"Oh, you have only lately come to the country," said the old gentleman.
"I will then act interpreter for you."
He spoke a few words to the hermit, and gave him a silver coin, which
the latter placed reverently in his bosom, bowing low at the same time.
"That is for himself, not for Buddha, though, I must tell him," observed
the old gentleman. "We have no business to support their false gods and
impious worship, under any pretext whatever. It only encourages them in
their errors, and brings down retribution on the heads of those who
ought to know better. Now, come along, my lad. I cannot take you up on
my horse, nor can I walk, but you appear to possess a pair of good legs,
which will carry you over the ground at a rate sufficient to keep up
with me. Is that your dog? He is a fine beast. I must make his
acquaintance. Now, wish the old hermit good-bye. Salaam to him. That
will do. Come along.
"A fine old man that," he continued. "It is a pity he should be a
priest of so absurd a faith. Do you know anything about Buddhism? The
Buddhists believe in the transmigration of souls (the doctrine of the
_metempsychosis_, as it is called). In that respect they are like the
followers of Brahma. It is doubtful, indeed, which is the older faith
of the two--whether Brahminism is a corruption of Buddhism, or whether
Buddhism is an attempt to restore Brahminism to its original purity.
Buddhism has existed for upwards of two thousand years; it is the chief
religion of the Chinese, and that indeed of upwards of one-third of the
human race at the present day. Buddhists are practically atheists.
Buddha Gotama, to whom all Buddhists look up, was, they believe, the
incarnation of excellence. They fancy that everything was made by
chance, and that Buddha was only infinitely superior to all other
beings, and therefore that he is a fit object of admiration and
contemplation, and that the height of happiness is to be absorbed in
some way, after having been purified by many changes, into his being.
They believe in the perfectibility of man, and therefore their great aim
is to become moral and virtuous, while the employment of their priests
is chiefly to contemplate virtue, and to inculcate its precepts and
practice. Indeed, it may be said to be less a form of religion than a
school of philosophy. Its worship appeals father to the reason than to
the imagination, through the instrumentality of rites and parades; and,
though ceremonies and festivals are introduced, the more enlightened are
anxious to explain that these are either innovations of the priesthood,
or in honour of some of the monarchs who have proved patrons and
defenders of the faith. No people, perhaps, are so destitute of all
_warmth_ and fervour in their religion as the followers of Buddha. They
believe because their ancestors believed, and they look with the most
perfect complacency on the doctrines of the various sects who surround
them. As Sir Emmerson Tennent says--`The fervid earnestness of
Christianity, even in its most degenerate form, the fanatical enthusiasm
of Islam, the proud exclusiveness of Brahma, and even the zealous warmth
of other northern faiths, are all emotions utterly unknown and foreign
to the followers of Buddhism in Ceylon. Yet, strange to tell, under all
the icy coldness of this barren system there burns below the
unextinguished fires of another and a darker superstition, whose flames
overtop the icy summits of the Buddhist philosophy, and excite a deeper
and more reverential awe in the imagination of the Singhalese. As the
Hindus in process of time superadded to their exalted conceptions of
Brahma, and the benevolent attributes of Vishnu, their dismal dreams and
apprehensions, which embody themselves in the horrid worship of Siva,
and in invocations to propitiate the destroyer; so the followers of
Buddha, unsatisfied with the vain pretensions of unattainable
perfection, struck down by this internal consciousness of sin and
insufficiency, and seeing around them, instead of the reign of universal
happiness and the apotheosis of intellect and wisdom, nothing but the
ravages of crime and the sufferings produced by ignorance, have turned
with instinctive terror to propitiate the powers of evil, by whom alone
such miseries are supposed to be inflicted, and to worship the demons
and tormentors, to whom this superstition is contented to attribute a
circumscribed portion of power over the earth.' They call their demons
Yakkas, and, like the Ghouls of the Mohammedans, they are supposed to
infest grave-yards. They believe also in a demon for each form of
disease--delighting in the miseries of mankind. Thus in every domestic
affliction the services of the _Kattadias_, or devil-priests, are sought
to exorcise the demon. Although the more intelligent Singhalese
acknowledge the impropriety of this superstition, they themselves resort
to it in all their fears and afflictions. It has been found to be the
greatest impediment to the establishment of Christianity; for, though
the people without much difficulty become nominal Christians, they cling
to the terrible rites of their secret demon-worship with such
pertinacity, that while outwardly conforming to the doctrines of the
truth, they still trust to the incantations and ceremonies of the devil
priests. Notwithstanding this we must not despair. The struggle with
Satan, the author of devil-worship, may be long and fierce, but if we go
on perseveringly endeavouring to spread a knowledge of the gospel, we
shall most assuredly gain the victory over him in the end."
Such were the remarks of the old gentleman as Solon and I walked
alongside him on our way to where he expected to find his camp pitched.
We found the tents pitched under a widespreading tamarind tree, in the
immediate neighbourhood of a number of cocoa-nut palms. Close at hand
were piles of curious ruins, near a beautiful lake bordered by trees;
while carved slabs, fallen columns, and broken statues lay scattered
around. The stranger's cortege was much of the same character as was
Mr Fordyce's. Camp-fires were already lighted, near which the horses
were sheltered, while four or five elephants stood, as usual, busy
fanning off the flies in the background.
"I have a young companion with me, also a stranger in this country. He
met with a slight accident, and could not come out hunting to-day. I
have no doubt he will be glad to make your acquaintance."
The moment the old gentleman said these words my heart beat quick. He
saw my agitation. I thought of Alfred.
"Who is he--pray tell me?" I asked.
His hand was on the curtain of the tent. He made no answer, but threw
it back. I entered. A young man was there. He looked up. No, it was
not Alfred, but my old schoolfellow whom I had met at Teneriffe,
Lumsden.
"Marsden, my dear fellow, I am delighted to see you," he exclaimed,
jumping up. "How did you find your way here?"
"Marsden!" ejaculated the old gentleman, looking earnestly at me.
"Marsden!--who are you?"
"Ralph Marsden, sir," I answered hurriedly. "My father has lately died;
my mother was Miss Coventry."
"Then you are my grandson, young gentleman, and right glad I am to
welcome one who has proved himself so true a chip of the old block!"
exclaimed Mr Coventry.
I had had no doubt who he was from the moment I had seen Lumsden with
him. He seized me by the shoulders, and, gazing in my face for a
minute, gave me as kind and warm a hug as I could expect to receive.
"Your old friend here told me to expect you, as you were come out in
search of poor Alfred. What has become of him I cannot tell. You heard
nothing of him at the Mauritius, I fear?"
"No, sir," I answered, much agitated and grieved. "Cannot you tell me
where he is?"
"No, indeed, I cannot, my boy," replied Mr Coventry; "I would give much
to discover. I have kept him actively employed ever since he found me
out. He has been twice at the Mauritius, once I sent him off to
Singapore, and the last time I despatched him on a mission of importance
to Mozambique, after which, before returning here, he was again to go to
the Mauritius. This was many months ago. Not a line have I had from
him, nor can I obtain the slightest information as to what has become of
him. He is not a good correspondent, as I daresay you have discovered.
After he left his ship, he took it into his head that his family would
consider that he had disgraced them, and begged that I would allow him
to call himself by a different name, hoping if he did not write home
that he might be considered dead, and be soon forgotten. I did not
oppose his fancy, because I hoped that he would soon reason himself out
of it. This will account for your not having heard of him, as also for
your father's not receiving any information when he wrote about him.
Had he written to me, poor man, I would have replied, and might have
perhaps induced the lad to return home. However, let bygones be
bygones. I am pleased with you, Ralph. I like your notion of coming
out to look for poor Alfred, and your way of proceeding, and I will help
you by all the means in my power."
"Thank you, sir; thank you for all you say of me and promise to do," I
replied, taking my grandfather's hand. "Now that I find you do not know
where Alfred is, the necessity of my searching for him is greater than
ever. I feel that I hitherto have not been as diligent in carrying out
my object as I ought to have been. I was always buoyed up with the idea
that you knew where Alfred was to be found, and was much less anxious
than I should have been had I known the true state of the case."
"It is happy for you that you did not know the true state of the case;
it is better for all of us that we do not know what the future may bring
forth," observed my grandfather. "When you were at the Mauritius, it
appears Alfred had not reached the island, and I shall hear on our
arrival at Trincomalee whether he has since got there. I expect also to
receive replies to various inquiries I have instituted in different
places, from Aden down the whole of the eastern coast of Africa. I have
traced him as far as Aden, but I do not know the name of the vessel in
which he left that place. I feel confident that he did not go up the
Red Sea, nor is he likely to have come eastward again. You have thus,
then, a definite direction in which to search for him. Rather a wide
region, certainly, and difficult of access, but by perseverance you may
in time succeed in your object."
My grandfather's remarks again raised my hopes of finding my brother.
At first when I discovered that he was not with him, I felt my heart
sink within me.
"I will continue my search for him in spite of pestiferous climates, or
savages, or any other difficulties which I may have to encounter," I
exclaimed, half speaking to myself.
"That is the spirit which will enable you to succeed, my lad," said my
grandfather, putting his hand on my back. "And now I want to know all
about your family at home. You have not yet told me."
I briefly told him all that had occurred, of my father's death, and of
the poverty in which my mother was left. He looked very grave and sad
as I spoke.
"This should not have been," he muttered to himself. "I have been an
unfeeling, unnatural father; wild, reckless, thinking only of myself,
and of gratifying my own roving propensities."
He was silent for some time. "Ralph," he said suddenly, "I have made up
my mind to go home to see your mother. I shall leave my property here
and in the Mauritius under the charge of careful agents, and set off as
soon as I can make the necessary arrangements. I will leave ample means
with you to prosecute your inquiries, and you can return when you have
found your brother, or should you be led to believe that further search
is hopeless."
I need not enter into the particulars of our conversation during the
evening. We had, however, a great deal. My grandfather had numberless
questions to ask, which I had to answer; while I also had much
information to gain from him on a variety of subjects, on which he was
in no way unwilling to satisfy me. I found him, as I had expected,
somewhat eccentric, but at the same time far more kind-hearted,
generous, and liberal, than I had been led to believe he was.
My great anxiety was now to get to Trincomalee as soon as possible, and
I believe that Mr Coventry equally wished to be there. We could not,
however, proceed without letting Mr Fordyce know that I was in safety.
We were on the point of sending off messengers to try and discover his
camp, when a couple of armed natives were seen coming from among the
trees, followed by two laden elephants and a number of bearers, whom, as
they approached, I discovered to belong to Mr Fordyce's party. On
finding who we were, they pitched their tents close to ours, and he
himself very soon afterwards made his appearance. I could not but be
gratified at the pleasure he expressed on discovering that I was safe,
but I was much concerned to find that Nowell and Dango had not been
heard of. He had sent scouts out in every direction, but not a trace of
them had hitherto been discovered.
As soon as I heard of this, I wanted to set out to search for my friend,
but both the old gentlemen protested against my doing so; indeed, I
myself was scarcely aware how tired and worn I was. Mr Coventry was
also able to send out scouts to search for Nowell, so that I became now
reconciled to not going out myself for that purpose. Lumsden, however,
volunteered to go out early the next morning to look for him should he
not have been found in the meantime. We had an hour or more to spare
after we had dined before darkness would set in; and both my grandfather
and Mr Fordyce, having heard of a curious temple in the neighbourhood,
hewn in the bare rock, were anxious to employ the time in visiting it.
We set off on horseback, the distance being considerable, hoping to find
Nowell safe at the camp on our return. We passed on our way heaps of
ruins, very similar to those I have before described, till at length we
found ourselves before the precipitous side of a hill of granite. On
approaching nearer, we saw directly in front of us a temple about twenty
feet in height, the roof supported by pillars, with a sitting figure of
Buddha in the centre, the whole hewn out of the solid rock. On the
right was a standing figure upwards of twenty feet in height, and beyond
it a recumbent one between forty and fifty feet long. On our left was
another sitting statue placed on a pedestal, elaborately carved, with a
great deal of carved-work on the wall behind it. All these statues were
of Buddha, the different attitudes being intended to represent his calm
and contemplative character.
"What is Monasticism but Buddhism under a slightly different form? What
are hermits but Buddhists? How different is true Christianity, with its
active spirit of benevolence ever going about to do good, and thus to
repress and overcome evil," I heard Mr Fordyce remark to my
grandfather. He responded to the sentiment warmly. "Unhappily,
Buddhism is to be found, not only in Asia, but in civilised Europe and
America," he remarked. "What was the `Age of Reason' in France but
Buddhism fully developed? What were its results? Tyranny, murder,
cruelty unexampled. Sinful and corrupt man--had we not the Bible to
tell us, history does so in every page, and the present state of the
world speaks loudly the same lesson--never has, and never can, guide
himself by reason alone. Here we have throughout Asia one-third of the
inhabitants of the globe attempting openly to do so, and see in what a
state of moral degradation they are, and have been, as far back as their
records can carry us. How lifeless, how soul-debasing is the system!
Though in theory the religion of Buddha is infinitely superior to that
of Brahma, how exactly similar are its effects on its votaries! While
the Sepoy worshippers of the one in India were ruthlessly murdering men,
women, and children, the Chinese were attempting precisely the same acts
at Singapore and Sarawak, and wherever their numbers afforded them any
prospect of success; while nothing can exceed the cruelties they inflict
without compunction on each other. This people, too, profess to believe
in a faith which inculcates mildness and gentleness; which forbids
taking the life of any living creature; which copies, indeed, all the
precepts of Christianity, but which, unlike Christianity, trusts
implicitly to the guidance of human reason, and ignores any other
influence. Now, the true Christian does not ignore the guidance of
reason, but he does not trust to it. To one thing only he trusts--the
guidance of the Holy Spirit of God, to be obtained through his grace by
faith, prayer, and obedience."
"I am glad to hear you speak thus, my old friend," said Mr Fordyce.
"No man can begin to think too early on the subject of religion; but it
is better late than never, when, through God's mercy, our lives have
been spared to do so at all. How dreadful it is to contemplate a man
gradually sinking into the grave, who year after year has had the gospel
freely, liberally offered to him, nay, pressed upon him, and yet who has
refused, and continues to refuse, to accept it!"
"Yes, Fordyce, I feel deeply what you say," answered my grandfather. "I
have lived too much to myself. Henceforth I hope to live to serve One
to whom all honour and allegiance are due."
I need not say how thankful I felt at hearing my grandfather speak in
this way. I had been taught to believe, and not incorrectly, that he
had led a thoughtless life, utterly indifferent to religion, and that it
was owing to this that he had lived abroad and shown no regard for my
mother. Lately it seemed that a new heart had been given him, and that
he had become a changed man.
The conversation I have described took place in front of the rock-hewn
temple. We were struck by the immense amount of labour bestowed on it.
First, a perpendicular face must have been given to the solid rock. On
this the outline of the temple and the figures must have been drawn, and
then with chisel and hammer inch by inch cut out. These temples, it
must be remembered, were formed at a time when art in Europe was at its
lowest ebb, and unable to produce anything at all equal to them.
Much interested in our trip, we rode back to the camp, where we hoped to
find Nowell; but though some of the scouts had come in, not a trace of
him had they discovered.
We passed the night in a state of the greatest anxiety for his safety.
I shall not forget the provoking din caused by a colony of paroquets
settled in a group of cocoa-nuts near at hand. They had been away
searching for their evening repast when we arrived; but just at sunset
they came back in prodigious crowds, screaming, chattering, and frisking
about in the most amusing manner, as if delighted to meet each other
after the termination of their day's labour. For some time, till
darkness warned them that it was time to go to rest, the din they made
literally prevented us from heaving each other speak. At length they
were silent. I was awoke, however, at the earliest dawn, by the voices
of one or two who called up their fellows.
"Good morning," said one, bowing and coquetting to another; "I hope that
you have passed a pleasant night."
"Fresh and moist, I thank you," was the answer, as Miss Polly shook the
dew from her feathers. And thus one after the other woke up, and such a
chattering and clamouring commenced, as they walked up and down along
the thick leaf-stalks of the palms in the highest state of excitement,
preening their wings and making remarks on us, probably, and talking
over the plans of the day. I jumped up and dressed, for I was anxious
to set off without delay to look for Nowell. While a cup of coffee was
boiling, I walked out a little way from the camp to enjoy the freshness
of the morning air. I had been admiring the glorious refulgence with
which the sun rose over the small lake, on the west shore of which we
were encamped, when, as I turned to retrace my steps to the tents across
the dewy grass, I was almost startled to see my shadow cast along it
with peculiar distinctness, while the shoulders and head were surrounded
by a brilliant halo. I rubbed my eyes; I looked again and again; I
turned round and changed my position several times; but as often as my
back was turned to the sun and my eyes on the grass, there was exhibited
that most curious and beautiful appearance. I walked on for some way,
endeavouring to account for the phenomenon, till I came to a spot
covered with blocks of stone and powdered bricks, and there it entirely
disappeared. On reaching another grassy spot once more I saw it before
me, but much fainter than before; and by the time I reached the camp
scarcely any of the halo was to be seen.
My grandfather and all the party were on foot, and as soon as we had
partaken of some coffee and biscuit we mounted our horses, intending to
make a systematic search for Nowell. With so experienced a hunter as
Dango in his company he was not likely to have lost his way or to be far
off, and therefore it was generally feared that some serious accident
must have happened to him. Mr Fordyce, with some of the natives, went
in one direction; Lumsden, with some others, went in another; and Mr
Coventry said that, as he could not part with me, I must accompany him.
I took Solon with me, of course. His sagacity had taught him the
importance of keeping directly behind me, and he showed no inclination
to stray. Our journey must have appeared to him like travelling through
some enchanted country, full of strange monsters, with whom it would be
almost hopeless to contend. We sent on the tents and canteens, and
agreed to rendezvous at a spot about three miles in advance should we
not find Nowell.
As we rode along I told my grandfather of the phenomenon I had seen at
sunrise. He said that it is called the _Anthelia_. It arises from the
rays of the sun thrown on the concave and convex surfaces of the
dew-drops, each particle furnishing a double reflection. The halo is
caused chiefly, I fancy, by the contrast of the excessively dark shadow
with the surrounding brightness. The further off the dew-drops are from
the eye the more brilliant do they appear, and thus cause the brightest
halo round the head.
We rode on for some way, sending our scouts out in every direction,
while we examined every spot in a more direct line where we thought it
possible our missing countryman might be found. We had proceeded some
miles, and were about to turn off towards the spot we had agreed on as a
rendezvous for breakfast, when one of our hunters said that he perceived
recent signs of an elephant in the neighbourhood, and told us to be
careful, as he had little doubt from their being only one that it was a
rogue, and probably a fierce and cunning one. This information, of
course, put us on the alert. We looked to our rifles, and directed our
horse-keepers to walk at our horses' heads, that we might dismount in a
moment and he ready for action, while we kept our eyes about us in every
direction. The hunter made a sign, pointing towards a thick jungle. We
dismounted, leaving our horses with their keepers. We had been passing
through a somewhat open country, with trees scattered about here and
there. We advanced cautiously. I saw the jungle in the distance move.
Solon barked as a signal that danger was near. Presently there was a
loud trumpeting and roar, I may call it, not of fear, but of rage,
though it was sufficient to inspire fear. There was a crashing of
boughs and underwood, and a huge elephant, with trunk uplifted, broke
through the jungle and rushed furiously at us.
"Now, my lad, I hear that you have already hit more than one elephant,
let me see what you can do," exclaimed my grandfather, the spirit of the
old sportsman rising within him.
He had with him a Moor, a first-rate hunter and shot, armed with a
rifle. There was not much chance, therefore, of our missing the
elephant between us. We all advanced towards him as soon as he
appeared. As he kept his trunk up in the air, the difficulty of
shooting him on the forehead was much increased. Our bold air somewhat
disconcerted him. He stopped, apparently to single out one as his
victim. At that same moment he lowered his trunk.
"Now, Ralph," cried my grandfather; "fire!"
I did so, aiming at the monster's forehead, though I was upwards of
thirty yards off. Up went his trunk. He rushed on, fury in his eye,
and the excess of rage indicated by his trumpeting. It seemed scarcely
possible that some one of us should not suffer. Yet I felt wonderfully
cool. I waited a second; and then taking full aim, fired my second
barrel. In an instant the huge monster stopped, and before the smoke
cleared away lay an inanimate mass on the ground, within twenty yards of
us.
My grandfather, when he saw what had occurred, seized me in his arms and
gave me a hug which well-nigh squeezed the breath out of my body.
"Well done! capitally done, my boy!" he exclaimed. "I thought your shot
at the buffalo might have been chance, but I can now see what you are
made of. Don't suppose, though, that I care so much about your being
able to kill a buffalo or an elephant, but it is the calmness of nerve
and the steadiness of eye I admire."
Just then we heard a cry, and looking round to ascertain whence it
proceeded, we saw a person perched up in a tree beckoning to us.
Leaving Solon, who was snuffing round and round the dead elephant, we
hurried on, when, as we got near the tree, I recognised Dango. He cried
out that he was too much hurt to descend, and entreated that some of our
people would come up and help him to do so. We waited with great
anxiety till he was got down, which was done by means of the ropes with
which the horses were tethered. Poor fellow! he seemed to be in a state
of great suffering, and looked almost starved. He was placed on the
grass, and as soon as a few drops of spirits and water had been poured
down his throat he was able to speak. He then told us, that after I had
been separated from Nowell and him, and Solon had run after me, they had
set off to try and find me. It was, however, close upon sunset when
they reached this spot. They very soon discovered the traces of an
elephant, and were looking about to ascertain whether he was in front of
them, when a loud crashing of the boughs was heard, and he emerged from
the jungle close to them. He first made at Dango, who knew that the
most dangerous thing he could do was to fly, unless he had a tree near
at hand behind which he could conceal himself; so facing the elephant he
boldly stood his ground, hoping that Nowell would kill the monster, or
that he should be able to leap out of his way. Now on came the
elephant, trumpeting loudly. Nowell lifted his rifle and fired.
Dreadful was the momentary suspense. With a cry of rage the elephant
threw himself at Dango. The Moor leaped aside, but not far enough to
prevent the elephant from knocking him over with his trunk, and putting
one of his huge feet on his leg. He would have been killed had not
Nowell shouted and shrieked, to draw off the elephant's attention, while
he was reloading his rifle. He succeeded almost too soon, and the brute
rushed at him. He fired, but his eye had lost its accustomed exactness,
or his nerves were shaken, for again he missed hitting a vital part.
The moment Dango found himself free, he crawled away towards a tree at
some little distance, which the elephant had already passed. Nowell
retreated, then halted, and once more pulled his trigger; his piece
missed fire. Again and again he tried. He had no time to put on a cap.
He endeavoured to escape his impending fate by flight. He ran fast.
He saw a tree some yards off. He hoped to reach it. At first he
outstripped his savage pursuer; then his strength, it appeared, failed
him; he dropped his rifle and ran on. Once more he gained ground on the
elephant. He reached the tree, but he did not look to see on which side
the elephant was coming. He ran round it and met his ruthless foe face
to face! Not a cry escaped him. Who can picture his sensations? on
another instant, the huge monster's whole weight was upon him.
"Dere--dere is de tree," said Dango, pointing to a large ebony tree at a
little distance.
We approached the spot with awe and dread. There lay, recognised only
by parts of the dress, all that now remained on earth of the once gay,
gallant, and handsome Arthur Nowell, slain in an inglorious and useless
strife with a wild beast. I shuddered as I thought how narrowly I had
escaped such a fate, and felt thankful for the mercy which had been
shown me. Then as I looked once more at the spot, and remembered that
he who lay there had lately been my companion and friend, and that but a
few hours before I had seen him full of life and animation, with
cheerful voice eagerly pursuing the chase, I gave way to my feelings and
burst into tears.
Such has been the fate of many an elephant-hunter. It was almost
impossible to carry the mangled remains to the camp, so with our
hunting-knives and spades, manufactured by our followers, in the course
of a few minutes we dug a grave in which we placed them. Rudely carving
his name on the stem of the tree, while our followers carried poor
Dango, with sad hearts we returned to the camp.