PART III.

Such, then, is the true idea of the Christian life—a life not of

periodic observances, or of occasional fervors, or even of splendid

acts of heroism and self devotion, but of quiet, constant, unobtrusive

earnestness, amid the common-place work of the world. This is the life

to which Christ calls us. Is it yours? Have you entered upon it, or

are you now willing to enter upon it? It is not, I admit, an imposing

or an easy one. There is nothing in it to dazzle, much in its hardness

and plainness to deter the irresolute. The life of a follower of Christ

demands not, indeed, in our day, the courage of the hero or the martyr,

the fortitude that braves outward dangers and sufferings, and flinches

not from persecution and death. But with the age of persecution the

difficulties of the Christian life have not passed away. In maintaining

a spirit of Christian cheerfulness and contentment—in the unambitious

routine of humble duties—in preserving the fervor of piety amid the

unexciting cares and wearing anxieties—in the perpetual reference to

lofty ends amid lowly toils—there may be evinced a faith as strong as

that of the man who dies with the song of martyrdom on his lips. It is

a great thing to love Christ so dearly as to be “ready to be bound and

to _die_” for him; but it is often a thing not less great to be ready

to take up our daily cross, and to _live_ for him.

But be the difficulties of a Christian life in the world what they may,

they need not discourage us. Whatever the work to which our Master

calls us, he offers us a strength commensurate with our needs. No man

who wishes to serve Christ will ever fail for lack of heavenly aid. And

it will be no valid excuse for an ungodly life that it is difficult

to keep alive the flame of piety in the world, if Christ be ready to

supply the fuel.

To all, then, who really wish to lead such a life, let me suggest that

the first thing to be done—that without which all other efforts are

worse than vain, is heartily to devote themselves to God through Christ

Jesus. Much as has been said of the infusion of religious principle and

motive into our worldly work, there is a preliminary advice of greater

importance still—that we _be religious_. Life comes before growth. The

soldier must enlist before he can serve. In vain, directions how to

keep the fire ever burning on the altar, if first it be not kindled. No

religion can be genuine, no goodness can be constant or lasting, that

springs not, as its primary source, from faith in Jesus Christ. To know

Christ as my Savior—to come with all my guilt and weakness to him in

whom trembling penitence never fails to find a friend—to cast myself at

his feet in whom all that is sublime in divine holiness is softened,

though not obscured, by all that is beautiful in human tenderness; and,

believing in that love stronger than death, which, for me, and such as

me, drained the cup of untold sorrows, and bore without a murmur the

bitter curse of sin, to trust my soul for time and eternity into his

hands—this is the beginning of true religion. And it is the reverential

love with which the believer must ever look to him to whom he owes so

much, that constitutes the main-spring of the religion of daily life.

Selfishness may prompt to a formal religion, natural susceptibility

may give rise to a fitful one, but for a life of constant fervent

piety, amid the world’s cares and toils, no motive is sufficient save

one—self-devoted love to Christ.

But again, if you would lead a Christian life in the world, let me

remind you that that life must be _continued_ as well as begun with

Christ. You must learn to look to him not merely as your Savior from

guilt, but as the friend of your secret life, the chosen companion

of your solitary hours, the depository of all the deeper thoughts

and feelings of your soul. You can not live _for_ him in the world

unless you live much _with_ him apart from the world. In spiritual

as in secular things, the deepest and strongest characters need much

solitude to form them. Even earthly greatness, much more moral and

spiritual greatness, is never attained but as the result of much that

is concealed from the world—of many a lonely and meditative hour.

Thoughtfulness, self-knowledge, self-control, a chastened wisdom and

piety, are the fruit of habitual meditation and prayer. In these

exercises heaven is brought near, and our exaggerated estimate of

earthly things corrected.

But, further, in availing yourself of this divine resource amid the

daily exigences of life, why should you wait always for the periodic

season and the formal attitude of prayer? The heavens are not open

to the believer’s call only at intervals. The grace of God’s Holy

Spirit falls not like the fertilizing shower, only now and then; or

like the dew on the earth’s face, only at morning and night. At all

times, on the uplifted face of the believer’s spirit, the gracious

element is ready to descend. Pray always; pray without ceasing. When

difficulties arise, delay not to seek and obtain at once the succor

you need. Swifter than by the subtle electric agent is thought borne

from earth to heaven. The Great Spirit on high is in constant sympathy

with the spirit beneath, and in a moment, in the twinkling of an

eye, the thrill of aspiration flashes from the heart of man to God.

Whenever anything vexes you—whenever, from the rude and selfish ways

of men, any trials of temper cross your path; when your spirits are

ruffled, or your Christian forbearance put to the test, be this your

instant resource! Haste away, if only for a moment, to the serene and

peace-breathing presence of Jesus, and you will not fail to return with

a spirit soothed and calmed. Or when the impure and low-minded surround

you—when, in the path of duty, the high tone of your Christian purity

is apt to suffer from baser contacts—O, what relief to lift the heart

to Christ! to rise on the wings of faith—even for one instant to breath

the air of that region where the infinite Purity dwells, and then

return with a mind steeled against temptation, ready to recoil with the

instinctive abhorrence of a spirit that has been beside the throne,

from all that is impure and vile. Say not, then, with such aid at your

command, that religion can not be brought down to Common Life!

In conclusion, let me once more urge upon you the great lesson upon

which we have been insisting. Carry religious principle into every-day

life. Principle elevates whatever it touches. Facts lose all their

littleness to the mind which brings principle and law to bear upon

them. The chemist’s or geologist’s soiled hands are no sign of base

work; the coarsest operations of the laboratory, the breaking of stones

with a hammer, cease to be mechanical when intellectual thought and

principle govern the mind and guide the hands. And religious principle

is the noblest of all. Bring it to bear on common actions and coarse

cares, and infinitely nobler even than the philosophic or scientific,

becomes the Christian life. Live for Christ in common things, and

all your work will become priestly work. As in the temple of old, it

was holy work to hew wood or mix oil, because it was done for the

altar-sacrifice or the sacred lamps; so all your coarse and common work

will receive a consecration when done for God’s glory, by one who is a

true priest to his temple.

Carry religion into common life, and your life will be rendered useful

as well as noble. There are many men who listen incredulously to

the high-toned exhortations of the pulpit; the religious life there

depicted is much too seraphic, they think, for this plain and prosaic

world of ours. Show these men that the picture is not a fancy one. Make

it a reality. Bring religion down from the clouds. Apply to it the

infallible test of experiment, and, by diffusing your daily actions

with holy principles, prove that love to God, superiority to worldly

pleasure, spirituality, holiness, heavenly-mindedness, are something

more than the stock ideas of sermons.

The world’s scenes of business may fade on our sight, the noise of its

restless pursuits may fall no more upon our ear, when we pass to meet

our God; but not one unselfish thought, not one kind and gentle word,

not one act of self-sacrificing love done for Jesus’ sake, in the midst

of our common work, but will have left an indelible impress on the

soul, which will go out with it to its eternal destiny. So live, then,

that this may be the result of your labors; so live that your work,

whether in the Church or in the world, may become a discipline for that

glorious state of being in which the Church and the world shall become

one; where work shall be worship, and labor shall be rest; where the

worker shall never quit the temple, nor the worshipper the place of

work, because “there is no temple therein, but the Lord God Almighty

and the Lamb are the temple thereof.”

[_June 24._]

THE ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT—MANNERS.

By ABEL STEVENS, LL.D.

With most of us manners are a chief ministry of life. If love is the

very element, the essence of holiness, then holiness should produce

sweetness of both mind and manners. Amiability means, etymologically,

loveliness, loveableness. But is it not too often the misfortune of

piety, especially in its more earnest forms, to be accompanied by

unamiable severity, not to say sourness—by introspective moodiness;

unnecessary rigor in petty or indifferent things; uncharitable

crimination of those whose opinions of spiritual experience do not

conform to our own, habitual obtrusion of our own opinions—not only

repelling individual brethren, but sometimes annoying and agitating

whole churches?

“Be courteous:” The sentence, though brief, is full of significance,

and is divinely authoritative. It is a commandment.

Stanley, in his “Lectures on the Scotch Church,” tells a fine story

about Archbishop Usher, the chronologist of sacred history. Hearing

of the great genius and saintliness of Rutherford, the celebrated

Scotch divine, he went _incognito_ to the rural parsonage of the good

pastor, and was received to its hospitality as a belated traveler. The

household was “catechised” that evening, and the stranger took his seat

among them to share the exercise. “How many commandments are there?”

asked Rutherford. “Eleven,” replied Usher. Rutherford rebuked him

severely for his ignorance. What had been his education, that he could

make such a blunder? The next morning was Sunday, and, as the pastor

went on his way through the woods toward his church, he heard fervent

prayer in a thicket, and was deeply affected. Usher soon appeared

coming out of it, and Rutherford had an explanation. His heart was

still more deeply touched, and the archbishop was constrained to preach

for him that morning. He did so on the text, “A new commandment,”

etc. Rutherford was now still more deeply affected; there was,

indeed, an eleventh commandment—“that ye love one another”—and he had

unintentionally broken it, for he had not been courteous to his eminent

visitor, in his Saturday evening catechetical rebuke, and the command

to be courteous was certainly implied in the new commandment—if not, it

must be a twelfth one.

It is, indeed, a “commandment” whether the eleventh modified, or a

twelfth. Hannah Moore, in her essay on St. Paul, delineates him as

a veritable gentleman. He knew how to rebuke audacious sin; but his

writings teem with maxims inculcating gentle behavior. There was a fine

touch of courtesy in his retraction of that sudden rebuke to the Jewish

priest—of courteous respect for the office, if not the officer.

Manners are admitted to be, at least, “minor morals.” _Minor_ morals!

How often are they indeed major morals! As making up a great proportion

of the habitual conduct of life, their influence on ourselves, as well

as on others, is habitual, and, therefore, must be proportionately

strong and important. Shall we, then, deem them mere minor morals? Do

they not fashion us, to a great extent, for both worlds? “As a man

thinketh, so is he,” is an old proverb; as a man acteth, so is he, may

be more surely affirmed, especially as he acteth habitually, in the

common intercourse of life, so thoroughly modified by our demeanor.

You “know a man by the company he keeps,” says another maxim; you know

him still more by the habitudes which accompany him.

You know him by his manners, not merely because manners are the most

habitual effect, or expression, of his character, but because they have

really, to a great extent, formed his character. They are cause as well

as effect.

There is, then, a profound ethical importance in manners, for their

educational, their moral, effect on the man himself. A truly courteous

man, a true gentleman, and especially a Christian gentleman, is the

better for every act of good manners in his daily life. There is

sentiment, and, in a sense, moral sentiment, at the bottom of all

manners. Respect for others has some very subtle and vital affinity

with self-respect; and self-respect is not self-conceit, it is respect

for the moral claims of our own nature on our own conduct.

Courtesy is, then, we repeat, ethical—and much more deeply and broadly

so than is usually supposed. We can not habitually violate its

requisitions without injuring ourselves, as well as others. Discourtesy

reacts and degenerates.

But manners are not only important as self-educational; they are

powerful in their influence on others, and have, in this respect, an

ethical importance: to them attaches an unavoidable responsibility.

Our children are more effectively educated at home than in the school

or in the world. The daily, insinuating influence of a mother’s voice,

or glance, on the _morale_ of her child, is like the gentle air and

sunlight to young plants. The roughness or gentleness of a father’s

demeanor in the household may make “roughs” or gentlemen of his boys.

Mutual petulance or affectionateness between the children of a family

may depend almost entirely on the same qualities in the father and

mother. There is scarcely anything, however apparently trivial, in the

manners of the home that is not irresistibly educational. The ladder

heavenward, visioned in the mind of the patriarch, is planted at the

domestic hearth, and inclines over the very cradle. Are manners _minor_

morals, then? Nay, they are the most effective education, they form

one of the most potent influences of the common, human life. There are

cases in which defective manners inflict an evil equivalent to certain

more apparent violations of morality.

Manners are the physiognomy of the soul. Rudeness, and especially

ill-tempered severity, show an inferior _morale_. The personal

revelation of character, particularly in familiar life, is one of the

most influential forces for good or ill that acts upon men. It is in

life what it is in literature, only incomparably more influential,

as it is more habitual and affects our more direct and more sacred

relations and intercourse. We know that in literature it is the great,

the distinctive, power of an author. It is the individuality, the

intellectual and moral personality of a writer, that mostly makes

his productions classical or otherwise. Milton, Shakspere, Goethe,

Schiller, Byron, we read themselves in their style of both language and

thought; and they thus mold the souls of their readers after their own

image. Pascal says, that “When we see a natural style we are surprised

and delighted, for, in expecting to see an author, we find a man;

while those who have good taste, often, in opening a book, expecting

to see a man, find only an author.” “Style is the man,” says another

great French writer. And so manners are the man—the style of the man’s

conduct, and immeasurable in their silent, unconscious influence on all

around us. Not only do parents thus mold the hearts and lives of their

children, children the hearts and lives of one another, but pastors

thus act on their churches, neighbors on neighbors, and even nations on

nations. “Be courteous,” is, then, we may repeat, an important moral

law—a divine commandment.

It is a fallacy to suppose that manners are matters merely of social

life; they belong to a man’s whole life—his public as well as his

private life. They have infinitely more to do with the success of

public men than is usually supposed. They affect especially and

profoundly the pastoral character and success. It is a great thing to

be a true evangelist; but can you be completely so without obedience

to the injunction of one who was more than an evangelist, who was an

apostle—“Be courteous?” A public man who outrages good manners may

not be altogether a moral nuisance, but he can not well be a salutary

moral power in the community. His best theoretical instruction,

if he be a public teacher, may not compensate for the continuous,

insidious, demoralizing influence of his manners on his habitual

hearers, especially on the incipient character of children and youth.

The public teacher should, above all things, be, as Cicero insisted

in regard to the orator, a good man; but, next to this, he should be

a genuine gentleman. This phrase ordinarily has a somewhat ambiguous

application: we need not say that we are not using it in its equivocal,

conventional sense. We use it in the sense of the apostle’s command—“Be

courteous,”—maintain your manners, he would say. Gentleness, so

incessantly enjoined in holy Scripture, is an equivalent phrase—because

genuine politeness itself always includes, as its central element,

gentleness (gentility), kindliness; that is to say, a certain moral

sentiment of tenderness and goodwill toward all men. It is a fact,

worthy of the attention of the ethical philosopher, that true manners,

genuine politeness, in not only polished life, but even in the chivalry

of the age of knighthood, has thus been identified with a certain moral

sentiment; that “gentility” essentially means gentleness; that even the

chivalry, the bravery, of the hero, has proverbially been associated

with generosity. How can a public man, then, dispense with these

qualities? There is not merely a conciliatory influence in good manners

on the part of the public man—an influence to win a candid hearing—but

there is a positive moral power in them, a power which enhances all

other power.

Let us not misunderstand the word. It is courtesy, not merely the

manner or appearance of courtesy, that is enjoined. What may be manners

in one country or age may not be such in another. Courtesy is the

same everywhere and always. Courtesy, as meant by the apostle, and

instinctively recognized by refined minds, is not so much manners,

as it is the underlying sentiment of manners. And manners themselves

should be distinguished from mannerisms. Mannerism is sometimes a mere

perversion, a caricature of manners. The highest courtesy is often

seen in the avoidance of manners—in the intercourse of true gentlemen,

who have so much hearty regard for one another, so much confidence in

their mutual good understanding, that they spontaneously dispense with

all mere _forms_ of courtesy. Courtesy is thus supreme in its spirit,

while unconcerned about its expression. It is a sort of compliment

to an intimate friend for you to show that you so far confide in his

courtesy as to believe that he expects not the forms of courtesy from

you. Lovers are never fastidious about the etiquette of manners. The

etiquette of manners seldom enters into the most holy sanctuaries or

intimacies of life. It is left outside, as in the East the sandals are

left at the door; but courtesy always enters, and is most at home in

the homes of the heart.

Great was Paul as a theologian, all the world acknowledges; but he

was equally great as an ethical philosopher. What a fine discernment

of moral distinctions he had! Love was with him the “fulfilling of

the law,” and love is, in his writings, the essential principle of

courtesy—gentleness, kindness, sweetness of soul. When were ever better

ethics given to the world than in his discourse to the Corinthians

on charity? That discourse should certainly rank next to his divine

Master’s Sermon on the Mount, the second great religious document

in the possession of the world. Any candid skeptic must acknowledge

that, would all the world conform to it, the human race would be as

perfect in morals and manners as it could be. And what is this but

acknowledging the divine fitness, and, therefore, truthfulness, of

the document, and, indeed, of the religion which gave it birth? What

courtesy could transcend that which “thinketh no evil,” which “envieth

not,” which “seeketh not its own,” which “is not puffed up,” which

“believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things!”

“A holy life is made up,” says Bonar, “of a number of small things.

Little words, not eloquent speeches or sermons; little deeds, not

miracles nor battles, nor one great heroic act, or mighty martyrdom,

make up the true Christian life. The little, constant sunbeam, not

the lightning; the waters of Shiloh, ‘that go softly’ in their

meek mission of refreshment, not the waters of the ‘river, strong

and many,’ rushing down in torrents, noise and force, are the true

symbols of a holy life. The avoidance of little evils, little sins,

little inconsistencies, little weaknesses, little follies, little

indiscretions and imprudences, little foibles, little indulgences of

self and the flesh—the avoidance of such _little_ things as these goes

far to make up, at least, the negative beauty of a holy life.”

The aim of Christianity is to produce a sanctified and noble manhood in

this world, preparatory for angelhood in a higher world. He that works

well for his religion honors it, but he that lives it well honors it

more, for such a life is itself the best work, and empowers all other

work.

* * * * *

The God who created these fair heavens with the same facility as yon

green sapling: he who hath bestowed on man a life of toil, of transient

joys and fleeting pains, that he might not forget the higher worth

of his enduring soul, and might feel that immortality waited for him

beyond the grave,—he, he is one only God! his mighty name Jehovah!

earth’s Creator and Judge! adored by Adam, first of men, and Adam’s

sons; then by Abraham, our father. But the rites by which we serve him

are obscure and dark even to our wisest men. Yet God himself prescribed

our sacred types, and will in time disclose their purport.—_Klopstock._

CHINESE LITERATURE.

ON THE ORIGIN AND NATURE OF FILIAL DUTY.

Confucius, sitting at leisure with his pupil, Tsang Tsan, by his side,

said to him: “Do you understand how the ancient kings who possessed

the greatest virtue and best moral principles, rendered the whole

empire so obedient that the people lived in peace and harmony, and no

ill-will existed between superiors and inferiors?” Tsang Tsan replied,

“Destitute as I am of discernment, how can I understand the subject?”

“Filial duty,” said the sage, “is the root of virtue, and the stem from

which instruction in moral principles springs forth. The first thing

which filial duty requires of us is that we preserve from all injury,

and in a perfect state, the bodies which we have received from our

parents. And when we acquire for ourselves a station in the world, that

we regulate our conduct by correct principles, so as to transmit our

names to future generations, and reflect glory on our parents: this

is the ultimate aim of filial duty. Thus it commences in attention to

our parents; is continued through a series of services rendered to the

prince; and is completed by the elevation of ourselves. It is said in

the ‘Book of Odes,’

“‘Think always of your ancestors,

Talk of and imitate their virtues.’”

—_From “Hian King;” or, “Memoir on Filial Duty.”_

THE IMPROVEMENT OF ONE’S SELF.

The ancients who wished to restore reason to its due lustre throughout

the empire, first regulated the provinces which they each governed.

Desirous of governing well their own kingdoms, they previously

established order and virtue in their own houses; for the sake of

establishing domestic order they began with self-renovation; to

renovate their own minds, they first gave a right direction to their

own affections; wishing to direct their passions aright, they corrected

their ideas and desires, and to rectify these they enlarged their

knowledge to the utmost. Now, this enlargement of knowledge consists

in a most thorough and minute acquaintance with the nature of things

around us. A thorough acquaintance with the nature of things around us

renders knowledge deep and consummate; from thence proceed just ideas

and desires; erroneous ideas once corrected, the affections of the soul

move in the right direction; the passions thus rectified, the mind

naturally obeys reason, and the empire of reason restored in the soul,

domestic order follows, of course; from thence flows order throughout

the whole province; and one province rightly governed may serve as a

model for a whole kingdom.—_From “Ta Hioh;” or, “Superior Lessons.”_

SENTENCES FROM CONFUCIUS.

Grieve not that men know you not, but grieve that you are ignorant of

men.

Have no friends unlike yourself.

Learning, without reflection, will profit nothing; reflection, without

learning, will leave the mind uneasy and miserable.

Knowledge produces pleasure clear as water; complete virtue brings

happiness, solid as a mountain; knowledge pervades all things; virtue

is tranquil and happy; knowledge is delight; virtue is long life.

The sage’s conduct is affection and benevolence in operation.

The man who possesses complete virtue wishes to fix his mind therein,

and also to fix the minds of others; he wishes to be wise himself and

would fain render others equally wise.

Those who, searching for virtue, refuse to stay among the virtuous, how

can they obtain knowledge?

In your appearance to fall below decency would be to resemble a savage

rustic, to exceed it would be to resemble a fop; let your appearance be

decent and moderate, then you will resemble the honorable man.

When I first began with men, I heard words and gave credit for conduct,

now I hear words and observe conduct.

The perfect man is never satisfied with himself; he that is satisfied

with himself is not perfect.

He that is desirous to improve is not ashamed to ask of others.

Sin in a virtuous man is like an eclipse of the sun and moon, all men

gaze at it and it passes away; the virtuous man mends and the world

stands in admiration of his fall.

Patience is the most necessary thing to have in this world.

—_From “Lun Yu;” or, “Conversations of Confucius.”_

A BALLAD ON “PICKING TEA IN THE GARDENS IN SPRINGTIME.”

Our household dwells amid ten thousand hills,

Where the tea north and south of the village abundantly grows.

From _chinsé_ to _kuhyü_ unceasingly hurried,

Each morning I must early rise to do my task of tea.

By earliest dawn, I at my toilet, only half dress my hair,

And seizing my basket pass the door while yet the mist is thick.

The little maids and graver dames, hand in hand winding along,

Ask me, “Which steep of Sunglo do you climb to-day?”

The sky is thick and the dusky twilight hides the hilltops;

The dewy leaves and cloudy buds can not be easily plucked.

We know not for whom their thirst to quench

We’re caused to labor and daily two by two to go.

In social couples each to aid her fellows, we seize the tea twigs,

And in low words urge one another, “Don’t delay,”

Lest on the topmost bough, the bud has even now grown old,

And lest with the morrow comes the drizzling, silky rain.

We’ve picked enough, the topmost boughs are sparse of leaves;

We lift our baskets filled brimful and talk of going home;

Laughing we pass along, when just against the pool

A pair of scared mallards rise and fly diverse away.

This pool has limpid water, and there deep the lotus grows;

Its little leaves are round as coins, and only yet half-blown;

Going to the jutting verge, near a clear and shallow spot,

I mark my present looks, try how of late my face appears.

My curls and hair are all awry, my face is quite begrimed;

In whose house lives the girls so ugly as your slave?

’Tis only because that every day the tea I’m forced to pick,

The soaking rains and driving winds have spoiled my early charms.

With the morning comes the wind and rain together, fierce and high,

But the little hat and basket tall still must I take along;

The tender leaflets fully picked, we to our homes return,

When each sees her fellow’s dress all soiled with miry slime.

This morn without the door, I beheld a pleasant sky;

Quickly I combed my girlish tufts and firmly set my pin;

With rapid steps away I speed towards the garden’s path,

And forgetful of the muddy way, omit to change my shoes.

When just within the garden bounds, I hear the thunder roll;

My bowing shoes are soaked quite through, yet still I can’t return;

I call my distant comrade to send my message home,

And have my green umbrella-hat set hither to me soon.

The rain is past, the outmost leaflets show their greenish veins;

Pull down a branch and the fragrant scent’s diffused around;

Both high and low the yellow golden threads are now quite culled,

And my clothes and frock are dyed with odors through and through.

The sweet and fragrant perfume’s like that from the aglaia;

In goodness and appearance my tea will be the best in Wuyuen,

When all are picked, the new buds, by next term, will burst forth,

And this morning the last third gathering is quite done.

Each picking is with toilsome labor, but yet I shun it not.

My maiden curls are all askew, my pearly fingers all benumbed;

But I only wish our tea to be of a superfine kind,

To have it equal the “sparrow’s tongue” and “dragon’s pellet.”

For a whole month when can I catch a single leisure day?

For at earliest dawn I go to pick and not till dusk return;

Then the deep midnight sees me still before the firing pan;

Will not labor like this my pearly complexion deface?

But if my face is thin my mind is firmly fixed,

So to fire my golden buds that they shall excel all besides;

But how know I who shall put them in the jewelled cup?

Whose taper fingers will give them to the maid to draw?

At a bright fire she makes the tea, her sorrows flee away;

Where shall she learn our toil who so tender picked it all?

How that without a sign the fierce winds and rains did rise,

Drenching and soaking our persons as if plunged into a bath.

But though my heaving bosom like a well-sweep rise and fall,

Still patient in my poverty and care I’ll never shun my usual toil;

My only thought shall be to have new tea well fired,

That the flag and awl be well rolled and show their whitened down.

THE MENDER OF CRACKED CHINAWARE.

_Dramatis Personæ_:

NIU CHAU, a wandering tinker. WANG NIANG, a young girl.

SCENE: A STREET.—[_Niu Chau enters. Across his shoulder is a bamboo, to

each end of which are suspended boxes containing the various tools and

implements of his trade, and a small stool. He is dressed meanly; his

face and head are painted and decorated in a fantastic manner._]

[_Sings._] Seeking a livelihood by the work of my hands,

Daily do I traverse the streets of the city.

[_Speaks._] Well, here I am, a mender of broken jars,

An unfortunate victim of ever-changing plans.

To repair old fractured jars

Is my sole occupation and support.

’Tis even so, I have no other employment.

[_Takes his boxes from his shoulder, places them on the ground, sits

beside them, and drawing out his fan, continues speaking._]

A disconsolate old man,

I am a slave to inconveniences.

For several days past,

I have been unable to go abroad,

But observing this morning a clear sky and fine air,

I was induced to recommence my street wanderings.

[_Sings._] At dawn I left my home,

But as yet have had no job.

Hither and yon, and on all sides,

From the east gate to the west,

From the south gate to the north,

And all over within the walls

Have I been, but no one has called

For the mender of cracked jars.

Unfortunate man!

But this being my first visit to the city of Nanking,

Some extra exertion is necessary.

Time is lost sitting idle here,

And so to roam again I go.

[_Shoulders his boxes and stool, and walks about, crying: “Plates

mended! bowls mended! jars and pots neatly repaired!”_]

_Lady Wang_ (_heard within_).—Did I not hear the cry of the mender

of cracked jars? I’ll open the door and look. [_She enters, looking

around_] Yes, there comes the repairer of jars.

_Niu Chau._—Pray have you a jar to mend? I have long been seeking a

job. Did you not call?

_Lady W._—What is your charge for a large jar; and how much for a small

one?

_Niu Chau._—For large jars, one mace five.

_Lady W._—And for small ones?

_Niu Chau._—Fifty pair of cash.

_Lady W._—To one mace five and fifty pair of cash, add nine candareens,

and a new jar may be had.

_Niu Chau._—What, then, will you give?

_Lady W._—I will give one candareen for either size.

_Niu Chau._—Well, lady, how many cash can I get for this candareen?

_Lady W._—Why, if the price be high, you will get eight cash.

_Niu Chau._—And if low?

_Lady W._—You will get but seven cash and a half.

_Niu Chau._—O, you wicked, tantalizing thing!

[_Sings._] Since leaving home this morning,

I have met but with a trifler,

Who, in the shape of an old wife,

Tortures and gives me no job;

I’ll shoulder again my boxes, continue my walk,

And never again will I return to the house of Wang.

[_He moves off slowly._]

_Lady W._—Jar-mender! return, quickly return; with a loud voice I

entreat you; for I have something on which I wish to consult with you.

_Niu Chau._—What is it on which you wish to consult me?

_Lady W._—I will give you a hundred cash to mend a large jar.

_Niu Chau._—And for mending a small one?

_Lady W._—And for mending a small one, thirty pair of cash.

_Niu Chau._—One hundred and thirty pair—truly, lady, this is worth

consulting about. Lady Wang, where shall I mend them?

_Lady W._—Follow me. [_They move toward the door of the house._]

[_Sings._] Before walks the Lady Wang.

_Niu Chau._—And behind comes the _pu-kang_ (or jar-mender).

_Lady W._—Here, then, is the place.

_Niu Chau._—Lady Wang, permit me to pay my respects. [_Bows repeatedly

in a ridiculous manner._] We can exchange civilities. I congratulate

you; may you prosper.

_Lady W._—Here is the jar; now go to work and mend it.

_Niu Chau._—[_Takes the jar in his hand and tosses it about, examining

it._] This jar has certainly a very appalling fracture.

_Lady W._—Therefore it requires the more care in mending.

_Niu Chau._—That is self evident.

_Lady W._—Now Lady Wang will retire again to her dressing-room,

And after closing the doors, will resume her toilet.

Her appearance she will beautify,

On the left, her hair she will comb into a dragon’s-head tuft,

On the right she will arrange it tastefully with flowers,

Her lips she will color with blood-red vermilion,

And a gem of chrysoprase will she place in the dragon’s-head tuft;

Then, having completed her toilet, she will return to the door,

And sit down to look at the jar mender. [_Exit._]

[_Niu Chau sits down, straps the jar on his knee, and arranges his

tools before him, and as he drills holes for the clamps, sings_—]

Every hole drilled requires a pin,

And every two holes drilled requires pins a pair.

As I raise my head and look around—

[_At this moment Lady Wang returns, beautifully dressed, and sits down

by the door_]

There sits, I see, a delicate young lady,

Before she had the appearance of an old wife,

Now she is transformed into a handsome young girl;

On the left, her hair is combed into a dragon’s head tuft,

On the right it is adorned tastefully with flowers.

Her lips are like plums, her mouth is all smiles,

Her eyes are brilliant as the phœnix’s; and

She stands on golden lilies, but two inches long.

I look again, another look—down drops the jar.

[_The jar at this moment falls, and is broken to pieces._]

[_Speaks._] Heigh-ya! Here then is a dreadful smash.

_Lady W._—You have but to replace it with another, and do so quickly.

_Niu Chau._—For one that was broken, a good one must be given. Had two

been broken, then were a pair to be supplied; an old one being smashed,

a new one must replace it.

_Lady W._—You have destroyed the jar, and return me nothing but words.

Give me a new one, then you may return home, not before.

_Niu Chau._—Here on my knees upon the hard ground, I beg Lady Wang,

while she sits above, to listen to a few words. Let me receive pardon

for the accident her beauty has occasioned, and I will at once make her

my wife.

_Lady W._—Impudent old man! How presume to think that I ever can become

your wife!

_Niu Chau._—Yes, it is true, I am somewhat older than Lady Wang, yet

would I make her my wife.

_Lady W._—No matter, then, for the accident, but leave me now at once.

_Niu Chau._—Since you have forgiven me, I again shoulder my boxes,

And I will go elsewhere in search of a wife;

And here, before high heaven, I swear never again to come near the

house of Wang.

You a great lady! You are but a vile, ragged girl,

And will yet be glad to take up with a much worse companion.

[_Going away, he suddenly throws off his upper dress, and appears as a

handsome young man._]

_Lady W._—Henceforth give up your wandering profession,

And marry me. Quit the trade of a jar-mender.

With the Lady Wang pass happily the remainder of your life.

[_They embrace and exeunt._]

—_Chi. Rep., vol. VI., p. 576._

JAPANESE LITERATURE.

TRANSLATIONS FROM JAPANESE MYTHOLOGY.

The first man was Izanagi, the first woman Izanami. Standing together

on the floating bridge of heaven, the male plunged his jeweled

falchion, or spear, into the unstable waters beneath them, and

withdrawing it, the trickling drops formed an island, upon which they

descended. The creative pair, or divine man and woman, designing to

make this island a pillar for a continent, separated—the male to the

left, the female to the right—to make a journey round the island. At

their meeting, the female spirit spoke first, “How joyful to meet

a lovely man!” The male spirit, offended that the first use of the

tongue had been by a woman, required the circuit to be repeated. On

their second meeting, the man cried out, “How joyful to meet a lovely

woman!” They were the first couple; and this was the beginning of the

art of love, and of the human race. The island (Awaji) with seven

other large, and many thousand small ones, became the Everlasting

Great Japan. The Heaven-illuminating Goddess was their first child.

She shone beautifully, and lighted the heavens and the earth. Her

father, therefore, transferred her from earth to heaven, and gave her

the ethereal realm to rule over. At this time the earth was close to

heaven, and the goddess easily mounted the pillar, on which heaven

rested, to her kingdom.

The second child became the Goddess of the Moon. Of their third child,

a boy, they entertained the highest hopes. He grew up, however, to be

a most mischievous fellow, killing people, pulling up their trees, and

trampling down their fields. He grew worse as he grew up. He was made

ruler over the blue sea; but he never kept his kingdom in order. He let

his beard grow down over his bosom. He cried constantly; and the land

became a desert, the rivers and seas dried up, and human beings died in

great numbers. His father, inquiring the reason of his surly behavior,

was told that he wished to go to his mother, who was in the region

under the earth. He then made his son ruler over the kingdom of night.

The august scape-grace still continued his pranks, unable to refrain

from mischief. One day, after his sister, the Sun-goddess, had planted

a field with rice, he turned a wild horse loose, which trampled down

and spoiled all her work. Again, having built a store house for the

new rice, he defiled it so that it could not be used. At another time,

his sister was sitting at her loom, weaving. Sosanoö, having skinned a

live horse by drawing its skin off from the tail to the head, flung the

reeking hide over the loom, and the carcass in the room. The goddess

was so frightened that she hurt herself with the shuttle, and, in her

wrath, retired to a cave, closing the mouth with a large rock. Heaven,

earth, and the four quarters became enshrouded in darkness, and the

distinction between day and night ceased.

The gods create great confusion and noise pretending to be very merry

when the Sun-goddess within, unable to account for the ill-timed

mirth, since heaven and earth were in darkness, rose, and approaching

the rocky door, listened to the honeyed words of one of the gods,

who was praising her. Impelled further by curiosity, she opened the

door, slightly, and asked why Uzumé danced and the gods laughed? Uzumé

replied, “I dance because there is an honorable deity who surpasses

your glory.” As she said this, the exceedingly beauteous god Futodama

showed the mirror. The Sun-goddess within, astonished at her own

loveliness, which she now first beheld in the reflection, stepped

out a little further to gratify her curiosity. The God of Invincibly

Strong Hands, who stood concealed, pulled the rock door open, caught

her by the hand, and dragged her forth. The wisest of the gods, who

superintended the whole proceedings, took a rope of twisted rice-straw,

passed it behind her, and said, “Do not go behind this.” Then they

removed the Sun-goddess to her new palace, and put a straw rope around

it to keep off evil gods. Her wicked brother was punished by having

each particular hair of his head pulled out, and his finger and toe

nails extracted. He was then banished.

Another legend says the Sun-goddess spoke to Sosanoö (the

Moon-goddess), who reigned jointly with her over the high plain of

heaven, and said, “I have heard that there is a food-possessing goddess

in the central country of luxuriant reedy moors (Japan). Go and see.”

Descending from heaven, she came to the august abode of the Goddess

of Food, and asked for refreshment. The goddess, creating various

forms of food, such as boiled rice from the land, fish from the sea,

beasts, with coarse and fine hair, from the hills, set them on a

banqueting-table before Sosanoö, who, enraged at the manner of the

creation of the food, killed her.

Reporting the matter in heaven, Amaterasŭ was angry at Sosanoö, and

degraded her (the Moon-goddess) from joint rule, and condemned her to

appear only at night, while she, the Sun-goddess, slept. Amaterasŭ

then sent a messenger the second time to see whether the Food-goddess

was really dead. This was found to be the case. Out of the dead body

were growing, millet on the forehead; silk-worms and a mulberry-tree

on the eyebrows; grass on the eyes; on the belly, rice, barley, and

large and small beans; The head finally changed into a cow and horse.

The messenger took them all, and presented them to Amaterasŭ. The

Sun-goddess rejoiced, and ordained that these should be the food of

human beings, setting apart rice as the seed of the watery fields,

and the other cereals as the seed of the dry fields. She appointed

lords of the villages of heaven, and began for the first time to plant

the rice-seeds. In the autumn the drooping ears ripened in luxuriant

abundance. She planted the mulberry-trees on the fragrant hills of

heaven, and rearing silk-worms, and chewing cocoons in her mouth, spun

thread. Thus began the arts of agriculture, silk-worm rearing, and

weaving.

JAPANESE PROVERBS.

Good doctrines need no miracles.

The fortune-teller can not tell his own fortune.

The doctor does not keep himself well.

To give an iron club to a devil is to give riches to a bad man.

While the hunter looks afar after birds, they fly up and escape at his

feet.

The ignorant man is gentle.

Every one suffers either from his pride or sinfulness.

Even a calamity left alone for three years may turn into a fortune.

Birds flock on the thick branches.

Heaven does not kill a man.

Having inquired seven times, believe the common report.

The poet, though he does not go abroad, sees all the renowned places.

Don’t trust a pigeon to carry grain.

There is no medicine for a fool.

If you keep a tiger you will have nothing but trouble.

The more words; the less sense.

Who steals money is killed; who steals a country is a king.

The best thing in traveling is a companion; in the world, kindness.

The gods have their seat on the brow of a just man.

Proof is better than discussion.

The world is just as a person’s heart makes it.

If you hate anyone, let him live.

Excess of politeness becomes impoliteness.

Poverty can not overtake diligence.

Making an idol does not give it a soul.

Beware of a beautiful woman; she is like red pepper.

Pearls unpolished shine not.

Even a monkey sometimes falls from a tree.

Send the child you love most on a journey.

Live under your own hat.

Hearing is paradise; seeing is hell.

When life is ruined for the sake of money’s preciousness, the ruined

life cares naught for the money.

The tongue is but three inches long, yet it can kill a man six feet

high.

RAIKO AND THE ONI.

The wonderful story of “Raiko and the Oni” is one of the most famous in

the collection of Japanese grandmothers. Its power to open the mouths

and distend the oblique eyes of the youngsters long after bed-time, is

unlimited.

Long, long ago there was a great war between the Genji and Heiké, in

which many men were killed. One of the Genji warriors, named Raiko,

could not find any one valiant enough to fight with him, and so he

wished to find a ghoul to slay. Now, there lurked at the palace gate

a fierce ghoul, which he sent his retainer, Watanabé Tsuna, to kill.

Now, Tsuna was, next to Raiko, the strongest man in the whole country,

and was not afraid of the ghoul. When he went out to the gate, the oni

seized him by the helmet, but Tsuna caught the ghoul’s arm with the

left hand, and, with his sword in his right hand, cut off the limb.

The ghoul was so frightened that it ran away, leaving its hairy arm

and claws. Tsuna was very proud of his victory, and kept the arm as a

trophy, carefully packed in a fine box. One day an old woman came to

see the hero, saying she had heard of his feat, and would like to see

the wonderful limb which he, by his valor, had cut off. Now, Tsuna was

always good-natured to old people and good children, being only angry

with wicked robbers and demons, and so he opened the box to show the

old lady his treasure. Now, this old woman was nothing more than a

ghoul in disguise. No sooner had Tsuna opened his box than she snatched

the limb, and flew away with it through the smoke-hole in the roof,

changing, as she flew, into her true shape—that of a hideous ghoul.

At this time Raiko was sick, and a three-eyed ghoul came to torment

him, knowing he was very weak; but Raiko drew his sword, which he

always kept at his side, and gave the ghoul a lusty cut that sent him,

all bloody and howling, away. His retainers followed the tracks of

blood to a great cave, in which they found a colossal spider, which

Raiko succeeded in killing.

Shu-ten dōji was another ghoul which Raiko, with his retainers, went to

slay. Raiko went to his cave, and asked for a night’s lodging. He found

there a great red man, with long red hair, drinking strong saké out of

a huge trencher which would hold several tubfuls. After a while the

ghoul got drunk, and fell asleep. Raiko then drew his sword and cut off

the monster’s head. His retainers helped him to carry it out, and it

was paraded with great pomp where every one could see it. It was bigger

than the great lion’s head which used to be carried through the streets

of Yedo at the great festival procession of Kanda Miō Jin, which it

required twenty men to carry. It had frightful horns and tusks, and

devoured many people.

Raiko was a Kugé, and one of the bravest warriors of all time. Brave

men such as he long ago killed all the wicked things in Japan, so

that good little children might go to sleep, and not be afraid of the

ghouls coming to take them from papa, mamma, brothers, sisters, and

grandmothers.

DELIVERANCE: NIRVANA.

A pilgrim through eternity—

In countless births have I been born,

And toiled the architect to see,

Who builds my soul’s live house in scorn.

Oh, painful is the road of birth

By which, from house to house made o’er,

Each house displays the kind and worth

Of the desires I loved before.

Dear architect! I now have seen thy face,

And seized thy precept’s law.

Of all the houses which have been

Not one again my soul can draw.

Thy rafters crushed, thy ridge-pole, too,

Thy work, O builder, now is o’er!

My spirit feels Nirvâna true,

And I shall transmigrate no more.—_Buddha._

[_End of Required Reading for June._]

JUNE.

By ELLEN O. PECK.

Open thy gates, O summer,

The air is balmy and sweet,

And a radiant guest is ready

To enter with fairy feet.

’Tis June with her brow of sunshine,

And her wealth of green and gold,

With drapery graceful and flowing,

And flowers in every fold.

O beautiful June! Thou art come again!

O month of joy! O month of pain!

Thy face is the face of my darling

That lies beneath thy flowers,

And that comes to me with thy coming

On the wings of the golden hours;

The years are swift in passing

But the memories fondly stay,

And time has no power to rob me

Though it bear my youth away;

For, framed like thee in choicest gold

Is the face of my love which can not grow old.

Thy lilies were clasped in her fingers—

Not whiter the lilies than they—

When under thy skies which were weeping

They laid my darling away.

There I planted a delicate rose-tree,

Which thy coming calls to bloom,

Each year a sweet reminder

Of her heart’s own sweet perfume.

Not fairer the bloom of these flowers of the sun,

Than the radiant life of my beautiful one.

And I read anew at thy coming

Sweet lessons of love and truth,

With the bitter lines of sorrow

I learned in my happy youth.

God sends a message golden

Each year in thy glowing train,

I would not fail in grasping

Though with good it brings me pain.

While I grieve for the beauty earth holds no more

I catch a gleam of the heavenly shore.

TAXIDERMY.

MR. WATTERTON’S METHOD OF STUFFING BIRDS.

Observe, before procuring a specimen, how beautifully the feathers of a

bird are arranged, one falling over the other in the nicest order; and

that, where this charming harmony is interrupted, the defect, though

not noticed by an ordinary spectator, will appear immediately to the

eye of a naturalist. Thus, a bird not wounded, and in perfect feather,

must be procured if possible, for the loss of the feathers can seldom

be made good; and where the deficiency is great, all the skill of the

artist will avail him little in his attempt to conceal the defect,

because, in order to hide it, he must contract the skin, bring down the

upper feathers and shove in the lower ones, which would throw all the

surrounding parts into contortion.

You will observe, that the whole skin does not produce feathers, and

that it is very tender where the feathers do not grow. The bare parts

are admirably formed for expansion about the throat and stomach,

and they fit into the different cavities of the body at the wings,

shoulders, rump, and thighs, with wonderful exactness; so that in

stuffing the bird, if you make an even rotund surface of the skin where

these cavities existed, in lieu of re-forming them, all symmetry,

order, and proportion, are lost forever.

You must lay it down as an absolute rule, that the bird is to be

entirely skinned, otherwise you can never succeed in forming a true and

pleasing specimen.

Wire is of no manner of use, but, on the contrary, a great nuisance,

for where it is introduced a disagreeable stiffness and derangement of

symmetry follow.

The head and neck can be placed in any attitude, the body supported,

the wings closed, extended, or elevated, the tail depressed, raised, or

expanded, the thighs set horizontal or oblique, without any aid from

wire. Cotton will effect all this.

A very small proportion of the skull bone, say, from the forepart

of the eyes to the bill, is to be left in, though even this is not

absolutely necessary. Part of the wing-bones the jaw-bones, and half

of the thigh-bones remain; every, thing else, flesh, fat, eyes, bones,

brains, and tendons, are all to be taken away, and the skin anointed

thoroughly with a solution of corrosive sublimate or with arsenical

soap.

Introduce the cotton for an artificial body by means of a little stick

like a knitting needle, and without any other aid or substance than

that of this little stick and cotton, your own genius must produce

those swellings and cavities, that just proportion, that elegance and

harmony of the whole so much admired in animated nature, so little

attended to in preserved specimens. After you have introduced the

cotton, sew up the orifice you originally made in the belly, beginning

at the vent. And from time to time, till you arrive at the last stitch,

keep adding a little cotton, in order that there may be no deficiency

there. Lastly, dip your stick into a solution of corrosive sublimate,

and put it down the throat three or four times, in order that every

part may receive it.

When the head and neck are filled with cotton quite to your liking,

close the bill as in nature. A little bit of bees wax at the point of

it will keep the mandibles in their proper place. A needle must be

stuck into the lower mandible perpendicularly. Bring also the feet

together by a pin, and then run a thread through the knees, by which

you may draw them to each other as near as you judge proper. Nothing

now remains but to add the eyes; with your little stick make a hollow

in the cotton within the orbit and introduce the glass eyes into it.

Adjust the orbit to them as in nature, and that requires no other

fastener.

Great attention must be paid to the size of the orbit, which will

receive within it an object much larger than the eye, so that it must

be drawn together with a very small delicate needle and thread, at the

part farthest from the beak.

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

and feet.

Take any ordinary box large enough for holding the bird, and fill

three-fourths of it from the top at one end, and the other end forming

an inclined plane; make a hollow in it sufficient for the reception of

the bird, place it in the box with its legs in a sitting posture; take

a piece of cork into which three pins have been stuck for legs, like

a three-footed stool; place it under the bird’s bill, and the needle

which was formerly run through the bill is stuck into the cork, which

will act as a support to the bird’s head. If the neck is wished to be

lengthened, put more cotton under the cork, or _vice versa_; and if

the head is wished to be projecting forward, it has only to be brought

nearer the front of the box, humoring the cork, so as to place it in

the position you require.

As the back part of the neck shrinks more in drying than the fore

part, a thread must be tied to the end of the box, mid fastened to the

beak, to prevent the face from looking too much upward. If the wings

are wished elevated, support them with cotton; and if it be very high,

place a piece of stick under them.

Should you desire to expand the wings, the order of the feathers must

be reversed, commencing with the two middle ones. When perfectly dry,

place them in the natural order, and they will ever afterwards continue

as you wish them. If the crest is wished to be erect, the feathers must

be moved in a contrary direction for a day or two, when they will soon

take the position wished for.

The box must now be placed out of the reach of the sun, air, or fire,

so that the skin may dry slowly. The corrosive sublimate is of much

service in this respect, for it renders the skin moist and flexible for

many days. The bird should be lifted every day, so that any faults may

be corrected which take place while drying.

The small wing-coverts are apt to rise, owing to the skin coming in

contact with the wing bones. The part which rises should be gently

pulled with the finger and thumb for a day or two, and the feathers

pressed down.

The feathers should be frequently adjusted so as to render them

distinct and visible.

The legs begin to stiffen in three or four days, when it will be time

to place them in the desired position; and the toes either arranged,

or curved, so as to hold a branch, in which two spikes must be placed

for the reception of the feet, whereon they are to be stuck, and can

afterwards be removed at pleasure. All the threads which kept the

different parts in their places may now be removed.

Touch the whole feathers with a solution of corrosive sublimate, so as

to preserve them from the attack of moths. The surest way of proceeding

is to immerse the bird in the solution of corrosive sublimate, and then

dry it before you begin to dissect it.

If it is intended to represent the bird flying, its wings are extended

to their utmost stretch, the tail placed horizontally, and expanded,

the neck forced forward, the legs and feet drawn up close to the

breast, with the toes closed. It may then be suspended from the

ceiling, by a piece of very fine _brass_ wire, such as is used for

piano-forte strings.

A very spirited and striking position is, when the bird is about to

take flight. In this attitude, it is placed with the body reclining

forward, and the wings slightly raised, which can be managed without

the assistance of external wires, by merely placing a little cotton or

tow under the wings, while the skin is yet wet.

Descriptions of this kind are endless; let those who intend stuffing

birds study nature in its various details, and, where this can not be

come at, good books and prints will be found an excellent substitute.

GYMNASTICS.

The lack of proper muscular exercise is the cause of a large portion of

the irritability, nervousness, back-ache and lassitude of the majority

of people. Every person has in his bodily organization the means of

preserving health and overcoming disease. The failure lies in the

individuals refusing to use available means. A few simple gymnastics,

practised daily, in a well-ventilated space, and in a light and loose

dress, will, with careful diet, and frequent cold baths, preserve

health and remove disease. Nor are these exercises complicated, they

are within the reach of every one.

“An excellent plan,” says Prof. Hartelius, “is to have two thick

vertically hanging ropes fixed to the ceiling, at two feet distance

from each other, for all the members of the household to perform

daily a hanging or trunk-lifting exercise. The hands grasp the ropes

at equal heights above the head, and support, for a short moment,

the whole weight of the body, either by simply hanging with straight

arms or—if the person be sufficiently strong—by slowly bending the

elbows, thus lifting the body. This trunk-lifting should be repeated

three to six times, and, when the body is lowered in the intervals

between, this should be done slowly, with the toes always touching

the ground before the heels, to avoid nervous commotion.” But there

are simpler exercises, which may be practised without even apparatus

as simple as the above, and nothing on this line can be better than

the same author’s series of gymnastic prescriptions for different

diseases. If your daily occupation does not afford sufficient exercise,

and, in consequence, your blood is thin, you are weak and nervous,

or troubled with gout or obesity, he offers a series of exercises,

simple and effective. Standing with arms stretched to full length,

move them slowly sideways and upward, till they attain a vertical

position above the head, hands and fingers well stretched. While

moving to this position, the arms are gently rotated outwards, so as

to make the palms face each other when stretched overhead; the arms

are then lowered through the same plane. This exercise should be

repeated eight to sixteen times, remembering that the head and trunk

are to be kept straight, chest arched forward and arms kept well back

during the movement. The movement may now be changed by moving the

stretched arms slowly forward, upward and sideways, so as to describe

a circle. Now standing straight, with arms dropped, raise the heels

so as to throw the whole weight of the body on the toes, then the

heels are lowered simultaneously and the toes raised, thus throwing

the weight of the body on the heels. After repeating several times the

heel-and-toe raising, move the shoulders so as to describe a circle

forward, upward, backward and downward, keeping the head well up and

the back stretched. Now stretch the arms and raise them quickly forward

and upward, until they reach a vertical position at each side of the

head; then they are slowly lowered sideways, downward, close to the

side. The next motion, which the author calls by the expressive name

of the “wing-stride-standing-trunk-circling,” is performed chiefly

by means of the muscles of the trunk situated around the hips. The

commencing position is, hands on the hips, feet placed sideways with a

distance of two feet between them. The trunk is moved from the waist,

describing as large a circle as possible, first to the left, then to

the right. The legs should be kept straight, the head and hips steady.

Motions with the head follow, and consist simply in bending the head,

first slowly forward then raised and bent as far back as possible.

Then bent from left to right as far as possible without moving the

rest of the body. The head is turned from left to right and followed

by the _head-circling_, in which the head describes slowly as wide a

circle as can be done without straining, several times to the left and

then as many times to the right. After the exercise with the head come

trunk movements, to be performed in the following directions, forward,

backward, to the sides, and turning in a circle, the hands being kept

on the hips, the chest arched and the legs straight. This is but one

_prescription_, each exercise, of course, being repeated several times.

Prof. Hartelius gives a great variety of exercises, a careful use of

which will certainly do much for any one. There can be no vigorous,

bounding life in the frame which is inert. Motion is the sign of life

through all the earth and bodily motion is absolutely necessary to

health.

ETCHING.

A style of picture most popular of late among artists and buyers is

the etching. Not that it is a new style, but simply that it has been

revived, perfected, and made the fashion. Etching is not new, for it

dates back at least to Albert Dürer, in the first of the sixteenth

century, and very probably was known before his time.

The methods are very interesting and simple. To etch means to eat. Thus

from the very name we gain insight into the mode of work. The tools

are easy to obtain, for as Hamerton, the most interesting of modern

etchers, says, “Almost any bar of metal that can be sharpened to a

point will do to etch with. Turner used an old fork. A nail at the end

of a stick would answer the purpose; common sewing needles have often

been used. There are, however, various degrees of usefulness even in

things so easily made as etching-needles, and different artists have

different tastes.” But, as the art has grown popular, these primitive

tools have been replaced by better styles. The shops contain several

styles of needles and instruments. The etching-needle is ordinarily a

piece of stout steel wire inserted in a handle, and ground to a fine

point. Two or three of these needles of different thicknesses are used,

some for broad and some for fine lines. Having needles, the etcher

prepares a copper plate by covering it with a coating of asphaltum and

wax, and _this_, if you wish to speak technically, must be called the

etching ground. It is blackened by lampblack mixed with the varnish.

Upon this the drawing is made. The lines can be made broad or fine,

as the needles are of different degrees of fineness, and, of course,

these lines cut through the _ground_ to the plate beneath. Upon the

plate where the picture has been drawn dilute nitric acid is poured.

The result of pouring nitric acid on copper is well known: it eats or

corrodes, or etches the copper; but upon our ground of wax makes no

effect. The eating of the acid is called _biting in_. When the work

is well bitten in, the acid is poured off, and the plate cleaned and

examined. If the lines of the lighter parts appear to be sufficiently

etched, they are painted over with the asphaltum, ground and dissolved

in spirits of turpentine, while the rest of the work is re-bitten, _i.

e._, the acid is applied to the other parts again.

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

Stopping out and biting in are continued until all the lines are of

the required depth. If, by accident or oversight, a line is too deeply

bitten in, it is rubbed with an instrument called the _burnisher_. This

tool polishes the plate when scratched, and softens the too deep lines.

This process is old. It has been used with various modifications since

the time of the first etchers. A new method, called by its author, P.

G. Hamerton, the _positive process_, is gaining very general favor. Let

him state its merits:

“By my positive process the artist, whilst etching, sees his work in

black upon a white ground, as distinctly as if he were drawing with a

lead-pencil on white paper, instead of seeing it in copper on a black

ground. The old negative process is objectionable not only because

it is negative, but because the lines are brilliant, which causes

them to appear more numerous than they really are.” Hamerton prepares

his plate by brightening it, first with cyanide of silver, and then

laying on a ground of white wax. The plate is fastened into a tray, or

shallow bath, and the mordant, as the acid preparation is called, is

poured over it. The etcher draws his picture while the plate lies in

the mordant. The lines blacken as soon as drawn. If a second or third

biting is necessary, the plate is cleaned and re-waxed.

This is the mechanical part of etching. So simple it is that it seems

that any one could be a successful etcher. But there is a knowledge and

skill apart from the mechanical work. What is it? Haden well answers

the question: “It is an innate artistic spirit, without which all the

study in the world is useless. It is the cultivation of this spirit,

not arduously but lovingly. It is a knowledge that is acquired by a

life of devotion to what is true and beautiful; by the hourly and

daily comparing of what we see in nature and the thinking of how it

should be represented in art. It is the habit of constant observation

of great things and small, and the experience that springs from it. It

is the skill to combine and the skill to separate—to compound and to

simplify—to fuse detail into mass—to subordinate definition to space,

distance, light, and air. Finally, it is the acumen to perceive the

near relationship that expression bears to form, and the skill to draw

them—not separately, but together.”

THE TWO SOWERS.

By ALEXANDER ANDERSON.

Death came to the earth, by his side was Spring,

They came from God’s own bowers,

And the earth was full of their wandering,

For they both were sowing flowers.

“I sow,” said Spring, “by the stream and the wood,

And the village children know

The gay glad time of my own sweet prime,

And where my blossoms grow.

“There is not a spot in the quiet wood

But hath heard the sound of my feet,

And the violets come from their solitude

When my tears hath made them sweet.”

“I sow,” said Death, “where the hamlet stands,

I sow in the churchyard drear;

I drop in the grave with gentle hands,

My flowers from year to year.

“The young and the old go into their rest,

To the sleep that awaits them below;

But I clasp the children unto my breast,

And kiss them before I go.”

“I sow,” said Spring; “but my flowers decay

When the year turns weak and old,

When the breath of the bleak winds wears them away,

And they wither and droop in the mould.

“But they come again when the young earth feels

The new blood leap in her veins,

When the fountain of wonderful life unseals,

And the earth is alive with the rains.”

“I sow,” said Death; “but my flowers unseen

Pass away from the land of men,

Nor sighs nor tears through the long sad years

Ever bring back their bloom again.

“But I know they are wondrous bright and fair

In the fields of their high abode;

Your flowers are the flowers that a child may wear,

But mine are the blossoms of God.”

Death came to the earth, by his side was Spring;

The two came from God’s own bowers;

One sow’d in night and the other in light,

Yet they both were sowing flowers.

A TOUR ROUND THE WORLD.

By MRS. JOSEPH COOK.

[Continued.]

On a voyage from Suez to Bombay there is no debate as to what line

of steamers to take, for those of the Peninsular and Oriental Line,

commonly spoken of as the P. & O. steamers, are acknowledged to rank

first in comfort, cleanliness, and safety.

It is on the day before Christmas that the Chautauquans embark on the

stately “Siam.” At four o’clock in the afternoon all is ready, the word

of command goes forth, the chains rattle, the gang-plank is drawn, and

under bright skies and on a smooth sea we start on our voyage from

the Levant to the Orient. We are on deck at seven o’clock Christmas

morning, but the mountain region of Sinai is already far behind us, as

dim as cloudland, and we have fairly entered the Red Sea. Our pocket

thermometer indicates 75° of heat, and when we go to breakfast we find

the _punkahs_ swinging. The stewards are immaculate in their white

trousers and black alpaca jackets.

This is our first introduction to the _punkah_, which becomes our best

friend in India. It is simply a fan some three feet wide, and from five

to ten feet long, suspended from the ceiling by cords, hanging over the

dining table, the drawing-room, or over your bed, and manipulated by a

mild Hindu, who, if he were not doing this, would probably be seated

in the same position doing nothing. It is a wonder that our midsummer

American heats have not been alleviated by similar contrivances, only

with our inventive genius we should have them propelled by machinery.

Alexander Duff complains of suffering more in public speaking in

America than in India, from the absence of the _punkah_, which is hung

over preacher as well as people in the churches of the principal Indian

cities.

A voyage to India is a prolonged pleasure excursion. Day after day

your ship steams through unruffled seas and under unclouded skies.

The mercury ranges from 75° to 85°. Thick canvas stretched over the

deck protects us from the sun’s fierce rays, and in these shortest

days his course is quickly run. July, August, and September are the

months when the Red Sea, which is like a chimney between two deserts,

becomes almost intolerable. Late in the afternoon of our fourth day

out, we pass certain islands which rear their sharp, barren tusks

above the waters, and the sun sinks behind verdureless mountains some

two thousand feet high. At an early hour the next morning we pass

the Straits of Babel Mandeb, and reach Aden at eleven o’clock. This

Gibraltar of the Arabian Seas is owned by the English, and, in the

extinct crater of a volcano, has sprung up a flourishing town of thirty

thousand inhabitants. Rain comes here only once in three years, when it

descends copiously during the greater part of September. This precious

downfall is caught in wells excavated out of the solid rock; and

this, together with what is manufactured from sea water, supplies the

inhabitants during the dry season at the rate of six shillings for one

hundred gallons.

As our steamer stopped in the roadstead off Aden we discerned small

boats coming toward us, and numerous black heads bobbing up and down

in the clear, green waters. These boats contained African boys, of

the Somali tribe, from eight to fifteen years of age, who, perfectly

naked, except a strip of cloth about the loins, climbed up like

squirrels on our ship, shouting continually, in good English, “Have a

dive, sir? have a dive? have a dive?” As soon as a bit of silver was

thrown into the water half-a-dozen of them would plunge for it and,

after a moment’s disappearance of the black heads, up they would come

again, one of them having in his mouth the coveted coin. The water

seemed to be as natural an element to these boys as though they were

the descendants of Undine. When neither diving nor swimming they would

tread the aqueous fluid in such a way as almost to sit on the waves.

One poor little fellow had had one leg bitten off by a shark, close

up to the thigh, but he hopped about as merrily as any of them and

performed as marvelous aquatic feats. During the five hours we remained

in port our ship’s deck was filled with traders, who had brought for

sale white and gray ostrich feathers, pieces of amber with imprisoned

insects, photographs of Aden, grass cloth from Madagascar, and Turkish

embroideries. They began by asking most exorbitant prices, and when you

offered about half what they asked, such sad, reproachful glances as

they cast upon you! Eventually they would accept fair terms rather than

lose the trade. Throughout India, Europeans, in dealing with natives,

have found by long experience that the real worth of their merchandise

is about one-third of the asking price. It was interesting to see the

various nationalities as they gathered on our ship’s deck: there were

Parsee and Mohammedan merchants from Bombay, Jewish traders with their

close-shaven heads and long cork-screw curls hanging in front of their

ears, and the merry Somali boys, with their woolly heads and gleaming

white teeth, and bronze figures so slightly covered.

After leaving Aden we turned from the Red Sea into the Indian Ocean,

and for six days our course was due east. At sunrise on the seventh

morning the coast of India was visible, and at nine o’clock our ship

dropped anchor in the harbor of Bombay. “Fair haven” is the meaning

of Bombay, and, built on an island, or chain of islands, it encloses

a splendid harbor of forty square miles. To the north and east are

numerous islands, and on the mainland there are hills from one thousand

to two thousand feet high, while the handsome government buildings

are seen on the west, prominent among them being the lofty and

well-proportioned tower of the University.

The drive to our hotel, although it was two miles distant, seemed but

a step, such were the strange sights on which we looked with wide-eyed

amazement. Here were men wearing all their clothes on their heads,

immense turbans of white or red cotton, and a loin cloth, while all

the rest of the body was innocent of covering. On their foreheads were

lines of yellow and red paint, which indicated their religious sect,

while the single dot of paint between the eyebrows proclaimed the fact

that the man had been to the temple and received purification for the

day. Children, as naked as the cherubs in Italian art, wore, instead

of the cherubic wings, silver bands about the ankles, and women,

with scanty drapery, were adorned with bracelets; necklaces, and the

hideous nose rings. The Parsees in their white garments and towering

hats made a pleasant contrast with the scantily-clothed natives, while

the yellow-turbaned Sepoy in policeman’s uniform, and the European,

with his topee hat and inevitable white umbrella, made still another

variety. It is possible to visit India and come away without seeing

anything more of native life than can be observed in the streets.

English life in the presidential cities is precisely the same as in

London or Edinburgh, but when it was understood that the Chautauquans

desired chiefly to study the manners and customs of the people of the

land, ample opportunities offered to visit government and mission

schools, native Christian churches, and those desolate apartments

called zenanas, where, after marriage, Hindu and Mohammedan ladies are

immured.

An afternoon’s excursion to the Elephanta Caves gives us an idea of

the rock temples of the Hindus. These famous caves are on an island in

Bombay harbor and are all hollowed by laborious excavation out of trap

rock. The largest one is about one hundred and thirty feet deep and

equally wide, and rests on huge pillars twenty feet high. Bas-reliefs,

staring passively from the rocky walls, represent Siva in various

forms, with his wife, Parvati. Facing the entrance of the temple is a

colossal trimurti, representing the Hindu trinity, Brahma, the creator,

in the center, Vishnu, the preserver, on the left, Siva, the destroyer,

on the right. Glimpses of the outer world, with its tropical luxuriance

of vegetation, bathed in the ruddy light of the sinking sun, made a

most striking contrast to the mysteriousness and gloom of this heathen

temple, to which, in the days when worship was celebrated there, the

costliest offerings were brought.

Horrible as the Hindu custom of cremation is to our ideas, the Parsee

fashion of leaving the dead to be devoured by vultures, is a thousand

times more repulsive. The Parsees are descendants of the ancient

Persians, who sought refuge in India from religious persecution some

thousand years ago. They are not only fire-worshipers, but they desire

to maintain the purity of all the elements. Their “towers of silence”

are circular white stone structures, perfectly plain outside, but the

ghastly thing about them is the fringe of vultures sitting around

the edge with their heads pointing inward. The bodies of the dead

are placed, quite naked, in grooves within the enclosure; hundreds

of vultures swoop down from the neighboring trees whenever a body

is thus exposed, and in an incredibly short time the satiated birds

move away with slow, heavy flight, having left nothing behind but a

skeleton! After the skeleton has become perfectly dry in the sun and

wind, the carriers of the dead, a separate and peculiar class who are

not permitted to mix in social intercourse with other Parsees, gloved

and with tongs remove the bones from the grooves and cast them into a

central well, where rich and poor must literally meet in death.

Eight days in Bombay and we are off for Poona. The first-class railway

carriages in India are wider and longer than those in England, with a

small bath room attached, and are so arranged as to be easily converted

into comfortable sleeping-coaches, but you are expected to furnish

your own bedding. Poona, the capital of the Mahrattis, signifies “the

holy city,” and is the stronghold of Brahminism. It is situated in a

wide-stretching, treeless plain, surrounded with hills. Here are the

government English schools, the Sanscrit College and the military

headquarters for Western India. A quiet Sunday here in a delightful

Scotch manse, twenty-four hours in Ahmednagar, where we are received

most hospitably by Americans of the Mahratti mission, and on we go to

Agra, to which point the Taj Mahal is drawing us like a magnet.

Approaching Agra in the freshness of the morning, an exclamation of

delighted surprise from one of the quartette drew the rest of us to

the window, and there, about a mile distant across a level country,

rose that miracle of loveliness in white marble, the Taj Mahal. We saw

it reflected in the Jumna as we crossed the railway bridge, two or

three graceful palm trees intervening, and then the grim walls of the

extensive fort became visible as we glided into the city. The Taj was

built less than two hundred and fifty years ago by the Mogul emperor,

Shah Jehan, as a tomb for his favorite wife, Moomtaj a Mahal. It is

thought that he purposed rearing a similar tomb for himself on the

opposite side of the river, and having the two mausoleums connected

by a bridge, but this stupendous project was never executed, and Shah

Jehan lies by the side of his beloved wife, whose best known name,

from her surpassing beauty, was Noor Jehan, the “Light of the World.”

The Taj is situated in a quadrangle measuring eighteen hundred by one

thousand feet, enclosed with red sandstone walls, turrets at the angles

and a gateway on each side. The colossal gateway itself is a grand

object, with its lofty arches of red stone, through which one sees as

in a frame the avenue of black cypresses leading up to the dazzling

monument. Most attractive gardens stretch away on either side, where

are walks, seats and umbrageous trees, and one is at liberty to wander

over the soft turf and examine the roses which grow here, under the

skilful care of an English florist, with unsurpassable prodigality of

bloom and fragrance. The Taj, toward which all this loveliness is but

the outer court yard, stands on a superb terrace of white marble 313

feet square, and at each angle rises a slender minaret. From the center

of the building, which is an irregular octagon, springs the marble

dome, slightly bulbous in shape, 70 feet in diameter, and rising to a

height of 120 feet. The dome is surmounted by a gilt crescent 260 feet

from the ground level. At each of the four corners is a light marble

cupola. Around all the arches of the portals and the windows, around

the cornice and the domes, on the walls and in the passages are inlaid

chapters of the Koran, the graceful, flowing Arabic characters being

formed of black marble. The real tombs of Shah Jehan and his wife are

in a spacious vaulted chamber immediately below the one containing

the sarcophagi, and this is reached by a sloping passage. Everything

is exquisitely finished here, and all the materials are genuine, but

the elaborateness of detail is in the grand hall above, which is a

lofty rotunda lighted both from above and below by screens of marble

perforated to a depth of two inches in most elegant lace-like patterns.

Around this chamber is a wainscoting of sculptured tablets representing

in bas-relief flowers, special prominence being given to the lotus and

the lily. The octagonal marble screen, six feet high, which surrounds

the sarcophagi is open tracery of most intricate design. The sarcophagi

themselves are of the purest marble, inlaid with a mosaic, resembling

the Florentine, in vines and flowers. Thirty bits of cornelian form the

petals of a single flower, and the other stones most used in this rich

ornamentation, which is lavishly employed over the exterior as well

as the interior of the building, are bloodstone, agate, lapis-lazuli,

turquoise, coral, chalcedony, amethyst, and other stones which have no

name in our language. The dome contains an echo more remarkable than

that of the Baptistery at Pisa, and even to ordinary conversation it

sends down a shower of musical sounds like sweet bells jangled. During

the five hours we spent here a constant crowd of natives had been

coming and going. Toward sunset the Europeans began to assemble. We

looked down on the gay scene from the great arch of the gateway. Green

parrots with harsh scream darted in and out of the leafy branches; the

familiar gray squirrel ran noiselessly up and down the tree trunks;

the scent of innumerable blossoms filled the air; the Taj reflected

the golden glory of the sunset, and after the sun had gone its color

changed to a light blue, and as the brief twilight faded and the moon

came out it looked like a pearl. The chattering crowd left one by one,

until we were comparatively alone. We walked around the mausoleum and

stepped inside the arch of one of the mosques. A flock of frightened

doves flew out with whirring wings. Symmetry, purity, and perfection,

such as are rarely seen in man’s work in all this round world were

before us. Directly above the gilt crescent of the dome hung the full

moon, over whose face light clouds were passing. As we watched the sky

and the movement of the clouds, the dome itself seemed to float like an

airy bubble.

In greatest contrast to this magnificent mausoleum is the simple

sodded grave of that faithful daughter of Shah Jehan, who shared her

father’s captivity, and who desired this inscription to be placed on

her stone: “Let no rich canopy cover my grave. This grass is the best

covering for the last resting-place of the poor in spirit.” This we

turned aside to see as we drove the eleven miles out of Delhi to visit

the Kutab Minar, which is perhaps, after the Taj, the most celebrated

piece of architecture in India. It is a fluted column, 240 feet high,

and supposed to be, not a Mohammedan, but a Hindu building, dating

from the twelfth century. It is built in a series of five stories.

The first three are of fine red sandstone, on which are horizontal

bands of passages from the Koran carved in boldest relief, and these

are harmonious in architecture, but the last two stories are of white

marble, with a plain surface, and seem like a patch. The great mosque

of Delhi is called the Jumma Musjid, or Friday Mosque. The arrangement

is the same in all Mohammedan temples large and small. A quadrangle

open to the sky, a fountain flowing into a square, shallow tank, in the

center, for the ablutions of the faithful, a colonnade on three sides

with open arches, and on the west, facing Mecca, stands a building

surmounted with domes, open in front, and destitute of everything

approaching a symbol. Pure monotheism is here—the worship of the

invisible deity. In the midst of this revolting polytheism of the

Hindus one hears with no little satisfaction the muezzin’s call from

the minaret, “God is great. God is one. There is no God but God, and

Mohammed is his prophet.”

One may travel day after day in India without meeting Europeans, but

crowds of natives fill the third and fourth-class carriages, in which

the rates are very low. India is in advance of America in one respect.

On every train there is always one carriage provided for ladies who

are traveling alone, called the “Ladies’ Reserved,” as is the custom

in England and on the Continent. Here only, where we pride ourselves

on our railway conveniences, do we have the odious fashion of herding

together promiscuously in sleeping coaches, which may be endurable if

one has an escort, but is most disagreeable when a lady is unattended.

Much of the scenery in India is monotonous and uninteresting, but

the tropical vegetation is always attractive. We pass palms in all

stages of growth, stalwart, untutored banyans, graceful, delicate

bamboos, plantains, the scarlet-blossoming cotton tree, the feathery,

fir like casuarina, some squares of sugar-cane and covered spaces for

the cultivation of the betel-nut, which has a smooth green leaf, not

unlike the plantain, and which, mixed with a preparation of lime and

spices, is used by the natives for chewing, quite as much as tobacco

is with the western nations. The scarlet lips, tongue and gums, which

result from using this leaf, are quite as disagreeable to see as the

disgusting effects of tobacco chewing.

White paddi birds hover over the marshes, and groups of cattle are

grazing in the meadows. At the tanks, which abound everywhere in

India, and which are often partially covered with a green scum, the

natives are bathing, or washing soiled linen, or carrying water away

for cooking purposes! The railway stations remind one of England, they

are so neat and tasteful and attractive with their blossoming shrubs

and potted plants. Dracænas grow here seven feet high, and these with

other foliage plants, and the showy, scarlet poincettia and magenta

bougainvillia are oftenest seen at the railway stations. Occasionally

we pass near a small village. The mud huts, with their drooping

thatched roof, are surrounded by palms and plantains, and stand near a

tank of water. The native Indian has no idea of privacy. One sometimes

sees a whole population out in the streets cleaning their teeth. No

man in India thinks of shaving himself, but instead of our luxurious

modern appliances, the barber and his victim go out on the sidewalk,

sit opposite each other on their haunches, and the deed is done in the

face of the world. The barber is an important member of the community.

He often acts as village doctor, and, in some parts of India, helps

to arrange marriages. There are very few beggars to be seen in India,

except such as are religious mendicants by profession. There is no poor

law, but the patriarchal system obliges every wealthy head of a family

to provide for his poor relations to the twentieth cousin.

In Delhi, Cawnpore, and Lucknow memories of the Sepoy mutiny of 1857,

and all its attendant horrors, fill the air. Cawnpore is pre-eminently

a memorial town. Every trace of the buildings where the fiendish

massacre occurred has vanished, and now one looks abroad on shaded

avenues, beautiful gardens, a quiet cemetery, and broad stretches of

green turf. Over the ghastly well stands the colossal white marble

figure of an angel leaning against a cross and bearing palm branches.

The architectural beauty of Benares as a city of temples and palaces,

and its characteristic features as a sacred, pilgrim city can best be

seen by a sail on the river soon after sunrise. The city is built tier

above tier on a cliff which stretches along the bank of the river for

three miles. From the heights numerous flights of stone steps lead down

to the water, and these are thronged by devotees who begin the day by

a bath in the Ganges. It is evidently a religious act, for although

there are crowds of men of all ages, there is no frivolity and very

little conversation. The women keep by themselves, but they have no

entirely separate bathing place. As our boat glided along we came to

the burning _ghât_, where we paused and saw the flames already lighted

about one body. Another body, wound about in red figured cotton, was

lifted from the bier and placed on the funeral pyre. It seemed all

the more shocking because life had so recently departed that there

was none of the rigidity of death, and the limp form might, from all

appearance, have belonged to one in sleep. While we lingered the clang

of discordant instruments told of the approach of a funeral procession.

The body is carried on a rude bier constructed like a ladder, and

borne on the shoulders of men who shuffle and jostle along in no very

reverent manner. The bearers carry the corpse into the Ganges and leave

it there, that the sacred waters may flow over it before cremation.

In the early morning we saw these three phases of a Hindu funeral

and, sailing on, still another yet more shocking sight was revealed

to us, for we caught a glimpse, just under the surface of the water,

of a naked, swollen, floating human body, and above it the vultures

were hovering. Leaving our boat, we walked a long distance through

the narrow winding streets of the city to one of the largest and most

frequented temples, where is the famous “Well of Salvation,” into which

worshipers throw flowers until there is the most fearful stench rising

from this putrid mass of decaying matter, and yet this loathsome stuff

the deluded devotees drink, as they believe it will wash away the

blackest crimes. Haste and dissatisfaction seemed the predominant mood

of every mind.

Calcutta takes its name from Kali, the goddess of vengeance. Situated

on the river Hooghly, ninety miles from the sea, its heat is more

oppressive than that of Bombay, and in no respect is the city as

attractive. A day at Serampore, an early morning visit to the Kalighat,

an excursion to Darjeeling, from which point we had a view of the snowy

range of the Himalayas, a morning in the botanical gardens, where we

linger under the great banyan tree, which covers a space of ground

eight hundred feet in circumference, and whose far-reaching branches

are supported by nearly two hundred trunks, some of them a hundred feet

in height, drives on the Maidan at sunset, and many visits to mission

schools and zenanas, under the auspices of American ladies, fill with

delightful experiences our two weeks in this city.

Four days by steamer across the Bay of Bengal and we are beyond the

break-water in the harbor of Madras. As soon as our ship drops anchor

we are surrounded by masulah boats and catamarans. The former are

curious constructions, sewed together to outride safely the furious

dashing of the Madras surf, while the latter are fishing boats, formed

of three logs scooped out a little into the canoe shape, and manned

by a single naked native. Nothing but British pluck and enterprise,

or American daring, would have attempted to build a city on a site so

utterly unpropitious as Madras. On an inhospitable coast, exposed to

the northeast monsoon and to the unsheltered glare of a scorching sun,

stands a thriving city of four hundred thousand inhabitants. Although

warned against venturing into Southern India after the first of March,

we find the heat less intolerable here than in Calcutta. Scotch

hospitality makes our week in Madras altogether enjoyable, and then we

are off to Bangalore, a hill station and the chief military post of

Southern India. After a pause of two days, we proceed to Trichinopoly,

where Bishop Heber met death from apoplexy, in his forty-fifth year.

On our railway journey to this place we passed cacti, with pale

yellow and magenta blossoms. Strange aquatic birds stood lazily in

the marshes. Numerous weavers’ nests hung on the trees along the

wayside. These weavers are an industrious and happy community. They

work diligently in the construction of their nests, and have harmonious

relations with each other, stopping now and then in the midst of their

activities, as if by mutual understanding, to indulge in a little

concert, and when their burst of melody is over they resume their

nest-building. It is said that they light up their homes by attaching

a glow worm to a fresh bit of mud, which is plastered on the inside

of the nest. The freshness of the early morning is succeeded by dry

heat as the sun rises higher and higher with torrid beams. We see the

natives quench their thirst with the milk of green cocoanuts, but we

dare not indulge in its use. The pampas grass waves and glistens in

the sunlight; enormous ant-hills are seen surrounding dead stumps

or standing unsupported on level plains; green parrots and gorgeous

butterflies chase each other unmindful of the heat, and toward noon

we see the famous rock and huge _gopuras_ of Trichinopoly across the

rice fields. In spite of the fierce heat which overwhelms us with

drowsiness, we take a carriage in the middle of the afternoon for the

temples of Seringham. On our way we pass a horse which has dropped dead

with sun-stroke. Europeans are something of a novelty here, and we are

followed by a crowd of men and boys as soon as we leave our carriage

to walk through the pillared hall of the temple. From the flat stone

roof we obtain an idea of the extent of this great pagoda, which is

seven miles in circumference and includes many bazars and streets of

Brahmin’s houses. From the summit of the rock of Trichinopoly, which

rises two hundred and fifty feet above the town, we see the sun set,

a fiery ball. Northward lies Seringham, with its dark gateways rising

out of a sea of green foliage; eastward we look toward Tanjore, where

the Danish missionary, Schwartz, lies buried; to the south and west

stretches the town of Trichinopoly. The clang of heathenish music is

going on in the adjoining temple of Siva. On our descent we come upon

one of the temple elephants, with bells hung on each side to announce

his approach. He makes a salaam to us and picks up most adroitly with

his trunk a tiny bit of silver which we offer him, passing it up to

his rider. It is curious to see the great creature come down the stone

steps with apparent ease.

At Madura we were in a thoroughly American atmosphere of kindliness

and cordiality. Even the American rocking-chair was not wanting to

make us feel at home. Here we met the faithful workers in the Madura

mission, and studied the fruits of their forty years of labor. Seven

hours’ railway ride over a flat, fertile but uninteresting country,

with the mercury at 95°, and we reach our last stopping place in India,

Tuticorin, from which port we take steamer for Colombo, on the island

of Ceylon. As our ship moved away from this southernmost point of the

Indian Continent we looked back at the neat little town, once famous

for its pearl fisheries, and all our memories since landing at Bombay

seemed to gather into one entire and perfect pearl.

Twenty-four hours pass and we are in the harbor of Colombo within the

shelter of the substantial breakwater of artificial pressed stone.

The heat, although greatly tempered by the sea breeze, is like that

of a vapor bath. One of the largest and best conducted hotels we have

seen in this part of the world receives us, and we are immensely

amused by the costume of the Singalese waiters, who present a most

ladylike appearance. They wear long white petticoats and round-about

jackets, while the hair is combed back from the forehead, fastened

in a knot behind, and ornamented with a yellow tortoise shell comb.

This extraordinary style of dressing the hair has existed since the

days of Ptolemy, who describes it. It seems a strange incongruity to

see a beard and mustache, a comb and a chignon on the same head. One

of our party says that while he can affiliate the world over with “a

man and a brother,” he declines to have anything to do with a man and

a sister. A few hours in Colombo, and we are off to Kandy, a hill

station seventy-five miles distant. We are fortunate in having with

us Mr. Fergusson, one of the best botanists of this region. Vegetable

life flourishes here in rank, riotous luxuriance. We pass palmyra,

cocoanut, and talipot palms; cinnamon fields; coffee plantations, and

rice growing on artificial terraces like hanging gardens. The red and

pink lantennæ that we cultivate in our home gardens grows and blossoms

by the wayside with the freedom of the commonest weed. At one of our

stopping places we buy mangoes and rose-apples, and green cocoanuts

containing a cool, delicious milk. The cocoanut water was most

refreshing, but the mangoes were far inferior to our peaches, and the

rose-apples were more agreeable to the eye than to the palate.

How exhilarating were the first whiffs of mountain air and the first

glimpse of wooded hills and deep valleys after the steaming heat and

monotonous flatness of the plains! All through the bright hours of this

Saturday afternoon we climbed ever higher and higher through scenery

combining Alpine grandeur with tropical luxuriance, until sunset found

us at Kandy, the sacred city of the Buddhists. In the center of the

town is a picturesque lake, fringed with tall, graceful bamboos, whose

feathery branches sway with the slightest breeze, and in repose look

like fountains of green spray shooting up into the deep blue sky. Hills

rise on either side, on whose slopes are coffee plantations. There are

a number of pagoda-shaped temples here, one of which contains that holy

relic, the pretended tooth of Buddha. The people of this region are

much more vigorous and manly than the Singalese of the coast, and the

chignon and comb seem still more absurd when worn by this energetic,

war-like race.