated. Thus unexpectedly enriched, he sailed away, and, entering the Straits of Angeer, landed at Bantam in the island of Java, where he established an agency—the first germ of the great East India Company's factories—and returned in safety to England in the autumn of the year 1603. For many years following the trading vessels of the East India Company made successful voyages to many of the best-known islands in the Indian Ocean, realizing immense profits, and returning home to enrich the company to such an extent as to excite the jealousy of the British government, which vainly attempted to limit the privileges of the royal charter granted to it by Queen Elizabeth. Not many years after the success of the company was assured by a firman of the great Mohgul emperor, confirming to them certain privileges, and, above all, authorizing their establishment of factories at some of the most important ports of Hindostan.

The Dutch, who had dispossessed the Portuguese of their factory in Amboyna, one of the largest of the spice islands in the Molucca group, now began to regard the English traders with much jealousy. These, only eighteen in number, had established themselves in a defenceless house in town, trusting to the agreements and treaties they had made with the Dutch traders. The Dutch invited them in a friendly manner to pay a visit to their castle, fortified and garrisoned by two hundred men. The unsuspecting English had no sooner entered the castle than they were seized, put to the rack and torture, and ten of the number, holding out firmly to the last, were put to death.

During the memorable conflict between Charles I. and the Parliament nearly all foreign enterprise flagged. Distracted by the great civil war that followed, the East India Company sank into comparative inaction. But no sooner was the great Oliver Cromwell at the head of affairs than he reconfirmed the privileges of the company, and gave every encouragement to its trade; he also compelled the Dutch government to pay the sum of £300,000, together with a grant of one of the smaller spice islands, as some compensation to the descendants of those who suffered in the "Amboyna massacre."

A new charter was granted to the company by Charles II. in 1661, in which, in addition to the old privileges, new and important ones were given to them. They were vested with the right of full civil jurisdiction and military authority over all Europeans in their employment, as well as with the power of making war and concluding peace with the "infidels of India." In 1662, Charles II. married Catharine, princess of Portugal, who brought him a million pounds sterling and gifts of the island of Bombay and the fortress of Tangiers. In 1668, at the request of the company, Charles sold to them for a trifling sum of money the island of Bombay, granting to them shortly after the island of St. Helena, an equally convenient station for their merchantmen; and at length, induced by the defensible character of the island and its convenient and most commodious harbor, the company transferred from Surat to Bombay the seat of their government. Thus the island of Bombay became the presidency over all their settlements, and from that moment numerous Oriental nations were attracted to the island, commerce rapidly increased, the native town began to spread, and the foundation of a great empire in India was securely laid.

In no other part of the world are found so many races and peoples living side by side as in the island of Bombay. In the spacious streets and bazaars one meets Buddhists, Jains, Brahmans, Hindoos, Chinese, Musulmans (both Persians and Arabs), Seedees or Africans, Indo-Portuguese, Indo-Britons, Jews, Armenians, Afghans, Caucasians, Parsees, Americans, and Europeans of all nationalities. The most important of all these are undoubtedly the Parsees. They are as a class the richest, most industrious, and most honorable of all the native populations. They are the most extensive merchants and land-owners in the island; they share largely in foreign speculation both in the European and mercantile houses. They hold to two principles as indispensable to their permanent success and efficiency in trade: First, that every Parsee in any part of the Indian empire shall be subject to the established government, whatever it may be. By this means they diffuse a spirit of obedience and promptitude among their co-religionists, whether in India, Persia, China, or Egypt, and are at once able to secure the co-operation of one and every member of the faith in any emergency that may demand the combined efforts of the entire sect. Secondly, that every Parsee, no matter what the accident of his birth, is the equal of his more prosperous fellow-laborers.

The island of Bombay is separated from the mainland by an arm of the sea, and forms, in conjunction with the adjacent islands of Salsette on the north, Colabah and Old Woman's Island on the south, a magnificent and well-sheltered harbor. Handsome causeways raised above the sea at high water span the narrow channels on the south, and connect Bombay with two of the most picturesque islands I have ever seen. To the north, Bombay is again connected with Salsette by a causeway with a fine arched stone bridge, and yet another causeway has been thrown over the strait, so as to connect the great India Peninsular Railway with the mainland. Thus Bombay and the islands which surround it form a continuous breakwater extending from north to south for several miles. Toward the east lies the celebrated island of Elephanta; just opposite to the mouth of the harbor lies a thickly-wooded island of little elevation, with the exception of two remarkable projections which are shot upward almost perpendicularly from the level of the land, called Great and Little Caranja Hills.

One of our first drives was to the fort and town of Bombay. The latter is situated within the fort, and is almost a mile in length from the Apollo Gate to that of the bazaar, but hardly a quarter of a mile in its broadest part, from the Custom-house across the great Green to what is called Church gate. It is now called Fort George, and with its moats, drawbridges, and gateways is still in tolerably good repair. There are two gateways facing the beautiful harbor, having commodious wharfs and cranes built out from each, with a fine broad stone quay or landing-place for passengers. Passing through these gates, we visited the famous Bombay Castle, a regular quadrangle built of hard stone. In one of the bastions we saw a spacious reservoir for water. The fortifications are sufficiently formidable, and are frequently repaired, if not improved. Dungarree Hill, which commands the town, has now been included within the fort, by which accession the seaward points of the island are rendered extremely strong, the harbor being completely commanded by successive ranges of batteries placed one above the other. The Government House, a showy but a most inconvenient building, the old church, and a spacious Maidan, or Common, are also situated within the fort.

The rise of the tides has been found such as to admit of the construction of docks on a truly magnificent scale. Indeed, the dry-dock of Bombay is said to be unequalled in the East for its immense size and convenience. It has been built with three divisions, each of which is furnished with a pair of strong gates, so that it is capable of receiving three ships-of-the-line at a time. This operation is generally entrusted to Parsees, and executed with great rapidity and skill. These docks have sprung up here since the days when the island passed into the possession of the East India Company. Another remarkable feature of this part of Bombay is the so-called ropewalk, which is said to be equal to any in England (with the single exception of the king's yard at Portsmouth). Here rope cables and every variety of lesser cordage are manufactured in great abundance. The workmen can be seen seated under covered awnings diligently plying their respective occupations—some cleaning the caiah, or cocoanut-husks, others plaiting, and yet again others twisting heavy ropes and cords.

The Bombay dockyard is also worth visiting; it is admirably contrived, and abounds in fine stone warehouses well stocked with timber for building and repairing vessels and ships of all kinds and sizes, with forges, and well-instructed Parsees, who, among other qualifications, are counted the best ship-carpenters to be found in the East. Many of the merchantmen and ships-of-the-line in the service of the late East India Company have been built here from time to time, and are still built, of Malabar and Mylonghee teak-wood, which is much esteemed throughout India. One of the most magnificent teak forests, from which supplies of wood are obtained, lies on the north-western boundaries of the kingdom of Siam; the other on the western side of the Ghauts and all along the mountains lying north and east of the old Portuguese town of Bassein. They are floated down to Bombay by means of the numerous streams which descend from these mountain-ridges.

Another curious feature is the celebrated cotton-press, of which there are a great many in use here—marvellous in themselves, but more striking amid the mountains of cotton piled up waiting to be pressed before transportation to Europe, China, and other parts of the world. Not very far from these one comes upon a square around which cluster most of the European warehouses and the banks, huge blocks of masonry, dark and dismal as the tomb, impregnated with the odors of tea, coffee, spices, and every other known Indian commodity or manufacture.

It was my first initiation to the commerce of the world to visit this spot. Previous to this day I had hardly so much as purchased a ribbon for myself, and could not conceive what trade really meant. But, driving here about ten o'clock one morning, the whole scene dawned upon me with peculiar force. The great square was thronged with a motley crowd of dark- and white-faced foreigners, all eager, jostling, and contending with each amid the confused hubbub of all languages and all manner of dialects. Here were strange specimens of every nationality and every phase of life, from the lordly English and Scotch merchants, the skilful and assiduous Parsees, to the half-nude, wretched-looking fakeers and beggars who haunt this spot in the hope of getting a few pice.[2]

For six hours these masses of humanity struggle, work, barter, buy and sell, load and unload, and carry on the strangely-exciting warfare, not of flesh and blood, but of pounds, shillings, and pence, straining every nerve each to outdo his neighbor, to enrich himself, at great sacrifice of life, health, and at times even of honor, in the hope of returning to his native land to enjoy the spoils—a hope which, alas! is realized only in rare instances.

But at four o'clock, as if by magic, the eager, bustling, jostling crowd suddenly vanishes; the din and confusion cease. Long lines of carriages and handsome equipages drive up to the great stone warehouses, and dash away with their white-faced occupants. Where is now the commerce of the world? Gone with the powerful, all-grasping white man. A silence profound as the grave succeeds to the rush, noise, and turmoil of the day. In less than half an hour not a human being is to be seen anywhere, save the solitary begrimed watchmen seated here and there in dim nooks and corners, and the armed white-faced sentinels standing grim and silent at their posts.

On this first visit we were the last to quit the scene. Nothing ever made so deep and, I might truly say, so depressing an impression on my mind as the fierce and unnatural activity which pervaded this spot.

A day or two after we drove through the markets or bazaars of the Parsees, or Fire-worshippers, and another and peculiar class of native traders called the Borahs—the two most enterprising of the many different peoples who occupy this island. These markets, nearly three miles in extent, are perhaps the most picturesque in the world, composed entirely of lofty, handsome Oriental houses, with projecting lattice windows and wooden balconies elaborately carved and hung in many places with rich tapestries. The upper stories of the houses are the dwellings of the merchants and their families; the lower portions are given up to stalls, shops, and alcoves where the most delicate fabrics and the most exquisite work of all kinds are manufactured by native artisans—boxes, fans, drinking-cups carved out of cocoanut-shells, with stools, tables, chairs, and other articles of furniture for the homes of European residents, as well as for exportation. Here are made kinkaubs, or cloths of gold; mulmuls, or muslins, of such transparent texture as to be called "running waters;" and many other articles are wrought out here by half-nude, savage-looking men and women with tools of the rudest and most primitive kind. Nearly all the Oriental work done here, though very beautiful and delicate of its kind, is imitative, and it lacks that freedom and diversity so peculiar to European manufacture.

The street that Europeans most visit in this quarter, and the best worth seeing for its unmixed and purely Oriental character, is called the "Bhendee Bazaar." It abounds in the queerest and most picturesque sights—solemn merchants, turbaned and with long flowing robes, seated cross-legged in their dens smoking long hookas; native women, handsomely dressed, in a variety of costumes, and half-nude beggars, who seem to beg for fun or for a wager; cripples, vagabonds; coolies with great heavy burdens on their backs, beneath which head and shoulders have disappeared, and only two bare legs can be seen struggling along amid the crowd; peddlers yelling like fiends; turbaned Mohammedans; Hindoo and Parsee ladies closely veiled, either on foot or in draped carriages drawn by milk-white bullocks instead of horses; indolent loungers sleeping in the shade; dogs yelping and native soldiers crushing through this great crowded aisle of the Bhendee Bazaar. It is not only full of everything Oriental, but everything Occidental, even to the idols so largely manufactured in Europe for the Indian markets—from the costliest gems from the mines of Punnah and Golconda to the commonest English prints; and since the introduction of free trade one can absolutely purchase English goods cheaper in this market than in the cities where they are manufactured.

After visiting Bhendee we came one day upon a most interesting portion of the bazaar, the Arabian horse-markets. Long lines of stables stretch along for some distance, making a noble display of goodly Arabian steeds. These splendid high-bred creatures are greatly esteemed by the native traders, nawabs, and princes, as well as by the rich English merchants, and often bring fabulous prices. It was very pleasant to go through these stables and see the care and attention bestowed upon the horses by the native grooms, who, while washing, feeding, and rubbing them down, talk to them as if they were children. Our Hindoo scyce, or groom, while grooming his horse always told him everything that had happened to him during his absence on the previous evening, opening the conversation with, "Kaisah hai paiyarah?—How art thou, beloved?"

Not far off there is a less picturesque but much more densely-crowded market called the "Chine Bazaar." It runs along the filthiest part of the city, and leads to a stone pier devoted to the native population and to the loading and unloading of native craft and vessels. The people who inhabit this part of the city are chiefly Lascars, or native sailors, and foreigners from different parts of the East. On any day and at any hour one may see what seems the entire produce of the East piled on this stone wharf; merchandise and mankind are in great masses here. Every inch of ground is thronged with moving forms, presenting a wild masquerade of extravagant dress and of the most perfect undress. Everywhere there is more filth and dirt than is possible to conceive at first sight; odors of ghee, or clarified butter, and fish in every stage of decomposition, assail you amid all manner of deafening sounds.

On one occasion, when visiting this part of Bombay, I saw the landing of some pilgrims from Mecca—a dirty, ill-looking set of men, but the moment they touched land the crowd was hushed; they walked in file counting their beads through the parted crowds, who almost to a man salââmed in abject reverence to the holy strangers.

I also saw some beautiful girls landed here, and that they were slaves, brought for private sale among the rich natives, I could not doubt. I afterward learned that women were brought here every year, and disposed of privately to fill the hareems of the rich Musulman merchants in spite of British laws. Riding through these bazaars, it has impressed me that whatever Great Britain might do for the improvement of the island of Bambâ Dèvi in the way of governing it, it would take very many centuries before she could destroy its purely Oriental character.

At one time a very curious organization existed in Bombay for upward of thirty years, consisting of a body of forty or more individuals who bound themselves into a sort of secret society, the sole object of which was systematic plunder. This society had in its employment about three hundred men as subordinates, instructed to receive goods stolen from the merchants' ships. The harbor was the chief scene of their secret operations. Here those of the members who were on duty were ordered to distribute themselves at the various wharves and piers, whence boats went off to ships either when loading or unloading. These employés of the secret society either detained the boats' crews in conversation, and thus purloined goods, or hired themselves for a very low sum of money to work with them for the night. In this way they managed to drop into the water or into another and confederate boat some of the goods surreptitiously obtained. The plunder was then conveyed openly to the shore, and sold by auction next morning, without any attempt at concealment, so far as the natives were concerned; and as few Europeans frequented this part of the native town, they had no fear of detection. It is said that the books of this robber society were scrupulously kept, the division of the profits made with strict honesty, and, what is more remarkable still, two shares of the profits were bestowed on charitable institutions among the various tribes and castes of Bombay. It was not until the year 1843 that this secret robber society was detected in some wholesale plunder; the chiefs concerned in it were brought to justice and the whole thing broken up.

The late East India Company, in order to protect the trade of the country against such societies, as well as against the hordes of pirates who have ever since the days of Alexander the Great infested the western coast of India, found it necessary to maintain an armed marine force.

Not far from the extreme point of the Oriental bazaars, so full of mystery, romance, and dirt, is a spot I have often visited, called Colabah—more properly Kaláaba, or Black Water—where the sea is of the deepest blue, and where an entirely different picture is presented to the eye. Bungalows, as the better class of Indian houses are called, with broad, open, and shady verandahs, each with its beautifully kept garden, stretch along this promontory, making a charming scene. These are the residences of some of the wealthiest inhabitants of the island. Bright, airy-looking dwellings, nestling amid the most graceful evergreen foliage, and standing as they do between two bays, they occupy the most beautiful spot in Bombay.

At the extreme end of this promontory are the European barracks, built with reference to the exigencies of the climate and replete with comfort for the British soldiers and their officers. It is really both pleasing and interesting to see that these are well cared for in this foreign land; but the curiosity and charm born in the native parts of the island, and especially in the bazaars, lessen by sure degrees as you see your countrymen quietly and comfortably established in a spot with which they seem so out of harmony in form and color. On the southern extremity of Colabah is the lighthouse, a graceful circular building standing on a desolate rock which stretches far into the sea and commands the entrance to the fort. It rises from the sea-level one hundred and fifty feet, flashing its light to the distance of twenty-one miles. I remember going to the top of it one moonlight night. We remained there two or three hours, and saw the moon rise higher and higher, silently scattering the deep shadows one by one, revealing the half-hidden beauties of that strange shore; and at length, when she climbed over head and looked down in the full splendor of her light, the mountain-ridges, feathered with wavy palms, the glimmering peaks and spires of the land, were all magnificently pictured in richest and softest colors in the polished mirror of the sea.

The "Maidan," or Plain, is a fine esplanade in front of the fort. Here passing European officers, and those Europeans who are obliged by business or any other circumstance to live within the fort during the cool months, erect bungalows; some of these are remarkably elegant buildings, but wholly unfit to resist the violence of the monsoon. At the moment that the early showers of rain announce the wet season these temporary homes vanish and their place is very soon occupied by a vast sheet of water. The Esplanade serves to separate the European from the native part of the island, the latter being vulgarly called the "Black Town."

Toward the north of the island are scattered many picturesque and thriving villages amid native groves of mangoes, palms, and fine timber trees, cities of the dead, and some very interesting ruined portions once occupied by the Portuguese conquerors.

The village of Girgaum, to the south of the island, is, however, the most picturesque and most densely populated of all these native settlements. No other part of the island is so fascinating as night approaches. A blaze of light flashing on the surface of huge reservoirs of water, on citron- and orange-groves, flooding flagged courtyards surrounded with blooming tropical fruits and flowers, the brilliant colors and varieties of dress of the numerous attendants, male and female, together with the groups formed by different parties arriving or departing, with the sounds of all kinds of music and midnight revelry,—altogether formed a coup d'œil which I can never forget, and which can be only seen in a tropical climate. Parts of this village, I am told, are entirely given up to the dissipated and pleasure-seeking youths who may happen to be beguiled by these outward appearances. It presents a very different aspect in the morning light; the cottages amid its palm-groves look so quiet and secluded that it is still more attractive. In some parts there are vast plantations of cocoanut trees, with the neat little huts, here and there, of native planters stretching toward a portion of the island called the Back Bay.

Lying on the opposite side of the palm-groves of Mazagaum, a fishing village, about an hour's drive over a beautiful strand brings us to an interesting spot called Breach Candy. On our way, especially in the afternoon, we meet carriages full of handsome Parsee ladies, generally brilliantly attired in their peculiar costumes, surrounded by numbers of happy-looking children, taking their evening airing. Grand mohguls and nabobs, driving out in magnificent European equipages, drawn by two and not infrequently by four spirited Arabian horses, pass rapidly by. At length, leaving the grand and princely occupants of all these brilliant equipages, we arrive at a spot desolate and yet peaceful beyond description—the cemeteries of the dead of all peoples and all creeds. No sound is heard. One solitary Hindoo, robed in pure white, with his bare shaved head, is praying over a smouldering spot covered with hot ashes, which shows signs of a body having been recently burned there. These graves are separated, it is true, but hardly distinguishable from one another. Desolate homes of the dead, we cannot tell which are Christian and which pagan. All sleep quietly in the same dust. But kind nature has decked them in tender living green, with here and there a beautiful wild flower, while the ever-encroaching sea washes away every year, bit by bit, the tombs of Hindoo, Moslem, Jain, Buddhist, and Christian alike.

There is one place that one should not miss seeing in Bombay, and that is the Pinjrapoore, or the Jain hospital for animals. It is one of the most peculiarly Oriental institutions in the East, and the largest to be found in India—pagan in everything, even in that disposition which has become almost a natural instinct to the Hindoos, the Buddhists, and the Jains,[3] to feel respect not alone for what is stronger and more beautiful than themselves, but for what is weaker and more helpless, and even hideous. The Pinjrapoore is situated in one of the most densely-populated portions of the native town.

We were conducted by two very civil men, low-caste Jains, into what appeared a large courtyard. A number of low sheds and several other courts ran all round it. I must confess I was greatly disappointed in the appearance of the building itself; it was mean and wretchedly dirty. But as for the aspect of the inmates, it was at once both ludicrous and pathetic. I felt inclined to laugh and cry by turns. Never was such a medley of sick and aged animals seen anywhere else. A number of sick oxen were undergoing treatment at the hands of several native physicians who live near the hospital, and whose sole care is to attend to its inmates. One poor old, lean cow was having her leg dressed, and she seemed to be pretty conscious of the physician's kind intentions, for she stood perfectly still and quiet during the operation, which must have lasted an hour at least. The other aged and sick cattle, some blind, others scarred, not a few with bandages over their eyes or with halting steps, presented a singularly pathetic sight. We passed into several small courtyards where cats and dogs and many aged greyhounds find a pleasant home. Some of these were old and infirm to such a degree that it was painful to look at them. One big dog was pointed out to me by one of the men as the "bura kahnah wallah," one who delighted in big dinners; they certainly did not aid in fattening him, for he was the leanest creature I have ever seen.

The monkey part of the hospital was the most entertaining. A big ape supported itself on crutches; another sick inmate was lying stretched full length on the floor, gazing most piteously into the keeper's face. It seemed to be an object of deep interest to all the other monkeys, who clustered around it. The native doctor shook his head solemnly, and if it had been a human being he could not have said more tenderly, "Bachara! bachara! whoo murta hai" ("Poor thing! poor thing! she is dying"). Almost all of the infirm inmates looked on their dying comrade with peculiar intelligence in their faces, as if they had a sort of vague idea of what was happening. As I looked on, I could not doubt but that each one had somehow divined the meaning of the doctor's foreboding shake of the head.

In these compartments were collected, as it almost seemed, every known quadruped and biped on the face of the globe. Old elephants, dilapidated buffaloes, deplumed ravens, vultures, and buzzards hobnobbed together with gray-bearded goats and most foolish-looking old rams; rats, mice, rabbits, hens, herons, lame ducks, forlorn old cocks, and sparrows, jackals, old owls, and geese, live here in harmony side by side. I have been shown through palaces which interested me less.

We waited to see this curious medley of inmates dine. When the food which suited each class was being conveyed by a band of attendant boys to their various pens, troughs, etc., the noise and confusion were deafening. The monkeys in particular, with the peacocks—birds the most sacred to the Hindoos and Jains—raised such a howl and were so importunate to be served first that we were glad to escape. Such is the extreme limit to which Oriental charity is carried. At first sight it seemed absurd beyond words.

Nevertheless, there is something very noble and touching about this "infirmary" for the brute creation. Every one who finds any animal wounded, sick, aged, or dying is authorized to bring it here, and here it is really well cared for until death comes to relieve it from all suffering. Who can estimate the power of an institution that is continually caring for the dumb mutes of the animal kingdom, who bear not only man's burdens, but his harshness and neglect, with the patience of almost sanctified beings?

In my first week in Bombay I received an invitation to a grand dinner-party to be given at the house of a rich East Indian lady, a Mrs. C——, the widow of what is called in British India an uncovenanted officer. So great is the prestige attached to the word "officer" in the East that every man is an officer of some sort or other, from the brigadier to the private soldier. A civilian, consequently, is an uncovenanted officer, and as for the merchants, they are Mohguls, nabobs, Badishas, or Kudawunds. Mrs. C——'s house was situated near Parel, formerly "Nonpareil," a most lovely part of the island. Our carriage drove through a long wide avenue of fine trees, and brought us before a large one-storied stone building, pillared and with a spacious flight of stone steps leading to it. On the steps were half a dozen handsomely-dressed servants in long flowing white robes called "angrakas," crimson-and-gold striped turbans, and bright blue-and-gold cumberbunds, or scarfs, folded round their waists; the effect was certainly striking. These salââmed to us, and with stately dignity advanced and helped us to alight. We were then shown by another band of ushers, magnificently dressed, into a sumptuously furnished apartment, where we laid aside our light wrappings. A fresh troop of dusky-hued, richly-draped, and turbaned individuals marshalled us into the grand drawing-room, where we found the rich widow seated on a yellow satin ottoman surrounded by a bevy of ladies and gentlemen. The ladies all wore low-necked dresses of the most exquisitely delicate Indian fabrics, Chinese crapes, gauzes, mulmuls, and silks; and some of them were young and beautiful.

At dinner numbers of dusky-hued attendants moved about us so softly that they did not seem to touch the floor with their feet; gliding noiselessly in and out, offering us costly viands and sparkling wines, laying down plates and removing them so dexterously as not to make the faintest sound, they seemed even to repress their breathing. Everything was done with magical effect. The punkahs overhead moved softly to and fro; the light fell from cocoanut-oil chandeliers in peculiarly softened splendor on the rare flowers, the glass, and the silver below. Everything went on with the ease and precision of clockwork, without the faintest echo of a click or sound. Even those domestics who did not wait at dinner-table stood with arms folded across their breasts under the shadows of doors or pillars, waiting their turn to serve, and so still and motionless were they that they might almost, save for the glitter in their eyes, have passed for bronze statues.

They impressed me very unpleasantly, and that in spite of all the laughter and merriment, the exaltation of British power and British supremacy in India. I had, somehow, a feeling of reserved force pervading those mute, motionless figures around us, and I involuntarily felt, for the first time, that it was a very solemn affair for the Briton to be in India luxuriating on her soil and on her spoils.

With those dark, restless eyes watching every turn, motion, and expression of our faces, in vain were the delicious coffee and the sumptuous dinner, the music of the fountains playing before each window. I was anxious to escape. If I laughed or talked or moved, those dark eyes seemed to observe me, even when they were seemingly fixed on vacancy. If I had dared, I believe I should have risen and gone away. But of course this would have been a shocking breach of etiquette, so I sat still, hushing secret perturbations and longing for dinner to end.

The conversation continued in a lively strain. I noticed that every one seemed to have a pet theory about home government and how it could best be administered; all of which I was then too young to comprehend, but I did comprehend, and that very painfully, that no one seemed to mind those dark, silent, stationary figures any more than if they had been hewn out of stone. On coming out of that house I drew a long deep sigh of relief and felt just as if I had escaped from some imminent danger.

There are no less than three government residences in the island of Bombay. One is within the walls of the fort, used for holding special meetings of the council durbars, or assemblies, and for various other public business. It has little or no architectural beauty, and looks more like a stadthouse in a German free city. The one at Malabar Point is a charming English cottage, situated on a rocky and well-wooded promontory, commanding a beautiful view of the sea, and is often washed by the sea-spray during stormy weather. The third is at Parel—a magnificent building, said to have been founded on the remains of an old Jesuit college which flourished here during the Portuguese supremacy in India. It was bought by a Parsee, from whom it was purchased by the East India government about a century ago and fitted up in its present style. A noble flight of stone steps leads to the entrance-hall, whence a fine staircase opens into two of the most spacious rooms I have ever seen in Bombay, about eighty feet long, one above the other, and each very handsomely furnished. It commands a fine view of the town and harbor.

There is a curious rock at the extreme point of Malabar Hill which is very difficult to approach at high tide. Here are the remains of an ancient Hindoo temple, and a hole famous as a place of resort for Hindoo devotees, who endure great hardships in order to get access to the hole and pass through it, believing that in doing so they are regenerated, born again, and purified from all their sins.

Banyan Tree.

Among the places worth attention in the neighborhood of Bombay are Byculla and Mazagaum. The former has a fine English school-house for all classes of children. It is placed under the supervision of a number of English ladies of high rank, who take turns in visiting it.

Mazagaum is a very old part of the island of Bombay, formerly a fishing village, which its name indicates, but now a densely-populated town, inhabited chiefly by the descendants of the early Portuguese settlers. The Roman Catholic church here is a most venerable and picturesque building, standing under the shadow of great forest trees. Their foliage is certainly magnificent beyond description. The mango, the tamarind, the graceful peepul, and the banyan attain great height and breadth, and are covered with marvellous specimens of huge parasitic creepers and plants forming miles of sheltered walks. The fruit-bearing trees come to great perfection here. But with all its beauty the spot is considered so unhealthy that it is often called the "white man's grave."

I have seldom seen a pleasanter sight than that which is presented at Mazagaum on every Sunday morning in the year, when the whole native Christian population turns out to church almost simultaneously. The streets are filled with handsome women and children. The women in their long flowing mantles and costumes, half Hindoo and half European, are very picturesque. But the men and boys present an appearance at once both grotesque and ludicrous. Most of them are dressed as Europeans, and not a few as English and Portuguese generals; gold lace, plumed hats, helmets, and striped pantaloons are the prevailing fashion. They seem to have no idea of the fitness of things. Their passion for European dress is carried to such an extreme that I have seen a native[4] Portuguese sailing down the lane without any shoes on his feet, but sporting the military dress, with the cocked hat and feathers, of some English general. This love of dress is exceedingly queer, but it is quite as much a characteristic of the Portuguese men of education and culture in India as of the more ignorant and illiterate.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] The name Mahratta is applied to all the Indo-European races who dwell in that portion of India extending from the Arabian Sea on the west to the Satpura Mountains in the north, to which in ancient times was given the Sanskrit name of Maharashtra, or "the good country." The Mahrattas are Hindoos, divided like them into four castes—the Brahmans, priests and professors; the Kumbis, cultivators of the soil; the Rajpoots, or warriors; and the Sudras, or menials. The Mahratta Brahmans are remarkable for the high physical, intellectual, and moral qualities of that caste. Their language, a fine sonorous and flexible tongue, is a dialect of the Sanskrit, called Mahratti.

[2] Pieces of money each of the value of one-fourth of a penny.

[3] The Jains, a very curious sect found in India proper to-day, and known only to the learned in Europe as the sole representatives in Hindostan of the once-numerous adherents to the tenets of Buddhism in that region, hold an intermediate place between Buddhists and Brahmans, but approach more closely to the Buddhists. They hold that Mahavira the hero, their greatest teacher, and the last of a number of deified spiritual legislators called by them Tirthankaras, was the preceptor of the great Gautama, the Buddha, whose followers embrace nearly three-fourths of the human race even to-day. They have, like the Brahmans, castes, and abstain most rigorously from flesh of all kinds. But, on the other hand, like the Buddhists of Siam, Burmah, Japan, etc., they disavow the sacredness of the Vèdas and the Hindoo gods, but in their place worship twenty-four sanctified legislators or Tirthankaras.

[4] The descendants of the early Portuguese settlers who have intermarried with the Hindoos and other castes of India, and now form a very large portion of the population of Bombay and Goa.

CHAPTER II.

Malabar Hill, and Domestic Life of the English in Bombay.

My first stay in Bombay was a comparatively short one, and was spent partly with friends at Colabah and partly in tents on the great green in front of Fort George.

My stepfather being connected with the engineer or public works department at the military station of Poonah, my life for a year or two was passed at that strange city. Upon the occasion of my marriage, however, I returned to Bombay for a settled residence, from which time I began my real experience of life in India.

We established ourselves at Malabar Hill, in a house completely isolated from the rest of the world, where my husband and I took up the study of the Sanskrit and Hindostanee languages. Malabar Hill is a rocky promontory on the south of the island of Bombay, and covered with beautiful houses, many of which are almost palaces. At its highest point, detached and alone, stands a lofty tower, the largest "dohkma," or "tower of silence," of the Parsees. Here the followers of Zoroaster deposit their dead. It is rendered not the less sombre by the birds of prey that hover around it in great numbers.

There are two other and smaller towers of silence on the island, all erected in the most isolated positions. No one is ever allowed to approach them save the Fire-priests and those who carry their dead. These strange towers or tombs are mysterious, grand, and barbaric in their very forms—at their base screened by huge branching trees from all human observation, open only to the blue sky, the free air, and the gloomy birds of prey hovering always near.

On the other side of this much-dreaded spot, and not far from a forest of palms which descends in graceful undulations to the very base of the hill, stood a solitary house, called by every one "Morgan's Folly." For full ten years it had found no occupant. Its owner and builder, having returned to England with broken fortunes and failing health, had entrusted the renting of it to a Parsee agent. By a happy accident this lonely house was discovered by my husband, who had it at once repaired, furnished, and fitted up for our use, and here we took up our abode after a few weeks' residence at Parel.

I wish I could do justice to this singular abode, on the portals of which the monosyllable "Whim" might fully be inscribed. It was the caprice of a rich English cotton-merchant, whose love for the feathered tribe amounted to an absorbing passion. The house was therefore designed and built at great cost to serve the double purpose of human and bird habitation. Foolish, capricious, extravagant, and incorrigible as he was called by every one, I for my part conceived an affection for this strange Englishman who built this fanciful place in which were passed the first few years of my married life.

Two fine roads led to the "Aviary," as we named the house, one of which was cut into the hillside and descended to the base of the hill, whence at low tide you might step from rock to rock away out into the bay. The other was connected with a beautiful road which winds along Malabar Hill, affording a favorite carriage-drive for the residents of the island.

As for the house, it was the most curious bit of architecture one had ever seen—so fanciful, it seemed more like something that belonged rather to the mysterious land we visit in our dreams than to an actual house made of solid stone and wood standing fast, bound to the hard, dull, practical earth.

The building consisted only of two stories, of great length, and a high chamber, called the "Teak Tower," which rose above the east corner of the house and commanded the most extensive and beautiful views to be found anywhere on the island. The upper story was the part designed for human habitation. The wood of which it was built was a fine-grained teak and very durable. The balcony, running all around the upper story, was elaborately carved. The lower part was chiefly of stone pillars, enclosing a spacious ground-floor united by screens of fine open wire wrought in Oriental patterns of the Persian rose and the Buddhistic lily. The pillars rested firmly on broad stone foundations, and the open wire walls let in all the wind, rain, and sunshine that the feathered inhabitants for whom the enclosure was intended could possibly desire.

But this was not all: on the ground-floor of the hall flourished some beautiful fruit-bearing trees. Right under our bedroom chamber stood that most exquisite of Indian trees, "the gold-mohur acacia," with its rich clusters of golden flowers; the slender, graceful pâpiya, with its heavy drooping leaves and round fruit of a rich yellow when ripe, so much sought after by birds. One gigantic baobâb, which had stood here, no doubt, for centuries, for whose growth and preservation the builder had made ample provision by leaving a well or circular opening through the lower and upper stories and in the roof, gave the house the singular appearance of growing around a great tree. Forcing themselves through this opening to the sky, the branches of the baobâb shot straight up on one side and overshadowed the tower chamber, covering it, after each rainy season, with masses of fragrant blossoms and fine fruit. It was very evident that in the course of time there would be, possibly, a prolonged but mighty struggle between the house and the tree, which should go first, and it was not hard to tell, for already the tree had found its way to the open sky, and its branches were seen pushing here and there and penetrating the woodwork of the chambers adjoining. There were one or two more trees that deserve mention. These were a beautiful Chinese pine and a heart-shaped peepul. The ground-floor of this hall was covered with weeds and a perfect jungle of brushwood. The gardener told me that it abounded in all kinds of reptiles, but I never saw any signs of them until some large snakes were called out one morning by a party of samp-wallahs, or snake-charmers. The fruit trees had long ceased to bear, and were gradually crowding out and killing each other.

All the more rare and beautiful birds with which Mr. Morgan had stocked this place had died or taken flight to homes less confined; only a few still remained. Among them were the sooruk, or scarlet breast, an exquisite singer; the mâina, the Java sparrow, the bulbul or Indian nightingale, and the zeenah, a little quarrelsome brown and red-spotted bird,—all hardy birds. They lingered here, partly from association and partly because of the grain still thrown in and around the "Aviary" morning and evening by the pious Hindoo employed by the Parsee agent to look after the garden.

The tower chamber was our favorite sitting-room because of its splendid views and being removed from the noise and vicinity of our servants. It was simply furnished—a table, a few chairs, mostly of cane, a couple of sofas and a Persian carpet, with gauze nettings to every door and window to keep out our worst foes, the gnats, flies, and mosquitoes. The rest of the house was furnished with the same severe simplicity; there were no curtains, no blinds, no carpets; the floors as well as the walls were painted in subdued half-tints, which gave them the air of being very handsomely fitted up.

In this place I began my first attempt at housekeeping in the East, and I can truly say, without the least exaggeration, that for months the house kept itself and my numerous servants kept me. To begin with, there were too many servants for so quiet and unpretending a household, but I soon found it would be still more difficult to do with fewer: "dustoor," custom, was flung into my face morning, noon, and night. I implored my husband to send half of them away, but if he sent one off, either the whole gang disappeared like a flash or else the work of the banished servant was scrupulously avoided by every one in the establishment. There was, in short, a servant for every distinct thing to be done in the house. There was a khansamah, or native butler, a high-caste Hindoo, who was supposed to keep all the servants in order, but who invariably incited a revolution in the camp if I wished anything to be done my way and not his. Then there was a cook, a kling (a name for a certain race natives of Madras), who got drunk whenever we happened to have friends to dinner; there was a cook's mate, who was inclined to be musical just as we were going to sleep; there was a buttee-wallah, or lamplighter, a stripling, some near relation of the butler's, whose friends and relatives were always dying, and who asked permission three times in the course of a few months to be allowed to go and bury his mother. When I very gently, because of his flowing tears and doleful expression of face, reminded him that he had already buried or burned her twice, he burst into a passionate sob and said, "Oh! that one was my aunt's mother, and the last one my father's mother, but this is my own, own mother." Of course I had to let him go off for two or three days, and the butler too, who was also a mourner. Then there were besides these an ayah, or lady's-maid; a dhoby, or washerman, who came to the house once a week for the clothes, and stayed away sometimes for three weeks, owing to that chronic epidemic, death, in the family; a bheestie, who filled the tubs in the bathroom with water, and did nothing else; a jarroo-wallah, who only came each morning and swept the house and grounds, and then disappeared till the next time; a coachman, a groom, a pundit, or professor of Oriental languages; and lastly, a tailor, whose name was Tom. He, Tom, was a Portuguese Christian, and attended to the mending of the household linen and the making of our clothes. He was the least manageable of the whole lot. He would not answer to the name "boy," a generic name for servants in India and a corruption of the Hindostanee word bhai, brother, but insisted on being called "Tom." This put me very often into an awkward position, as this was the familiar name by which I had learned to call my husband, not knowing that there was another "Tom" attached to him from his bachelor establishment. Once or twice, forgetting this fact, I happened to call "Tom! Tom!" after my husband, who was hurrying off to town, when who should pop into my chamber but the grinning tailor-boy, balancing a pair of huge scissors on his right ear and with a number of needles full of long threads stuck into his woolly head, which served him as a needle-case? There was nothing left me but to change my husband's name.

But this was by no means the beginning and end of my troubles of housekeeping in Bombay. I happened to awake very early one Sunday morning. It was a lovely sunrise: the first blush of dawn was mounting the horizon; the trees in the garden were unfolding their leaves; birds of all colors were perched upon their branches opening their "ruby eyes" on a newly-born day. But as I stood there, entranced with the beauty of a tropical sunrise, my eyes fell on the figure of Tom the tailor going off to early mass attired in my husband's best dress-coat and an embroidered vest which had been a chief object of my girlish admiration. In addition to these he sported pointed shoes, worked stockings—one of the finest pair in my possession—and a frill six inches deep projecting from his shirt-front, with a huge cocked hat, over which he held one of my smallest parasols to protect him from the mildest of morning suns, which had only just mounted the hillside. When I remonstrated with him on his return from chapel, he burst into a passion of tears and sobs and flooded me with such replies as these: "Your godship, you are my father and mother; an unkind, unjust word from your divine voice will break your poor slave's heart and consign him in the prime of his youth to a lonely and desolate grave," etc. I absolutely began to feel that he was the injured party, and that I was anything but a kind, generous mistress and a Christian. It ended in my presenting him with the clothes he had worn, but nevertheless he went about the house for days in a state of sorrowful dejection at my unkindness, which he persisted in saying had caused his heart to bleed to death.

Not long after this in a rash moment we resolved to give a dinner-party to some of our friends in Bombay, and to invite the rich East Indian widow, Mrs. C——, who had shown us many kindnesses. Never in my life did I pass through a more perplexing and fiery ordeal.

The viands were all ordered and sent from town, and had arrived in good season. But no sooner had they been deposited in the kitchen than the butler reported, in his quiet and unconcerned manner, that the cook had gone off to town to get help, and would probably not return in time to prepare the dinner. The butler and the lamplighter were Hindoos, and could not touch beef or ham, or, in fact, any kind of flesh. The butler had no objection to putting these articles on the table when cooked, but as for cooking them, he would lose caste. There was nothing left to be done but for Tom the tailor-boy and I—who, being Christians, had no such scruples—to set about and cook the dinner.

About four o'clock everything was in a fair way toward being cooked, the capons, ham, soup, and vegetables were all in their places on the fire, when suddenly the cook returned, looking very strange; I thought he was only tired and sleepy. He insisted on taking possession of the kitchen, declaring that it almost broke his heart to see me spoiling my nice dress and ruining my complexion over the fire. "What am I good for," said he, striking an attitude and looking queerer than ever, "but to cook you a grand dinner and be your slave for ever?" Thus assured, I quitted the kitchen with all the dinner cooking away at great speed, and betook myself to making various other preparations. It was almost the dinner-hour before I was fairly through with the glasses and dessert and a thousand and one of the many requirements of a European dinner-party. No sooner had I put the last touches to my toilette than my husband returned with two unexpected guests, which called my attention at once, so that I had no opportunity to revisit the kitchen to see that all was as it should be.

The last of the guests had no sooner arrived than the butler threw open the dining-room door and announced in a solemn tone, "Kannah teyar hai Sahibloke" ("Dinner waits, ladies and gentlemen").

We marched gayly in, eager, happy, and very hungry. But, alas! no sooner was the soup-tureen uncovered than I divined from my husband's expression that something was wrong. The soup was sent away with some playful apology, but when dish after dish was set on the table, uncovered, and removed without my husband's even making a pretence of offering the guests anything to eat, it was too much for me.

At this juncture kind-hearted Mrs. C—— came to my rescue by saying, "Let us all go off to the kitchen and find out what is the matter with the cook," and coming to my side, gave me an opportunity to recover myself, which I did under her gentle smile and oft-repeated adage, "My dear, accidents will happen in the best regulated families."

The gentlemen returned from their survey of the kitchen and reported that the cook was "drunk and sound asleep in the middle of the floor," and that the remainder of the dinner was burnt to cinders, but still in the pots on the range. If it had not been for the kind-hearted Mrs. C——, I do not know what we should have done. She insisted on our all driving out to her house and taking tea with her.

I must not omit to mention another incident which is characteristic of life in India. My husband was in the commissariat department of the army, and had a great deal to do with native dealers. The Parsees, however, because of their honesty, had the monopoly of the contracts for supplying the British troops in Bombay. One morning a number of Borahs[5] were ushered into the "Aviary," and laid before me on the table what seemed to be a tray filled with sugar candy, raisins, and almonds. Not understanding the meaning of this gift, and not having quite outgrown my love for sweets, I took up a handful of the good things, when, to my surprise, I found lying below the candy a number of gold coins called "mohurs." I hastened to inform my husband of the magnificent present waiting for him, but he no sooner heard of it then he turned the Borahs out, tray and all. It was simply an attempt to obtain contracts by bribery. The Borahs seemed in no way discomfited; they bowed most politely on my husband's prompt dismissal, and departed as if it were with them no unusual occurrence to be turned out of doors.

Such are some few of the most prominent features of housekeeping and life in India.

The native servants have some good points, however. They will rarely quit your service, even to better their fortunes, unless driven away. They contrive, too, to have their own way without ever being disrespectful to you. They bow or salââm at all times, move so softly about the house with bare feet that you hardly ever know that they are there, and, on the whole, they attend pretty well to their own peculiar province in the household; but as for helping in what is not their province, it is not to be expected.

They are never away a day except for sudden deaths, which take place in the various branches of their friends or relatives once a week, on an average. They are always clean, arrayed in their long flowing white robes and handsome turbans, and they never address you without some flattering or grandiloquent phrase, which helps not a little to smooth over your wounded pride.

Our pundit,[6] Govind, was not a servant, but a high-bred gentleman. He came to the "Aviary" morning and evening to give us lessons in Hindostanee and Sanskrit. He was a learned high-caste Brahman and a remarkably interesting specimen of a Hindoo gentleman.

Almost directly to the right of the "Aviary" was the government summer-house already mentioned; just opposite, situated on the summit of a steep acclivity overlooking the sea, was a grand stone house, the home of our Parsee friend and commissariat contractor. On the west, embowered in a thick grove of mango and tamarind trees, was the prettiest of little Hindoo villages, the village of Walkeshwar, sacred to the god of the strand or beach.

We spent a day here on a certain festal occasion accompanied by Govind, our pundit. We lunched under the porch of the Hindoo temple by permission obtained through our pundit. Perfectly nude dusky children were clambering about the stones watching us with eager curiosity. Our visit here was to witness the feast of Rama, the hero of one of the Hindoo epic poems, Ramayána, and his wife, Seeta, which did not begin until the afternoon. Hindoo women, black-eyed and singularly graceful in their movements, adorned with gayly-colored robes and most antique-looking bracelets and armlets, went to and from the pool, still called "Rama Talai," or Rama's Pool, bearing water in jars piled in tiers on their heads, others bathing and frolicking in the pool. There were at the same time some dozen Brahman priests at prayer, seemingly abstracted from the scenes around them, going through with all kinds of motions with their bodies while their lips moved incessantly, but inaudibly, in prayer and praise. Our pundit told us that this was the traditional spot where the hero Rama rested when on his way to Lanka (Ceylon) to recover from the tyrant Rawana his beautiful wife, Seeta.

The Rama Talai stands in a group of small temples—some of which are very pretty—surrounded by gardens. About two in the afternoon the officiating priests began to arrive, followed by thousands of Hindoos. The doors of the temple were thrown open to all comers. The priests placed themselves at the foot of the shrines, on each of which were several idols—Siva, the chief god, above, and Rama and Seeta below. The people poured forth their offerings to the priests. Those who could not get into the temples pressed around the sacred pool, throwing themselves into its holy waters and coming out free from all impurities. A great many young women with peculiarly interesting faces were kneeling outside of the temples and praying, with their eyes closed and their hands folded, for some especial blessing. It was an interesting sight, but for the fakeers and gossains, who make a disgusting spectacle of themselves, and, strange to say, are encouraged by the pure, mild, and modest Brahman priests to do so. As it was, we returned home shocked with the nudity and filth of these sacred beggars, but very much impressed with the perfectly pure and religious nature of the Hindoos, who have very beautiful forms and faces, and even those that are not absolutely beautiful have so much grace and gentleness about them that they attract the eye and remain impressed on the memory with something of the charm of a beautiful painting.

FOOTNOTES:

[5] The Borahs are natives of Guzerat, converted to Islamism about five and a half centuries ago. They are remarkable for their extraordinary intelligence in trade. The name "Borah" signifies merchant in the Guzerati dialect. These Borahs are a distinct sect, followers of one Moolah Allih, who is buried in the old city of Cambay. They pay reverence to Mohammed Hussain, called in the records of the Crusaders "The Prince of the Assassins" and also "the Old Man of the Mountains." They transmit a fifth of their gains to the Saiyads of Medinah, and pay eleemosynary contributions to the chief of their learned men, who distribute alms among the poor. (See Asiatic Researches, paper by H. T. Colebrook.)

[6] A professor of Sanskrit or other branches of Indian literature.

CHAPTER III.

The Island of Shashtee, commonly called Salsette.—Gharipoore, "the Town of Purification," or the Island and Caves of Elephanta.

Early one morning, after almost a week's preparation for the trip, we found ourselves in a large roomy bunder-boat flying before the wind straight for the beautiful island of Salsette, which lies to the north and is united to the smaller island of Bombay by a causeway erected during the administration of Governor Duncan, chiefly to enable the natives of the larger islands to bring their produce to the Bombay markets.

Presently we entered upon a wonderful river, flowing through the land out of the sea and dividing this island from the continent, at the very mouth of which are the bleak, barren island and mountains of Trombay, the latter rising up nine hundred feet high. We passed along reefs of gold, now over wide swamps, our boat riding above and crushing down the tall waving grass, and anon we would suddenly shoot almost within touch of dark hollow caverns, and looking up see the high beetling cliffs piled one above the other, surmounted by the ruins of some of old Portuguese or Mahratta forts or castles, covered with wild flowers and huge creeping plants. The scenes along the banks of this river are wild and romantic enough to satisfy the most enthusiastic lover of nature. We cast anchor at length at Tannah, having reached "a land all sun and blossom, trees as high as heaven, amid every bird that sings."

Tannah, the chief town of the island of Salsette, was taken by the troops of the East India Company in the year 1774, and by a treaty then entered into the Mahratta king, Raghu Nauth, ceded in perpetuity to the company Bassein with its dependencies, the island of Salsette, the entire districts of Jainbhosir and other valuable provinces adjoining it in Guzerat. It is chiefly inhabited by Roman Catholic Christians, the majority of whom are converts from Hindooism. The interior of the island is inhabited by a peculiar tribe of peasants who are to this day in a condition as wild as the Bheels and Konds of Guzerat and Central India. These peasants are burners of charcoal; they dwell together among the hills, but apart from all other tribes, and have neither intercourse nor any social bond with the Hindoos of the plain. At stated times they bring down their loads of charcoal in rude carts drawn by buffaloes to particular spots, whence it is carried away by the Hindoo or Portuguese buyer, who, according to a settled custom among them, deposits in its place rice, clothing, and iron tools. This excessive shyness is said to be owing to the contempt in which the natives, as outcasts, are held by their Hindoo neighbors.

We were met on our landing by a very polite and obliging native Portuguese, the elder brother of my husband's tailor Tom, in whose company we walked about the town and at whose house we stayed during our visit.

Tannah, the chief town of the island of Salsette, takes its name from the beautiful river which flows at its base, and which was anciently called Tainnah-Dèo, "the Limb of God." It runs deep and narrow in front of the town. It is a place of great antiquity, probably dating back to the days of Vicrâmaditya, of whose universal and beneficent rule, 57 B. C., tradition is yet eloquent throughout India. The ruins here are few and not very interesting. There are some massive walls of a great square building that was once a Mahratta citadel, and some ponderous old arches that have fallen and are now covered with beautiful wild creepers; also a Hindoo temple, a vast, shapeless mass of architecture, but almost animate with the innumerable gods and goddesses that grin and smirk at one from every cornice and entablature of the building. There is here a small but perfect little fortress, from which, during the last Mahratta war, the famous Trimbukjee escaped, occupied by a small European garrison. The government prison is also well worth visiting. We were surprised to see the manner in which the prisoners of all ranks, creeds, and nationalities worked together within these walls. Most of the prisoners, however, were of the Takhor race. They were busily employed in the manufacture of very valuable striped cotton stuffs much prized by the natives for scarfs, cumberbunds, and waist-cloths.

Caves of Elephanta.

The cavern temples that are found in this island are the chief objects of interest.

On the morning following our arrival, furnished with two guides and accompanied by our pundit, we started off to visit some of these remarkable excavations in the mountains that stretch across the middle of this island. At first, the road, though very narrow and rugged, lies through a most beautiful valley formed by hills of moderate height, covered with forests to their summits, with here and there patches of bare rock, while the ravines and the valley itself were planted with groves of mangoes and several varieties of the palm. For some time we saw but few traces of inhabitants; we passed during a ride of more than eight miles but one small village, a collection of most miserable-looking huts, a few half-starved looking children, and a troop of pariah dogs, who rushed out to bark at us.

At another small village, named Viarè, we came upon what seemed a jungle, open in some parts and in others densely thick, abounding in hyenas, tigers, panthers, and the wild-boar; passing through this with anything but pleasurable feelings, we reached Toolsey, named after a famous Hindoo goddess who, like the Greek Clytie, loved some Hindoo god, and was by him, out of pity for her unrequited passion, transformed into the beautiful toolsey-plant, whence her name. This is a lovely spot, encircled with hills, the highest of which is Khennari, its face perforated with no less than one hundred cavern temples. Under a fine banyan tree which stands in an open plain we passed the night. In northern latitudes one can form no idea of the peculiar beauty of the night with a bright moon shining overhead.

Almost at dawn next morning we set off for the temples. The ascent to the Khennari Hills is somewhat steep and difficult, but after a hard climb we gained a platform, and was confronted by a stone porch leading into an arched cavern temple of great majesty and beauty. These cavern temples are scattered over both sides of a high rocky hill at many different elevations, consisting of no less than six stories or tiers of caverns, of various sizes and forms, all excavated out of the rocky surface of the mountain and connected with each other by narrow stone steps cut in the rock. The façades and great court are most imposing.

Entering through a fine lofty portico, we saw a little to the left hand a curious octagonal pillar, detached from the rock and surmounted by three well-carved lions seated back to back. Passing this, we were suddenly introduced into an elaborately carved vestibule, at the end of which is a colossal statue of Buddha, with his hands raised in the attitude of benediction. The stone screen which here separates the vestibule from the body of the temple is covered with a row of male and female figures half nude; the expression of the faces of these figures is remarkably calm and thoughtful, and the whole is executed with considerable spirit. Above them the rocks are carved into a profusion of graceful sculptures.

The great temple or cave is divided into three aisles by regular colonnades of octagonal pillars; of these, the twelve on each side nearest the entrance are ornamented with exquisitely carved bases and capitals in the style usual in Indian temples. The arch of the vault is occupied by a dagoba or mausoleum, perhaps of some early disciple of Buddha. It is cylindrical in the shaft and surmounted by a cupola. On the right and left of the portico are two colossal figures of Buddha, perhaps twenty feet in height.[7] The ceiling of this cave is arched semicircularly and ornamented with slender ribs of fine teak-wood, disposed as if for the support of the ponderous dome overhead, but in reality for the floral decorations which on solemn occasions were hung from them. A flight of steps cut into the same mountain leads by various intricate paths to smaller caves or cells, consisting only of a portico and two small chambers, with everywhere seats for the disciples or the recluse cut into the rock. To each cave there is a cistern for the preservation of rain-water, some larger and more elegantly carved and finished than others. The whole appearance of this excavated hill of Khennari is that of a Buddhist monastic city, the cells and temples, the apartments and cisterns, hewn in the rocky sides of the mountain.

On Sunday we attended the Roman Catholic church, which is a stone's throw from the home of our Portuguese friends. Early on Sunday morning the streets were filled with men, women, and children, entirely of the Portuguese population. The men were, with a few exceptions, quietly dressed in the ordinary European attire, which the majority don only on stated occasions, with the black silk hat of modern fashion, carrying prayer-books, fans, and footstools of the ladies of their party. It was a pleasant sight. The Portuguese here are entirely independent of the Romish Church, and from simple contact have adopted the mode of life and a great many superstitions of the Hindoos. One finds everywhere in India not only Hindooized Mohammedans, but Hindooized Christians. Their priests are natives of the country, under the jurisdiction of the archbishop of Goa, who is a sort of Indian pope. Their worship is so much more pagan than Christian that when in a Roman Catholic church in any part of India one finds it difficult to believe that it is not the worship of Khrishna or Brahm.

The native Portuguese are darker than the darkest of the better class of Indians, showing a mixed and degenerate race.

I accompanied our host and his family to church. The children were charming with their little pink trowsers, lace over-slips, pink shoes, and were adorned with jewels; the only difference between the dresses of the little boy and the girls was that the boy sported a hat like that seen in the pictures of Bonaparte, which gave him a most whimsical air, and the little girls had white handkerchiefs tied neatly under their chins. I took little Marium's hand, and off we went; looking toward the deep flowing river, I saw a string of Brahman priests marching solemnly along the steep banks preparatory to beginning their morning services, for our Sabbath is also their day of sacrifice and prayer to Suriya, the sun-god. I was very much tempted to abandon my Christian friends and follow the Brahman priests, but I restrained myself, and was soon within the temple of Jesus Christ. I say designedly the temple of Jesus Christ. It was crowded with images—perhaps one ought to say idols—of God the Father, Christ the Son, the Virgin Mother, and the Holy Ghost, besides quantities of relics, sacred vessels, tapers, candles, incense-burners swinging from the roof, flowers both natural and artificial, and all kinds of beads and shells on the altar. High above the altar was a great porcelain figure of the Virgin jewelled and crowned as queen of heaven, with her arms stretched out in benediction.

We pressed in. The service had not begun. All the men, women, and children prostrated themselves—some at full length; others, being crowded for room, squatted down and touched the brick pavement with their outspread open palms and then their foreheads; after which the rich, among whom were classed my friends, took their seats, and the crowd remained kneeling on the bare floor. Presently the priests, of whom there were no less than a dozen, appeared, gaudily dressed in tinsel and lace, and took their places before the altar, keeping their heads covered. Now the service began, which consisted of some chants in a kind of Latin known only to the priests, and not fully understood even by them, with dressings and undressings, perpetual genuflexions, turning from the altar to the people, swinging of censers, marching and countermarching with the baby figure of Christ and a pretty wax doll which represented the mother; these the men, women, and children kissed with apparently genuine pleasure. This done, boys dressed as angels in long white robes and with wings attached to their shoulders, entered, each bearing a lighted candle and a lily, as do the Buddhists at prayer, chanting some beautiful hymn, of which no one understood a word, and even the music was wild and Oriental. Then finally came the ringing of multitudinous little bells (another Buddhist custom when about to exhibit a tooth or any other relic of Buddha), and up rose the Host, as large as an ordinary fan, composed of glutinous rice. In the centre was a white spot, and around it rays of gold proceeding outward. All fell upon their faces; little Marium and I alone were the lookers-on, but suddenly my gentle hostess gave her little daughter a vigorous push, which sent her head foremost to the floor, whispering, "The body of God!" I bowed my head out of respect for the poor human hearts that worshipped here, and not without a deep sense of humiliation at witnessing the complicated and ingenious ceremonies by which these ecclesiastics, an outgrowth of the Church of Rome, cultivate and foster the credulity and ignorance of the people, whom they teach to rely more on certain forms and the supernatural agencies of the Virgin and relics of deceased saints than upon religious and moral truths. After the "body of God" a bone of some martyred Indian saint who had been converted to Christianity was held up for adoration; again the people bowed down; and then came the end, the benediction, amid more ringing of bells and swinging of censers.

Who can witness these imbecilities and not hold the native Portuguese clergy accountable for withholding the true knowledge, the simple teachings of Jesus, the true Bread of life, and for substituting superstitions and pageantries not one whit superior to, but in some respects even more degrading than, the most debasing paganism which they have supplanted? Forms are the same, the names alone have been changed; otherwise, the Roman Catholicism I have everywhere witnessed in India is essentially the same as the lowest forms of paganism.

Before dawn next morning we took leave of our kind friends, and in our comfortable bunder-boat started for the island of Elephanta, or Gharipoore. After a couple of hours or more of pleasant sailing we reached the island. I found it larger and more beautiful than I had expected. A good part of it is under cultivation, especially all around a village of tolerable size, above which a couple of clearly-defined hills rise from the sea to a considerable height. The view as you ascend to the right is simply magnificent: the twin mountains seem to be knit together by a grand old forest, the one rising slightly higher than the other. The name "Elephanta" was given to it, some say, by the Greeks, others by the Portuguese conquerors; however that may be, the name of the caves was anciently "Gharipoore," or, "the Town of the Rock," or, according to some, "the Town of Purification."

We ascended a long flight of stone steps, in the wake of a party of fakeers, Hindoo priests, and half-nude men beating tomtoms, which at length brought us to a very handsome and spacious platform shaded with some fine old trees.

Here the party of Hindoo priests, drummers, and fakeers sat down to rest, while we went on a short distance and reached the entrance to the famous caves of Elephanta. The principal cave is of great extent, excavated out of the solid rock; the colossal columns of the portico seem to hold up the mountain above them. On either side of the entrance great creepers come down in heavy masses over the mountain. Rows and rows of columns handsomely ornamented appear within, growing beautifully less in the distance and vanishing amid gloomy shadows and a thousand fantastic shapes. The gateway or porch is still in excellent preservation; it leads directly through the heart of the mountain. The different shrines, which contain objects of Hindoo worship, are placed on each side. In the centre there is seen by the light of torches a majestic altar of stone, now in a state of decay, supporting a gigantic bust of three noble heads, two of which are in profile. The Hindoo Trinity, Maha Dèo, the Great God, commonly called Brahm, the Hindoo Creator, occupies the centre in full relief. The eyes are half closed, the expression serene and tranquil. It seems to be carved from a living model, and is a perfect Oriental ideal of masculine beauty, with the delicate and refined outline of the features and the deep contemplation expressed in those large downcast eyes. The forehead is crowned with a lofty diadem exquisitely carved, not unlike the mitres worn by the bishops of the Roman Church; the right arm, which is very much broken, once grasped the head of a cobra da capello, which, our pundit explained to us, here typifies in its sublimest sense the masculine or creative energy of the world.

Siva, to whom this cavern temple is said to be dedicated, and who is seen in another compartment with his consort Parvati, with a chaplet of skulls round his neck, eight-handed, and bearing the cobra, and whose name in Sanskrit signifies either happiness or pleasure, is seen in profile on the right. In a hand outstretched from the altar he also grasps a cobra, but with its hood extended wide. In his hand the character of the symbol is transformed with the god into that of the avenger or destroyer. The god's mouth is distorted with grimaces, and he puts out the tip of his tongue, by which, according to our pundit and guide, he mocks at the sensualist, and says as plainly as our Bible, "The wages of sin is death."

On the left side of Maha Dèo is Vishnu, in the grand character of preserver; the head is very noble and the face of no common beauty; it wears a tender and smiling expression. He no longer holds the symbol at once of masculine creative energy and of sensuality, but a peculiar oblong lotos-shaped cup or flower, the higher and purer symbol of maternity. Our pundit gave this wonderful bit of sculpture, which reaches from the low altar to the ceiling of the temple, the name of "Maha Trimourtri, the Great Three-in-One." By some it is called Bhava Natria, "Love threefold." Whatever else it may be called, it certainly makes a wonderful impression seen high above from the principal aisle, guarded on all sides by gigantic and well-proportioned caryatides. The shape of the largest cave is cruciform and resembles the plan of an ancient basilica.

The massiveness and strength of the pillars, which find their deep foundations in the earth below, supporting the elephant-shaped mountain above, is rendered more and more striking by the thousand and one scenes of Hindoo, and particularly Saivic,[8] mythology, in part solemn and majestic, and in part grotesque and absurd, that fill every part of the walls; gods and goddesses, heroes and monsters, almost stand out of the rocks. Here are carved strong and clear the story of the babe Krishna and the slaughter of the infants by his uncle Cansa. Everywhere are curious and venerable specimens of sculpture, which, though shamefully mutilated in parts, still show so high an advance in art, and possess so indescribable an aspect of animated life, that one half expects the stone figures to move or to speak. A great number of the pillars have been undermined by the accumulation of water in the cavern temple; the capitals of some and parts of the shafts of others remain suspended from the ceiling like huge stalactites. Enormous creepers and trees have forced themselves through certain cracks and crevices in the mountain, and the whole scene is very wild and pagan; which enhances the beauty and mysterious appearance of the caves.

On going through a passage guarded by stone lions the pundit took a little tin box out of his pocket, opened it, and scattered some odoriferous snuff on the head of the lions, and then took a little pinch himself. His explanation was, that he had taken cold, and snuff was his remedy for it. "But," said I, "the stone lions haven't taken cold too?"—"Oh, that," said he, "was a propitiatory offering, lest I should sneeze in their sacred presence."

As we went out of the great stone porch the declining sun sent a long line of light through the aisle, the wind blew softly, and the island stretched away green and beautiful, surrounded with the sea all a-glitter with the rosy hues of the setting sun. In many places we noticed traces of color, but everywhere are to be seen the ruthless mutilations this cave has suffered both from the conquering Mohammedan and Portuguese soldiers; most of the colossal statues are defaced and broken, the arms and limbs of innumerable figures are prostrate. Long lines of pictured story and inscriptions are effaced, but there are still standing rows and rows of gods and goddesses, their heads crowned with garlands. These figures, although much defaced, still show that the artist carved some of the female forms with only one breast, like the famed Amazons of Greek story. The temple or city of purification was desecrated centuries ago, and it is now deserted, save for an annual fair and occasional visits from Brahmans and fakeers; it can boast of none of the splendors of its palmy days.

About fifteen miles from "Gorabunder," on the mainland, lies Bassein—or, as it was anciently called, Vassai—once a proud city and the chief seat of the early Portuguese settlers in this part of India. But for nearly three-quarters of a century it has ceased to be inhabited. The city is of considerable size, and surrounded by a regular fortification of rampart and bastions. It is kept locked up under a small body of soldiers and an English conductor of ordnance.

By permission obtained from the authorities at Bombay we spent a very interesting day wandering over this deserted city, its ruined towers, cloisters, convents, monasteries, and churches, that once belonged to the Jesuits, which are here crumbling away unheard of and unnoticed. The only building in good repair is a small pagoda raised over a Mahratta saint amid a display of the most melancholy of ruined houses, churches, and colleges. In the vast jungle-covered cemetery of the dead Portuguese are the tombs of the great Don Lorenço and the famous Albuquerque. In one of the largest of the churches there is a monument to a certain lady, Donna Maria de Souza, of the date of 1606.

Bassein was wrested from the Mahrattas by the Portuguese in 1532 A. D. But the Mahrattas laid siege to it again under the renowned Chinaje Apa, brother of the Peishwa Baji Rao, and after a desperate struggle the Portuguese were forced to capitulate. It is said that the English in Bombay might have saved them this defeat and humiliation, but from a feeling of jealousy of the power and influence of the Portuguese in India refused them all aid, except that of advancing fifteen hundred rupees, for which they took some very valuable church plate and some brass guns, which were actually removed from the defence of Bassein as security. They were finally induced, however, to make some amends for this barbarous treatment of fellow-Christians, and sent boats with a strong escort to convey the refugees to Bombay, whence they started for Goa, but were once more attacked and almost annihilated by the Mahrattas. In 1780 the English attacked, stormed, and captured the city of Bassein once more from the fierce Mahrattas, and have held it ever since, a melancholy monument of the departed greatness of the Portuguese conquerors. Such is the fate of conquering nations. It can hardly be doubted that if the English were now expelled from India the few relics left of their religion, their power, and their civil and military magnificence would be swept rapidly away, and would in the course of a century or two leave not a trace behind them.

FOOTNOTES:

[7] The following extract from Dr. Bird's Caves of Western India may prove interesting to the curious reader:

"The tope (a monument erected over a Buddhist relic, sometimes resembling a pagoda) at Khanari was opened by me in 1839. The largest, being selected for examination, was penetrated from above to the base, which was built of stone. In this tope the workmen found two small copper urns, in one of which were a ruby, a pearl, and a small piece of gold mixed with the ashes. In this urn there was also a small gold box containing a piece of cloth; and in the other ashes (probably of some cremated saint) and a silver box were also found. Outside, a circular stone was found, and to it were fixed two copper plates in the Salh or cave characters. The inscriptions read thus: 'Whatever meritorious acts proceed from cause of these the source Tathagata (Buddha) has declared; the opposing principle of these the great one of golden origin has also demonstrated;' or, in other words, Whatever merit may proceed from these acts, Buddha has explained its source to you, and also the opposite principle of these acts; he has also demonstrated to you the one of golden origin. This discovery establishes the fact that these caves are of Buddhist origin, and probably date from the beginning of the Christian era."

[8] The Saivi Hindoos are those who worship Siva or Shiva, one of the Brahman Trinity, as chief god; the lingam or phallus is sacred to him. Their chief act of worship is performed on the fourteenth night of the dark half of every moon. They fast during the day, and at night repair to their temples, repeat the names of their god—of which there are no less than one thousand, all expressive of certain spiritual and physical qualities, passions, acts, etc.—pour the leaves of the bheel tree, sacred to Shiva, because they are heart-shaped, over the lingam, then rub it with oil, and finally sprinkle it with consecrated water. At the Shivaratri, or the night of Shiva, which falls once a year on a dark night, a fair is held at the caves of Elephanta during the day, and a night-vigil from eight o'clock till five in the morning, accompanied with music, prayer, and other strange ceremonies.

CHAPTER IV.

Sampwallahs, or Serpent-Charmers.—Jâdoowallahs, or Miracle-performers.—Nuzer-bundyânâ, Mesmerizers.—Yogees, Spiritual Jugglers, and Naga-Poojmi, or Serpent-Worship, in India.

Life in the East is altogether so novel, so full of dramatic sights and sounds, that one's curiosity seems to grow with the abundant nourishment it finds everywhere. Now one sees a Mohammedan funeral, or the procession of gorgeous Taboots of Moslems, or gods of the Hindoos; anon the body of a Hindoo or a Parsee borne on an open bier by white-robed priests, the one to be burned, the other to be abandoned to birds of prey in their strange silent "towers of the dead." Sometimes a gay procession of dancing-girls, followed by troops of men and elephants richly caparisoned, waltzing all the way to the temple and keeping time to the pipes, cymbals, and the beating of most discordant drums; at others, a poor funeral of some low-caste person, quiet and unpretending—an open bier, on it perhaps an only child in its every-day soiled garments, followed by women wailing and beating their breasts and throwing dust on their heads. This wailing is inexpressibly mournful. One morning, as I sat at work in my room, there came floating upon the breeze toward the "Aviary" a sharp, penetrating, and very peculiar cry. While I listened there came another and another of these unearthly sounds; again they were repeated, and all at once there appeared in sight a band of half-naked men accompanied by two women and a perfectly nude little child—all so strange and weird-looking that I almost felt the victim of some illusion.

They were a band of sampwallahs, or serpent-charmers, and in rather a bewildered state of mind I watched the gang approach the front of the house and take their places around the doorsteps. Having deposited their bags and baskets, they proceeded to salââm before me. I could not summon resolution to send them away, as my curiosity was gradually getting better of my fears, nor could I bring myself to witness their performance in the absence of my husband. I therefore sent a message to the one who seemed the headman of the band by my "ayah," or maid, to inquire if they would not go away now and return in the afternoon about four o'clock. "Return? Why, what is to prevent us from remaining just where we are until the master comes home?" I could see no just reason save my own fears to have them lounging around my lonely house, and in spite of these concluded to let them stay.

Strange it was to see these, to me almost supernatural men and women, enjoying themselves as naturally and innocently for three or four full hours as did this company of wild serpent-charmers and jugglers. The two women of the party searched for the most delicate and polished pebbles to be found in the gravelled walks of the garden, and entertained themselves by digging holes in the sand and rolling their pebbles with great skill into these, hitting off one with another, and seeming to think it capital sport. Some of the men took some caiah, or cocoanut-fibre, out of their bags and proceeded to twist a rope out of it. Some lighted long pipes and began to smoke quietly, stroking down the cobra de capellos, who would poke their heads from under the baskets by their sides. The boy of the party had a bit of rag spread for him under an adjoining tree, and here he stretched himself at full length to sleep, with a basket of snakes for his pillow. Every now and then the upper lid of this basket seemed to open and a snake would thrust out his head, as if to survey the sleeping boy, then as suddenly withdraw. All the while the beautiful sea gleamed and sparkled and dashed against the rocks in front of the "Aviary," and completed this strange picture.

Native Snake Charmers.

A little after four o'clock my husband arrived, and, seated on the steps of the "Aviary," we witnessed some most astonishing performances. Before beginning his music, and while the women were girding themselves for action, the snake-charmer paid us some very startling and original compliments. All at once, seizing his bagpipe-like instrument and puffing out his polished black cheeks, he produced the same queer melody that I had first heard, with its endless reverberations, creating a strange effect upon one's nerves. The women kept time to these sounds by motions the most gently waving that one could conceive of. When the sounds were low and faint they waved their arms and bent downward in graceful undulating curves; then again, as the sounds began to be shrill and piercing, they raised their arms aloft, turned up their faces to the sky, and, poised on tiptoe, beat a rhythmic movement to the sound. The dance was in itself a wonder of grace and flexibility. But, strangest sight of all, the serpents were equally moved. In raising their heads they had thrown off the covers of the baskets, and presently every snake, large and small—and there were no less than six—had begun to take part in this dance, their eyes glistening, their forked tongues extended, their hoods spread to the utmost; they raised themselves on the abdomen and swayed their heads to and fro, following the movements of the charmers and seemingly ravished with the strange sounds. There was not a doubt in my mind, as I watched the serpents, that they distinguished the varieties of sound, for with every rise and fall of the music they kept time with their inflated hoods and slender forms.

Suddenly the serpent-charmer started to his feet and began a wild circular movement, accompanied with wilder and more energetic sounds, which were reverberated from every rock of the hill. After a few minutes he stood still, and, taking for a moment the instrument from his mouth, uttered a sudden "Ah!" short, sharp, and guttural, and all at once resumed his former movements both of sound and action. We involuntarily turned our eyes in the direction of those of the serpent-charmer, and noticed a slight movement in the grass and brushwood that covered the ground-floor of the "Aviary;" and as we looked the head and neck of a cobra de capello of large size rose above the grass. The strange reptile approached nearer and nearer. He passed with folded hood through the open wirework of the "Aviary." Out of it, he once more unfolded his hood, and, waving it to and fro, looked like one suddenly awakened to some subtle and purely spiritual influence; he leaped rather than crept toward the sound of the charmer; every curve, every change of motion, and every movement of the body betrayed an exquisite apprehension of the peculiar waves of the melody. The serpent, followed by another more slender in proportions, leaped almost into the arms of the charmer, and, swinging their bodies to and fro, both snakes seemed to give themselves up to the enchantment of sound. Very slowly but deliberately the serpent-charmer dropped one hand, and, stooping over the head of the largest serpent, playing all the while, grappled it just under the head by the thumb and forefinger and handed it to one of the men. This done, he proceeded to enchant and capture the smaller snake, which was accomplished in the same way. Then he dropped his instrument, took a curious flint knife out of his bag, and, pressing tightly the windpipe of each of the serpents in turn, cut out the bags containing the poisonous fluid and dropped the deadly reptiles, now rendered for ever harmless, into the bags. This was done in broad daylight, in the open air, where no deception could have been practised.

Some persons have suggested that these two snakes might have been brought by the band and let loose in the "Aviary." Even if this were so, it could not destroy the mystery of the influence which certain sounds evidently exercised over the serpents, who voluntarily returned to captivity even before the poison-bag had been cut out, the removal of which, according to all testimony, renders them harmless and agreeable pets. As far as my observation went, I am inclined to believe that these snakes were perfectly wild till caught by the serpent-charmer.

When I asked him by what power he compelled these snakes to abandon their holes and come out to hear his music, his reply was characteristic. "Asmani ka jore se, Maim Sahib," translated into English, would mean, "By the secret power of the heavenly motions."

The other tricks of the band were very wonderful, but not as absorbing as serpent-charming. They appeared to cause a seed to bud, grow, blossom, and bear fruit in the open air in a short space of time and with but few contrivances. They showed us a mango-seed, which they planted before our eyes in a pot of prepared soil brought with them; this they watered again and again with a peculiar liquid, also in their possession. Each time that there was a positive growth in the tree the round basket which covered it was removed, and our attention called to the fact that it was growing. When the tree had outgrown the basket a large cloth was thrown over it. Finally, it was presented to us full grown, and, though dwarfed in stature, with ripe mangoes hanging from its branches. They invited me to taste the fruit, which I did, and found it decidedly inferior in flavor to the most ordinary mango produced in the natural way. The curious part of this feat is this, that the tree itself, supposing they carried it about with them, had that fresh and vigorous look of active life and growth which it could not possibly retain out of the earth in a hot climate for any length of time without a very delicate and careful knowledge of how to preserve plant-life on the part of these apparently savage jugglers. I have also seen them produce flowers on plants in the same way.

A great many other feats and tricks were performed, such as throwing up a top, and not only catching it on the end of a slender stick, but balancing it on the point of the nose, and causing it, without any new impetus to stop or to go on spinning at the request of the spectator.

Some of the tricks are called nuzzerbund, "blindfolding" or mesmerizing the spectator. A ring is placed in your hand and you are requested to hold the hand tightly between your folded knees, and when you look again you find a little dust. One of these tricks, called khano-nuzzerbund, "ears and eyes bound," is that of a small boy being put into a basket and made to disappear and reappear. Our juggler produced a small basket and beckoned to the boy to get into it, which he did; two of the men then produced instruments that looked like flageolets and began to play, moving round the head of the child. This seemed to have a peculiar effect on the boy, who appeared like one in paroxysms of pain. It was very distressing to witness his convulsions, and even while we looked the child began to disappear in the basket. The moment he was out of sight the musicians seized long knives and fell upon the basket and pierced it with many thrusts, and it seemed certain that the child was not in it, nor could we see him anywhere. Presently they straightened out the basket and resumed their music, when, all at once, from afar the clear answering voice of the child was heard; nearer and nearer came the sound, until the basket swelled and distended, and, lo! there was the boy peering from under the lid serene and smiling.

These jugglers call themselves Jâdoo-wallahs, and are of the same tribe as the Yogees who follow the Mohammedan processions and cut themselves with knives and sharpened flints in order to extract money from the more tender-hearted of the crowds who always frequent such spectacles. The name of Jâdoo-wallah is a corruption of the words Yahdèo-Wallah, "filled with god-power." The common people believe that these powers are bestowed upon them by the gods, and thus do everything and anything in their power to propitiate the goodwill of the Jâdoo-wallahs. As acrobats they far surpass the Europeans. One of the men who performed for us received on his right shoulder, as lightly as if it had been a feather, a heavy weight which was dropped from an over-hanging branch of a tree above.

It was dusk before the jugglers and serpent-charmers finished their astonishing feats and performances. We handed them five rupees, and they were delighted with this liberality, though I had feared they would not think it enough. They departed with the usual benediction, "Both burrus Jeho Sahib loke. Tumarra bucha kè bucha Ingrage kè guddee per bait jowoh" ("Long may you live, gentlefolk, and may your children's children seat themselves on the British throne").

Not long after we had an opportunity of witnessing the grand serpent-festival held in Bombay and other parts of Hindostan in the months of July and August. It is called "the naga-poojmi," literally, "serpent-worship." There are many tribes in India who have assumed the name of Nagas or Serpents from the earliest times. Diodorus supposes that the snake had been used as their crest or banner. There are three kinds of serpent-worship practised in India, and each is peculiar to a distinct class of people, although all the natives of India, except the Mohammedans, either from dread of the deadly serpent or from a feeling of veneration, join in the festival of the naga-poojmi.

The first of these is the worship paid to the serpent by the high-caste Brahmans, who adopted the early serpent-worship from the non-Aryan populations, placing the serpent, as a symbol of the masculine energy of the world, in the hand and sometimes around the head of Brahma, the chief god of their trinity; they adroitly represent that on the day sacred to the serpent, Krishna, their last incarnation, slew the great serpent Kali, who was just in the act of swallowing up the sun and moon. The second is the worship made to the serpent-gods carved in their temples by the non-Aryan and low-caste races of India, by whom the serpent is regarded in the light of a benefactor and friend, and to whom it was at one time customary to offer annually a human victim to propitiate its deadly sting. And, last of all, is the worship paid to it by the professional snake-charmer, to whom the art of taming the serpent has been transmitted from father to son, and in whose eyes the serpent is an oracle of wisdom, the harbinger of all good things, and last, but not least, a means of livelihood to the tribe.

On the last day of the waning moon at the end of July we rode out, accompanied by a party of friends, to the native part of the city, where we were told the chief of the serpent-worshippers were assembled. Here we found an immense throng of men and women gayly dressed, bands of handsome dancing-girls in flowing veils and glittering jewels, and rows of young maidens beautifully attired, with offerings of rice and milk, and some with fruit and flowers tastefully arranged in baskets which they carried on their heads; others with baskets filled with such flowers as serpents are reported to delight in—the champu, the marigold, the water-lily, the tuberose, and quantities of the snake-plant commonly called sampkèmah, "the mother of the serpent." We passed through the crowd and succeeded in reaching the centre of a great maidan, or open plain, where we stood.

Not far off clustered a vast number of serpents, with their charmers and worshippers. Immediately behind this curious assembly was a temple dedicated to the snake-god. From within these walls the lights, kept burning in great numbers, could be seen pale and ghastly amid the daylight, and the sounds of the tomtom and gongs beat in honor of the idol were heard; some noble old peepul trees surrounded the temple. Right in front of the temple were placed great basins containing milk and a preparation of rice and milk called khir, for the serpents. Those, however, that fed out of the basins were mostly all tame; they coiled in and out and round about the worshippers in a careless and easy manner. But farther on, beyond the stone basins and amid flowers and floods of sunshine, women dancing and men and boys singing, might be seen the deadly cobra de capellos now and then inflating their hoods and keeping time to the music.

The Brahman worship of the serpent is characteristic. Regarding the snake purely as a symbol, each priest prepares a clay figure of a cobra and winds it when in a plastic state round a tall pole, the upper part of which is ornamented with a ring, which in its turn typifies the feminine powers of nature.

On the day of the festival thousands of Brahmans, each with his pole thus ornamented, accompanied by musicians and dancing-girls, the former playing on their instruments and the latter keeping time to the music and performing a mystic circular dance, surrounded by half-naked fakeers and gossains, who keep shouting and leaping about, traverse the length and breadth of the native town till they reach their temples. Entering these, they plant their poles in front of the shrine of Siva, after which they make over the clay serpent a wave-offering of fire, pouring over it the oil pressed from the "telah," or sesamum-seed, sacred to the serpent, and repeat the prayer, "Life has sway over all in earth and heaven; protect us as a mother her children; grant us life, prosperity, wisdom," etc.

On this day every Hindoo and Brahman woman places seven wicks in a dish of silver or other metal, fills the dish with telah oil, and at nightfall waves it around the portals and windows of her house. When her husband returns he makes her a present, generally of a scarf, and she then performs a curious and very mysterious rite: placing her hands on her own hip-joints, and touching his with the tips of her fingers, she prostrates herself before him and implores for him, from the god of the day, renewed vigor, health, and strength.

The Nagas, or low-caste serpent-worshippers, assemble with the snake-charmers in open plains, where all the tame snakes in the country are brought together. After having fed these creatures, they offer up prayers, each to his own deity, but mostly to the god Siva, for long life and for protection from its deadly bite, making offerings of the snake-plant, and to the priests of little lamps lighted with one or two wicks for the altars.

The common people in the Hindoo villages also make clay images of the cobra and pray to them. Most of the abandoned characters turn out on the occasion of these festivals, and the night is spent in licentious merriment, music, and song, while the snake-charmers, jugglers, and Yogees obtain large sums of money and presents from the people, who regard them in the light of divine benefactors to their race.

To understand the worship paid to serpents we must remember that the earliest feeling which mankind had of a relation to invisible powers must have been a compound of dread and gratitude, and in the mingling of these emotions dread predominated. The dreaded serpent alone, says Fergusson,[9] without arms or wings or any of the usual appliances of locomotion, still moves with singular celerity and grace; its form is full of elegance, its colors are often very beautiful, its eyes are bright and piercing. A serpent can creep, spring, climb, swim, expand, constrict, suspend itself by the tail, burrow in the ground, and even raise its body almost erect. Its muscular irritability is remarkably great and persistent, depending on its nervous energy. The heart palpitates long after death; the jaws open and shut even when the head is severed from the body; the outer skin is shed more than once, and the ancients believed that by this means the snake renewed its youth. It does not need food for long periods when casting its skin. It often changes color at will, and, above all, its longevity is so great as still to make the superstitious ascribe to it immortality. It makes no nest (except in the case of the python, who hatches her eggs by the heat of her own body); no food is stored for the young, who are born with all powers in full perfection. Then the poison of a serpent is so deadly and subtile that it excites in the heart of the savage the greatest dread and mystery, and even more startling and terrible than the poison of the cobra is the flash-like spring and fascination of the boa constrictor, the instantaneous embrace, the crushed-out life,—all accomplished faster than the human eye can follow. These are the powers that must have impressed the primitive races of the East with dread and terror, and wherever the serpent was found, there he seems to have been propitiated by man with prayers, supplications, and all forms of worship. It is perhaps strange that the serpent in the early period of the worship was not so much dreaded as loved—whether from a feeling that it was not as deadly as it has in its power to be, or for some other reason, it is now impossible to determine. However, in the history of this peculiar religion it is found that in course of time the serpent began to be regarded as the harbinger of good gifts, the teacher of wisdom, the symbol of subtlety, the oracle of the future, and even the healer of all diseases.

All the gods, and even the kings and queens, of the old world are usually represented with serpents coiling about their heads or arms. The Hindoos most probably adopted this symbol of the serpent from the aboriginal populations among whom they settled. "Sanee," the oldest rock-sculpture of the Hindoo "Saturn," the presiding deity of the seventh day of the week, has serpents for her belts or rings. She rides on a raven, a bird of ill omen sacred to her, and no Hindoo will undertake any new enterprise on the day over which she presides. As one wanders through the forests of India one finds that many of the finest trees served as altars to a generation long gone by. Their huge old trunks have been hollowed out and carved in the form of oriel chapels or windows, in the inmost recesses of which may be still traced the faint remains of what was intended to represent the cobra de capello or hooded serpent of India.

Sacred trees have from very early times shared a portion of the homage paid to serpents. It would appear that while the serpent was made to symbolize both the beneficent and dreaded powers of nature, the tree represented man. The wondrous spectacle of a new creation every year, the forest trees gathering their fresh leaves every spring, became to the primitive man a steadfast promise of a similar resurrection, and perhaps caused him to associate the tree with the serpent because of the analogies that exist between them. The one shedding its leaves, the other its skin, their mutual inactivity in winter, their awakening to life in the spring, their longevity, the twig-like form of the serpent, and a last, but not least, important fact is this, that wherever, in India, the deadly serpent is found, there also abounds the mungoose,[10] or snake-plant, with convex flower-clusters and long serpentine roots, possessing the mysterious power to cure the deadly bite of a snake.

Thus, in the course of time, the serpent became an endless writing on the wall, so full was it of mysterious significance and dread to the ancient races of the world. In fact, serpents play an important part in the mythology of every nation of the earth. Even to-day the snake-charmers will tell you that the circles on the head of the cobra de capello are spiritual eyes which enable it to distinguish between good and bad men. If a good man is bitten to death, they account for it by declaring that he must have committed some deadly sin in a former state of existence, hence his punishment in this.

It will not be amiss to conclude this chapter with a mention of some of the symbols for which the serpent stood in ancient times. It stands for the higher and lower forms of the creative energy of nature; for the emblem of evil; for wisdom and subtlety, as we all know, being self-supporting from the moment of birth; for immortality, because of its fabled longevity; for death, for new birth, and resurrection, from its casting its skin and from its awakening in spring from the torpor of winter. In the oldest hieroglyphics the serpent with its tail in its mouth stood for cycles of time, for the horizon, for eternity, and for life to come. Twined around the crown of ancient Oriental kings and queens, it symbolized the fatal sting lurking beneath the power entrusted to them; and bound round the royal sceptre, it typified national life, vigor, and strength.

FOOTNOTES:

[9] See Fergusson's Tree- and Serpent-Worship.

[10] This plant is named after a large rat common in India and called mungoose by the natives. It is said to have a deadly antipathy to snakes of all kinds. It will hunt and destroy them wherever they are found. If, however, the mungoose happens to be bitten by a snake, it is said that it instinctively runs to this plant, gnaws at its roots, and thus cures itself of the poison.

CHAPTER V.

The Parsees, or Fire-Worshippers, of Bombay.—A Visit to a Fire-priest and Astrologer.—His Astral Predictions.—The Gâthas.—Zoroaster.—His Life and Religion.—History of the Settlement of the Parsees in India.

The race which more than others attracted my attention in India was the Parsees in Bombay. As we drove almost daily to or from the fort to Malabar Point, we passed a Fire-temple, and there are also two others in the old fort. These are held very sacred, and none but Parsees are allowed to enter them. The one, however, which stood between the fort and our house was less guarded, by which means it was more accessible to strangers and visitors.

At my earnest request, I was invited by the wife of our Parsee neighbor to witness the worship of this interesting people. It was on the occasion of the "Khurdad-Sal," the anniversary of the birthday of Zoroaster, that I repaired to the above-mentioned Fire-temple. Seeing a large crowd centred about the building, I ventured to peep in, in the hope of seeing my friend. No one paid the slightest attention to me; presently a young Parsee lad came forward and conducted me to a quiet corner, and I found myself the sole spectator of a very curious and interesting worship performed by the Fire-priests alone, with a crowd of Parsee women and children, and some very aged Parsee men scattered here and there among them.

The building was quite small, circular in shape, with a sort of pent roof, small iron-grated windows, and an iron-bound door, which was padlocked the moment the service was over. Under the central arch of the temple was a low altar on which burned a clear bright fire; the smoke had no means of escaping but through the windows, which made the place rather unpleasant to stay in for any length of time. A number of priests clad in simple white robes and quite unadorned fed the sacred fire[11] with the different kinds of precious woods, and while some chanted, passing each his sacred thread through the fingers of his hands, others dropped perfumes and consecrated oil into the Fire.

The Parsee women and children sat or stood around this central fire, most of them beautifully dressed. I was struck with the beauty and nobility of their faces as they worshipped here with their hands folded, their eyes closed, listening reverently to the chants or praying silently to themselves.

A great many silver trays full of fruit, sweetmeats, and white robes were placed on one side, offerings from the women to the Fire-priests.

At the close of the service the entire congregation folded their hands across their breasts, and, having bowed their heads, retired, leaving the priests to heap precious fuel on the sacred fire, so as to preserve it from going out, for which purpose the temple is regularly visited during each day, and the fire is carefully preserved from year to year by certain priests who take turns to perform this most religious duty.

One evening we went to visit, by appointment, one of the oldest Fire-priests in Bombay, who was also a famous astrologer. The appointment was made by our nearest European neighbor on Malabar Hill, a Mr. S——, an Englishman who had lived a long time in India, and one of our intimate friends. Although Mr. S—— was personally acquainted with him, the old priest had declined to receive strangers until prevailed upon to do so by Mr. S——'s Parsee friend and partner in business.

We started about six o'clock in the evening, and after a long drive through the Parsee settlement of the native town and through a crowded and noisy bazaar, our carriage drew up before a high, dilapidated wooden building. The balcony projected into the street, supported by rickety wooden pillars, under which there was a small garden filled chiefly with herbs and plants. Mr. S——, who had often visited the house and was familiar with its ways, led us through the little garden and up a great flight of wooden steps into a corridor or hall, crossing which we at length stood before a very old door which was slightly ajar, through the opening of which a light streamed upon us in the dark passage. Mr. S—— tapped, and a voice feeble and tremulous bade us enter. We did so, and in another moment we were standing side by side with an old Fire-priest, perhaps the oldest in the world. He did not move or speak, or even turn his eyes upon us.

An old Ethiopian servant present pointed to us to be seated on some cushions near by until his master had finished his evening prayer. We silently took our places on the seats and looked on. In the centre of the room, which was woefully shabby and coarsely built, stood a three-legged stand, and on it was a round earthen lamp filled with cocoanut oil and containing depressions at the sides for wicks, of which there were just seven burning. Before it stood the Fire-priest, his dress, a long dingy-looking robe which might once have been white, flowing down to his emaciated feet, which were bare. But as his lips moved in prayer, and his thin dark fingers passed over and over his sacred thread or girdle, that mystic emblem of his faith, there was an indescribable reflection of some unseen interior light on his wan and pallid features; he hardly looked old, so wonderfully was his countenance lit up with a serene and beautiful expression of peace and happiness.

The floor of the room was made of planks roughly hewn and rudely put together. A number of curious old parchments were piled up on one side; pots, earthen lamps, vases, flowers, shawls, carpets, bedding, and a number of embroidered silk cushions lay in seeming confusion about the floor. The Ethiopian attendant, who looked almost as old as his master, grinned at us from his corner, showing plainly that he had lost nearly all his teeth; but no word was spoken.

His prayers over, the aged Fire-priest put off his long robe and dark conical cap, which were replaced by a short gray angraka, or coat, and close-fitting skull-cap, revealing a few locks of long scanty gray hair. He then turned to Mr. S——, took both his hands kindly in his own, and saluted him by raising them to his forehead three times, and then he did the same to us.

After an interval of about an hour or so spent in pleasant conversation, during which we learned that the Dustoor or Fire-priest Bhèjah was a native of Surat, and had come to the island of Bombay about forty years before with his family, every member of whom he had survived save some distant connections still living in Surat, we begged him to read our horoscopes for us.

The old Dustoor rose at once, as if pleased at our request, and with great alacrity led the way through a long narrow passage and up another old wooden staircase into a small chamber open to the sky by a curious contrivance, a sort of trapdoor, which was let down in rainy weather. There was a bench in one corner of this room; in the middle a circular table which revolved on a pivot, painted with curious hieroglyphics, and beside it a three-legged stool. As soon as we had taken our seats on the bench, the Dustoor drew out from under the table a board chequered black and red and a piece of chalk, and, taking the dim horn lantern that stood in a niche in the wall, set it on the table. This done, he turned to me and questioned me very closely in Hindostanee about the day, year, hour, and almost moment, of my birth. All such questions as I had it in my power to reply to he put down in what seemed to me signs and figures in one of the squares on his peculiar black and red board.

This was a work of some time, for every now and then he seemed doubtful of his operations, rubbing out and replacing the signs and figures in new squares. When he had scrawled on the board to his satisfaction he began to compare it with the hieroglyphics on his revolving table, deciphering and studying the stars on each of his tablets with the utmost care. He then turned up his wan face and began to gaze alternately at the bit of sky seen through the open trapdoor and to examine the strange hieroglyphics on the table. The stars presiding at my birth were evidently unpropitious. He foretold for me many deaths among relations and friends, long and cruel separations by strange seas and oceans being placed between my friends and me; softening it off, however, by predicting a long life, a happy old age, and a numerous progeny of grand- and great-grandchildren; which, indeed, are the chief sources of happiness in the Parsee household.

He then foretold my husband's future, which was even less auspicious, saying that a great shadow of one of the planets would cross his path in middle life, which if he survived he would live to a good old age, etc., etc.

It was not what the old astrologer and Fire-priest said so much as his perfect faith in his own rendering of the position of the stars that most impressed me. The floating locks of gray hair, the serious brow, the deep, thoughtful, contemplative look on that face, were all very striking: his head full of the mystery of the stars and his heart ever revolving the secret destiny of human life were as strange and marked as any of the many lives whose future he believed he could so easily decipher.

In the Zend-Avesta—or, more properly, the Avesta-Zand—the religious books of the Parsees, we find the Gâthas, or sacred hymns, of the ancient Fire-priests, and these in their turn may be traced directly to the Rig Vèdas, the oldest of the Aryan Scriptures, a collection of a thousand hymns, more or less, called "Mantras," or Mind-born songs, composed and recited by various priests and poets, the earliest of whom lived about three thousand, and the latest not far from twenty-six hundred, years ago. These hymns, some of which are very beautiful, composed and sung long before the Aryans left their home in the Hindoo Kush[12] Mountains, were inspired by its soaring mountains—"roofs of the world," as they called them—capped with snow, clear blue skies, and by the rushing waters leaping in gladness out of the heart of the hills.

"They found the mountains ever near mighty to defend them, the lakes and rivers eager to serve them."[13] "Sparkling bright with mighty splendor, she carries the clouds across the plains; the unconquered Sindhui, Indus, the quickest of the quick, like a beautiful mare, a sight to see; by their swiftness, depth, as well as by the sweetness of their waters; the birds by their delicious warbling; the winds by the fragrant dust of flowers which they bore along on their invisible wings, the clouds by their refreshing shadows."

Light, as seen in the sun, moon, and stars, dawn and sunrise, fire in all its mysterious forms—the spark struck from the flint, the fire that burned their oblations, the holy flames that were lighted on the domestic hearth—became their earliest objects of worship. These they celebrate in the Rig Vèda, and in these they saw, with their deep intuitive insight, thousands of years ago, an "all-productive cosmic energy."

Thus, the simple act of rubbing two dried pieces of wood together in order to obtain fire became a religious ceremony, and the tiny flint which served to kindle fire became their first idol, and gave those ancient Aryans the first hint of the wonderous power of heat, at once their god, the ministering angel of their lives, and their first step toward civilization.

This vital fire of the universe, with every upward dart of flame issuing out of the cold, hard rock, starting out of dried wood, streaming in jets spontaneously out of the heart of the earth itself, and flaming luridly from mountain-tops, was an object so full of mystery, so potent, ever present, even when invisible, ever within call, lurking in the rock and air, water and tree, waiting to be called into life, vanishing at a breath, naturally became the highest symbol of the unseen to those primitive worshippers of nature.

The early Aryan priest, who was to his race what our poets and thinkers are to us to-day, on awakening at dawn turned his face to the east, and, waiting for the light, cried, "Arise! arise! the breath of our life has come, the darkness has fled." The fire had to be kindled by men. "She, the Dawn, brought us light by striking down darkness.—Shine for us with thy best rays, O thou bright Dawn! thou who lengthenest our lives, thou beloved of all, thou mother of the morning clouds, leader of the days, gold-colored and lovely to behold!" When the sun at last climbed the mountain-tops and shone upon his worshipper, he sang a deeper hymn of joy to the Creator: "In the beginning there arose the source of golden light. He was the first-born lord of all that is. He established the earth and the sky. He gives us life, he gives us strength—whose shadow is immortality, whose absence is death—he who through his power is the only king of this breathing and awakening world."[14]

These songs were not only sung, but transmitted from father to son, long before the age of a written alphabet, as a sacred, inviolable inheritance, preserved from century to century in the religious memory of the Aryan priest, even as they were recited to us evening after evening at the "Aviary" by our modern pundit without book or notes or text.

The pictures these songs present of the deep religious and poetic fervor of the early Aryans, both before and after their descent into the plains of India, of their pastoral and agricultural life, divided into separate and distinct classes, as priest, king, shepherd, warrior, and tiller of the soil, are in themselves the most comprehensive and valuable of historical records.

The first and most important fact to be found in the study of these hymns is that every home, every dwelling, has its own altar, which is the family hearth, called the "dâdgâh" by the Fire-worshippers—that "holy of holies" of which father and mother were priest and priestess. This fire is the ancient "avesta," to which were attached three mystical interpretations—first, "womanly purity;" second, the "inviolability of the family;" and third, "the sacredness attached to the mother as the transmitter of human life."

There is no doubt that from the Assyrians, Chaldeans, and the early Iranians, who were then one with the purer Hindoos of to-day, this worship of nature, and especially of fire in its triple significance, was propagated southward among the Egyptians, westward among the Greeks, and by them introduced into Italy.

The Greeks met together to worship in their Prytaneia. Here they consulted together for the public good, and there was a constant fire burning on the altar, which was called "vesta." The Vestal Virgins of the Romans had their origin in the same idea. Many of the oldest and some of the most modern usages still to be found among the Parsees, Hindoos, Jews, Greeks, Mohammedans, and Roman Catholics bear reference to this early worship of the "household fire," and many of the problems, puzzles, and contradictions that are found in the religious symbols of the world stand clear and evident when submitted to this light.

The word "Light" is used in the New Testament as the highest symbol of Christ—"the Light of the world," "the Light that lighteth every man who cometh into the world." Every instance also of God's acceptance of sacrifice and prayer in the Old Testament is made evident to the people through the medium of fire, as seen in the case of David, in the dedication of Solomon's temple, and when Elijah demanded that extraordinary proof from Jehovah that Baal was not God. From Genesis to the Revelation, from the first offerings of Cain and Abel to "the city that had no need of a sun, neither of the moon, to shine in it, for the glory of the Lord did lighten it and the Lamb is the light thereof," this symbol of light is the dearest to the human heart, and ever recurring and conspicuous as the fittest and purest to be applied to the Deity.

It is as a symbol, not as a material element, that the worshippers of fire have clung to it through all times; and their adherence and tenacity are all the more remarkable when we consider the changes that have passed over all primitive institutions. We ourselves have had a succession of different religions and gods—the divinities of the Phœnicians, then those of the Greeks and Romans, which superseded the terrible gods of the Norsemen and the aboriginal deities of the Druids, our ancestors. All these in time have given place to the sublime teachings of Christ. Our religious forms are changing even to-day as religious convictions become wider, deeper, and more comprehensive than ever.

But the Parsees, those ancient Sun- and Fire-worshippers, still offer up their prayers in the old Pehlevi—a language which is the elder sister of the ancient Sanskrit—in which the Zend-Avesta, the sacred books of the Zoroastrians, are written, and older by far than the cuneiform inscriptions of Cyrus, Darius, and Xerxes;[15] still wear the same old conical cap in the form of ascending flame, preserved in the shape of the bishop's mitre in the Christian symbolic dress; still adhere to the rites, ceremonies, manners, and customs peculiar to their earliest fathers, invoking the invisible fire upon which they called centuries before the building of the temple of Solomon.

The race has survived the destruction of Babylon and Assyria—outlived the beautiful gods of the Greeks, who beat them down by land and sea. It has persistently overcome the hatred and persecution of the Scythian and Tartar hordes, the rage and fury of the Moslems, the intolerance and prejudice of all sects and nations, and, strange to say, even when placed between the currents of new ideas, which ceaselessly move and transform those around them, the Fire-worshipper, like the Jew, stands alone, as if he were beyond time and above change.

From the time of Xerxes, four hundred and eighty-six years B. C., we have to date the decline of the Persian empire. Even the old heroic name of Iran—Ayiran, from the Sanskrit Ariya, "the noble"—has passed away for the word Persia, which, whether we apply it to the country, to the people, or to the language, is a misnomer. Pars, or Fars, is only a province of the great empire of "Iran." It was owing to the fact that the language of its chief city, Shiraz, was considered the most elegant and fashionable speech of the Iranians that the name of the province Pars was gradually used to distinguish the people, the entire country, and the language.

To the ancient world Zoroastrianism was known by the name of "Mazdasnah" or "Mazdayasnah," the doctrine of "universal knowledge." It was revealed by the "Pure Spirit," called also the "Excellent Word," pure, efficacious—"the word that Zoroaster has conveyed to men," which is the "Good Law." The priests were called Madhi, or middlemen, go-betweens, corrupted into Magi, which name is very commonly applied to the priests of the Zoroastrian religion by the Greek authors, beginning with Herodotus, who had travelled in Media and confounded the name of the priests of Magism and the Median religion with that of Zoroastrianism.

It is impossible to fix exactly the era when the great reformer Zarathustra—"splendor of gold"—lived. The Greek and Roman historians make him very ancient. Xanthos of Lydia, 470 B. C., the first Greek writer who mentions Zoroaster, is convinced that he must have flourished about six hundred years before the Trojan war. Aristotle and Eudoxus place his era even earlier. Berosus, the Chaldean priest and historian, who translated the history of his native country, Babylonia, into the Greek language, and dedicated the work to Antiochus, one of the Greek kings of Syria, makes him a king, or rather founder of a dynasty which reigned over Babylon between 2200 and 2000 B. C.[16] The Fire-worshippers hold that their great priest and reformer lived about five hundred and fifty years B. C. They identify him with the great Kavan-Vistaspa of the Zend-Avesta, called Khai Gustasp in the Shahnamah.[17] But it is very evident that even the ancient Persians themselves were very uncertain as to who this Kavan Vistaspa was. It is clear, however, that Darius's father, who was also named Vistaspa, and the Kavan-Vistaspa of the Zend-Avesta and the Shahnamah, were entirely distinct persons.

There is very little doubt that this confusion of opinions is owing to the similarity of names. A very common habit even in India to-day is to name persons after heroic kings, great priests, or even after the gods, without any mark being added to distinguish them in after years; and when any period of time has elapsed it is almost impossible to separate the personality of the father from the son, or the disciple from the teacher, or the priest from the god. Zoroaster, or rather "Zara Thustra," means illustrious like gold, or, in another sense, simply high priest; and this being taken afterward as the proper name of the celebrated priest and reformer of ancient Iran, gave rise to the endless confusion of dates and opinions which has always prevailed with regard to the age in which he lived.

There is, however, internal evidence in the language and religion which he reformed that he lived at a very early age, and there are many traces of his great antiquity in the Zend-Avesta itself. First, that he stands at the head of the extensive Zend literature,[18] which must have required centuries for its growth, and which was already in a state of perfection when Buddha, the founder of Buddhism, was born, from four to five hundred years before Christ; and secondly, that he is expressly called Aryana Veèdgo, "the celebrated one," in the Aryan home whence the Aryans, now called Hindoos, emigrated in times immemorial. This title, Martin Haug justly observes, would not have been given him had his followers not believed him living at that early time. Under no circumstance can we assign to him a later date than the year 1000 B. C.

The causes which led to the schism between the early Fire-worshippers may be readily learned from the Zend-Avesta, where the gods of the dissenters are called "dèvas" (to whence our word devil) by the orthodox "Soshyantos," or Fire-priests. It was a vital and successful struggle against that form of the early religion which inclined to Brahmanism, and later to open idolatry. Thus, for instance, the Vèdic gods Aditya, Mitra, Varuna, and Indra became the devils of the Zoroastrian religion; and this struggle must have taken place when Indra was declared the chief of the gods by a large portion of the Aryans, before they had immigrated into Hindostan proper. In the later period of Vèdic literature we find Indra at the head of the gods; then in the great epics, the Mahâbhárata and Râmayâna, he gives place to the Trimourtri, Brahma, Vishnu, and Siva. A compromise was thus effected between the esoteric doctrine of the metaphysicians and the common forms of worship, giving rise to what was henceforth to constitute the orthodox system of belief of the Brahmanic caste. The Vèdic pantheon, however, is not altogether discarded in the Zend-Avesta; the existence of the old gods is recognized, but in a very different way from that of the mysterious triple divinity which represents not only the eternal, infinite soul, but Brahma himself in his active relation to mundane occurrences; and moreover, as the Trimourtri is never alluded to in the Zend-Avesta, where most of the other Vèdic gods are named, we are obliged to fix the religious struggle at a much earlier date than that assigned to the Indian poems.

The only source whence we derive anything like reliable historical facts, and those of the most meagre kind, respecting this great reformer Zoroaster, is in the Yasnahs, where he is distinguished by his family name S'pitama. His father's name was Poorooshaspa. Of his children, only his son S'pitama and his daughter Poroochista are mentioned. In these fragments, rather than books, he appears to us as a real man, earnest, strong, and true, just and generous in every act of his life, taking a prominent part in the history of his country and the welfare of his fellow-creatures. It was he who struck a deathblow to the idolatrous practices that had crept in among the Fire-priests—who established in his own country a new community, governed by new laws; he called upon every man to take his part in the battle between good and evil, adding the firm assurance that good will always prevail. In his own works he calls himself a "Dutah"—i. e. "a messenger"—sent by the great Ahura-Mazda. His ideal of home, of father and mother living together under one roof in freedom and love and unity, cemented by a supreme and unalterable bond of love and friendship, has never yet been equalled save by Christianity.

This remarkable reformer, according to the Yasnahs, was born in the sacerdotal city of Ragha, near Teheran, the capital of Persia. His father was an aged priest named Poorooshaspa, a man noted for his purity of life. Like all such histories, his birth was miraculously ordained.[19] One evening as Poorooshaspa and Dhogdha his wife, a childless old couple, were praying in a lonely place, the atmosphere around them became suddenly luminous. They looked up, and saw a form of exquisite beauty standing in the midst of a bright cloud, and as they gazed upon this beautiful vision there was handed to them a cup fashioned out of an amethyst filled with the wine of heaven. "Drink this," said the angel, "and renew your youth, for Ahura-Mazda has chosen you to bring a savior into the world." Having drank the wine, they became the parents of one son, S'pitama.

It is related that the ruler of the city of Ragha sought to destroy the child; at his command he was snatched from his mother's arms and thrown into a narrow lane where cattle passed, in the hope that they might tread him to death; but, lo! in the evening a sensible and motherly cow brought him on her horns to his weeping, disconsolate mother. Then again, by the order of the same cruel governor, he was cast into a blazing fire; but he lay there unscathed, smiling so serenely upon his persecutors that they were at once converted into friends. In fact, every attempt made by enemies to destroy the infant is said to have been arrested by divine agency. At last the child was permitted to grow up unmolested with his friends and relatives, who were among his earliest followers.

Zoroaster did not so much reveal a new religion as reform the old Fire-worship of his country. He abolished stone images, necromancy, magic, witchcraft, all of which were identified with the worship of fire. He investigated astrology, and confirmed its practices as true and elevating. He inspired the old materialistic teaching of the Fire-priests with a new and more spiritual meaning. He made war on the idolatrous practices of his fellow-men, and banished from Iran all who still bowed down before wood and stone. At the age of thirty he completed a new code of laws, and also the Zend-Avesta, with the Izeshnee, a still more sacred book. He distinctly recognized, above and beyond all manifestations of sun, light, or fire, a purer, higher, unconditioned Being.[20] When moved by deepest awe he bowed his head and reverently called this Being "the Truth of the Truth, the Wisdom of the Wise, the Purity of the Pure." So also in his famous prayer of one-and-twenty words, "The world is produced, and all that is good in thought, word, and deed, because of the Truth."

The problem of the origin of evil, the most difficult to be solved, seems to have been constantly before his mind. It seemed to him impossible that the Truth, whom he conceived to be eternally pure, good, just, and perfect, had created evil. The ancient Aryans attributed the struggles in the physical world around them to the strife between good and evil; Zoroaster seized this idea, applied it with the deepest emphasis to the moral and spiritual world, and it became the basis of his system of dualism. Together with Ahura-Mazda, the good principle, he admitted the existence of an evil principle or spirit equal in power and of a similar nature[21]—Angra Mainyus; in Persian Ahriman. This spirit is the author of all moral and physical evil, sin, disease, suffering, and death.

All things, created by Ahura-Mazda pronouncing the creating, pre-existing word "Honover," were pure, perfect, and beautiful as himself until spoiled by the evil influence of Ahriman. And though Ahriman, like Ahura-Mazda, has been eternal and self-existing in the past, Zoroaster declares that a day will come when three great prophets will arise, Ukhsyad-eremah, "the increasing Light," Ukhsyad-eretah, "the increasing Truth," Açtvad-ereta, "self-existent Truth," who will convert all mankind; everything created will become as pure as on the first day when it issued from the breath of the "Wisest of all Intelligence," and Ahriman will be destroyed and disappear for ever.

Such is the real doctrine of Zoroaster, while the hymns of the Zend-Avesta glow and burn with the assurance of the mystic and essential life of the soul with the spiritual essence of all pure thought. The pure heavens are like light; thought is likened to a drop of pure light, and the departing spirit has a sunbeam for its guide to conduct it to immortal light.

In the Gâthas, or Songs, he says: "God appears in the best thought, the truest speech, and the sincerest action. He gives through his pure spirit health, prosperity, devotion" (which, more properly translated, ought to be "love"), "and eternity to this universe. He is the Father of all truth and the Mother of all tenderness."

It is very remarkable that the early Aryans looked upon disease, deformity, and weakness in the same light that we are apt to regard the depraved and vicious. Health was the first and greatest boon, the gift they supplicated most earnestly from heaven. Health first, then immortality. They seemed to loathe consumption and scrofula, and many of their most energetic prayers are supplications to the Deity to be preserved "from this hateful indwelling sin," as they termed it. Their laws for the happy treatment of women, especially in certain conditions of health, of which I shall treat in the chapter on their domestic life, is full of that reverence for her health and happiness, as well as those of her offspring, which is seen to penetrate the whole life of the Fire-worshipper, passing as it did in the course of time into a rigid etiquette. Stern as it is, it is infinitely better than the careless indifference with which the mother, "the transmitter of human life," is so often regarded among us.

In the Zend-Avesta we find a moral code almost as perfect as our own, with rather a singular account of the creation. In one of the books, called "Desater," it would seem all animals being created except man, the dog was dreadfully lonely, and that man was created only out of compassion for him; and no sooner was man formed than all the animals, save the dog, broke out into open rebellion against the Great Spirit for having favored man with speech, reason, and immortality.

As in Genesis, so in the Desater, the Great Spirit brought the animals to Gelshadèng and made them subject to him, and he it was who divided them into seven classes. There is a curious dialogue that passed between the seven great sages of Persia and the seven different animals, and the reasons given why some are made fierce, others harmless, and yet others beneficent. In some passages great veneration is expressed for the cow, and great aversion to some animals, and to the human corpse; this is not permitted either to find a resting-place in the earth or in the fire, because of the sacredness of both these elements; and it is commanded that it be abandoned to birds of prey or to absorption by the air in enclosures set apart for the purpose.

However, in spite of many things that seem childish and absurd in their books (the unprejudiced student is not always certain that the right meaning of the text has been rendered, for the language is full of difficulties), yet so much is clear: that the "Gâthas" are very beautiful hymns and full of true religious feeling. They are addressed to the household fire, to the sun, moon, and stars, to the spirit of the hills, mountains, trees, birds, and flowers, to the earth, air, and sea. The earth is often called the "infinite, the all-nourishing cow," and the sun is consequently, by the same figure, designated "the fiery-winged one, the immortal bull."

Then there are prayers and songs to the spirits of the righteous dead, to the seven high angels around the throne, the planets then known. The most spiritual are those addressed to Ahura-Mazda, "the Everlasting Light," who is described as an ineffable Being, full of brightness and glory. Zoroaster discovers God in the eternal invisible Fire. His wonder and joy over the first kindling of the flame arose from the spiritual symbolism that interpreted all nature to him. In it he recognizes the type of the immortal Light and the spiritual resurrection of the soul. Thrilling with religious fervor, he bows before the radiant light as the most subtle and all-dissolving element, and in feeling its mystery acknowledges the mystery of God, its Supreme Creator.