Ahabitatso peculiar as the desert must produce a life as peculiar. It is of necessity a lonely life. The dweller in tents is a solitary man, without any fixed ties, or local habitation. Whoever lives on the desert must live alone, or with few companions, for there is nothing to support existence. It must be also a nomadic life. If the Arab camps, with his flocks and herds, in some green spot beside a spring, yet it is only for a few days, for in that time his sheep and cattle have consumed the scanty herbage, and he must move on to some new resting-place. Thus the life of the desert is a life always in motion. The desert has no settled population, no towns or villages, where men are born, and grow up, and live and die. Its only "inhabitants" are "strangers and pilgrims," that come alone or in caravans, and pitch their tents, and tarry for a night, and are gone.
Such a life induces peculiar habits, and breeds a peculiar class of virtues and vices. Nomadic tribes are almost always robbers, for they have to fight for existence, and it is a desperate struggle. But, on the other hand, their solitary life as well as the command of the prophet, has taught them the virtue of hospitality. Living alone, they feel at times the sore need of the presence of their kind, and welcome the companionship even of strangers. An Arab sheik may live by preying on travellers, but if a wanderer on the desert approaches his tent and asks shelter and protection, he gives it freely. Even though the old chief be a robber, the stranger sleeps in peace and safety, and his entertainer is rewarded by the comfort of seeing a human face and hearing a human voice.
To traverse spaces so vast and so desolate would not be possible were it not for that faithful beast of burden which nature has provided. Horses may be used by the Bedouins on their marauding expeditions, but they keep near the borders of the desert, where they can make a dash and fly; but on the long journey across the Great Sahara, by which the outer world communicates with the interior of Africa, no beast could live but the camel, which is truly the ship of the desert. Paley might find an argument for design in the peculiar structure of the camel for its purpose; in its stomach, that can carry water for days, and its foot, which is not small like that of the horse, but broad, to keep the huge animal from sinking in the sands. It serves as a snow-shoe, and bears up both the beast and his rider. Then it is not hard like a horse's hoof, that rings so sharp on the pavement, but soft almost like a lion's paw. And tall as the creature is, he moves with a swinging gait, that is not unpleasant to one accustomed to it, and as he comes down on his soft foot, the Arab mother sits at ease, and her child is lulled to rest almost as if rocked in a cradle.
Thus moving on in these slow and endless marches, what so natural as that the camel-riders should beguile their solitude with song? The lonely heart relieves itself by pouring its loves and its sorrows into the air; and hence come those Arabian melodies, so wild and plaintive and tender, which constitute the music of the desert. Some years since a symphony was produced in Paris, called "The Desert," which created a great sensation, deriving its peculiar charm from its unlikeness to European music. It awakened, as it were, a new sense in those who had been listening all their lives to French and German operas. It seemed to tell—as music only tells—the story of the life of the desert. In listening one could almost see the boundless plain, broken only by the caravan, moving slowly across the waste. He could almost "feel the silence" of that vast solitude, and then faintly in the distancewas heard the tinkling of the camel-bells, and the song of the desert rose upon the evening air, as softly as if cloistered nuns were singing their vesper hymns. The novel conception took the fancy of the pleasure seekers of Paris, always eager for a new sensation. The symphony made the fame of the composer, Felicien David, who was thought to have shown a very original genius in the composition of melodies, such as Europe had not heard before. The secret was not discovered until some French travellers in the East, crossing the desert, heard the camel-drivers singing and at once recognized the airs that had so taken the enthusiasm of Paris. They were the songs of the Arabs. The music was born on the desert, and produced such an effect precisely because it was the outburst of a passionate nature brooding in solitude.
Music and poetry go together: the life that produces the one produces the other also. And as there is a music of the desert, so there is a poetry of the desert. Indeed the desert may be almost said to have been the birthplace of poetry. The Book of Job, the oldest poem in the world, older than Homer, and grander than any uninspired composition, was probably written in Arabia, and is full of the imagery of the desert.
But while the mind carols lightly in poetry and music, its deeper musings take the form of Religion. It is easy to see how the life of the desert must act upon a thoughtful and "naturally religious" mind. The absence of outward objects throws it back upon itself; and it broods over the great mystery of existence. Coleridge's Ancient Mariner, when he was
"Alone on the wide, wide sea,"
"Alone on the wide, wide sea,"
found that
"So lonely 'twas that God himselfScarce seemèd there to be."
"So lonely 'twas that God himself
Scarce seemèd there to be."
But in the desert one may say there is nothing but God. If there is little of earth, there is much of heaven. The glory ofthe desert is at night, when the full moon rises out of the level plain, as out of the sea, and walks the unclouded firmament. And when she retires, then all the heavenly host come forth. The atmosphere is of such exquisite purity, that the stars shine with all their splendor. No vapor rises from the earth, no exhalation obscures the firmament, which seems all aglow with the celestial fires. It was such a sight that kindled the mind of Job, as he looked up from the Arabian deserts three thousand years ago, and saw Orion and the Pleiades keeping their endless march; and as led him to sing of the time "when the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy."
Is it strange that God should choose such a vast and silent temple as this for the education of those whom He would set apart for his own service? Here the Israelites were led apart to receive the law from the immediate presence of God. The desert was their school, the place of their national education. It separated them from their own history. It drew a long track between them and the bitter past. It was a fit introduction to their new life and their new religion, as to their new country.
In such solitudes God has had the most direct communion with the individual soul. It was in the desert that Moses hid himself in a cleft of the rock while the Lord passed by; that the Lord answered Job out of the whirlwind; and from it that John the Baptist came forth, as the voice of one crying in the wilderness.
So in later ages holy men who wished to shun the temptations of cities, that they might lead lives of meditation and prayer, fled to the desert, that they might forget the world and live for God alone. This was one of the favorite retreats of Monasticism in the early Christian centuries. The tombs of the Thebaïd were filled with monks. Convents were built on the cliffs of Mount Sinai that remain to this day.
We do not feel the need of such seclusion and separationfrom the world, but this passing over the desert sets the mind at work and supplies a theme for religious meditation. Is not life a desert, where, as on the sea, all paths are lost, and the traveller can only keep his course by observations on the stars? And are we not all pilgrims? Do we not all belong to that slow moving caravan, that marches steadily across the waste and disappears in the horizon? Can we not help some poor wanderer who may be lonely and friendless, or who may have faltered by the way; or guide another, if it be only to go before him, and leave our footprints in the sands, that
"A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,Seeing may take heart again?"
"A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing may take heart again?"
ON THE RED SEA AND THE INDIAN OCEAN.
Suez lies between the desert and the sea, and is the point of departure both for ships and caravans. But the great canal to which it gives its name, has not returned the favor by giving it prosperity. Indeed the country through which it passes derives little benefit from its construction. Before it was opened, Egypt was on the overland route to India, from which it derived a large revenue. All passengers had to disembark at Alexandria and cross by railroad to Suez; while freight had to be unshipped at the one city and reshipped at the other, and thus pay tribute to both. Now ships pass directly from the Mediterranean into the canal, and from the canal into the Red Sea, so that the Englishman who embarks at Southampton, need not set his foot on the soil of Egypt. Thus it is not Egypt but England that profits by the opening of the Suez Canal; while Egypt really suffers by the completion of a work which is of immense benefit to the commerce of the world.
Though the Suez Canal is an achievement of modern times, yet the idea is not modern, nor indeed the first execution. It was projected from almost the earliest period of history, and was begun under the Pharaohs, and was at one time completed, though not, as now, solely for the passage of ships, but also as a defence, a gigantic moat, which might serve as a barrier against invasions from Asia.
There is nothing in Suez to detain a traveller, and with the morning we were sailing out in one of the native boats, before a light wind, to the great ship lying in the harbor, which was to take us to India. We had, indeed, a foretaste, or rather foresight, of what we were soon to look upon in the farthest East, as we saw some huge elephants moving along the quay; but these were not familiar inhabitants, but had just been disembarked from a ship arrived only the day before from Bombay—a present from the Viceroy of India to the Viceroy of Egypt.
Once on board ship I was as in mine own country, for now, for the first time in many months, did I hear constantly the English language. We had been so long in Europe, and heard French, German, Italian, Greek and Turkish; and Arabic in Egypt; that at first I started to hear my own mother tongue. I could not at once get accustomed to it, but called to the waiter "garçon," and was much surprised that he answered in English. But it was very pleasant to come back to the speech of my childhood. Henceforth English will carry me around the globe. It is the language of the sea, and of "the ends of the earth;" and it seems almost as if the good time were coming when the whole earth should be of one language and of one speech.
And now we are on the Red Sea, one of the historical seas of the world. Not far below the town of Suez is supposed to be the spot where the Israelites were hemmed in between the mountains and the sea; where Moses bade the waves divide, and the fleeing host rushed in between the uplifted walls, feeling that, if they perished, the waters were more merciful than their oppressors; while behind them came the chariots of their pursuers.
It was long before we lost sight of Egypt. On our right was the Egyptian coast, still in view, though growing dimmer on the horizon; and as we sat on deck at evening the gorgeous sunsets flamed over those shores, as they didon the Nile, as if reluctant to leave the scene of so much glory.
On the other side of the sea stretched the Peninsula of Sinai, with its range of rugged mountains, among which the eye sought the awful summit from which God gave the law.
This eastern side of the Red Sea has been the birthplace of religions. Half way down the coast is Jhidda, the port of Mecca. Thus Islam was born not far from the birthplace of Judaism, of which in many features it is a close imitation.
I have asked many times, What gave the name to the Red Sea? Certainly it is not the color of the water, which is blue as the sea anywhere. It is said that there is a phosphorescent glow, given by a marine insect, which at night causes the waters to sparkle with a faint red light. Others say it is from the shores, which being the borders of the desert, have its general sandy red, or yellow, appearance. I remember years ago, when sailing along the southern coast of Wales, a gentleman, pointing to some red-banked hills, said they reminded him of the shores of the Red Sea.
But whether they have given it its name or not, these surrounding deserts have undoubtedly given it its extreme heat, from which it has become famous as "the hottest place in the world." The wind blowing off from these burning sands, scorches like a sirocco; nor is the heat much tempered by the coolness of the sea—for indeed the water itself becomes heated to such a degree as to be a serious impediment to the rapid condensation of steam.
We began to feel the heat immediately after leaving Suez. The very next day officers of the ship appeared in white linen pantaloons, which seemed to me a little out of season; but I soon found that they were wiser than I, especially as the heat increased from day to day as we got more into the tropics. Then, to confess the truth, they sometimes appearedon deck in the early morning in the most negligé attire. At first I was a little shocked to see, not only officers of the ship, but officers of the army, of high rank, coming on deck after their baths barefoot; but I soon came to understand how they should be eager, when they were almost burning with fever, to be relieved of even the slightest addition to weight or warmth. In the cabin,punkas, long screens, were hung over the tables, and kept swinging all day long. The deck was hung with double awnings to keep off the sun; and here the "old Indians" who had made this voyage before, and knew how to take their comfort in the hot climate, were generally stretched out in their reclining bamboo-chairs, with a cigar in one hand and a novel in the other.
The common work of the ship was done by Lascars, from India, as they can stand the heat much better than English sailors. They are docile and obedient, and under the training of English officers make excellent seamen.
But we must not complain, for they tell us our voyage has been a very cool one. The thermometer has never been above 88 degrees, which however, considering that this ismidwinter, is doing pretty well!
If such be the heat in January, what must it be in July? Then it is fairly blistering; the thermometer rises to 110 and 112 degrees in the shade; men stripped of clothing to barely a garment to cover them, are panting with the heat; driven from the deck, they retreat to the lower part of the ship, to find a place to breathe; sometimes in despair, the captain tells me, they turn the ship about, and steam a few miles in the opposite direction, to get a breath of air; and yet, with all precautions, he adds that it is not an infrequent thing, that passengers overpowered sink under a sunstroke or apoplexy.
Such heat would make the voyage to India one of real suffering, and of serious exposure, were it not for the admirableships in which it can be made. But these of the Peninsular and Oriental company are about as perfect as anything that swims the seas. We were fortunate in hitting upon the largest and best of the fleet, the Peshawur. Accustomed as we have been of late to the smaller steamers on the Mediterranean, she seems of enormous bulk, and is of great strength as well as size; and being intended for hot climates, is constructed especially for coolness and ventilation. The state-rooms are much larger than in most sea-going steamers, and though intended for three persons, as the ship was not crowded (there were berths for 170 passengers, while we had but 34, just one-fifth the full complement) we had each a whole state-room to ourselves. There were bath-rooms in ample supply, and we took our baths every morning as regularly as on land.
On the Peshawur, as on all English ships, the order and discipline were admirable. Every man knew his place, and attended to his duty. Everything was done silently, and yet so regularly that one felt that there was a sharp eye in every corner of the ship; that there was a vigilant watch night and day, and this gave us such a sense of safety, that we lay down and rose up with a feeling of perfect security.
Besides, the officers, from the captain down, not only took good care for the safety of our lives, but did everything for our comfort. They tried to make us feel at home, and were never so well pleased as when they saw us all pleasantly occupied; some enjoying games, and others listening to music, when some amateur was playing on the piano, at times accompanied by a dozen manly and womanly voices. Music at sea helps greatly to beguile the tedium of a voyage. Often the piano was brought on deck, at which an extemporized choir practised the hymns for public service; among which there was one that always recurred, and that none can forget:
"Eternal Father, strong to save,Whose arm hath bound the restless wave,Who bid'st the mighty ocean deepIts own appointed limits keep:Oh, hear us when we cry to TheeFor those in peril on the sea."
"Eternal Father, strong to save,
Whose arm hath bound the restless wave,
Who bid'st the mighty ocean deep
Its own appointed limits keep:
Oh, hear us when we cry to Thee
For those in peril on the sea."
And when the Sunday morning came and the same prayers were read which they had been accustomed to hear in England, many who listened felt that, whatever oceans they might cross, here was a tie that bound them to their island home, and to the religion of their fathers.
On the morning of the sixth day we passed the island of Perim, which guards the Gates of the Red Sea, and during the day passed many islands, and were in full sight of the Arabian coast, and at the evening touched at Aden. Here the heat reaches the superlative. In going down the Red Sea, one may use all degrees of comparison—hot, hotter, hottest—and the last is Aden. It is a barren point of rock and sand, within twelve degrees of the Equator, and the town is actually in the crater of an extinct volcano, into which the sun beats down with the heat of Nebuchadnezzar's furnace. But the British Government holds it, as it commands the entrance to the Red Sea, and has fortified it, and keeps a garrison here. However it mercifully sends few English soldiers to such a spot, but supplies the place chiefly with native regiments from India. All the officers hold the place in horror, counting it a very purgatory, from which it is Paradise to be transferred to India.
But from this point the great oppression of the heat ceased. Rounding this rock of Aden, we no longer bore southward (which would have taken us along the Eastern coast of Africa, to the island of Zanzibar, the point of departure for Livingstone to explore the interior, and of Stanley to find him), but turned to the East, and soon met the Northeastmonsoon, which, blowing in our faces, kept us comparatively cool all the way across the Indian Ocean.
And now our thoughts began to be busy with the strange land which we were soon to see, a land to which most of those on board belonged, and of which they were always ready to converse. Strangers to each other, we soon became acquainted, and exchanged our experiences of travel. Beside me at the table sat a barrister from Bombay, and next to him three merchants of that city, who, leaving their families in England, were returning to pursue their fortunes in India. One had been a member of the Governor's Council, and all were familiar with the politics and the business of that great Empire. There was also a missionary of the Free Church of Scotland, who, after ten years' service, had been allowed a year and a half to recruit in the mother country, and was now returning to his field of labor in Bombay, with whom I had many long talks about the religions of India and the prospects of missions. There was a fine old gentleman who had made his fortune in Australia, to which he was returning with his family after a visit to England.
The military element, of course, was very prominent. A large proportion of the passengers were connected in some way with the army, officers returning to their regiments, or officers' wives returning to their husbands. Of course those who live long in India, have many experiences to relate; and it was somewhat exciting to hear one describe the particulars of a tiger hunt—how the game of all kind was driven in from a circuit of miles around by beaters, and by elephants trained for the work; how the deer and lesser animals fled frightened by, while the hunter, bent on royal game, disdained such feeble prey, and every man reserved his fire, sitting in his howdah on the back of an elephant till at last a magnificent Bengal tiger sprang into view, and as the balls rained on his sides, with a tremendous bound he fell at the feet of the hunters; or to hear a Major who had been inIndia during the Mutiny, describe the blowing away of the Sepoys from the mouths of cannon; with what fierce pride, like Indian warriors at the stake, they shrank not from the trial, but even when not bound, stood unmoved before the guns, till they were blown to pieces, their legs and arms and mangled breasts scattered wide over the field.
There was a surgeon in the Bengal Staff Corps, Dr. Bellew, who had travelled extensively in the interior of Asia, attached to several missions of the Government, and had published a volume, entitled "From the Indus to the Tigris." He gave me some of his experiences in Afghanistan, among the men of Cabul, and in Persia. Three years since he was attached to the mission of Sir Douglas Forsyth to Kashgar and Yarkund. This was a secret embassy of the government to Yakoob Beg, the Tartar chief, who by his courage as a soldier had established his power in those distant regions of Central Asia. In carrying out this mission, the party crossed the Himalayas at a height far greater than the top of Mont Blanc. Our fellow traveller gave us some fearful pictures of the desolation of those snowy wastes, as well as some entertaining ones of the strange manners of some parts of High Asia. He passed through Little Thibet, where prevails the singular custom of polyandry—instead of one man having many wives, one woman may have many husbands, although they cannot be of different families. She can marry half a dozen brothers at once, but must not extend her household into another family. He was now bound for Nepaul, under the shadow of the Himalayas, being ordered to report at once to the Maharajah, who is preparing to receive the Prince of Wales, and to entertain him with the grandest tiger hunt ever known in India.
With such variety of company, and such talk to enliven the hours, as we sat on deck at twilight, or by moonlight—for we had the full moon on the Indian Ocean—the days didnot seem long, and we were almost taken by surprise as we approached the end of our voyage.
On the afternoon of the twelfth day from Suez we were nearing our destined port, and eyes and glasses were turned in that direction; but it was not till the sun was setting that his light shone full on the Ghauts, the range of mountains that line the western coast of India—steps, as their name implies, to the high table-land of the interior. Presently as the darkness deepened, the revolving light of the lighthouse shot across the deep; signal guns from the city announced the arrival of the mail from England; rows of lamps shining for miles round the bay lighted up the waters and the encircling shore; and, there was India!
BOMBAY—FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF INDIA.
Never did travellers open their eyes with more of wonder and curiosity than we, as we awoke the next morning and went on deck and turned to the unaccustomed shore. The sun had risen over the Ghauts, and now cast his light on the islands, covered with cocoanut palms, and on the forest of shipping that lay on the tranquil waters. Here were ships from all parts of the world, not only from the Mediterranean and from England, but from every part of Asia and Africa, and from Australia. A few weeks before had been witnessed here a brilliant sight at the landing of the Prince of Wales. A long arched way of trellis work, still hung with faded wreaths, marked the spot where the future Emperor of India first set foot upon its soil. Our ship, which had anchored off the mouth of the harbor, now steamed up to her moorings, a tug took us off to the Mazagon Bunder, the landing place of the Peninsular and Oriental Company, where we mounted a long flight of granite steps to the quay—and were in India.
Passing through the Custom House gates, we were greeted not by the donkey-boys of Egypt, but by a crowd of barefooted and barelegged Hindoos, clad in snowy white, and with mountainous turbans on their heads, who were ambitious of the honor of driving us into the city. The native carriage (orgharri, as it is called) is not a handsome equipage. It is a mere box, oblong in shape, set on wheels, having latticed windows like a palanquin, to admit the air and shut out the sun. Mounting into such a "State carriage," oursolemn Hindoo gave rein to his steed, and we trotted off into Bombay. As our destination was Watson's Hotel, in the English quarter at the extreme end of the city, we traversed almost its whole extent. The streets seemed endless. On and on we rode for miles, till we were able to realize that we were in the second city in the British empire—larger than any in Great Britain except London—larger than Liverpool or Glasgow, or Manchester or Birmingham.
Of course the population is chiefly native, and this it is which excites my constant wonder. As I ride about I ask myself, Am I on the earth, or in the moon? Surely this must be some other planet than the one that I have known before. I see men as trees walking, but they are not of any familiar form or speech. Perhaps it is because we are on the other side of the world, and everything is turned topsy-turvy, and men are walking on their heads. We may have to adopt the Darwinian theory of the origin of man; for these seem to be of another species, to belong to another department of the animal kingdom. That old Hindoo that I see yonder, sitting against the wall, with his legs curled up under him, seems more like a chimpanzee than a man. He has a way of sitting on hisheels(a posture which would be impossible for a European, but which he will keep for hours), which is more like an animal than a human creature.
Truly we have never been in such a state of bewilderment since we began our travels, as since we landed in Bombay. Constantinople seemed strange, and Egypt stranger still; but India is strangest of all. The streets are swarming with life, as a hive swarms with bees. The bazaars are like so many ant-hills, but the creatures that go in and out are not like any race that we have seen before. They are not white like Europeans, nor black like Africans, nor red like our American Indians; but are pure Asiatics, of a dark-brown color, the effect of which is the greater, as they are generally clad in the garments which nature gives them. The laboring classgo half naked, or more than half. It is only the house-servants that wear anything that can be called a costume. The coolies, or common laborers, have only a strip of cloth around their loins, which they wear for decency, for in this climate they scarcely need any garment for warmth. One thing which is never omitted is the turban, or in its place a thick blanket, to shield the head from the direct rays of the sun. But there is nothing to hide the swarthy breast or limbs. Those of a better condition, who do put on clothing, show the Oriental fondness for gorgeous apparel by having the richest silk turbans and flowing robes. The women find a way to show their feminine vanity, being tricked out in many colors, dark red, crimson and scarlet, with yellow and orange and green and blue—the mingling of which produces a strange effect as one rides through the bazaars and crowded streets, which gleam with all the colors of the rainbow. The effect of this tawdry finery is heightened by the gewgaws which depend from different parts of their persons. Earrings are not sufficiently conspicuous for a Hindoo damsel, who has a ring of gold and pearl hung in her nose; which is considered a great addition to female beauty. Heavy bracelets of silver also adorn her wrists and ankles. Almost every woman who shows herself in the street, though of the lowest condition, and barefoot, still gratifies her pride by huge silver anklets clasping her naked feet.
But these Asiatic faces, strange as they are, would not be unattractive but for artificial disfigurements—if men did not chew the betel nut, which turns the lips to a brilliant red, and did not have their foreheads striped with coarse pigments, which are the badges of their different castes!
Imagine a whole city crowded with dark skinned men and women thus dressed—or not dressed—half naked on the one hand, or bedizened like harlequins on the other, walking about, or perchance riding in little carriagesdrawn by oxen—a small breed that trot off almost as fast as the donkeys wehad in Cairo—and one may have some idea of the picturesque appearance of the streets of Bombay.
We are becoming accustomed to the manners and customs of this eastern world. We never sit down to dinner but with the punka swinging over us, and the "punka-walla," the coolie who swings it, is a recognized institution. In the hot months it is kept swinging all night, and Europeans sleep under it. These things strike us strangely at first, but we soon get used to these tropical devices, and in fact rather like them. In a few days we have become quite Oriental. To confess the truth, there are some things here in the East that are not at all disagreeable to the natural man, especially the devices for coolness and comfort, and the extreme deference to Europeans, which we begin to accept as naturally belonging to us.
At first I was surprised and amused at the manners of the people. It was a new sensation to be in this Asiatic atmosphere, to be surrounded and waited upon by soft-footed Hindoos, who glided about noiselessly like cats, watching every look, eager to anticipate every wish before they heard the word of command. I was never the object of such reverence before. Every one addressed me as "Sahib." I did not know at first what this meant, but took it for granted that it was a title of respect—an impression confirmed by the deferential manner of the attendants. I could not walk through the corridor of the hotel without a dozen servants rising to their feet, who remained standing till I had passed. I was a little taken aback when a turbaned Oriental, in flowing robe, approached me with an air of profound reverence, bending low, as if he would prostrate himself at my feet. If he desired to present a petition to my august majesty (which was, probably, that I would buy a cashmere shawl), he bowed himself almost to the ground, and reached down his hand very low, and then raising it, touched his forehead, as if he would take up the dust of the earth and cast it on his head,in token that he was unworthy to enter into such an awful presence. I never knew before how great a being I was. There is nothing like going far away from home, to the other side of the world, among Hindoos or Hottentots, to be fully appreciated.
After a little experience, one learns to accept these Hindoo salaams and obeisances. Now, when I walk down the passages of the hotel, and snowy turbans rise on either side in token of homage, I bow in acknowledgment, though very slightly, so as not to concede a particle of my dignity, or encourage any familiarity. When I open my door in the morning, I find half a dozen coolies in the passage, who have curled up on mats and slept there all night, as Napoleon's Mameluke slept before his master's door. It gives one a sense of dignity and importance to be thus served and guarded and defended! I suspect all of us have a little (or a good deal) of the Asiatic in our composition, and could easily play the pasha and drop into these soft Eastern ways, and find it not unpleasant to recline on a divan, and be waited on by dusky slaves!
We find that we are in a tropical climate by the heat that oppresses us. Although it is midwinter, we find it prudent as well as pleasant to remain indoors in the middle of the day (time which is very precious for writing), and make our excursions in the morning or evening.
Morning in the tropics is delightful. There is a dewy freshness in the air. Rising at daylight we take a small open carriage—a kind of "one horse shay"—for our ride. It has but one seat, but the Hindoo driver, nimble as a cat, crouches at our feet, with his legs dangling over the side in front of the wheels, and thus mounted we gallop off gayly.
One of our morning excursions was to the Flower Market, where the fruits and flowers of the country are displayed with truly tropical profusion. The building, designed with English taste, is of great extent, surrounding a spaciouscourt, which is laid out like a garden, with fountains and ferns, and flowering shrubs and creepers growing luxuriantly. Here are offered for sale all kinds of poultry and birds, parrots, and even monkeys. The Flower Market is especially brilliant, as flowers are the customary offerings at temples. They are very cheap. Five cents bought a large bunch of roses. White jessamines and yellow marigolds are wrought into wreaths and garlands for their festivities. The fruits we liked less than the flowers. They were very tempting to the eye, but too rich for our appetite. The famous mango cloyed us with its sweetness. Indeed, I made the observation here, which I had to repeat afterwards in Java, that the tropical fruits, though large and luscious, had not the delicate flavor of our Northern fruits. A good New Jersey peach would have been far sweeter to my taste than the ripest orange or mango, or the longest string of bananas.
In the evening we ride out to Malabar Hill, or go to the public gardens which English taste has laid out in different parts of the city. Although Bombay is a city of Hindoos, yet the stamp of English rule is everywhere impressed upon it. Like the cities of Great Britain, it is thoroughly governed. The hand of a master is seen in its perfect police, its well ordered and well lighted streets. There are signs of its being gained by conquest and held by military power. The English quarter is still called the Fort, being on the site of an old fortress, the ramparts of which are all swept away, and in their place are wide streets (indeed too wide for shade), and a number of public buildings—Government offices, the Postoffice, and the Telegraph Building, and the University—which would be an ornament to any city in England. Here English taste comes in to add to its natural beauty in the laying out of open squares. Our windows at the Hotel look out upon the Esplanade, a large parade ground, the very spot where the Sepoys were shot away from the guns after the mutiny, and upon the sea, from which comes at eveninga soft, delicious air from the Indian ocean. It is a pretty sight to go here at sunset, when the band is playing and there is a great turnout of carriages, bringing the fashion and wealth of Bombay to listen to the music and inhale the fresh breezes from the sea, that no doubt are sweeter to many in that they seem to come from their beloved England. In the crowd of well dressed people wealthy Parsees (distinguished by their high hats), and Hindoos by their turbans, mingle with English officers, and the children of all run about together on the lawn. My companion noticed particularly the Parsee children, whose dresses were gay with many colors—little fellows shining in pink trousers, blue shirts, green vests, and scarlet caps! Others had satin trousers and vests of some bright color, and over all white muslin or lace trimmings. The effect of such a variety of colors was as if parterres of flowers were laid out on the smooth shaven lawn. In another part of the city the Victoria Gardens are set out like a Botanical Garden, with all manner of plants and trees, especially with an endless variety of palms, under which crowds saunter along the avenues, admiring the wonders of tropical vegetation, and listening to the music that fills the evening air.
The environs of Bombay are very beautiful. Few cities have a more delightful suburb than Malabar Hill, where the English merchant, after the business of the day is over, retreats from the city to enjoy a home which, though Indian without, is English within. Hundreds of bungalows are clustered on these eminences, shaded with palms and embowered in tropical foliage, with steep roofs, always thatched as a better protection from the sun. Here the occupants sit at evening on the broad verandahs, stretched in their long bamboo chairs, enjoying the cool air that comes in from the sea, and talk of England or of America.
There are not many Americans in Bombay, although in one way the city is, or was, closely connected with our country.Nowhere was the effect of our civil war more felt than in India, as it gave a great impetus to its cotton production. Under the sudden and powerful stimulus, Bombay started up into an artificial prosperity. Fortunes were made rapidly. The close of the war brought a panic from which it has not yet recovered. But the impulse given has remained, and I am told that there is at this moment more cotton grown in India than ever before, although the fall in prices has cut off the great profits. But the cost of transportation is much less, as the railroads constructed within a few years afford the means of bringing it to market, where before it had to be drawn slowly over the mountains in ox-carts. This flow of cotton to the seaports has been turned to account by the erection of cotton mills (several of which have been started here in Bombay), which, under the direction of Englishmen, and having the double advantage of native cotton and native labor, may yet supplant English fabrics in the markets of India.
Though there are few Americans (except the missionaries) here, yet there is one who has all the enterprise of his countrymen, Mr. Kittredge, who came out to India many years ago, and is now the head of the old house of Stearns, Hobart & Co. He has introduced that peculiarly American institution, the street railway—or tramway, as it is called here—which is a great comfort in moving about the city, where transportation before was chiefly by little ox-carts. The cars run smoothly, and as they are open at the sides are delightfully cool. The Hindoos, though slow in adopting new ideas or new ways, take to these as an immense convenience. Not the least good effect is the pressure which they bring to bear on caste, by forcing those of different castes to sit side by side!
A very singular people, found in Bombay, and nowhere else in India, are the Parsees, who differ from the Hindoos both in race and religion. They are followers of Zoroaster, the philosopher of Persia, from which they were driven out centuriesago by the merciless followers of the Prophet, and took refuge in Western India, and being, as a class, of superior intelligence and education, they have risen to a high position. They are largely the merchants of Bombay, and among them are some of its wealthiest citizens, whose beautiful houses, surrounded with gardens, line the road to Parell, the residence of the Governor. They are fire-worshippers, adoring it as the principle of life. Morning and evening they may be seen uncovering their heads, and turning reverently to the rising or the setting sun, and offering their adoration to the great luminary, which they regard as the source of all life on earth. As I have seen them on the seashore, turning their faces to the setting sun, and lifting their hands as if in prayer, I have thought, that if this be idolatry, it is at least not so degrading as that of the Hindoos around them, for if they bow to a material object, it is at least the most glorious which they see in nature. The more intelligent of them, however, explain that it is not the sun itself they worship, but only regard it as the brightest symbol and manifestation of the Invisible Deity. But they seem to have an idolatrous reverence for fire, and keep a lamp always burning in their houses. It is never suffered to go out day nor night, from year to year. The same respect which they show to fire, they show also to the other elements—earth, air, and water.
A revolting application of their principles is seen in their mode of disposing of the dead. They cannot burn them, as do the Hindoos, lest the touch of death should pollute the flames; nor can they bury them in the earth, nor in the sea, for earth and water and air are all alike sacred. They therefore expose the bodies of their dead to be devoured by birds of the air. Outside of Bombay, on Malabar Hill, are three or four circular towers—called The Towers of Silence, which are enclosed by a high wall to keep observers at a distance. When a Parsee dies, his body is conveyed to thegates, and there received by the priests, by whom it is exposed on gratings constructed for the purpose.
Near at hand, perched in groves of palms, are the vultures. We saw them there in great numbers. As soon as a funeral procession approaches, they scent their prey, and begin to circle in the air; and no sooner is a body uncovered, and left by the attendants, than a cloud of black wings settles down upon it, and a hundred horned beaks are tearing at the flesh. Such are their numbers and voracity, that in a few minutes—so we are told—every particle is stripped from the bones, which are then slid down an inclined plane into a deep pit, where they mingle with common clay.
Compared with this, the Hindoo mode of disposing of the dead, by burning, seems almost like Christian burial. Yet it is done in a mode which is very offensive. In returning from Malabar Hill one evening, along the beautiful drive around the bay, we noticed a number of furnace-like openings, where fires were burning, from which proceeded a sickening smell, and were told that this was the burning of the bodies of the Hindoos!
This mode of disposing of the dead may be defended on grounds of health, especially in great cities. But, at any rate, I wish there was nothing worse to be said of the Hindoos than their mode of treating the forms from which life has departed. But their religion is far more cruel to the living than to the dead.
To one who has never been in a Pagan country, that which is most new and strange is its idolatry. Bombay is full of temples, which at certain hours are crowded with worshippers. Here they flock every morning to perform their devotions. There is nothing like the orderly congregation gathered in a Christian house of worship, sitting quietly in their places, and listening to a sermon. The people come and go at will, attending to their devotions, as they would to any matter of business. A large part of their "worship"consists in washing themselves. With the Hindoos as with the Mohammedans, bathing is a part of their religion. The temple grounds generally enclose a large tank, into which they plunge every morning, and come up, as they believe, clean from the washing. At the temple of Momba Davi (the god who gives name to Bombay), we watched these purifications and other acts of worship. Within the enclosure, beside the temple filled with hideous idols, there was the sacred cow (which the people would consider it a far greater crime to kill than to kill a Christian) which chewed her cud undisturbed, though not with half so much content as if she had been in a field of sweet-scented clover; and there stood the peepul tree, the sacred tree of India (a species of banyan), round which men and women were walking repeating their prayers, and leaving flowers as offerings at its foot. This latter custom is not peculiar to Pagan countries. In Christian as well as in heathen lands flowers are laid on the altar, as if their beauty were grateful to the Unseen Eye, and their perfume a kind of incense to the object of devotion. Inside the enclosure men were being washed and shaved (on their heads as well as on their faces), and painted on their foreheads (as Catholics might be with the sign of the cross) to mark the god they worship. And not only in the temples, but along the streets, in the houses, which were open to the view of passers-by, people were taking plentiful ablutions, almost a full bath, and making their toilet, quite unembarrassed by the presence of strangers.
These observances (if divested of any religious value) are not to be altogether condemned. The habit of frequent bathing is very useful in a sanitary point of view, especially in this hot climate. But that which most excites our admiration is the scrupulous regularity of the Hindoos in their worship. They have to "do their pooja" (that is, make their offerings and perform their devotions) before they go to their work, or even partake of food! Here isan example of religious fidelity worthy of Christian imitation.
The religious ideas of the Hindoos show themselves in other ways, which at least challenge our respect for their consistency. In their eyes all life is sacred, the life of beast and bird, nay, of reptile and insect, as well as of man. To carry out this idea they have established a Hospital for Animals, which is one of the institutions of Bombay. It is on a very extensive scale, and presents a spectacle such as I do not believe can be seen anywhere else in the world. Here, in an enclosure covering many acres, in sheds, or stables, or in the open grounds, as may best promote their recovery, are gathered the lame, the halt, and the blind, not of the human species, but of the animal world—cattle and horses, sheep and goats, dogs and cats, rabbits and monkeys, and beasts and birds of every description. Even poor little monkeys forgot to be merry, and looked very solemn as they sat on their perch. The cows, sacred as they were, were yet not beyond the power of disease, and had a most woe-begone look. Long rows of stables were filled with broken-down horses, spavined and ring-boned, with ribs sticking out of their sides, or huge sores on their flanks, dripping with blood. In one pen were a number of kittens, that mewed and cried for their mothers, though they had a plentiful supply of milk for their poor little emaciated bodies. The Hindoos send out carts at night and pick them up wherever they have been cast into the street. Rabbits, whom no man would own, have here a snug warren made for them, and creep in and out with a feeling of safety and comfort. In a large enclosure were some hundred dogs, more wretched-looking than the dogs of Constantinople—"whelps and curs of low degree." These poor creatures had been so long the companions of man that, ill-treated as they were, starved and kicked, they still apparently longed for human society, and as soon as they saw us they seemed to recognize us as their deliverers,and set up a howling and yelping, and leaped against the bars of their prison house, as if imploring us to give them liberty.
And here is a collection of birds to fill an extensive aviary, though in their present condition they do not look exactly like birds of Paradise. There are not only "four black crows," but more than any farmer would like to see in his wheat field (for India is the land of crows). Tall cranes, that had been wont to step with long legs by the marshy brink of rivers, here were bandaged and splintered till they could walk once more. Broken-winged seagulls, that could no more sweep over the boundless sea, free as its own waves, were nursed till they could fly again.
The spectacle thus presented was half touching and half ludicrous. One cannot but respect the Hindoo's regard for life, as a thing not to be lightly and wantonly destroyed. And yet they carry it to an extent that is absurd. They will not take the life of animals for food, nor even of creatures that are annoying or dangerous to themselves. Many will not crush the insects that buzz around them and sting them, nor kill a cobra that crawls into their houses, even when it threatens to bite them or their children. It has been said that they even nurse serpents, and when recovered, turn them loose into the jungle; but of this we saw no evidence. But certainly many wretched creatures, whose existence is not worth keeping, which it were a mercy to let die, are here rescued and brought back to life.
While walking through these grounds in company with a couple of missionaries, I thought how much better these animals were cared for than some men. I was thinking of some of our broken-down ministers at home, who, after serving their people faithfully for a whole generation, are at last sent adrift without ceremony, like an old horse turned out by the roadside to die! What lives of drudgery and toil do such ministers lead! They are "beasts of burden," more than anybeast of the field. And when their working days are over, can they not be cared for as well as the Hindoos care for old horses and camels? If only these shattered wrecks (and magnificent wrecks some of them are) were towed into port and allowed to rest in tranquil waters; or (to change the figure) if these old veterans were housed and warmed and fed and nursed as carefully as the Hindoos nurse their broken-down animals, we should have fewer of those instances of cruel neglect which we sometimes hear of to our sorrow and shame!
Of the antiquities of India, one of the most notable is found here in the Caves of Elephanta, which are on an island lying off the harbor. We set apart a day to this visit, which we made with a couple of Americans and a couple of Englishmen, the latter of whom we met first in Bombay, but who were to keep us company a large part of our journey around the world. We were to embark at the Apollo Bunder, and while waiting here for our boat (a steam launch which is used for this purpose), a snake-charmer desired to entertain us with the dexterous manner in which he handled cobras, taking them up like kittens, coiling them round his neck, and tossing them about in a very playful and affectionate manner. No doubt their fangs had been completely extracted before he indulged in these endearments. A very cruel form of sport was to throw one on the ground, and let it be set upon by a mangoose, a small animal like a weasel, that is not poisoned by the bite of serpents, and attacks them without hesitation. One of these the man carried in a bag for the purpose. As soon as let loose, the little creature flew at the snake spitefully, as a terrier dog would at a rat, and seized it by the head, and bit it again and again with its sharp teeth, and left it covered with blood. As we expressed our disgust at this cruelty, the juggler assured us that the deceitful reptile was not dead (in fact as soon as laid on the ground it began to wriggle), and that he would take it by the tail andhold it up, and pour water on its head, and it would come all right again. He did not say, but no doubt thought, "and will be all ready for torture when the next American or Englishman comes along."
By this time the steam launch had come round to the Bunder, and we got on board. It was a little mite of a vessel, just big enough for the half dozen of us, with a steam boiler not much larger than a teapot, that wheezed as if it had the asthma. But it did its work well, and away we shot swiftly across the beautiful bay. The island of Elephanta is seven miles from the city, and takes its name from a gigantic statue of an elephant that once stood upon its shore. Landing here, we found ourselves at the foot of a rocky hill, which we mounted by several hundred steps, and stood at the entrance of a gigantic cave or cavern cut into the hill-side, with a lofty ceiling, pillared like a temple. The main hall, as it might be called, runs back a hundred and thirty feet into the solid rock.
The first thing that struck me on entering was the resemblance to the temples of Egypt. Though in size and extent it does not approach the ruins of Karnak, yet one recognizes the same massive architecture in this temple, which is literally "cut out of a mountain," its roof the overhanging cliff, supported by rows of heavy columns.
The resemblance to Egypt appears also in the symbol of divinity and the objects of worship; the sacred bull in one country answering to the sacred cow in the other; and the serpent, the same hooded cobra, rearing its head on the front of the Temples of Thebes, and in the Caves of Elephanta.
At the end of the great hall are the objects of worship in three colossal images of Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva. This is the Hindoo Trinity, and the constant recurrence of these figures in their mythology shows how the idea of a Trinity pervaded other ancient religions besides our own. It is a question for scholars, whence came the original conception of thisthreefold personality in the Divine Being, whether from revelation, or from a tradition as old as the human race.
The faces are Egyptian—immobile like the Sphinx, with no expression of eagerness or desire, but only of calm and eternal repose. Such was the blessedness of the gods, and such the beatitude sought by their worshippers.
The age of the Caves of Elephanta is not known, but they must be of a great antiquity. For many centuries this rock-temple has been the resort of millions of worshippers. Generation after generation have the poor people of India crossed these waters to this sacred island, and climbed wearily up this hill as if they were climbing towards heaven.
That such a religion should have lived for thousands of years, and be living still (for the worship of Brahma and Vishnu and Shiva is still the religion of India), is a reflection that gives one but little hope for the future of the human race.
LEAVING BOMBAY—TRAVELLING IN INDIA—ALLAHABAD—THE MELA.
We had been in Bombay a week, and began to feel quite at home, when we had to leave. A man who undertakes to go around the world, must not stop too long in the soft places. He must be always on the march, or ready to start at the tap of the drum. We had a long journey before us, to the North of India, and could not linger by the way. So we set out just at evening. Much of the travelling in India is at night, to avoid the heat of the day. The sun was setting over the waters as we moved slowly out of the station at Bombay, and sweeping around the shores, caught our last glimpse of the Western sea, and then rushed off for the mountains.
"You'll need to take beds with you," said our friends, foreseeing that we might have to lie down in rough places. So we procured for each of us what is called a resai, a well-stuffed coverlet, which answered the purpose of a light mattress. There are no sleeping-cars in India; but the first-class carriages have generally a sofa on either side, which may be turned into a sort of couch. On these sofas, having first secured a whole compartment, we spread our resais, with pillows on which to rest our weary heads, and stretch ourselves "to sleep—perchance to dream." But the imagination is so busy that sleep comes but slowly. I often lie awake for hours, and find a great peace in this constant wakefulness.
It was quite dark when we found ourselves climbing the Ghauts (what in California would be called the Coast Range), a chain of mountains not very high, but which separates the coast from the table-land of the interior. As the train moved more slowly, we perceived that we were drawing up a heavy incline. This slow motion soothes one to slumber, and at length we closed our eyes, and when the morning broke, found that we had passed the summit, and were rushing on over an open country, not unlike our Western prairies. These were the Plains of India—a vast plateau, broken here and there, but preserving its general character across the whole peninsula from Bombay to Calcutta, and North to the Himalayas.
In this month of January, these plains are without verdure to give them beauty. The trees keep their foliage, and here and there is a broad-spreading banyan, or a mango grove, with its deep shade. But we miss the fresh green grass and the flowers that come only with the Spring. Landscapes which are not diversified in surface by hills and valleys are only relieved from monotony by varieties of color. These are wanting now, and hence the vast plain is but "a gray and melancholy waste" like the sea. We visit India in winter because the summer would be too oppressive. But in choosing this season, we have to sacrifice that full glory when nature comes forth in all the richness of tropical vegetation. It is in the rainy season that the earth bursts suddenly into bloom. Then the dead plain, so bleak and bare, in a few days is covered with a carpet of green, and decked with innumerable flowers. But there are drawbacks to that gorgeous time and that prodigality of nature. With the bursting into light of the vegetable world, the insect world also comes forth. All the insects that buzz and sting, fill the summer air; and then the reptile world creeps abroad. Out of millions of holes, where they have slept all winter long, crawl cobras and other deadly serpents, and all slimy things.On the whole, therefore, I am content to see India in its sombre dress, and be spared some other attendants of this tropical world.
Nor is there much animal life to give animation to the scene. A few cattle are grazing here and there. Now a deer startled looks up, as we go by, or a monkey goes leaping across the fields, but not a wild beast of any kind is seen—not even a wild-cat or a jackal. As for birds, storks are at home in India as much as in Holland. Red flamingoes haunt