We had an undisturbed night, thanks to the neighbourhood of the nomads, for they too had fierce dogs and arms. Early in the morning Sampo came with another man and a woman to visit us. We had asked if we might buy some food from them, and they brought several choice things with them—a sheep, a large piece of fat, a bowl of sour milk, a wooden bowl of powdered cheese, a can of milk, and a lump of yellow cream cheese. Then came the question of payment. Our money consisted of Chinese silver pieces, which are valued by weight, and are weighed out with a pair of small scales. Sampo Singi, however, would take only silver coins from Lhasa, of which we had none. Fortunately I had provided myself with two packages of blue Chinese silken material in Turkestan, and a length of that is a substitute for silver of all kinds. The Tibetans became quite excited when they heard the rustle of the silk, and after the usual haggling and bargaining we came to an agreement.

The sheep was then slaughtered, some fat pieces were fried over the fire, and after a solid breakfast, of which a share was bestowed on the dogs, we bade farewell to the Tibetans and rode on through the valley, still in pouring rain. Soon we came to the right bank of a broad river which was composed of about twenty arms, four of which were each as large as an ordinary stream. Without hesitation our courageous little Lama rode straight out into the rapid turbid current, and Shagdur and I followed. When we had crossed about half the river we rested a while on a small mud flat, from which neither bank could be seen owing to the rain. On all sides we were surrounded by swiftly flowing water, yet it seemed as if the water was standing still while the small sandbank rushed up the river at a terrific pace.

The Lama again started off with his mule into the water, but he had not gone many steps before the water rose to the root of the animal's tail. He was also leading the mule which carried our two hide trunks, which until the water soaked into them acted like corks. In this way the mule lost her footing on the bottom of the river, swung round, and was quickly carried down-stream. We saw her disappear in the rain and thought that it was certainly her last journey, but she extricated herself in a marvellous manner. Near the left bank of the river she managed to get her hoofs on the bottom again, and clambered up; and what was most singular, the two trunks were still on her back.

At length we all got safely across, and rode on. My boots squelched, and water dropped from the corners of the boxes. Our camp that evening was truly wretched—not a dry stitch on us, continuous rain, almost impossible to make a fire. At length, however, we succeeded in keeping alight a small smoking fire of dung. That night I did not keep watch a minute after midnight, but waked up Shagdur mercilessly and crept into bed.

On August 2 we made only fifteen and a half miles. The road was now broad and easy to follow. On the slope of a hill was encamped a large tea caravan; its twenty-five men were sitting round their fires, while the three hundred yaks were grazing close at hand. The bales of tea were stacked up in huge piles; it was Chinese tea of poor quality compressed into cakes like bricks, and therefore called "brick-tea." Every cake is wrapped in red paper, and about twenty cakes are sewed up together into a hide tightly bound with rope. The caravan was bound for Shigatse. As we rode by, several of the men came up to us and put some impertinent and inconvenient questions. They were well armed and looked like robbers, so we politely refused their proposal that we should travel together southwards. We pitched our camp a little farther on, and next morning we saw this curious and singular caravan pass by. It was a great contrast to the fine camel caravans of Persia and Turkestan, for it marched like a regiment in separate detachments of thirty or forty yaks each. The men walked, whistling and uttering short sharp cries; ten of them carried guns slung on their backs, and all were bareheaded, sunburnt, and dirty.

The whole of the next day we remained where we were in order to dry our things, and the Lama again stained my head down to the neck and in the ears. The critical moment was approaching.

On August 4 we met a caravan of about a hundred yaks, accompanied by armed men in tall yellow hats; but they took us for ordinary pilgrims and did not trouble themselves about us. Then we rode past several tents, and when we reached the top of the next pass we saw that tents lay scattered about on the plain like black spots, fourteen together in one place. We were now on the great highway to Lhasa.

The next day we came to a flat open valley, where there were twelve tents. Three Tibetans came to our tent there at dusk, and had a long conversation with the Lama, who was the only one of us who understood Tibetan. When he came back to us he was quite overcome with fright. One of the three men, who was a chief, had told him that information had come from yak-hunters in the north that a large European caravan was on the way. He had a suspicion that one of us might be a white man, and he ordered us on no account to move from where we were. In fact, we were prisoners, and with great anxiety we awaited the morning, when our fate would be decided. All night a watch was kept round our tent, as we knew by the fires, and next day we were visited by several parties, both influential chiefs and ordinary nomads, who warned us, if we valued our lives, to wait there till the Governor of the Province arrived.

In the meantime they did all they could to frighten us. Troops of horsemen in close order dashed straight towards our tent, as if they meant to stamp us into the earth, and so finish us off at once. On they rushed, the horses' hoofs ringing on the bare ground and the riders brandishing their swords and lances above their heads and uttering the wildest shrieks. When they were so near that the mud was splashed on to the tent, they suddenly opened out to right and left, and returned in the same wild career to the starting-point. This martial manoeuvre was repeated several times.

During the following days, however, they behaved in a more peaceful fashion, and eventually we came to be on quite a friendly footing with most of our neighbours. They visited us constantly, gave us butter, milk, and fat, and when it rained crept coolly into our tent, which became so crowded that we could hardly find room for ourselves. They informed us that the Dalai Lama had given orders that no harm should be done to us, and we saw that messengers on horseback rode off daily along the roads leading to Lhasa and the Governor's village. We did not know where our seven baggage and riding animals were, but we made it clear to the Tibetans that, as they had stopped us against our will, they must be answerable for the safety of our animals and possessions.

On August 9 things at last began to look lively. A whole village of tents sprang up at some distance from us, and round the new tents swarmed Tibetans on foot and horseback. A Mongolian interpreter escorted by some horsemen came to our tent.

"The Governor, Kamba Bombo, is here, and invites you to-day to a feast in his tent."

"Greet Kamba Bombo," I answered, "but tell him that it is usual first to pay a visit to the guests one invites."

"You must come," went on the interpreter; "a sheep roasted whole is placed in the middle of the tent, surrounded by bowls of roasted meal and tea. He awaits you."

"We do not leave our camp. If Kamba Bombo wishes to see us he can come here."

"If you will not come with me I cannot be responsible for you to the Governor. He has ridden day and night to talk with you. I beg you to come with me."

"If Kamba Bombo has anything to say to us, he is welcome. We ask nothing from him, only to travel to Lhasa as peaceful pilgrims."

Two hours later the Tibetans came back again in a long dark line of horsemen, the Governor riding on a large white mule in their midst. His retinue consisted of officials, priests, and officers in red and blue cloaks carrying guns, swords, and lances, wearing turbans or light-coloured hats, and riding on silver-studded saddles.

When they came up, carpets and cushions were spread on the ground, and on these Kamba Bombo took his seat. I went out to him and invited him into our poor tent, where he occupied the seat of honour, a maize sack. He might be forty years old, looked merry and jovial, but also pale and tired. When he took off his long red cloak and his bashlik, he appeared in a splendid dress of yellow Chinese silk, and his boots were of green velvet.

The interview began at once, and each of us did his best to talk the other down. The end of the matter was a clear declaration on his part that if we tried to move a step in the direction of Lhasa our heads should be cut off, no matter who we were. We did our best, both that day and the next, to get this decision altered, but it was no use and we had to yield to superior force.

So we turned back on the long road through dreary Tibet, and eventually regained our headquarters in safety.

THE TASHI LAMA

Thus it was that we came back to the little town of Leh, the capital of Ladak, and again saw the winter caravans which come over the lofty mountains from Eastern Turkestan on their way with goods to Kashmir. Then several years passed, but in August, 1906, I was once more in Leh, having travelled (as has been described) across Europe to Constantinople, over the Black Sea, through Persia and Baluchistan, then by rail to Rawalpindi, in a tonga to Kashmir, and lastly on horseback to Leh. On this occasion the caravan consisted of twenty-seven men and nearly a hundred mules and horses, besides thirty hired horses, which were to turn back when the provisions they carried had been consumed.

Our course lay over the lofty mountains in northern Tibet, and for eighty-one days we did not see a single human being. But when we turned off to the right and came to more southern districts of the country, we met with Tibetan hunters and nomads, from whom we purchased tame yaks and sheep, for the greater part of our animals had perished owing to the rarefied air, the poor and scanty pasture, and the cold and the wind. The temperature had on one occasion fallen as low as 40 deg. below zero.

After wandering for about six months we came to the Upper Brahmaputra, which is the only place where the Tibetans use boats, if indeed they can be called boats at all. They simply take four yak hides, stretch them over a framework of thin curved ribs and sew them together, and then the boat is ready; but it is buoyant and floats lightly on the water. When we were only a day's journey from Shigatse, the second town of Tibet, the caravan was ferried across the river. I myself with two of my servants took my seat in a hide boat, dexterously managed by a Tibetan, and we drifted down the Brahmaputra at a swinging pace.

A number of other boats were following the same fine waterway. They were full of pilgrims flocking to the great Lama temple in Shigatse. Two days later was the New Year of the country, and then the Lamaists celebrate their greatest festival. Pilgrims stream from far and near to the holy town. Round their necks they wear small images of their gods or wonder-working charms written on paper and enclosed in small cases, and many of them turn small praying mills, which are filled inside with prayers written on long strips of paper. When the mills revolve all these prayers ascend up to the ears of the gods—so easy is it to pray in Tibet! All the time a man can continue his conversation with his fellow-travellers.



Many of the pilgrims, however, like all Tibetans, murmur the sacred formula Om mane padme hum over and over again. These four words contain the key to all faith and salvation. They signify "O, jewel in the lotus flower, amen." The jewel is Buddha, and in all images he is represented as rising up from the petals of a lotus flower. The more frequently a man repeats these four words, the greater chance has he of a happy existence when he dies and his soul passes into a new body.

We reached Shigatse and pitched our tents in a garden on the outskirts of the town. Outside Shigatse stands the great monastery of Tashi-lunpo (Plate XI.), in which dwell 3800 monks of various grades, from fresh young novices to old, grey high priests. They all go bareheaded and bare-armed, and their dress consists of long red sheets wound round the body. The priest who is head of all is called the Tashi Lama; he is the primate of this part of Tibet and enjoys the same exalted rank and dignity as the Dalai Lama in Lhasa. He has a great reputation for sanctity and learning, and pilgrims stand for hours in a queue only to receive a word of blessing from him.

This Tashi Lama was then a man of twenty-seven years of age, and had held the position since he was a small boy. He invited me to the great festival in the temple on New Year's Day. In the midst of the temple town is a long court surrounded by verandahs, balconies, and platforms. Round about are seen the gilded copper roofs over the sanctuaries and mausoleums where departed high priests repose. Everywhere the people are tightly packed, and the visitors from far and near are dressed in their holiday clothes, many-coloured and fine, and decorated with silver ornaments, coral and turquoise. The Tashi Lama has his seat in a balcony hung with silken draperies and gold tassels, but the holy countenance can be seen through a small square opening in the silk.

The festival begins with the entry of the temple musicians. They carry copper bassoons ten feet long, so heavy that their bells have to rest on the shoulder of an acolyte. With deep, long-drawn blasts the monks proclaim the New Year, just as long ago the priests of Israel announced with trumpet notes the commencement of the year of jubilee. Then follow cymbals which clash in a slow, ringing measure, and drums which rouse echoes from the temple walls. The noise is deafening, but it sounds cheerful and impressive after the deep stillness in the valleys of Tibet.

After the musicians have taken their places in the court the dancing monks enter. They are clad in costly garments of Chinese silk, and bright dragons embroidered in gold flash in the folds as the sunlight falls on them. The faces of the monks are covered by masks representing wild animals with open jaws and powerful tusks. The monks execute a slow circular dance. They believe, and so do all the people, that evil spirits may be kept at a distance and driven away by this performance.

The next day I was summoned to the Tashi Lama. We passed along narrow paved lanes between the monastery walls, through narrow gloomy passages, up staircases of polished wood, and at last reached the highest floor of the monastery, where the Tashi Lama has his private apartments. I found him in a simple room, sitting cross-legged in a window recess from which he can see the temple roofs and the lofty mountains and the sinful town in the valley. He was beardless, with short-cut brown hair. His expression was singularly gentle and charming, almost shy. He held out his hands to me and invited me to take a seat beside him, and then for several hours we talked about Tibet, Sweden, and this vast, wonderful world.

WILD ASSES AND YAKS

If I had counted all the wild asses I saw during my travels in Tibet the number would amount to many, many thousands. Up in the north, in the very heart of the highland country, and down in the south, hardly a day passed without our seeing these proud, handsome animals, sometimes alone, sometimes in couples, and sometimes in herds of several hundred head.

The Latin name for the wild ass, Equus kiang, indicates his close relationship to the horse, and "kiang" is what he is called by the people of Tibet. The wild ass is as large as an average mule, with well-developed ears, and a sharp sense of hearing; his tail is tufted at the end, and he is reddish-brown in colour, except on the legs and belly, where he is white. When he scents danger he snorts loudly, throws up his head, cocks his ears, and expands his nostrils; he is more like a fine ass than a horse, but when you see him wild and free on the salt plains of Tibet, the difference between him and an ass seems even greater than between an ass and a horse. My own horses and mules seemed sorry jades by the side of the "kiangs" of the desert.

On one occasion my Cossacks caught two small foals which as yet had no experience of life and the dangers of the desert. They stood tied up between the tents and made no attempt to escape. We gave them meal mixed with water, which they supped up eagerly, and we hoped that they would thrive and stay with us. When I saw how they pined for freedom, however, I wanted to restore them to the desert and to their mother's care. But it was too late; the mothers would have nothing to do with them after they had been in the hands of men, so we had to kill them to save them from the wolves. Thus strict is the law of the wilderness: a human hand is enough to break the spell of its freedom.

We cannot travel back to India without having become acquainted with the huge ox which runs wild over the loftiest mountains of Tibet. He is called "yak" in Tibetan, and the name has been transferred to most European languages. He is closely akin to the tame yak, but is larger and is always of a deep black colour; only when he is old does his head turn grey. The tame yak, on the other hand, is often white, brown, or mottled. Common to both are the peculiar form and the abundant wool. Seen from the side, the yak seems humpbacked. The back slopes down from the highest point, just over the forelegs, to the root of the tail, while the neck slopes down still more steeply to the scrag. The animal is exceedingly heavy, strong and ungainly, and the points of the thick horns are often worn and cracked in consequence of severe combats between the bulls.

As the yak lives in a temperature which in winter falls below the freezing-point of mercury (-40 deg.), he needs a close warm coat and a protective layer of fat under the hide; and he is, in fact, so well provided with these that no cold on earth can affect him. When his breath hangs in clouds of steam round his nostrils he is in his element. Singular, too, are the fringes of wool a foot long which skirt the lower parts of his flanks and the upper parts of his forelegs. They may grow so long as to touch the ground as the yak walks. When he lies down on the stone-hard, frozen, and pebbly ground, these thick fringes serve as cushions, and on them he lies soft and warm.

On what do these huge fleshy animals live in a country where, broadly speaking, nothing grows and where a caravan may perish for want of fodder? It often happened that we would march for several days together without seeing a blade of grass. Then we might come to a valley with a little scanty hard yellow grass, but even if we stayed over a day the animals could not get nearly enough to eat. Not until we have descended to about 15,000 feet above sea-level do we find—and then only very seldom—a few small, miserable bushes; and to reach trees we must descend another 3000 feet lower. In the home of the wild yaks the ground is almost everywhere bare and barren, and yet these great beasts roam about and thrive excellently. They live on mosses and lichens, which they lick up with the tongue, and for this purpose their tongues are provided with hard, sharp, horny barbs like a thistle. In the same way they crop the velvety grass, less than half an inch high, which grows on the edges of the high alpine brooks, and which is so short that a horse cannot get hold of it.

On one occasion I made an excursion of several days from the main caravan, accompanied by only two men. One was an Afghan named Aldat. He was an expert yak-hunter, and used to sell the hides to merchants of Eastern Turkestan to be made into saddles and boots. We had encamped about 600 feet higher than the summit of Mont Blanc, and the air was so rarefied that if we took even a few steps we suffered from difficulty in breathing and palpitation of the heart.

When the camp was ready, Aldat came and asked me to look at a large yak bull grazing on a slope above my tent. As we needed flesh and fat, I gave him permission to shoot it and to keep the hide. The bull had not noticed us, for he was to windward, and thought of nothing but the juicy moss. Water melted from the snow trickled among the stones, the wind blew cold, and the sky was overcast—true yak weather. With his gun on his back, Aldat crept up a hollow. At last he pushed himself along on his elbows and toes, crouching on the ground like a cat prowling after prey. At a distance of thirty paces he stopped behind a scarcely perceptible ridge of stones and took careful aim. The yak did not look up, not suspecting any danger. He had roamed about for fifteen years on these peaceful heights near the snow-line and had never seen a man. The shot cracked out and echoed among the mountains. The yak jumped into the air, took a few uncertain steps, stopped, reeled, tried to keep his balance, fell, lifted himself, but fell again heavily and helplessly to the ground, and lay motionless. It was stone dead, and in an hour was skinned and cut up.

This took place on September 9. On the 23rd of the same month the relations of the yak bull might have seen from a distance a strange procession. Some men carried a long object to the edge of a grave which had just been dug, lowered it into the trench, covered it with a skin coat, and filled in the grave with stones and earth. Into this simple mound was thrust a tent pole, with the wild yak's bushy tail fastened to the top; and the man who slumbered under the hillock was Aldat himself, the great yak-hunter.



X

INDIA

FROM TIBET TO SIMLA

Right up in Tibet lie the sources of the Sutlej, the largest affluent of the Indus. With irresistible force it breaks through the Himalayas in order to get down to the sea, and its valley affords us an excellent road from the highlands of Tibet to the burning lowlands of India. On this journey we pass through a succession of belts of elevation, and find that various animals and plants are peculiar to different heights. The tiger does not go very high up on the southern flanks of the Himalayas, but the snow leopard is not afraid of cold. The tame yak would die if he were brought down to denser strata of air, and Marco Polo's sheep would waste away on the forest-clothed heights; but wolves, foxes and hares occur as frequently in India as in Tibet.

The boundaries of the flora are more sharply defined. Below the limit of eternal snow (13,000 feet) ranunculus and anemones, pedicularis and primulas are found just as they are in our higher latitudes with corresponding conditions of temperature. At 12,000 feet lies the limit of forest, beyond which the birch does not go, but where pine-trees still thrive. Between 10,000 and 6000 feet are woods of the beautiful and charming conifer called the Himalayan cedar, which is allied to the cedar of Lebanon. At 7000 feet the limit of subtropical woods is crossed, and the oak and the climbing rose are seen. Just below 3500 feet the tropical forest is entered, with acacias, palms, bamboos, and all the floral wealth of the Indian jungle.

The Sutlej grows bigger and bigger the further we descend, and we ride on shaking bridges across innumerable tributaries. The atmosphere becomes denser, and breathing easier. We no longer have a singing in the ears, or palpitations or headache as on the great heights, and the cold has been left behind. Even in the early morning the air is warm, and soon come days when we look back with regret to the cool freshness up in Tibet. One of my dogs, a great shaggy Tibetan, suffered severely from the increasing heat, and one fine day he turned right about and went back to Tibet.



The first town that we come to is called Simla (Plate XII.). It is not large, having barely 15,000 inhabitants, but it is one of the most beautiful towns in the world, and one of the most powerful, for in its cedar groves stands a palace, and in the palace an Imperial throne. The Emperor is the King of England, whose power over India is entrusted to a Viceroy. In summer enervating heat prevails over the lowlands of India, and all Europeans who are not absolutely tied to their posts move up to the hills. The Viceroy and his staff, the government officials, the chief officers of the army, civil servants and military men all fly with their wives up to Simla, where the leaders of society live as gaily as in London. During this season the number of inhabitants rises to 30,000.

The houses of Simla are built like swallows' nests on steep slopes. The streets, or rather roads, lie terraced one above another. The whole town is built on hills surrounded by dizzy precipices. Round about stand forests dark and dense; but between the cedars are seen far off to the southwest the plains of the Punjab and the winding course of the Sutlej, and to the north the masses of the Himalayas with their eternal snowfields. It is delightful to go up to Simla from the sultriness of India, and perhaps still more delightful to come down to Simla from the piercing cold of Tibet.

DELHI AND AGRA

From Simla we go down by train through hundreds of tunnels and round the sharpest curves, over countless bridges and along dizzy precipices, to the lowlands of the Punjab. It is exceedingly hot, and we long for a little breeze from Tibet's snowy mountains.

Time flies by till we reach Delhi, situated on the Jumna, one of the affluents of the Ganges. Delhi was the capital of the empire of the Great Moguls,[11] and in the seventeenth century it was the most magnificent city in the world.



Many proud monuments of this grandeur still remain, notably the splendid building of pure white marble called the Hall of Private Audience, where in the open space surrounded by a double colonnade the Great Mogul was wont to dispense justice and receive envoys. In the sunshine the marble columns seem to be translucent, and light-blue shadows fall on the marble floor. The walls and pillars are inlaid with costly stones of various shapes: lapis-lazuli and malachite, nephrite and agate. In the throne-room used to stand the famous "Peacock Throne" of the Great Mogul. The whole throne was covered with thick plates of gold and studded all over with diamonds. In the year 1749 the Persian king, Nadir Shah, came to Delhi, defeated the Great Mogul and carried off treasures to the value of fifty-six million pounds. Among other valuables he seized was the famous diamond called the "Koh-i-noor," or "Mountain of Light," now among the British crown jewels. He also carried off the Peacock Throne, which alone was worth eleven million pounds. It is to this day in the possession of the Shahs of Persia, but all the diamonds have been taken out one after another by the successors of Nadir Shah when they happened to be in difficulties. The gold plates are left, however, and on the back still glitter the golden peacocks which give the throne its name.

If we stroll for some hours through the narrow streets and interesting bazaars of Delhi and push our way among bustling Hindus and Mohammedans, we can better appreciate the vaulted arches of the Hall of Private Audience and can also understand the Persian inscription to be read above the entrance: "If there be an Elysium on earth, it is here."

Farther down the Jumna stands Agra, and here we make another break in our railway journey eastwards. Agra also was for a time the capital of the Great Mogul empire, and in the seventeenth century the emperor who bore the name of Shah Jehan erected here an edifice which is still regarded as one of the most beautiful in the world (Plate XIII.). It is called the "Taj Mahal," or "royal palace," and is a mausoleum in memory of Shah Jehan's favourite wife, Mumtaz, by whose side he himself reposes in the crypt of the mosque. It is constructed entirely of blocks of white marble, and took twenty-seven years to build and cost nearly two million pounds of our money.

The garden which surrounds the sanctuary is entered through a large gate of red sandstone. In a long pool goldfish dart about under floating lotus blossoms, and all around is luxuriant verdure, the dwelling-place of countless singing birds; the air is filled with the odour of jasmine and roses, and tall, slender cypresses point to heaven.

Straight in front the marble Taj Mahal rises from a terrace, dazzling white in the sunshine—a summer dream of white clouds turned to stone, a work of art which only love could conjure out of the rubbish of earth. The airy cupola, the arched portals, and bright white walls are reflected in the pool. At each of the four corners of the terrace stands a tall slender minaret, also of white marble, and in the centre the huge dome rises to a height of 240 feet. In the great octagonal hall below the dome, within an enclosure of marble filigree work, stand the monuments over Shah Jehan and his queen Mumtaz. The actual sarcophagi are preserved in the vault beneath.

The four facades of this wonderful building are all alike, but the background of green vegetation and the changes of light seem always to be producing new effects. Sometimes a faint green reflection from the foliage can be seen in the white marble; in the full sunshine it is like snow; in shadow, light blue. When the sun sinks in the red glow of evening, the whole edifice is bathed in orange light; and later comes the moonlight, which is perhaps the most appropriate of all. Steamy and close, hot and silent, now lies the garden; the illumination is icy cold, the shadows deep black, the dome silvery white. The mysterious sounds of the jungle are heard around, and the Jumna rolls down its turbid waters to meet the sacred Ganges.

BENARES AND BRAHMINISM

In the drainage basin of the Ganges, through which the train is again carrying us south-eastwards, 100 million human beings, mostly Hindus, have their home. The soil is exceedingly fertile, and supports many large towns, several of them two or three thousand years old, besides innumerable villages. Here the Hindu peasants have their huts of bamboo-canes and straw-matting, and here they cultivate their wheat, rice, and fruits.

Our next stay is at Benares—the holiest city in the world, if holiness be measured by the reverence shown by the children of men. Long before Jerusalem and Rome, Mecca and Lhasa, Benares was the home and heart of the ancient religion of India, and it still is the centre of Brahminism and Hinduism. There are more than 200 millions of Hindus in the world, and the thoughts of all of them turn to Benares. All Hindus long to make a pilgrimage to their holy city. The sick come to recover health in the waters of the sacred Ganges, the old travel hither to die, and the ashes of those who die in distant places are sent to Benares to be scattered over the waters of salvation. In Benares, moreover, Buddha preached 500 years before Christ, and at the present day he has more than 400 million followers; so to Buddhists also Benares is a holy place.



The Hindus have three principal gods: Brahma, the creator; Vishnu, the preserver; and Siva, the destroyer. From these all the others are derived: thus, for example, Kali represents only one of the attributes of Siva. To this goddess children were formerly sacrificed, and when this was forbidden by the British Government goats were substituted. But we have not yet done with divinities. The worship of the Hindus is not confined to their gods. Nearly all nature is divine, but above all, cows and bulls, apes and crocodiles, snakes and turtles, eagles, peacocks and doves. It is not forbidden to kill, steal and lie, but if a Hindu eats flesh, nay, if he by chance happens to swallow the hair of a cow, he is doomed to the hell of boiling oil. He becomes an object of horror to all, but above all to himself. For thousands of years this superstitution has been implanted in the race, and it remains as strong as ever.

Ever since India, or, as the country is called in Persia, Hindustan, was conquered by the invading Aryans from the north-west—and this was quite 4000 years ago—the Hindus have been divided into castes. The differences between the different castes are greater than that between the barons and the serfs in Europe during the Middle Ages. The two highest castes were the Brahmins (or priests) and the warriors. Now there are a thousand castes, for every occupation constitutes an especial caste: all goldsmiths, for example, are of the same caste, all sandal-makers of another, and men of different castes cannot eat together, or they become unclean.

* * * * *

Early in the morning, just before the day has begun to dawn in the east, let us hire a boat and have ourselves rowed up and down the Ganges. In this way we obtain an excellent view of this wonderful town as it stretches in front of us along the left bank of the river—a great heap of closely packed buildings, houses, walls and balconies, and an endless succession of pagodas with lofty towers (Plate XIV.). From the top of the bank, which is about 100 feet high, a broad flight of steps runs down to the river, and stone piers jut out like jetties into the water. Between these are wooden stages built over the surface of the river and covered with straw thatch and large parasols or awnings. This is the gathering place of the faithful. They come from every furthest corner of the city to the sacred river to greet the sun when it rises—brown, half-naked figures, with light clothing, often only a loincloth, of the gaudiest colours. The whole bank of the river teems with men.

An elderly Brahmin comes down to a jetty and squats on his heels. His head is shaved, with the exception of a tuft on the crown. He dips his head in the river, scoops some water up and rinses his mouth with it. He calls on Ganges, daughter of Vishnu, and prays her to take away his sins, the impurity of his birth, and to protect him throughout his life. Then, after repeating the twenty-four names of Vishnu, he stands up and calls out the sacred syllable "Om," which includes Brahma, Vishnu, and Siva. Lastly he invokes the earth, air, sky, sun, moon, and stars, and pours water over his head.

The rim of the rising sun is seen above the jungle on the right bank of the Ganges. Its appearance is saluted by all the thousands of pious pilgrims, who sprinkle water with their hands in the direction of the sun, wading out into the long shallow margin of the river. The old Brahmin has squatted down again and performs the most incomprehensible movements with his hands and fingers. He holds them in different positions, puts them up to the top of his head, his eyes, forehead, nose, and breast, to indicate the 108 different manifestations of Vishnu. If he forgets a single one of these gestures, all his worship is in vain. The same ceremony has to be repeated in the afternoon and evening, and in the intervals the devout Brahmin has other religious duties to perform in the temples.

Here an old man lies stretched out on a bed of rags. He is so thin that his skin hangs loosely over his ribs, and though his body is brown, his beard is snow-white. He has come to Benares to die beside the holy Ganges, which flows from the foot of Vishnu. There stands a man in the prime of life, but a leper, eaten away with sores. He has come to Benares to seek healing in the waters of life. Here, again, is a young woman, who trips gracefully down the stone steps bearing a water jug on her head. She wades into the river until the water comes up to her waist; then she drinks from her hand, sprinkles water towards the sun, pours water over her hair, fills her pitcher, and goes slowly up again, while the holy Ganges water drips from the red wrap which is wound round her body. And all the other thousands who greet the sun with oblation of water from the sacred river are convinced that he who makes a pilgrimage to Benares and dies within the city walls obtains forgiveness for all his sins.



Like the Buddhists, the Hindus believe in the transmigration of souls. A Hindu's soul must pass through more than eight million animal forms, and for all the sins he has committed in the earlier forms of his existence, he must suffer in the later. Therefore he makes offerings to the gods that he may soon be released from this eternal wandering and attain the heaven of the faithful. In the endless chain of existence this short morning hour of prayer on the banks of the Ganges is but a second compared to eternity.

* * * * *

In the evening, when the hottest hours of the day are past, let us again take a boat and drift down slowly past the stone steps and jetties of Benares. Noiseless, muddy, and grey the sacred river streams along its bed. What quantities of reeking impurities there are in this water of salvation! Whole bundles of crushed and evil-smelling marigolds, refuse, rags and bits, bubbles and scum, float on its surface.

Down a steep lane a funeral procession approaches the bank at a quick pace. The strains of anything but melodious music disturb the quiet of the evening, and the noise of drums is echoed from the walls of the pagodas. The corpse is borne on a bier covered with a white sheet, and men of the caste of body-burners arrange it on the pyre, a pile of wood stacked up by the waterside. Then they set fire to the dry shavings, and the wood pile crackles. Thick clouds of smoke rise up and the smell of burned flesh is borne on the breeze.

The body-burners have been sparing of fuel, however, and when the heap of wood has burned down to ashes, the half-consumed and blackened corpse still remains among the embers, and is then thrown out into the river.

THE LIGHT OF ASIA

In the sixth century before Christ, an Aryan tribe named Sakya dwelt in Kapilavastu, 120 miles north of Benares. The king of the country had a son, Siddharta, gifted with supernatural powers both of body and mind. When the prince had reached his eighteenth year he was allowed to choose his bride, and his choice fell on the beautiful Yasodara; but in order to obtain her hand he had to vanquish in open contest those of his people who were most proficient in manly exercises. First came the bowmen, who shot at a copper drum. Siddharta had the mark moved to double the distance, but the bow that was given him broke. Another was sent for from the temple—of unpolished steel, so stiff that no one could bend it to get the loop of the string into the groove. To Siddharta, however, this was child's play, and his arrow not only pierced the drum, but afterwards continued its flight over the plain.

The second trial was with the sword. With a single stroke each of the other competitors cut through the trunk of a fine tree, but with lightning rapidity Siddharta's blade cut clean through two trunks standing side by side. As the trees remained unmoved, the other competitors were jubilant and scoffed at the prince's blunt sword, but a light puff of wind rustled through the tops of the trees and both fell to the ground.

The last trial was to subdue a wild horse which no one could ride. Under Siddharta's powerful hand it became gentle and obedient as a lamb.

Then the prince led his bride to the splendid palace of Kapilavastu. The king feared that the wickedness, poverty, and misfortune which prevailed in the world without might trouble the prince's mind, and he therefore had a high wall built round the palace, and guards posted at the gates. The prince was never to pass out through them.

For some time the prince lived happily in his paradise, but one day he was seized with a desire to see the condition of men out in the world. The king gave him permission to leave the palace grounds, but issued orders that the town should be decorated as for a festival, and that all the poor, crippled, and sick people should be kept out of sight. The prince drove through the streets in his carriage drawn by bulls. There he saw an old man, worn and bent, who held out his withered hand, crying, "Give me an alms, to-morrow or the next day I shall die." The prince asked whether this hideous creature, so unlike all the others he had seen, was really a man, and his attendant replied that all men must grow old, feeble, and miserable like the one in front of them. Troubled and thoughtful Siddharta returned home.

After some time he begged his father to let him see the town in its everyday state. Disguised as a merchant, and accompanied by the same attendant who was with him on the first occasion, he went through the streets on foot. Everywhere he saw prosperity and industry, but suddenly he heard a whining cry beside him: "I am suffering, help me home before I die." Siddharta stopped and found a plague-stricken man, unable to stir, his body covered with blotches. He asked his attendant what was the matter, and was told that the man was ill.

"Can illness afflict all men?"

"Yes, Sire, it comes sneaking like a tiger through the thicket, we know not when or wherefore, but all may be stricken down by it."

"Can this unfortunate man live long in such misery, and what is the end?"

"Death."

"What is death?"

"Look! here comes a funeral. The man who lies on the bamboo bier has ceased to live. Those who follow him are his mourning relations. See how he is now laid on a pyre, down there on the bank, and how he is burnt; soon all that is left of him will be a little heap of ashes."

"Must all men die?"

"Yes, Sire."

"Myself also?"

"Yes."

More sorrowful than ever he returned home, and in his soul a longing ripened to save mankind from suffering, care, and death. He heard a voice, "Choose between a royal crown and the beggar's staff, between worldly power and the lonely desolate paths which lead to the redemption of mankind."

His resolution was soon taken. In the night he stole gently to Yasodara's couch, and looked his last on his young wife sleeping on a bed of roses, with her new-born son in her arms. Then he left behind all he loved, bade his groom saddle his horse, and rode to the copper gates, now watched by a treble guard. A magic wind passed over the watchmen, and they fell into a deep sleep, while the massive gates opened noiselessly of themselves.

When he was far away from Kapilavastu, he sent his servant back with the horse and its royal trappings, changed clothes with a tattered beggar, and went on alone. Then he met the odious tempter, the power of evil, who offered him dominion over the four great continents if he would only abandon his purpose. He overcame the tempter, and continued his journey until he came to another kingdom, where he settled in a cave and attempted to convince the Brahmins that Brahma could not be a god, since he had created a wretched world. The Brahmins, however, received him with suspicion, so he retired to a lonely country where, with five disciples, he devoted himself to deep meditation and self-mortification.

In time he came to see that it was no use to torture and enfeeble the body, which is after all the abode of the soul, and accordingly began to take food again. Then his disciples abandoned him, for at that time self-mortification was regarded as the only path to salvation. Siddharta was then alone, and under the sacred fig-tree still shown in India he gained wisdom and enlightenment, and became Buddha.

Then he came to Benares, and won back his first disciples; and his society, the brotherhood of the yellow mendicant monks, spread ever more and more. In the rainy season, from June to October, he taught in Benares, and in the fine weather he wandered from village to village. "To abstain from all evil, to acquire virtue, to purify the heart—that is the religion of Buddha"; so he preached. At the age of eighty years he died in 480 B.C.

Buddha was a reformer who wished to instil new life into the religious faith of the Hindus. Many of the leading brothers of his order were Brahmins. He rejected the Vedic books, self-mortification, and differences of caste, preached philanthropy, and taught that the way to Nirvana, the paradise of peace and perfection, is open to all. He left no writings behind, but his doctrines were preserved in the memory of his disciples, who long after wrote them down. The five chief precepts are, "Thou shalt not kill, thou shalt not steal, thou shalt not commit adultery, thou shalt not lie, and thou shalt not drink strong drinks."

To-day, 2500 years after his death, the doctrine of Buddha has spread over immense regions of eastern Asia—over Japan, China, Korea, Mongolia, Tibet, Further India, and Ceylon—and the country north of the Caspian Sea. Innumerable are the images of Buddha to be found in the temples of eastern Asia, and he himself has been called the "Light of Asia."

BOMBAY

After we leave Benares the railway turns south-eastwards to the wide delta country where the Ganges and the Brahmaputra meet, and where Calcutta, the capital of India,[12] stands on one of the arms of the river. The town itself is flat and monotonous, but it is large and wealthy and contains more than a million inhabitants. The climate is very damp and hot, the temperature even in winter being about 95 deg. in the shade. Accordingly in the summer the Viceroy and his government move up to Simla in the cool of the hills.

From Calcutta we travel by train right across to the western coast of the Indian Peninsula, to a more beautiful and more pleasant city—indeed one of the most beautiful cities of the world. Bombay is the gate to India, for here the traveller ends his voyage from Europe through the Suez Canal and begins his railway journey to his destination. It is a great and wealthy commercial town, having about 800,000 inhabitants, and innumerable vessels lie loading or unloading in the splendid harbour.

Here we find the last remnant of a people formerly great and powerful. About six or seven hundred years before the birth of Christ lived a man named Zoroaster. He founded a religion which spread over all Persia and the neighbouring lands, and under its auspices Xerxes led his immense armies against Greece. When the martial missionaries of Islam overwhelmed Persia in 650 A.D. many thousands of the followers of Zoroaster fled to India, and a remnant of this people still live in Bombay and are called Parsees.

They are clever and prosperous merchants, many of them being multi-millionaires, and they own Bombay and control its trade. Their faith involves a boundless reverence for fire, earth, and water. As the earth would be polluted if corpses were buried in it, and as fire would be dishonoured by burning bodies, they deposit their dead within low round towers, called the Towers of Silence. There are five of these towers in Bombay. They all stand together on a high hill, rising from a peninsula which runs out into the sea. The body is laid naked within the walls of the tower. In the trees around large vultures perch, and in a few minutes nothing but the skeleton is left of the corpse. Under the cypresses and the fine foliage trees in the park round the Towers of Silence the family of the deceased may abandon themselves to their grief.

THE USEFUL PLANTS OF INDIA

In India we find a flora nearly allied to that which flourishes in tropical Africa, a soil which freely affords nourishment to both wild and cultivated plants, an irrigation either supplied directly by the monsoon rains or artificially conducted from the rivers. It is true that we travel for long distances, especially in north-western India, through true desert tracts, but other districts produce vegetation so dense and luxuriant that the air is filled with reeking, choking vapour as in a huge hothouse.

First there are bananas, the cucumber-shaped fruits which are the food of millions of human beings. From India and the Sunda Islands this beneficent tree has spread to Africa and the Mediterranean coasts, to Mexico and Central America. Its floury-white flesh, juicy and saccharine, fragrant and well-flavoured, is an excellent article of food. The large leaves of the banana are useful for various purposes—sunshades, roof thatch, etc.

When the hot season comes, how pleasant it is to dream in the shadow of the mango-tree! The tree is about sixty feet high, and the shadow beneath its bluish-grey leathery leaves is close and dense. The pulp of the fruit is golden yellow and juicy, rich in sugar and citric acid. It is difficult to describe the taste, for it is very peculiar; but it is certainly delicious.

From their home in China and Cochin China the orange and its smaller brother, the mandarin, have spread over India and far around. Amongst the many other fruits which abound in India are grapes, melons, apples and pears, walnuts and figs. Figs are green before they ripen, and then they turn yellow. The fig-tree is distributed over the whole world wherever the heat is sufficient. It is mentioned both in the Old and the New Testament. Under a kind of fig-tree Buddha acquired wisdom in the paths of religion, and therefore the tree is called Ficus religiosa. Nymphaea stellaris, the lotus flower, which, like the water-lily, floats on water, is another plant of great renown among Buddhists. The lotus is an emblem of their religion, as the Cross is of Christianity.

In India a large quantity of rice is cultivated. In the north-eastern angle of the Indian triangle, Bengal and Assam, in Burma, on the peninsula of Further India (the Malay Peninsula), as well as in the Deccan, the southern extremity of the triangle, rice cultivation is extensively developed. Wheat is grown in the north-west, and cotton in the inland parts of the country. The cotton bush has large yellow flowers, and when the fruit, which is as large as a walnut, opens, the inside shows a quantity of seeds closely covered with soft woolly hairs. The fruit capsules are plucked off and dried in the sun. The fibre is removed from the seeds by a machine, and is cleaned and packed in bales which are pressed together and confined by iron bands, and then the article is ready for shipping to the manufacturing towns, of which Manchester is the most important. In India and Arabia the cotton bush has been cultivated for more than 2000 years, and Alexander the Great introduced it into Greece. Now there are plantations all over the world, but nowhere has the cultivation reached such perfection as in the United States of America.

Crops which during recent decades have shown enormous development are those known as india-rubber and gutta-percha, so much being demanded by the bicycle and motor industries. In the year 1830, 230 tons of rubber were imported into Europe; in 1896, 315,500 tons. The demand became so great that a reckless and barbarous exploitation took place of the trees, the inspissated and dried sap of which is rubber, this tough resisting and elastic gum which renders such valuable services to man. In Borneo ten trees were felled for every kilogramme of gutta-percha. Now more prudent and sensible methods have been introduced. In Ceylon, Java, and the Malay Peninsula there are large plantations which make their owners rich men. In India the Brazilian tree (Hevea) is the most productive of all the rubber-yielding varieties. A cross cut is made in the trunk of the tree, and the milky juice runs out and is collected into receptacles. Then it is boiled, stirred, compressed, and spread on tinned plates, rolled up and sent in balls into the market. At present Brazil supplies two-thirds of all the rubber used.

Then we have all the various spices—cinnamon, which is the bark on the twigs of the cinnamon-tree; pepper, carried into Europe by Alexander; ginger, and cardamoms. There is sesamum, from the seeds of which a fine edible oil is pressed out, and then tea, coffee, and tobacco. A plant which is at once a blessing and a curse, and which is extensively cultivated in India, is the poppy. When the outer skin of the fruit capsule is slit with a knife, a milky juice oozes out which turns brown and coagulates in the air, and is called opium. The opium which Europe requires for medicinal purposes comes from Macedonia and Asia Minor. But the opium grown in Persia and India goes mostly to China, into which country it was introduced by the Tatars at the end of the seventeenth century. The Chinese smoke opium in specially-made pipes. A small pea of opium is pressed into the bowl of the pipe and held over the flame of a lamp. The smoke is inhaled in a couple of deep breaths. Another pellet is treated in the same way. Soon the opium-smoker falls into a trance full of dreams and beautiful visions. He forgets himself, his cares and his surroundings, and enjoys perfect bliss. He then sleeps soundly, but when he awakes the reality seems more gloomy and dreary than ever, and he suffers from excruciating headache. All he cares for is the opium pipe. Men who fall a victim to this vice are lost; they can only be cured when confined in homes. In Persia opium is usually smoked in secret dens, for there the habit is considered shameful, but in China both men and women smoke openly.

The sugar-cane is also grown over immense fields in India. The juice contains 20 per cent of sugar. In Sanscrit, the old language of India, it is called sakhara. The Arabs, who introduced it to the Mediterranean coasts, called it sukhar. And thus it is called, with slight modifications, in all the languages of Europe and many of those of Asia.

We must also not forget the countless palms which wave their crowns in the tepid winds of the monsoons. There are the date palms, the coconut palms, the sago palm, and a multitude of others. The sago palm, from the pith of which sago grains are prepared, is a remarkable plant. It flowers only once and then dies. This occurs at an age of twenty years at most.

The soil of India supports many kinds of useful trees—sandalwood, which is employed in the construction of the finer kinds of furniture; ebony, with its dark wood; the teak-tree, which grows to a height of 130 feet, and forms immense forests in both the Indian peninsulas and in the Sunda Islands. It is hard and strong, like oak, and nails do not rust in it. It is therefore used in shipbuilding, and also frequently in the inside of modern warships. The sleeping and refreshment carriages of railway trains are usually built of teak.

Lastly, there is the blue vegetable substance called indigo, which is obtained from small bushes or plants by a simple process of fermentation. It is mostly used to dye clothing, and has been known in Europe since the Indian campaign of Alexander.

WILD ELEPHANTS

The home of the wild elephant is the forests of India, the Malay Peninsula, Ceylon, Sumatra, and Borneo, while another species is found in Africa. They live in herds of thirty or forty, and every herd forms a separate community. The leader of the herd is a full-grown bull with large, strong tusks, whom all the others obey with the greatest docility. When they wander through the forest, however, or fly before danger, the females go in front and set the pace, for they alone know how fast their young ones can travel. Their senses of smell and hearing are remarkably acute; they are of a good-tempered and peaceable disposition, and do not care to expose themselves to unnecessary risks. They are therefore not very dangerous to man, unless when attacked; but man is their worst enemy.

In India wild elephants are caught to be tamed and employed in labour. They are captured in various ways, but usually tame elephants are used to decoy the wild ones. Expert elephant-catchers hide themselves as well as they can on the backs of tame animals and drive them into a herd of their wild relations. When a full-grown male has been separated from the herd, he is beset on all sides by his pursuers and prevented from sharing in the flight of his companions. They do him no injury, but only try to tire him out. It may be two whole days before he is so exhausted that, come what may, he must lie down to sleep. Then the men drop down from the tame animals and wind ropes round his hind legs, and if there is a tree at hand they tie him to it.

In Ceylon there are wonderfully smart and expert elephant-catchers who hunt their game in couples without the help of tame decoys. They search through the woods and thickets and follow a spoor when they come across it, being able to judge from the footprints how long ago the trail was tramped out, how many elephants there were, and whether they were going fast or slowly. The smallest mark or indication on the way, which a stranger would not notice, serves as a guide to them. When they have found the troop they follow it silently as shadows; they creep and crawl and sneak along the woodland paths as cautiously as leopards. They never tread on a twig which might crack, they never brush against a leaf which might rustle. The elephants, for all their fine scent and sharp hearing, have no suspicion of their proximity. The men lie in wait in a close thicket where the elephants can only move slowly, throw a noose of ox hide before the animal's hind leg, and draw it tight at the right moment. Then the elephant finds out his danger, and, trumpeting wildly, advances to attack, but the men scurry like rats through the brushwood and strengthen the snares time after time until the animal is fast.

In India whole herds are also captured at once, and this is the most wonderful sight it is possible to conceive. A place is known in the forest where a herd of perhaps a hundred animals has made its home. Natives who are experienced in elephant-catching are called out, and all the tame elephants procurable are assembled. A chain of sentinels is posted round the herd, making a circle of several miles. The men construct a fence of bamboos as quickly and quietly as possible, and keep to their posts for nearly ten days. The elephants become restless and try to break through, but wherever they turn they are met with cries and shouts, blank gunshots and waving torches. They retire again to the middle of the enclosure. If they make an attempt in another direction, they are met in the same way, and at last, submitting to their fate, they stand in the middle where they are least disturbed.

Meanwhile within the circle a very strong enclosure has been erected of poles, trunks, and sticks 12 feet high, with a diameter of 160 feet at most. The entrance, which is 12 feet broad, can be closed in a moment by a huge falling wicket or gate. Now it stands open, and from the two sideposts run out two long palisades of stakes, forming an open passage to the entrance. The two fences diverge outwards and are nearest to each other at the entrance.

When all is ready the great ring of beaters closes up round the herd, and scares and chases them with shouts and noise towards the opening between the palings. Fresh parties of beaters rush up, and when the elephants can find no other way free they dash in between the fences and into the pen, whereupon the entrance is closed with the heavy gate. They are caught as in a trap. They may, indeed, gather up their strength and try to break through the fence of poles, but it is too stoutly built and the beaters outside scare them away.



The imprisoned animals are left in peace for forty-eight hours, and when they have become quiet the most difficult and dangerous part of the exploit begins. Mounted on well-trained tame elephants, the most expert and experienced elephant-catchers enter the enclosure. They are active as cats, quick in their movements, bold, courageous, and watchful. Ropes are hung round the tame elephants so that their riders may have something to hold on by in case they are attacked and have to lower themselves down the flanks of their animals. These know by the signs given to them by the riders what they have to do, and the rider holds in his hand a small iron spike which he presses against the elephant's neck to make him move forwards, backwards, to right or left. A rider approaches a selected victim. If he turns to attack, another tame elephant comes up and gives him a thrust with his tusks. Choosing his time, the rider throws a noose round the head of the wild animal. The tame one helps with his trunk to place the noose right. The other end is made fast round the trunk of a tree. When the animal is thus secured the rider slips down to the ground and throws another noose round his hind legs, and the end of this rope is also fastened to a tree. Thus he is rendered harmless, and he struggles and tugs in vain to get loose. Meanwhile the other tame elephants with their riders help to catch and fetter their wild relations.

Then the captives, well and securely bound, are led one after another out of the enclosure and are fastened to trees in the forest. Here they have for a long time to accustom themselves to man and the society of tame elephants, and when they have lost all fear, spitefulness, and wildness they are led into the villages to be regularly broken in and trained to work in the service of their capturers.

It is pleasant to see tame elephants at work, or bathing in the rivers with their drivers (Plate XV.). They carry timber, they carry goods along the high-roads, they are useful in many ways where great strength is needed. The Maharajas of India always keep a well-filled elephant stable, but employ the animals mostly for tiger-hunting and riding. The elephant is to them a show animal which is never absent on occasions of ceremony. Old well-trained animals which carry themselves with royal dignity fetch, therefore, a very high price.

THE COBRA

The cobra, or spectacled snake, is the most poisonous snake in India. It is very general in all parts of India, in Further India, in southern China, in the Sunda Islands, and Ceylon. Its colour is sometimes yellowish, shading into blue, sometimes brown, and dirty white on the under side. It is about five feet long. When it is irritated it raises up the front part of its body like a swan's neck, spreads out the eight foremost pairs of ribs at the sides, so that a hat or shield-shaped hood is formed below the head. The rest of the body is curled round, and gives the creature firm support when it balances the upper part of its body ready to inflict its poisonous bite with lightning speed. On the back of its hood are yellow markings like a pair of spectacles.

The cobra lives in old walls or heaps of stone and timber, under roots, or in dead trunks in the forest, in fact anywhere where he can find a sheltered hole. He does not avoid human dwellings, and he may often be seen, heavy and motionless, rolled up before his hole. But as soon as a man approaches he glides quickly and noiselessly into his hole, and if attacked defends himself with a weapon which is as dangerous as a revolver.

He is a day snake, but avoids sunshine and heat and prefers to seek his food after sunset. He should more properly be described as a snake of the twilight. He glides under the close brushwood of the jungle in pursuit of lizards and frogs, birds, eggs, and rats or other small animals that come in his way. On his roamings he also climbs up trees and creeping plants, and swims across large streams. It might be thought that a vessel anchored off the coast would be safe from cobras, but cases have been known of these snakes swimming out, crawling up the anchor chains, and creeping on board.

The female lays a score of long eggs as large as a pigeon's, but with a soft shell. The male and female are believed to entertain a great affection for each other, for it has been noticed that when one of them is killed, the other is shortly seen at the same spot.

The Hindus regard the cobra as a god, and are loath to kill him. Many cannot bring themselves to do so. If a cobra comes into a hut, the owner sets out milk for him and protects him in every way, and when the reptile becomes practically tame and finds that he is left undisturbed, he does his host no harm. But if the snake kills any one in the hut, he is caught, carried to a distance, and let loose. If he bites a man and then is killed, the bitten man must also die. If he meets with an unfriendly reception in a hut, he brings ruin to the inmates; but if he is hospitably entertained, he brings good fortune and prosperity. If a serpent-charmer kills a cobra, he loses for ever his power over snakes. It is natural that a creature which is treated with such reverence must multiply excessively. About twenty thousand men are killed annually in India by snakes.

The cobra's poison is secreted in glands, and is forced out through the poison teeth when these pierce through the skin of a man or animal. Its effect is virulent when it enters the blood. If the bite pierces a large artery, death follows surely and rapidly. Otherwise the victim does not die for several hours, and may be saved by suitable remedies applied immediately. A dog when bitten begins to bark and howl, vomits, and jumps about in the greatest uneasiness and despair. In a short time he becomes weak and helpless and dies. If the same cobra bites several victims one after the other within a couple of hours, the first dies, the second becomes violently ill, while the third is less affected. This is, of course, due to the fact that the contents of the poison glands become gradually exhausted; but they soon collect again.

When a man is bitten, his body becomes deadly cold, and every sign of life disappears. His breathing and pulse cannot be perceived at all. He loses consciousness and feeling and cannot even swallow. With judicious treatment the small spark of life still left may be preserved. For about ten days, however, the invalid remains very feeble, and then a slow improvement sets in. But as a rule the man dies, for in the Indian jungle help is seldom at hand, and the end soon comes. If the victim lies for two whole days as though dead, and yet does not actually die, it may be hoped that his body is throwing off the effect of the poison.

There are many extraordinary men in India. In Benares especially, but also in any other town, the shrivelled self-torturers called "fakirs" may be seen in the streets. They are stark naked save for a small loin-cloth. They are miserable and thin as skeletons, and their whole bodies are smeared with ashes. They sit motionless at the street corners of Benares, always in the same posture. One sits cross-legged with his arms stretched up. Try to hold your arms straight up only for five minutes, and you will feel that they gradually grow numb. But this man always sits thus. His arms seem to become fixed in this unnatural position. As he never uses them they wither away in time. Compared with his large head they might belong to a child. Another purposely extinguishes the light of his eyes by staring day after day straight at the sun with wide-open eyes.

Among the curiosities of India are also the snake-charmers. There are several varieties of them, and it seems difficult to distinguish exactly between them. Some appear to be themselves afraid of the snakes they exhibit, while others handle them with a remarkable contempt of danger. Some pull out the snake's poison fangs so that they may always be safe, while others leave them in, and then everything depends on the charmer's skill and dexterity and the quickness with which he avoids the bite of the snake. It frequently happens that the charmer is bitten and killed by his own snakes.

It is not true, as was formerly believed, that the snake-charmer can entice snakes out of their holes by the soothing tones of his flute and make them dance to his piping. The dancing is a much simpler affair. When the captured snake rears up and sways the upper part of his body to and fro, the charmer holds out some hard object, perhaps a fragment of brick. The snake bites, but hurts himself, and after a while gives up biting. Then the charmer can put his hand in front of the snake's head without being bitten. But when the snake is irritated he still assumes the same attitude of defence, swaying to and fro, and thus he seems to be dancing to the sound of the flute.

There are, however, some daring charmers who, by the strains of their instrument and the movements of their hands, seem to exercise a certain power over the cobra. They seem to throw the snake into a short faint or stupor, a kind of hypnotic sleep. The charmer takes his place in a courtyard, and the spectators gather round him at a safe distance. He has his cobra in a round, flat basket. The basket he places on the ground and raises the cover. Then he rouses and provokes the snake to make it lift up the upper part of its body and expand its hood with the spectacles. All the time he plays his flute with one hand. With the other he makes waving, mesmeric passes. The snake gradually becomes quiet and calm, and the charmer can press his lips against the scales of its forehead. Then the charmer throws it on one side with a sudden movement, for the snake may have waked up again and be just on the point of biting.

All depends on the charmer's quickness and his knowledge of the snake's disposition. The slightest movement of its muscles and the expression of its eyes is sufficient to indicate the snake's intentions to the charmer. It is said that an expert charmer can play with a freshly caught snake as easily as with an old one. The art consists in lulling the snake to sleep and perceiving when the dangerous moment is coming. During the whole exhibition the monotonous squeak of the flute never ceases. Courage and presence of mind are necessary for such a dangerous game.

Europeans who have seen these snake-men catch cobras say that their skilfulness and boldness are remarkable. They seize the snake with bare hands as it glides through the grass. This is a trick of legerdemain in which everything depends on the dexterity of the fingers and a quickness greater than that of the snake itself. The snake-catcher seizes the tail with his left hand and passes the right with lightning rapidity along the body up to the head, which he grips with the thumb and forefinger so that the snake is held as in a vice. Probably the trick consists in depriving the snake of support to its body with the left hand and producing undulations which annul those of the reptile itself.

When charmers go out to catch snakes they are always in parties of two or three. Some of them take with them antidotes to snake bites. If a man is bitten, a bandage is wound tightly above the wound and the poison is sucked out. Then a small black stone, as large as an almond, is laid on the wound. This absorbs blood and some at least of the poison. Adhering fast to the wound, it does not fall off until it has finished its work. That so many men die of snake bites is, of course, because assistance comes too late.

When the charmer begins to play with a cobra he fixes his eyes on it and never removes them for a second. And the same is true of the cobra, which keeps its eyes constantly on the charmer. It is like a duel in which one of the combatants is liable to be killed if he does not parry at the right moment. Still more watchful is a cobra when he fights with a mongoose. The mongoose is a small beast of prey of the Viverridae family. It is barely as large as a cat, has a long body and short legs, and is the deadly enemy of the cobra. There is a splendid story in Mr. Kipling's Jungle Book of how a pet mongoose—"Rikki-tikki-tavi"—killed two large cobras.

FOOTNOTES:

[11] Delhi is again to be the capital of the Empire of British India (see footnote on p. 141).

[12] At the great Durbar held at Delhi on December 12, 1911, King George V. announced that the capital of India would be transferred from Calcutta to Delhi.



XI

FROM INDIA TO CHINA (1908)

THE INDIAN OCEAN

On October 14, 1908, we leave Bombay in the steamer Delhi,[13] which is bound for Shanghai with passengers and cargo. The Delhi is a fine steamer, 495 feet long, and of 8000 tons burden; it is one of the great fleet of the Peninsular and Oriental Steam Navigation Company (usually known as the P. & O.), which receives an annual subsidy from the Government to carry the mails to India and Australia. We cast off from the quay, and in about an hour's time are slowly drawing out between the ends of the harbour breakwaters; then the steamer glides more quickly over the bay between innumerable vessels under different flags, and Bombay lies behind us with its large houses, its churches, towers, and chimneys, and its dense forest of ships' masts.

Soon the city has disappeared and we are out on the Indian Ocean. The weather is fine; there is no sea on, only the faintest swell; sailing boats lie motionless waiting for a wind, and only a faint breeze renews the air under the awnings of the promenade deck. It is so warm and sultry that starched shirts and collars become damp and limp after a couple of hours. We gradually draw off from the coast, but still the mountain chain known as the Western Ghats, which extends to the southern extremity of India, is visible.

Next morning we leave Goa behind, and at noon have the Laccadive group of islands to starboard. The coast of India is still in sight—a belt of sand, over which the surf rolls in from the sea, surmounted by a fringe of coco-palms. On the morning of October 17 we pass the southernmost point of India, Cape Comorin. Here our course is changed to southeast, and about midday the coast of Ceylon can be distinguished on the horizon. From a long distance we can see the white band of breakers dashing against the beach, and as we approach closer a forest of steamer funnels, sails, and masts, and beyond them a long row of Asiatic and European buildings. That is Colombo, the capital of Ceylon, and a very important port for all vessels which ply between Europe and the Far East. Gently the Delhi enters the passage between the harbour moles, and is at once surrounded by a fleet of rowing boats from the shore. Singalese and Hindus swarm up the gangways, and throw themselves with much jabbering on the traveller's possessions. They are scantily clothed with only a shirt or a white sash round the loins and a cloth or a comb on the head.

We go on shore and find in the principal streets of the town a curious jumble of copper-brown coloured people, carriages, tramways, and small, two-wheeled "rickshas" which are pulled by half-naked men. The huts of the natives and the dwelling-houses of the Europeans nestle among groves of the slender coco-palm.

The next day the steamer Moldavia (also belonging to the P. & O.) arrived from England, and was moored close to the Delhi in order to transfer to her passengers and goods for the Far East, after which the Moldavia was to continue her voyage for two weeks more to Australia. When all is ready the Delhi swings out to sea again, the band of the Moldavia playing a march and her crew and passengers cheering. In the evening we double the southern point of Ceylon, turning due east—a course we shall hold as far as the northern cape of Sumatra, 1000 miles away.

THE SUNDA ISLANDS

On the morning of October 21 all field-glasses are pointed eastwards. Two small, steep islands stand up out of the sea, a white ring of surf round their shores, and beyond them several other islands come into sight, their woods ever green in the perpetual summer of these hot regions. Now islands crop up on all sides, and we are in the midst of quite an archipelago. To the south-west we can see rain falling over Sumatra.

Asia is the largest continent of the world. It has three other divisions of the world as its neighbours, Europe, Africa, and Australia, and Asia is more or less connected with these, forming with them the land of the eastern hemisphere, while America belongs to the western hemisphere. Europe is so closely and solidly connected with Asia that it may be said to be a peninsula of it. Africa is joined to Asia by an isthmus 70 miles broad, which since 1869 has been cut through by the Suez Canal. On the other hand, Australia is like an enormous island, and lies quite by itself; the only connection between it and Asia consists of the two series of large islands and innumerable small ones which rise above the surface of the intervening sea. The western chain consists of the Sunda Islands, the eastern of the Philippines and New Guinea. Sumatra is the first island of the immense pontoon bridge which extends south-eastwards from the Malay Peninsula. The next is Java, and then follows a row of medium-sized islands to the east.



The animal and vegetable life of these islands is very abundant. In their woods live elephants, rhinoceroses, and tapirs; in the brushwood lurk tigers and panthers; and in the depths of their primeval forests dwell monkeys of various species. The largest is the orang-utang, which grows to a height of five feet, is very strong, savage and dangerous, and is almost always seen on trees. On these islands, too, grow many plants and trees which are invaluable to the use of man—sugar-cane, coffee and tea, rice and tobacco, spices, coco-palms, and the tree the bark of which yields the remedy for fever, quinine. This remedy is needed not least on the Sunda Islands themselves, for fever is general in the low-lying districts round the coasts, though the climate 4000 or 5000 feet above sea-level, among the mountains which occupy the interior of the islands, is good and healthy.

The equator passes through the middle of Sumatra and Borneo, and therefore perpetual summer with very moist heat prevails in these islands. The only seasons really distinguishable are the rainy and dry seasons, and the Sunda Islands constitute one of the rainiest regions in the world. The people are Malays and are heathen, but along the coasts Mohammedanism has acquired great influence. The savage tribes of the interior have a blind belief in spirits, which animate all lifeless objects, and the souls of the dead share in the joys and sorrows of the living.

The larger Sunda islands are four: Sumatra, Java, Borneo, and Celebes. Java, one of the most beautiful and most productive countries in the world, has an area nearly equal to that of England without Wales, and its population is also nearly the same—about 30 millions. Sumatra, which the Delhi has just left to starboard, is three times the size of Java, but has only one-seventh of its population. The curiously shaped island of Celebes, again, is about half the size of Sumatra, while Borneo is the third largest island on the globe not ranking as a continent, its area being about 300,000 square miles. The Sunda Islands are subject to Holland, only the north-eastern part of Borneo belonging to England.

In the strait between Sumatra and Java lies a very small volcanic island, Krakatau, which in the summer of 1883 was the scene of one of the most violent eruptions that have taken place in historic times. The island was uninhabited, and was only visited occasionally by fishermen from Sumatra; but if it had been inhabited, not a soul would have survived to relate what took place, for on two other islands which lay a few miles distant the inhabitants were killed to the last man.

The outburst proper began on August 26, and the fire-breathing mountain cast out such quantities of ashes that a layer three feet thick was deposited on the deck of a vessel which happened at the time to be a considerable distance off. It lightened and thundered, the sea was disturbed, and many boats were sunk or hurled up on land. The next day the island fell in and was swallowed up by the sea, only a few fragments of it being left. Thereupon a huge wave, 100 feet high, poured over the neighbouring coasts of Sumatra and Java, washing away towns and villages, woods and railway lines, and when it retreated the country was swept bare, and corpses of men and animals lay all around. This wave was so tremendous that it was propagated as far as the coasts of Africa and America, and it was thus possible to calculate the speed with which it had traversed the oceans. The noise produced by the eruption was so great that it was heard even in Ceylon and Australia, at a distance of 2000 miles. If this outburst had taken place in Vienna, it would have been heard all over Europe and a considerable distance beyond its limits. Loose ashes ejected from the volcano fell over the earth, covering an area considerably larger than France, and 40,000 persons perished.

PENANG AND SINGAPORE

The Delhi holds her course for Penang, a town on a small island close to the coast of the Malay Peninsula. At length land is sighted straight ahead, and the letter-writers make haste to get their correspondence ready. We glide into a beautiful sound, the anchor rattles out, and we are at once surrounded by a swarm of curious boats which come to establish communication between the vessel and the town.

The main street of Penang—with its large buildings, hotels, banks, clubs, and commercial houses—presents much the same appearance as almost always meets the eye in the port towns on the south coast of Asia. The small single-seated "ricksha" is drawn by a Chinaman in a loose blue blouse, bare-legged, and with a pointed straw hat on his head. We go out to the Botanical Gardens, and find them really wonderful. There are trees and plants from India, the Sunda Islands, and Australia, all labelled with their English and scientific names. Monkeys climb actively among the trees, and sit swinging on the boughs, and a high waterfall tumbles down a cliff surrounded by dense luxuriant vegetation.

Darkness falls suddenly, as always in the tropics, and is accompanied by pelting rain. In a few moments all the roads are under water. The rain pours down, not in drops but in long streams of water, and we are wet through long before we reach the pier where the launch is waiting.

Soon after we get on board, the Delhi moves out into the night down the Strait of Malacca. Singapore is only thirty hours' voyage ahead, and the steamer follows closely the coast of the Malay Peninsula. At sunrise on October 24 we arrive. Singapore is the chief town of the Malay Peninsula, which is subject to Great Britain, and contains nearly a quarter of a million inhabitants—Europeans, Malays, Indians, but mostly Chinese. All steamers to and from the Far East call at Singapore, which is also the chief commercial emporium for the Sunda Islands and the whole of the Dutch Archipelago. It lies one degree of latitude north of the equator, and the consequence is that there is a difference of only three degrees of temperature between winter and summer. It is always warm, and rain falls almost every day.

At five o'clock the same afternoon the Delhi steams out again, accompanied by a swarm of light canoes rowed by naked copper-brown Malay boys. These boys swim like fishes, and they come out to the steamers to dive for silver coins which the passengers throw into the sea for them. When the Delhi increases her pace, they drop behind and paddle back to the harbour with the proceeds of their diving feats. The sound gradually widens out, and as long as twilight lasts the land and islands are in sight. Then we turn off north-eastwards, leaving the equator behind us, and steer out over the Chinese Sea after having doubled the southernmost extremity of the Asiatic mainland.

UP THE CHINA SEA

In two days we had left Cochin-China, Saigon, and the great delta of the Mekong behind us, and when on October 27 we came into contact with the current from the north-east which sweeps along the coast of Annam, the temperature fell several degrees and the weather became fresher and more agreeable. The north-east monsoon had just set in, and the farther we sailed northwards the harder it would blow in our faces. We had then to choose between two routes—either out to sea with heavy surge and boisterous wind; or along the coast, where the current would similarly hinder us. Whichever way was chosen the vessel would lose a couple of knots in her speed. The captain chose the course along the coast.

The eastern part of the peninsula of Further India consists of the French possessions, Cambodia, Cochin-China, Annam, and Tonkin. Hanoi, the capital of Tonkin, is the headquarters of the Governor-General of all French Indo-China. To the south Saigon is the most important town; it is situated in the Mekong delta, which is increasing in size every year by the addition of the vast quantities of silt carried down by the great river. The country abounds in wild animals, elephants, tigers, rhinoceroses, alligators, poisonous snakes, monkeys, parrots, and peacocks. In area the French possessions are about half as large again as France itself, and the population is about 20 millions.



A large part of Further India is occupied by the kingdom of Siam, which lies between the lower courses of the Mekong and the Salwin, both of which rise in eastern Tibet. Siam is about two-thirds the size of French Indo-China, but has only 9 million inhabitants of various races—Siamese, Chinese, Malays, and Laos. Bangkok, the capital of the King of Siam, contains half a million inhabitants, and is intersected by numerous canals, on which a large proportion of the people live in floating houses. There are many fine and famous pagodas, or temples, with statues of Buddha. Some of them are of gold. In Siam the Buddhist religion has been preserved pure and uncorrupted. The white elephant is considered sacred, and the flag of Siam exhibits a white elephant on a red field. The Siamese are of Mongolian origin, of medium, sturdy build, with a yellowish-brown complexion, but are not highly gifted. They are addicted to song, music, and games, and among their curious customs is that of colouring the teeth black.



On the morning of October 29 we steam past a fringe of islets, the beautiful and charming entrance to Hong Kong. The north-east monsoon is blowing freshly, and the salt foam hisses round the bow of the Delhi and falls on the deck in fine spray lighted by the sun. There is little sea, for we are in among the islands which check and subdue the violence of the waves. At noon we glide in between a small holm and the island into the excellent and roomy harbour of Hong Kong, well sheltered on all sides from wind and waves. A flotilla of steam launches comes out to meet us as we glide slowly among innumerable vessels to our anchorage and buoys. Here flutter in the wind the flags of all commercial nations; the English, Chinese, Japanese, American, and German colours fly side by side. The water in the harbour basin is so shallow that the turn of the propeller stirs up the greyish-brown mud from the bottom.

Victoria is the chief town of Hong Kong, and contains nearly the half of the population, which amounts to 440,000 souls, most of them Chinese.

There are five important points on the sea-route to the Far East—Gibraltar, Aden, Colombo, Singapore, and Hong Kong—and all of them are in the hands of England.

Hong Kong has been a British Crown Colony since 1842, and it is now an extraordinarily important port. Vessels with an aggregate tonnage of nearly 20 millions pass through Hong Kong annually, and the little island surpasses in this respect even London, Hamburg, and New York. Regular lines of steamers connect Hong Kong with countless ports in Asia, America, Europe, and Australia, and the trade of the port is immense. It is also a station for the east Asiatic squadron of the Royal Navy—with fine docks and berths, a coal depot, arsenal, and barracks.