of the quarantine arrangements of that sun-blistered port, and what
the health officials think of me will form no part of these notes of
travel--suffice it to say that I got by the Singapore health
officials. I escaped! I got away! Our expressions of endearment would
be a new brand of travel stuff, and there are enough different kinds
in these letters now.
After Singapore is Penang; and as I sit in my steamer chair, in my
pajamas, in the grey of the dawning of a new day, on the freshly
washed teak-deck of the steamer, as it sails through the peaceful
strait nearing Penang, I can't see as there is a blessed thing to
write about--not a blessed thing. A couple of junks float across the
peaceful strait, the soft tropical breeze bellying their sails. One
solitary bird, not a seagull, much bigger than a gull, lazily wings
its way across the peaceful strait, aiming for the opposite shore. I
think it's the female of its species, because when it gets nearly over
it changes its mind, turns around, and flies back again across the
peaceful strait.
The junks--the bird--the ship with its teak-decks freshly washed--the
grey of the morning--the soft tropical breeze--the peaceful strait--me
in my pajamas in a steamer chair--the low fringe of hills with
cocoanut groves to the east--Penang rising out of the peaceful
strait--not a blessed thing to write about.
The east reddens, the sun is going to rise over the peaceful strait.
It's a peaceful scene. I've mentioned that the straits are peaceful,
haven't I? That feature of the scene especially appeals to me after my
exit from Singapore.
But the sun is rising! While this is not an exciting or unusual
thing--while one doesn't have to come to Penang to see the sun
rise--while I feel safe in boldly asserting that this is a matter of
daily occurrence both here and at home, the chances are, kind reader,
that you have never seen the sun rise. First you see a bright red
convex streak, then the slice of a sphere, then more, and more, and
more, and more, and more, and then the sun is up to meet the lark.
[Illustration: And now there _is_ something to write about--the
mangosteen]
A Hindu comes with a cup of coffee, some toast, and six mangosteens on
a tray, and asks: "Will master have his _chota hazri_ here?" And now
there _is_ something to write about--the mangosteen!
The most unprepossessing fruit to look at, the size of a black walnut
in its husk; an unlovely dark brown color on the outside. If you
didn't know the mangosteen; if a plateful were brought to you for
breakfast you'd eye the things askance, and say, "Take 'em away,
please; take 'em away." But cut around its circumference through the
husk, a quarter of an inch thick, and lift it apart. One of the halves
makes a little bowl, its inside the most lovely old rose color, the
other half holding a beautiful white pulp. The rich old rose edge of
the husk hugs the mound of pulp, the combination making a color scheme
to delight an artist's soul.
Insert a fork in the edge of the pulp, lift it out bodily, open your
mouth, and--oh, say, after all the other delicious fruits on earth
were made and pronounced good by the beneficent Creator, it would seem
as if He had said: "Go to, now, let one more fruit be made for man,
more delicate in flavor, more delicious than all the rest"--so He made
the mangosteen.
XXI
BURMA AND BUDDHA
And Rangoon is in Burma, a city of some three hundred thousand, the
chief commercial city of Burma.
It is located in the south of that country, on one of the numerous
mouths of the Irawadi River. Burma forms a part of the narrow Malay
Peninsula, broadening out after Rangoon is reached, coming north from
Penang, into a country as large as Texas, bounded on the west by
India, on the north by Thibet, on the east by Siam, Laos and China,
with the Bay of Bengal washing its southern coast.
Burma is the most thoroughly Buddhistic country in the world.
Now Buddha was not a god, never claimed to be, and is not worshiped as
one.
But he was a tremendous personage.
He was born in India 2500 years ago, and after that lapse of time his
image and teachings live in the hearts of every third man on earth
today.
That fact puts Buddha in a class with such personages as Moses and
Confucius.
These men are three of a kind and hard to beat when it comes to
putting one's name over into the minds of men and making it stick. A
score or so of other mere men since Adam's time, whose names loom
large today, are mere pikers in comparison, and need not be considered
in this short sketch.
The exact date of Buddha's birth seems shrouded in mystery, but it is
placed during the sixth century, B. C.
He was born in the town of Kapila-Vastu. Since that time the town has
changed its name to Kohana, and is located northeast of Benares.
Buddha spent his early boyhood in that region. His father's name was
Suddodana, which same is a long, hard name to pronounce, but his
mother's name was Maya, and she died when Buddha was seven days old,
and his aunt brought him up. Her name was Maha-Prajapati.
There is not much known about his youth and early education, except
that he was a promising boy and put over everything he undertook.
He was supposed to be a prince of the Royal blood. He was a Hindu, and
was faithful to the demands of that faith.
He was married, and when he was thirty years old there was born to him
a son named Rahlu.
No one knows how well his family did for him in picking out a wife,
but it is of record that he left wife and son and home shortly after
the boy was born.
He just left home one day, and when next heard from was at Rajagriha
and was leading the life of an ascetic.
Buddha never did things by halves. He was out seeking the way of
salvation in rigorous and excessive asceticism, and he went at it with
such intense earnestness that he nearly lost his life--he overworked
it, and was all played out when he came to the conclusion that he was
on the wrong track.
Abandoning asceticism, he gave himself up to a life of thought and
meditation, and as a result he gradually evolved his religious and
philosophic theory of the general existence of evil, its origin, and
its eradication.
He was sitting under a pipal tree in a little village named
Buddh-gaya, southeast of Benares, when light dawned upon his soul. As
the result of his emancipation of spirit he became a poet.
He became thoroughly convinced that the great end and aim of existence
was to attain non-existence: and that the cause of all evil was
wanting things. We were here through no fault of our own; that we
would continue to be born over and over; and that the next state into
which we were born would depend upon how we used our present life.
To illustrate the idea: A tramp or hobo, if he tried to be as good a
tramp or hobo as he could, would be born next time to be a roustabout,
deck hand, or day laborer.
Continuing to be as good as possible in those callings, the next birth
would be a step up, to, say, a bookkeeper, clerk, or possibly a
commercial traveler.
The next birth, continuing meritorious in these last named capacities,
would be a more desirable existence, and on up, passing the stage of a
successful politician with a pull, to still higher and higher
existence, until finally, getting out of the trouble and vexation of
being any of them, one's individuality would be lost entirely in the
great spirit of Nirvana--rest--peace--out of it--finished.
On the other hand, the politician with a pull if he didn't keep his
eyes set toward righteousness, would slip down the scale in a future
birth, and, continuing bad behavior in new births, run clear down past
the hobo to be nothing more than a potato-bug, to end that existence
for one even lower than that; unless, perchance, he decided to be an
exemplary potato-bug and climb back up again.
After Buddha had thoroughly worked out his solution of life's
problems, he settled in Benares, gathered five choice spirits who had
been companions in his life as an ascetic, imparted to them his
discovery of what he believed to be the path of truth, and spent the
rest of a long life developing truth as he believed it.
He had to compete with Hinduism in India, and was only measurably
successful there, but his theories captured Burma, and overspread
Ceylon, China, and Japan, and, judging by results, anyone making a
tour of China and Japan must take off their hats to Buddha. His long
ministry was marked with a life of purity, gentleness, earnestness,
and firm convictions.
He preached his doctrines for forty years and lived to be eighty years
of age.
XXII
BAPTISTS AND BUDDHISM
There are twelve million Burmese here in Burma. I told you in my last
letter how thoroughly Buddha had, 2500 years ago, captured the Burmese
with his doctrines.
For 2400 years Buddha practically had it all his own way. If in that
time any other competing religions sought a foothold in Burma, they
became discouraged and moved out.
Burma was solid for Buddha.
Buddha had a monopoly and held it against all comers for 2400 years.
One hundred and one years ago the Baptists came to contest the field.
They didn't come with a blare of trumpets. One man, a Rev. Adoniram
Judson, and his wife started out from Salem, Massachusetts, came to
Burma and settled here in Rangoon, to wrest from Buddha his adherents,
and add them to the Baptist Church. They worked six years without
winning a convert. After one hundred and one years the results are:
Baptists 66,000
Buddhists 10,000,000
from which figures one must agree with me that Buddha ploughed deep
and planted thoroughly. The other Christian denominations have about
66,000 members between them.
There are of baptized Baptists in Burma 66,000, all other Christians
about the same number. The Christians claim an adherent, or nominal
Christian, for every church member; so baptized and nominal Christians
in Burma number 264,000.
This makes 10,264,000 Buddhists and Christians. The balance of the
12,000,000 in Burma are non-Christians or non-Buddhists, and are
composed of various peoples, and tribes: the Karens, Chins, Kachins,
Musos, etc.
But the Baptists admit that the great majority of their converts were
not made from Buddhists, but from the Karens, Chins, Kachins, and
Musos, chiefly from the Karens.
To quote from the minutes of the Judson Centennial held here in
Rangoon in 1913:
"But what of the Buddhist population, which is so greatly in the
majority that out of a total of 12,115,217 dwellers in the land,
10,384,579 are returned as Buddhists? From among the Buddhists
only 3,197 are members of our own Baptist churches, and a
correspondingly small number are members of other communions. It
is thus readily seen that, while the success of our missions in
Burma has been very great, those who have professed belief in
Christ have come very largely from the non-Buddhist population.
"Of the ten million Buddhists, eight million are Burmans, and of
Burman Baptist Christians we find but 2,700. Please bear that
fact in mind--2,700 Burmans in our churches and eight million
Buddhist Burmans. To each Burman Baptist church member there are
3,000 Burman Buddhists looking us in the face as we turn to our
task for the coming century."
The Baptists here are hotly contesting the field; bombarding it with a
thoroughly up-to-date publishing plant; with a college, schools, and
missionaries. For the first twenty years of work we find them with
2,000 converts to their credit.
After half a century of labor we find them with 12,000 converts, while
for the full century we find them with 66,000.
A significant fact stands out clear and forceful: They gained in the
last decade of work 20,000 converts, nearly one-third as many as they
won in ninety years of struggle.
But still Buddhism stands, and Buddha, its founder, after 2500 years,
looks with peaceful, quiet eyes from innumerable images set in
temples throughout the land--to me more impressive than the Sphinx
with the secrets of the centuries locked in its impassive gaze.
Buddha held back no secrets--with burning zeal he preached what he
believed was truth. Today one image of the Sphinx, with its
riddle--but countless images of Buddha, many of heroic size.
The most impressive one I've ever seen is the Daibutsu in Kamakura in
Japan. A temple built in the form of Buddha of solid bronze and
silver, with eyes of gold.
This temple was built centuries ago, to keep alive the name and
teachings of a man who taught and wrought a score of centuries before
this wonderful temple was built--the mystic past steals over you as
you look, and you turn and walk away--wondering, wondering, wondering.
XXIII
THE RANGOON BUSINESS MAN WHO DROVE HIS SERMON HOME
There is a business man here in Rangoon who, to my mind, has put one
over on the missionaries, by seeing their game and beating them at it
with a sermon--a sermon with more ring and go to it than anything of
that kind I've struck in the Orient--or out of it.
They are really a godless lot out here in the Orient, as we look at
godliness; or, at least, profess to.
They haven't any more respect for the Sabbath day on this side of the
world (except in a few spots where the missionaries have made a dent
in the situation) than a lot of crows have for a farmer's rights in a
field of growing corn.
Now, this business man I am writing about was born and brought up in
England. He had it drilled into him when he was a boy that we should
remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy; and the teaching stuck.
He is a character.
Between the ages of seventeen and fifty-six he got started in life;
got rich; retired; and lost his fortune; and when he was fifty-six
years old he was broke--down and out.
He came to Burma, prospected for gold until he was sixty-six years
old, and the net result of that ten years of gold prospecting
was--still broke.
As he had a character just like Gibraltar, he was able to borrow a few
pounds sterling, and with it started life all over again in business
here in Rangoon.
He got to going to the good; and at the end of five years, when he was
seventy-one years old, he had a name and some fame in his line of
trade.
At that time the heir apparent to a mighty throne came through
Rangoon, touring Burma with his staff.
He heard of this man, and wanted to buy some of his goods. He decided
on a Saturday afternoon, that the next day at eleven o'clock he would
call at this man's store and inspect his stock with a view to
purchasing.
As this potentate was a mighty gun--none bigger--he prepared the way
to his proposed visit by sending one of his numerous staff to this
man's store Saturday evening, to inform him that at eleven o'clock of
the next day his Royal Highness would be around to buy some goods.
It's right at this point in the narrative that this man got there with
his sermon. He said: "Present my compliments to his Royal Highness,
but tell him I wouldn't open my store on Sunday to do business even
with the King of England."
Get that?
Ever been in London, dear old "Lunnun"? They set great store by
selling royalty in England. There's a fellow over there in London
doing a smashing business in oysters just because he can put up over
his door "Purveyor of Oysters to His Royal Highness, the Prince of
Wales."
Well, this little-big sermon got back to England, and the result was
that in the next five years this man sold goods to royalty pretty well
over the world, and got rich. And he is here today; and he tells me
that while he has played the game of business for the love of it, he
is eighty years old now and is going to wind up. Being without wife or
children, he is going to leave his wealth to orphan asylums.
XXIV
THE GLASS OF ICE WATER THAT JARRED RANGOON
To come to Rangoon and not go to see the elephants work the teak
timber that comes down the Irawadi River would be like going to Venice
and not have your picture taken in St. Mark's Square with the doves
roosting all over you; or to leave the pyramids without a photograph
of yourself with the great pyramid of Cheops for a background.
I plead guilty to the dove picture--it's on our mantle at home--had it
taken to please my wife, who was with me on that trip.
The great satisfaction I take in that picture is its proof of my
self-sacrificing nature.
Having visited Venice several times before I took my wife there, I
knew all about that "picture-with-the-doves" game.
Just before the photograph fiend in Venice, who will photograph an
American with the doves for $2.00, an Englishman for $1.00, and a
German for 20 cents, made his exposure, I bought my wife a cornucopia
of corn that venders sell for a cent, with which to feed the doves.
[Illustration: Would be like going to Venice and not having your
picture taken with the doves roosting all over you]
The woman in the picture behind the cloud of doves is my wife. The man
at her side, minus any doves on him to mar his seraphic smile, is
myself.
The photograph of me at the pyramids, taken on a former trip, would be
a pretty good picture of me, too, if my natural modesty hadn't got the
better of me, which modesty prompted me to get behind the pyramid when
the photographer made his exposure.
This photographer is on the ground and does a rushing business
photographing globe trotters at the pyramids. The pyramid being
betwixt me and the camera made a failure of the picture so far as
being a good one of me is concerned; but I'm ready to bet good money
that I'm the only world tourist who can show a photograph of Cheops
without a globe-trotter in the foreground. It's a good photograph of
the pyramid.
But really one shouldn't leave Rangoon without seeing the elephants
work the teak logs.
The human intelligence of the animals, coupled with their great
strength as they push the logs into place, accurately measure
distances, walk back and forth to study the problem of how best to
place a log, and then roll and put it into place, is one of the sights
worth seeing in Rangoon; which, in itself, is a town worth seeing.
A city well laid out with wide streets running at right angles,
extending several miles along the river front, and a mile inland.
Many beautiful lakes are in the suburbs, and tropical parks abound:
and it is the third city in British India.
It's an old, old town. Its chief attraction to draw visitors from the
ends of the earth is the great Shwe Dagon Pagoda, the oldest Buddhist
temple in the world, the foundation of which was laid 588 B. C.
And Rangoon has trolley cars and water-works, and electric lights, and
an ice plant.
And ice is a precious commodity in Rangoon. In fact, ice is a precious
commodity in any Oriental city excepting Manila.
In Manila they have caught onto the idea that ice is not a deadly
poison or precious stones.
I attribute it to the influence of the white Filipinos living there,
who are wonderfully like Americans in taste, habits and general
all-around desirableness.
Ask for a glass of ice-water at a hotel in Rangoon, or Hong Kong, or
Pekin, or Yokohama, or Calcutta, or Bombay and watch what happens.
[Illustration: The only thing of note in the whole transaction is the
boy's self-satisfied air of having done his whole duty]
Your table boy will bring you a high glass of tepid water and drop a
piece of ice in it as big as a hickory-nut, and the only thing in the
whole transaction worthy of note is the boy's self-satisfied air of
having done his whole duty.
I have demoralized the whole running-gear of the best hotel in
Rangoon--I'll be known among the hotel fraternity of Rangoon in future
as the "ice man" who visited the town in 1914.
Becoming weary of watching that little nugget of ice in a large glass
of tepid water, doing its best to chill the water as it rapidly
diminished to the size of a two-carat diamond, finally to dissolve
entirely in an heroic effort to make good, I called the table boy to
me and ordered him to empty the glass and bring me the several
receptacles in the dining room that held ice for all the guests.
Fishing enough nuggets from the lot to pack the glass full of ice, I
ordered it filled with water--looked up at the boy and said: "Savvy?
Ice-water!"
I leave town today for Calcutta--that glass of ice water has jarred
Rangoon.
XXV
THE CALCUTTA SACRED BULL AND HIS TWISTED TAIL
Did one of your old readers, kind friend (I think it was McGuffy's
Second) way back in childhood days have a little poem in it all about
a lot of little girls playing a wishing game? It's over forty years
ago that I read that little poem, and I can only remember one little
girl's wish.
She said: "I wish I were a flying fish, o'er ocean's sparkling waves
to sail, a flying fish, that's what I wish, 'mid Neptune's blue to
lave my tail."
Not having read that little poem for over forty years, and not having
the book with me out here in Calcutta, I may not have quoted the lines
verbatim, but as near as I can recall it, that's what she said.
That little girl didn't know what she was wishing for or she'd sooner
have wished to be a devil bug.
The flying fish has got that old saying, "Between the devil and the
deep sea," beaten to a frazzle.
The life of a flying fish may look all right to the unsophisticated,
but things are rarely what they seem, and a flying fish's life is a
hard lot.
[Illustration: She said: "I wish I were a flying fish, o'er ocean's
sparkling waves to sail"]
Chased up out of the water to escape the jaws of some horrid sea
monster seeking to make a meal off it, it spreads its silvery wings
o'er "ocean's sparkling waves," when a seagull comes along,
and--good-bye little flying fish.
Now if I'd been one of those little girls playing that wishing game
and had known as much as I know now, I'd have wished to be a sacred
bull here in Calcutta.
That's one fine job--the life of a Calcutta sacred bull.
I stepped out of my hotel today onto one of Calcutta's best streets,
with a pavement twenty feet wide, filled with pedestrians, lined with
splendid shops.
Calcutta is a town of one million inhabitants and is the second city
in size in the British Empire.
Just at the side of the entrance to a fine jewelry store lay a great
big fat and glossy sacred bull, with a garland of roses round his
neck, placed there by some devout Hindu.
[Illustration: "Twist his tail," I said, "that will start him"]
The natives would stop and fondle and brush the flies off him.
Stopping to look at the novel sight, and giving the fine old fellow a
few gentle strokes, I turned to my guide and asked him to tell the
natives who had stopped to witness the foreigner's interest, to make
the bull get up. I wanted to see what he would do.
A native pushed him in the flank and ribs, but Mr. Bull only smiled,
and as plain as words his actions said, "No, thanks, I'm perfectly
comfortable here."
"Twist his tail," I said; "that will start him."
The native gave his tail one twist. The bull looked around with a
surprised air and anyone could see that he said, "That's a new kind of
a caress," but he didn't get up.
"Twist it harder," I said.
Three turns of the tail brought him to his feet, and he walked
leisurely along the crowded thoroughfare, perfectly at home, wearing
his garland of roses as naturally as a girl would wear a string of
beads, receiving a gentle pat from the native passersby--even an
English girl put out her hand and gave him a stroke in passing.
He was a great big, glossy, docile pet, expecting and getting a wealth
of love.
I am told that when he is hungry he goes to a green grocer's store and
makes a meal off the grocer's cabbage, with no protest from the
grocer, after which he goes to a confectioner's shop for a
dessert--and gets it.
[Illustration: "You stay where you belong. I'll do the sacred bull
business around this neck of the woods"]
There are scores of sacred bulls in Calcutta. They have their special
stamping ground. Let one bull poach on another one's preserve and
there is a bullfight then and there. Not a Spanish "bullfight"--seven
or eight trained athletes against one bull, with death for the bull a
foregone conclusion--but a real, genuine, interesting bullfight, with
the victor's tail in the air.
And it's a dull person who can't understand that that bull is saying
to the vanquished one: "You stay where you belong. I'll do the sacred
bull business around this neck of the woods."
XXVI
THE GUIDE WHO WOULDN'T SIT IN "MASTER'S" PRESENCE
I call him Lal.
The rest of his name is too long for week-day use. He is my
interpreter, my guide, my servant, my counselor, and my friend.