HUSHKA IN THE MARKET-PLACE
It was spring. The Sravana sacrifices were over. Farmers had finished
their planting, and the world ran with life. As yet, there was no
presage of summer heat. The nights were cool, and the mornings soft as
in winter. But the new foliage was delicately bright, and more tender
flowers had come to join the perpetual blossoms. Almond and apricot
trees were in bloom; and the breeze was perfumed with orchard breaths.
The mongoose and the turtle began their rovings. There was an air of
love and liberty in all things; and the heart of Oman was filled with
suppressed yearning. He worked as steadily as usual; but his thoughts
went wandering. For the first time since the day he had left the banyan
grove, he desired solitude. But it was solitude in a new form. He felt
in him the longing to wander, to roam the land, to penetrate distant
places that he had heard of:—great cities and fair plains, where
historic men had dwelt.
Gradually he fell into the habit of dreaming over this new ambition;
and by degrees strange pictures rose up before him:—pictures of places
that he had seen and known, somewhere, somehow, perhaps only as myths
in an epic, perhaps actually, in an old life. And with these pictures
was always the unattainable—a golden thread, running in and out of
all his dreams: the thought of that which he already had perceived to
soften the whole world,—love—the love of man for woman, the love of
woman for man. And dangerous as this brooding was, it grew so dear to
him that he could not relinquish it, but cherished it, secretly, as a
gift from the high gods.
There came an evening when he betrayed his thoughts, involuntarily,
resistlessly, to the one being in the world who would try to understand
them. And forever after he rejoiced that he had done so. He was sitting
alone in the veranda of Gokarna’s house, waiting for his meal of
millet-cakes and milk, which Kota presently brought. Then, when she
had laid it before him, she walked slowly over to the veranda entrance
and seated herself there, and looked off upon the swift-falling dusk.
In the misty radiance of the sunset, still more under the spell of the
rising night, spangled with white stars, the little village of mud and
straw lost its marks of poverty and squalor, and was softened into a
dream-city, of ineffable delicacy. As they sat looking out upon it
now, the thoughts of mother and son were alike, except that Oman was
regretting what he could never have, and Kota that which had not been
given her, for Gokarna was not such a man as the springtime loves. But
mother and son felt a sympathy with each other, and, under this sense,
the nature of each expanded.
“Ah, it is one of Krishna’s nights,” murmured Kota, dreamily.
For answer, Oman sighed; and the sigh came from his soul.
Kota turned and looked at the young man. Hitherto, Oman’s heart had
been strange to her; she had never thought of questioning the workings
of his brain. Now, suddenly, his humanity was apparent; and her heart
went out to his human sorrow as she asked, gently: “Dost thou mourn,
Oman?”
Oman, for whom no human voice had ever taken on this tone, felt a throb
of gratitude. But he answered: “I do not mourn, mother. I do not mourn.
And yet it is the time of love; and for me there is no love.”
Though caste forbade it, she went over and sat down at his side, and
took his two hands in hers. “Thinkest thou there is none to love thee?”
she asked, tenderly.
Oman’s head drooped to his knees; and, resting it there, he let some
part of his sorrow find expression for the woman, and her tears rained
down with his, while, forgetting all but her motherhood, she clasped
him to her heart.
After Oman’s emotion had spent itself, and he had become quiet, Kota
remained at his side, and together they looked off upon the village,
over which the half-grown moon was now shedding a bluish silver light.
The two sat silent, watching, till the moon was past mid-heaven, and
halfway down the sky. Gokarna had not returned. He would evidently
sleep that night with the snatakas and priests in the square of
sacrifice. But at last Kota, rising reluctantly, left the night behind,
and sought her rest in the house, while Oman lay down in his accustomed
corner of the veranda, and, after a little, slept.
When he opened his eyes again, the sun was nearly in mid-sky. He would
unquestionably get a beating from the master weaver, when he reached
his loom. However, it must be faced; and, without pausing for food,
he rose, thinking to make his ablutions at a fountain on the way.
Reaching the veranda step, however, he paused. A man was standing
there, silently: a man clad in mud-stained yellow robes, holding in his
hand a wooden bowl. Oman looked at him with some curiosity. A century
or two before, such men had overrun all India. Now, so rarely was
one seen that he was an object of interest to every beholder. In the
days when the wild Brahmanic leader, Kumarila Bhatta, had raised his
brethren against the Buddhists, it had been death to this man to stand
thus at a Brahman’s door; for, unquestionably, he was a Bhikkhu, a
Buddhist mendicant monk, come out of Bágh, the one remaining stronghold
of Buddhism in Malwa, one of the few left in all India. And the man
stood here, quite still, silently asking alms. Pity and curiosity were
nowadays the only sentiments with which even Brahmans regarded these
harmless men. And Oman, after a moment’s halt, would have hurried on,
but that he caught the expression in the wanderer’s eyes, and paused to
look again.
Certainly it was a remarkable face. The eyes were very large, and dark,
and long-lashed; and the look in them was such as one finds in oxen.
The man’s body was lean to emaciation; but his face, owing to the
round-cut hair, had more or less of a full appearance. His robes—which
he wore in the regular Buddhist manner, over the left shoulder, under
the right, and reaching to the heels,—were well worn, as were his
sandals, and the knotty, wooden staff in his hand. On his back was
a small bundle, fastened with a rope; and this, with an alms-bowl,
completed his equipment for the eight months’ yearly pilgrimage
prescribed for every Bhikkhu.
When his swift scrutiny was ended, Oman, following a sudden impulse,
went a little closer to the man, and said, gently: “Peace to your
heart, reverend sir. Let me fill your bowl with food.”
The Bhikkhu bowed, and silently handed his dish to the young man,
regarding him the while with grave scrutiny. Oman carried the bowl
inside, and requested his mother to fill it with whatever was at hand.
Kota, decidedly taken aback, complied with the request, albeit it was
the first Buddhist bowl ever filled in that Brahman household. Kota
prepared a dish for her son at the same time; and Oman carried them
both outside. The monk received his with humble thanks; and, squatting
on the ground where he was, without prayer or ceremony began his meal.
Oman watched him for a moment, and concluded that, since he was already
half a day late, another hour would make little difference. So he sat
down at some distance from the stranger, and himself began to eat. They
finished at the same time, and, rising, faced each other inquiringly.
This time it was the monk who spoke.
“For thine alms, I give thee thanks. One favor more I will ask of thee.
Tell me in what direction lies the bazaar; for thither I must go to
preach Dharma[5] to the people.”
[5] Dharma: Truth, the Word, the Law.
“O Bhikkhu, on my way to work I shall pass through the bazaar. If you
will walk with me, I will lead you thither.”
The monk looked astonished at this civility, but agreed at once to the
proposal; and, Oman having left his dish on the veranda, they started
down the winding street in the direction of the market-place. As they
went, they talked, scatteringly, and Oman found himself listening
with delight to the low, mellow tones of his companion’s voice. The
Bhikkhu’s name, he found, was Hushka. He was now returning from his
pilgrimage and on his way to Bágh, where he was to spend the summer
months, the Yassa season, in one of the Viharas there.
When they reached the bazaar, they found in it a busy throng of men
and women, buying, selling, shouting, laughing, wrangling, gossiping
together, each contributing in some way to the general tumult. Oman
wondered not a little how his companion was going to obtain hearing
here. Hushka, however, appeared as untroubled as if he had mounted
a platform before a respectfully attentive multitude; and Oman,
interested in the prospect, still lingered, watching his chance
acquaintance.
First, the Bhikkhu reminded Oman of his own personal neglect, by going
to the fountain in the middle of the square, and carefully washing out
his alms-bowl. When it was cleaned and dried, he still stood, resting
one hand upon the stone, looking thoughtfully around him. One or two
people, passing, caught his eye, and halted, uncertainly. Then three or
four middle-aged and old men drew out of the throng and stood still,
close at hand. They were those that had a curiosity concerning the
dying faith: perhaps even, in their secret hearts, leaned a little
toward it; and usually availed themselves of each rare opportunity of
listening to the Dharma.
Having now before him the nucleus of an audience, Hushka faced them,
his back to the fountain. Absently he stuck his flat bowl into the
pouch depending from his leathern girdle, fixing his eyes, the while,
upon Oman, who, fascinated by the man’s simplicity, still stood, apart
from the others, watching and waiting. And now the Buddhist lifted both
hands, clasped them high before him, and repeated, in tones of greatest
reverence, the Buddhist profession of faith, with which all mendicant
preachers were accustomed to begin their discourse:
“‘Of all things proceeding from cause, their causes hath the Tathagata
(Buddha) explained. The great Sramana (Buddha) hath likewise explained
the causes of the cessation of existence.’”
At these words, spoken in a low, melodious, monotonous voice,
addressed, not to the people, but, apparently, to Heaven, Oman,
unconscious of himself, took a step nearer to the speaker. After a
slight pause, Hushka, now removing his eyes from Oman’s face and using
them at discretion, began his sermon, choosing language that was clear
and simple, using figures calculated to appeal to the people, carrying
his hearers with him by means of his own personal magnetism, which
was never at so high a pitch as when he was engaged in this kind of
speaking. Gradually, his audience increased in numbers. The little
group of half a dozen became twelve, and then twenty, and then forty,
till the clamor in the market-place was strangely diminished, and
buyers and sellers alike stood still before the power of this wanderer
of alien and dying faith, surnamed, by his brethren of the Vihara,
“honey-throated”, and “golden-tongued”.
And this was the nature of his address; these the words that he spoke:
“Have you considered, O people, how all that we are is the result of
what we have thought? Our life is founded on our thoughts, made up
of our thoughts. If a man speaks or acts with an evil thought, pain
follows him, as the wheel follows the foot of the ox that draws the
vehicle.
“‘I am abused, miserable, receive not my due in the world.’ For him who
constantly harbors such thoughts, there is unending discontent. But for
him who reflects: ‘I am happy in living, for the world is a spot of joy
and beauty,’ discontent will cease forever. And so, also, hatred will
never cease by hatred. Hatred ceases through love. This is an old rule.
Again, he who lives seeking pleasures only, his senses unbridled, his
nature through indulgence growing idle and weak, him will Mara (the
tempter) overthrow, as the wind blows down a rotten tree. But for him
who lives to labor and to love his fellows, his senses controlled, his
appetites moderate, faithful and strong in his work, him Mara can no
more overthrow than the wind blows down a rocky mountain-peak.
“Now I declare to you that truth is an image clearly to be seen only
by the pure in heart. And those that follow vain desires, imagine that
truth is untruth and see untruth in truth, and never arrive at truth.
But those whose aims are high, whose minds are unpolluted with vanity,
are able to distinguish between the false and the true, and delight in
truth. Therefore follow not after vanity nor the enjoyment of lusts;
for when ye have known truth for yourselves, therein will ye find great
joy.
“Earnestness and meditation bring in their train serenity and
happiness. By earnestness did Indra rise to the lordship of the gods.
And he who delights in sincerity, who looks with fear upon hypocrisy,
moves about like fire, burning all his fetters; and he that has
conquered himself by reflection, is close upon Nirvana.
“I would speak with you also concerning the tyranny of passion. For as
rain breaks through an ill-thatched house, so passion breaks through
the unfortified mind. Therefore it is necessary carefully to train the
mind, which is difficult to check and constantly rebellious, rushing
where it listeth. Yet, only a trained mind will bring happiness. Let
the wise man guard his thoughts, lest the torrent of passion, rushing
upon him, overwhelm him in its depths. The mind travels far, moves
about alone, without a body; and, to be freed from Mara, must often
hide in the chamber of the heart. But so long as man is under the
bondage of passion, so long is he exposed to the persuasions of Mara.
And so long as the desire of man toward woman, even the smallest, is
not destroyed, so long is his mind in bondage. Thou shalt also cut
out the love of thyself with thine own hand; for it is the greatest
tree in the forest of dangers. From its root springs desire. Its
foliage is wanton. From lust spring fear and grief; but he who is free
from lust knows not grief nor fear. Yet no man can free another from
these things. As by one’s self the evil is done, so by one’s self is
one purified. Is the struggle long? Is it lonely? Is it exceedingly
difficult? Fear not. By such measures only is serenity attained.
Well-makers lead the water where they will. Fletchers bend the arrow;
carpenters split a log of wood; but a good man doeth the greatest thing
of all, for he can fashion himself.”
Hushka concluded his discourse quietly, with a benign smile flickering
from his eyes and just touching his lips. The holy law that he
preached to men never failed to affect himself, and to uplift him.
And this, probably, was the secret of his power. Certainly, if it
took some courage nowadays to preach the word of the Buddha in India,
the preacher found his reward; for his audiences were held fairly
spellbound during the ten or fifteen minutes of the discourse; and,
under the magic smoothness of the golden voice, the disjointed nature
of his preachment had passed unnoticed. After a moment or two of
silence, more complimentary than any applause, the little throng began
to break up, and, five minutes later, the noise of the market-place
was as deafening as before. The Bhikkhu, his work here finished, was
turning to depart, when he perceived his companion of the noontide
still standing near, apparently watching a chance to speak to him
again. Hushka gazed at him inquiringly, and Oman came up, but stood
silent and a little confused before him.
“Is there any service that I can perform for thee?” asked Hushka, after
regarding him for a moment attentively.
Oman again gazed deep into the large, gentle eyes; and with the look,
a thrill of joy ran through him. “Tell me, if you will, O Bhikkhu, if
your order practises this Dharma? Are all Buddhist brethren free from
desire and from the pain of discontent?”
“It is our endeavor thus to free ourselves. We follow the teachings of
the great Master.”
“Sramana-Gautama?”
The Bhikkhu bowed his head.
“There are many Jainists that come here, saying that they also worship
the Buddha truly—”
“Jainists! Hypocrites!” for an instant, Hushka’s eyes flashed fire; but
he pressed his lips tightly together, and when he spoke again it was
quite calmly: “The Jainists are false Buddhists. The world has been
sadly overrun with hypocrisy; and they have been its devotees. They do
not follow Buddha, but Buddhaghosa; and their law is not our law, for
they do not possess the manuscripts of truth.”
Oman nodded, and there was a pause. Then the youth, his heart beating
rapidly, his throat quite dry, asked: “What is required of those that
would join your order?”
Hushka looked at him penetratingly, and said: “Come. Let us proceed out
of ear-shot of this tumult, where we may talk together in peace.”
Willingly Oman complied; nor did either speak again till they were in
one of the least frequented of the village streets. Even then, Oman
hesitated to begin. He was in such an inward turmoil that he could not
think of words in which to express himself. After a little waiting,
Hushka spoke for him:
“You have asked me, young man, what is required of one that wishes to
join our order. I answer you that nothing is required save the wish.”
“But Sudras—outcasts—the once-born—do you accept these into the
brotherhood?”
“In the eyes of the Sramana, any man and any woman may attain to
Arahatship.”
“Women! Then there is no caste among you?”
“Thus it is written in one of our sacred books: ‘A man does not become
a Brahmana by his family or by his birth. In whom there is truth and
righteousness, he is blessed, he is a Brahmana.’”
It was the first time that Oman had dreamed of such a thing as a social
order without caste; and the idea was so overwhelming that for some
moments he was silent out of sheer amazement. All his preconceived
notions went whirling in his head while he strove to adjust himself
to this. Never, until this Bhikkhu had spoken in the market-place,
had he had any idea of a religion built solely for the help of human
frailty, and for the consolation of human sorrow. Now, what a vista
was suddenly opened before him! Small wonder that he shut his eyes to
the first radiant flood of light. That he could see anything at all of
the possibilities carried in Hushka’s words, was due to the fact of
his three years of bitter solitude and lonely meditation. After a few
moments, during which Hushka kept a wise silence, Oman asked slowly,
with a trembling that betrayed itself on his very lips:
“Could—a weaver—a Vaisya—become one of you? Could I become a Bhikkhu?”
“Art thou a weaver? I had thought thee Brahman born.”
“That also is true. I was born a Brahman.”
There was a short silence. Oman was sick now with dread of a next
question,—that never came. Hushka was turning certain matters rapidly
over in his mind. From the first, Oman’s intense interest in his words
had been a mystery to him. Converts to Buddhism were seldom made, in
this day. It was now most rarely that the Bhikkhus brought novices
back with them for the Vassa; and the few that came were almost always
of Sudra caste. Oman, on the other hand, was apparently of high
breeding; and only some unusual fact could have brought him into his
present situation. Hushka scented some misdeed, crime, perhaps, that
had put the youth into present bad standing. But the misdeed of a
Brahman was no Buddhist’s affair. To make him a convert was the chief
consideration; for had not the great Buddha received into his order men
of dark past? There was excellent precedent for what Hushka wished to
do.
Later in his companionship with Oman, Hushka’s first suspicion of crime
was completely laid by the openness of his pupil’s behavior. But, in
justice to the Bhikkhu be it said, he had never, until the end, the
faintest suspicion of the real nature of Oman’s trouble.
Many thoughts and much reasoning passed rapidly through Hushka’s mind;
and then he turned again to the youth, and said to him: “Thou hast
asked me if thou canst become a Bhikkhu. I answer thee—yes. But first
you must know something of our lives, and the purpose of them. Then,
understanding all that is to be renounced, if you would still join us,
I will myself give you the first ordination, the Pabbagga, and will
take you as my pupil. I will be your master, your Upagghaya; for I have
instructed many youths through their novitiate. Later, you will be
given the second, the highest ordination, Upasampada, and so become a
Bhikkhu. But first you must understand whither I would lead you.”
“Tell me! Tell me,” besought Oman, looking into Hushka’s eyes, before
whose steady orbs his own suddenly fell.
And so, while they walked, the Buddhist expounded to the lonely youth
the simple doctrines of the great religion: the renunciation of desire,
of pleasure, of indulgence in the flesh, and the growth of that
serenity that leads gradually to Nirvana, the great extinction. And the
plan of it all, the eightfold abstinence, the fourfold path, seemed
to Oman a perfect conception. The whole doctrine was, to his troubled
soul, like balm on a deep wound, a draught of water to one perishing
in the desert. And in his delight, he was freed from traditional
prejudice, and gave himself up entirely to the new companionship.
Thus, through the whole afternoon, the two walked together, communing,
until, as the sun slipped under the western horizon, they paused
once more before the house of Gokarna. Hushka had reminded the young
man that his father and mother must be told of his wish to become
a Buddhist. Indeed, in the depths of his quiet mind, the Bhikkhu
apprehended insuperable difficulty here, yet knew that the matter
must be faced; and he let Oman decide the manner of its presentation.
To Hushka’s astonishment, Oman took it unquestioningly on himself,
asking Hushka to wait in the veranda while he went within to inform
his parents, or, in case Gokarna were absent, at least his mother,
of his great decision. Hushka made no protest, nor suggested his own
fitness to give a favorable impression concerning the Bhikkhu’s life.
Remembering Oman’s new-born enthusiasm and seeing in him no sign of
nervousness about approaching his guardians, Hushka reflected that
Oman might have been divinely fitted for this task. So, after a short
colloquy at the veranda step, the monk sat down in the vine-covered
retreat, and Oman went on into the house, where, contrary to his
expectation, he found both his father and his mother.
For a long time Hushka sat there in the falling night, cross-legged, in
the manner of the Sakyamuni, his hands on his knees, his head resting
against the wall of the house, meditating. And while he indulged
himself in hope, there came, through the open doorway, the low,
monotonous murmur of voices. They were never raised above the ordinary
pitch; and this Hushka perceived with increasing satisfaction. Once or
twice there were to be heard a woman’s tones, followed always by the
musical voice of Oman, and the heavier baritone of Gokarna. But the
discussion, if discussion there were, was carried on in an entirely
matter-of-fact manner.
During this time, outside, the hands of Nature had been at work, and
now the whole sky was robed in luminous, fleecy gray, strewn with
white stars, and crowned with the radiant half-moon, which shed silver
beams over the whole earth. The air was warm and fragrant with the
breath of spring. It was a night when the very atmosphere brought
intoxication. And gradually the expression of him sitting alone in the
veranda changed, and grew very sad; and a new light, one of sorrow and
yearning, shone in the depths of his large eyes.
Now the murmur of voices inside the house ceased. Oman’s task was
accomplished. After a moment of silence the three came out of the
firelit room, into the cool and shadowy veranda. It was a second or
two before any one of them could see Hushka, who had risen, and slowly
moved forward to them. Then Gokarna also advanced, and spoke:
“O Bhikkhu, Oman, my son, has told me that which my heart is sad to
hear. He wishes to receive from you Buddhist ordination and go forth as
your pupil.”
Hushka bent his head once. “That is true. The young man came to me
after I had discoursed upon the Dharma in the market-place, and asked
that he might become my Saddhiviharika, to listen daily to the Dharma
and become versed in the way of the great life.”
“So says my son; and, O Bhikkhu, so fervently doth he desire to enter
upon this life, that he hath won consent from us. So I bid you take him
for a pupil, and treat him with that forbearance that is a law of all
religions.”
Hushka bent his head again. “Let it be thus,” he said solemnly.
There was a stifled sob from Kota, who stood in the background, behind
her husband; and then Oman, who had embraced her, went forward to his
master, asking: “When shall I receive the ordination?”
“When thou wilt. Any time is a proper time for the Pabbagga.”
“Then let me be at once ordained, that we may set forth at an early
hour on the morrow.”
“Come then into the moonlight here before the step, that each may look
upon the face of the other. Yet,”—he glanced toward Kota and Gokarna,
who still stood close at hand,—“yet we should not act in the presence
of any but followers of Gautama.”
At this, the father and mother embraced Oman, and then, when Kota had
murmured to him that she should see him again in the morning, the two
retired for the night, leaving Oman and Hushka alone in the veranda.
Hushka was struggling with the bundle on his back, which Oman helped
him to remove. In it, wrapped in the mat used by Buddhists for many
purposes, lay a set of yellow robes, apparently new, yet mudstained to
a height of a foot above the hem.
“Whence come the stains? And how dost thou carry this set of garments?”
queried Oman, delighted that he was at once to assume the dress of his
new faith.
“Thus is it decreed that, in such emergencies as this, when we take a
pupil, we should have a robe for him. And the robes are stained with
earth, that no Bhikkhu or student shall vainly rejoice in his new
garment.”
Laying aside the yellow robes, Hushka bound up his mat again, this time
putting the little bundle to one side, on the veranda. Then he said to
Oman:
“Now must thou don this garb. It is our rule that the brethren shall
not look upon one another in the act of robing or disrobing; so I
turn my face from thee. Yet it will be necessary that I show thee the
required manner of passing the cloth about the upper part of the body
and over the left shoulder. Therefore, when the skirt is adjusted, call
me to thine assistance.”
Oman nodded; but, as Hushka turned toward the other end of the veranda,
Oman, who, in loosening his usual tunic, had accidentally touched the
cord that he always wore, called out to Hushka: “The cord—the Brahman
cord—must it be put off?”
“Let it remain,” answered Hushka, without turning around; and Oman in
his heart rejoiced.
When he was dressed and Hushka had taught him the trick of fastening
the end of the yellow cloth under his arm, Oman declared himself ready
for the ordination. Thereupon Hushka, in a solemn tone, once more
repeated to him the laws of abstinence for a novice; and then, Oman
having faithfully promised to observe them all, Hushka bade him sit
down, cross-legged, somewhat after the manner of a Yogi, and, when he
had raised his clasped hands to a level with his eyes, caused him to
repeat slowly, three times, these words:
“I take my refuge in the Buddha. I take my refuge in the Dharma. I take
my refuge in the Samgha (the community of brethren).”
This said, Oman repeated after his preceptor the creed that he had
heard for the first time that morning: “Of all things proceeding from
cause, their causes hath the Tathagata explained. The Great Sramana
hath likewise explained the causes of the cessation of existence. Let
him be forever worshipped.”
With these simple words, the ordination was completed; but Oman still
remained in the half-kneeling, half-sitting position, motionless,
silent, a little pale. It was as if the repetition of the creed had
wrought a change in his whole being. He experienced an inexplicably
strong emotion, an emotion amazing to himself, perhaps not so much so
to Hushka, who stood looking down on him with the silver moonlight in
his gentle, dark eyes. Oman found himself gazing into those eyes as if
they had been of the Buddha himself. After a little, however, Hushka
broke the spell, saying, quietly:
“Come, my pupil, let us seek our rest. On the morrow we must proceed
upon our way.”
Oman rose at once, and followed his master to that end of the veranda
where he was wont to sleep. Here, dressed as they were, the two lay
down, some distance apart, with no covering but their yellow garments
and the sweet night air. Very soon Hushka’s breath came evenly and
long; and the other knew that he slept. But Oman closed his eyes in
vain. He could not sleep; nor, indeed, did he desire to. His heart was
full. It had come, at last, all that he had dreamed of. The impossible
was come to pass. On the morrow he was going out into the world,—out
into the broad, shining world, in the companionship of a man that did
not scorn him, with a faith in his heart that he loved, that loved him,
that had been decreed for him and all the scattered brethren of the
lonely life.