What puzzles the foreign observer is: Will this passionate loyalty of servant to master survive the spectacle of the ingratitude and self-interest which the Japanese see in the relation of master and servant in most Christian countries? The whole tendency of life in other countries than his own is against this loyalty, which has been bred in his very marrow. How long, without the mainstay of religion, will the Japanese cling to this outworn but beautiful relic of his old life? And it must be confessed that religion is rapidly losing its hold on the men of Japan. Those who have been abroad are apt to return home freethinkers, because the spectacle of the practical working of Christianity is not conducive to faith among so shrewd a people as the Japanese. Even the example of the foreigners in Japan is an influence that the missionaries regard as prejudicial to Christianity.

Another trait of the Japanese which will not be improved by contact with foreigners, and especially with Americans, is thoroughness. This trait is seen on every hand in Japan. Nothing is built in a slovenly way, whether for private use or for the government. The artisan never scamps his work. He seems to have retained the old mechanic's pride in doing everything well which he sets his hand to do. This is seen in the carving of many works of art, as well as in the building of the ornamental gateways throughout the empire, that stand as monuments to the aesthetic sense of the people. Yet the whole influence of foreign teaching and example is against this thoroughness that is ingrained in the Japanese character. The young people cannot fail to see that it does not pay their elders to expend so much time and effort to gain perfection, when their foreign rivals secure apparently equal if not superior results by quick and careless work. It is upon these Japanese children that the future of the empire depends. They are sure to be infected by these object lessons in the gospel of selfish and careless work, which the labor union leaders in our country have preached until it has been accepted by the great mass of mechanics.

Another racial quality of the Japanese, which is likely to suffer from contact with foreigners, is his politeness. This is innate and not acquired; it does not owe any of its force to selfish considerations. The traveler in Japan is amazed to see this politeness among all classes, just as he sees the artistic impulse flowering among the children of rough toilers in the fields. And again the question arises: Will the Japanese retain this attractive trait when they come into more intimate contact with the foreigner, who believes in courtesy mainly as a business asset rather than as a social virtue?

So, in summing up one's impressions of Japan, there comes this inevitable doubt of the permanence of the fine qualities which make the Japanese nation to-day so distinct from any other. The Japanese may differ from all other races in their power of resisting the corrupting influences of foreign association, but it is to be feared that the visitor to the Mikado's land fifty years from now may not only find no Mikado, but none of the peculiarly gracious qualities in the Japanese people which to-day set them apart from all other nations.



MANILA, TRANSFORMED BY THE AMERICANS

FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF MANILA AND ITS PICTURESQUE PEOPLE

The bay of Manila is so extensive that the steamer appears to be entering a great inland sea. The shores are low-lying and it takes about an hour before the steamer nears the city, so that one can make out the landmarks. To the right, as one approaches the city, is Cavite, which Dewey took on that historic May day in 1898. The spires of many churches are the most conspicuous landmarks in Manila, but as the distance lessens a huge mass of concrete, the new Manila hotel, looms up near the docks. The bay is full of ships and alongside the docks are a number of passenger and freight steamers.

Just as we are able to make out these things, our ears catch the strains of a fine band of music and we see two launches rapidly nearing the ship. In one is a portion of the splendid Constabulary Band, the finest in the Orient. In the other launch was the special committee of the Manila Merchants' Association. The band played several stirring airs, everybody cheered and waved handkerchiefs and for a few minutes it looked as though an impromptu Fourth of July celebration had begun. It is difficult to describe an American's emotions when he sees the Stars and Stripes for the first time in five weeks. The most phlegmatic man on the ship danced a war dance, women wept, and when the reception committee boarded the ship and met the passengers in the dining saloon there was great enthusiasm. Plans were arranged for crowding into the two days' stay all the sightseeing and entertainment possible and these plans were carried out, giving a fine proof of Manila hospitality.

Manila differs from most of the Oriental cities in the fact that American enterprise has constructed great docks and dredged out the harbor so that the largest steamers may anchor alongside the docks. In Yokohama, Kobe, Hongkong and other ports ships anchor in the bay and passengers and freight must be transferred to the shore by launches and lighters. Reinforced concrete is now the favorite building material of the new Manila. Not only are the piles and docks made of this material, but all the new warehouses and business buildings as well as most of the American and foreign residences are of concrete. It is substantial, clean, cool and enduring, meeting every requirement of this tropical climate. The white ant, which is so destructive to the ordinary wooden pile, does not attack it.

The Pasig river divides Manila into two sections. On the south side of the old walled city are the large districts of Malate, Ermito and Paco. On the north side is the principal retail business street, the Escolta and the other business thoroughfares lined with small shops, and six large native districts. The Escolta is only four blocks long, very narrow, with sidewalks barely three feet wide; yet here is done most of the foreign retail trade. In a short time a new Escolta will be built in the filled district, as it would cost too much to widen the old street. As a car line runs through the Escolta, there is a bad congestion of traffic at all times except in the early morning hours. The Bridge of Spain is one of the impressive sights of Manila. With its massive arches of gray stone, it looks as though it would be able to endure for many more centuries. One of the oldest structures in the city, it was built originally on pontoons, and it was provided with the present arches in 1630. Only one earthquake, that of 1863, damaged it. Then two of the middle arches gave way, and these were not restored for twelve years. The roadway is wide, but it is crowded all day with as picturesque a procession as may be seen in any part of the world. The carromata, a light, two-wheeled cart, with hooded cover, pulled by a native pony, is the favorite conveyance of the foreigners and the better class of the Filipinos. The driver sits in front, while two may ride very comfortably on the back seat. It is a great improvement on the Japanese jinrikisha because one may compare impressions with a companion. The country cart is built something like the carromata and will accommodate four people. Hundreds of these carts come into Manila every day with small stocks of vegetables and fruit for sale at the markets. A few victorias may be seen on the bridge, but what causes most of the congestion is the carabao cart, hauling the heavy freight. The carabao (pronounced carabough, with the accent on the last syllable), is the water buffalo of the Philippines, a slow, ungainly beast of burden that proves patient and tractable so long as he can enjoy a daily swim. If cut off from water the beast becomes irritable, soon gets "loco" and is then dangerous, as it will attack men or animals and gore them with its sharp horns. The carabao has little hair and its nose bears a strong resemblance to that of the hippopotamus. Its harness consists of a neckyoke of wood fastened to the thills of the two-wheeled cart. On this cart is frequently piled two tons, which the carabao pulls easily.

Another bridge which has historic interest for the American is the San Juan bridge. It is reached by the Santa Mesa car line. Here at either end were encamped the American and Filipino armed forces, and the insurrection was started by a shot at night from the native trenches. The bridge was the scene of fierce fighting, which proved disastrous to the Filipinos.

Aside from the bridges and the life along the Pasig river, the most interesting part of Manila lies within the old walled city. This section is known locally as "IntraMuros." It is still surrounded by the massive stone wall, which was begun in 1591 but not actually completed until 1872. The wall was built to protect the city from free-booters, as Manila, like old Panama, offered a tempting prize to pirates. Into the wall was built old Fort Santiago, which still stands. The wall varies in thickness from three to forty feet, and in it were built many chambers used as places of confinement and torture. Until six years ago a wide moat surrounded the wall, but the stagnant water bred disease and the moat was filled with the silt dredged up from the bay. Fort Santiago forms the northwest corner of the wall. Its predecessor was a palisade of bags, built in 1571, behind which the Spaniards defended themselves against the warlike native chiefs. In 1590 the stone fort was begun. Within it was the court of the military government. Seven gates were used as entrances to the walled city in old Spanish days, the most picturesque being the Real gate, bearing the date of 1780, and the Santa Lucia gate, with the inscription of 1781. These gates were closed every night, and some of the massive machinery used for this purpose may be seen lying near by—a reminder of those good old days when the belated traveler camped outside.

In the old walled city are some of the famous churches of Manila. The oldest is San Augustin, first dedicated in 1571. The present structure was built two years later, the first having been completely destroyed by fire. The enormously thick walls were laid so well that they have withstood the severe earthquakes which proved so destructive to many other churches. In this church are buried Legaspi and Salcedo, the explorers, who spread Spanish dominion over the Philippines.

The Church of St. Ignatius is famous for the beautifully carved woodwork of the pulpit and the interior decorations; that of Santo Domingo is celebrated for its finely carved doors. The greatest shrine in the Phillippines is the Cathedral, which fronts on Plaza McKinley. This is the fifth building erected on the same site, fire having destroyed the other four. The architecture is Byzantine, and the interior gives a wonderful impression of grace and spaciousness. Some of the old doors and iron grill-work of the ancient cathedrals have been retained.

AMERICAN WORK IN THE PHILIPPINE ISLANDS

It will surprise any American visitor to the Philippine Islands to find how much has been accomplished since 1898 to make life better worth living for the Filipino as well as for the European or the American. Civil government through the Philippine Commission has been in active operation for ten years. During this decade what Americans have achieved in solving difficult problems of colonial government is matter for national pride. The American method in the Philippines looks to giving the native the largest measure of self-government of which he is capable. It has not satisfied the Filipino, because he imagines that he is all ready for self-government, but it has done much to lift him out of the dead level of peonage in which the Spaniard kept him and to open the doors of opportunity to young Filipinos with ability and energy. I talked with many men in various professions and in many kinds of business and all agreed that the American system worked wonders in advancing the natives of real ability.

Rev. Dr. George W. Wright of Manila, who has charge of a large Presbyterian seminary for training young Filipinos for the ministry, and who has had much experience in teaching, said: "In the old days only the sons of the illustrados, or prominent men of the noble class, had any chance to secure an education and this education was given in the Catholic private schools. With the advent of the Americans any boy possessing the faculty of learning quickly may get a good education, provided he will work for it. I know of one case of a boy who did not even know who his parents were. He gained a living by blacking shoes and selling papers. He came to me for aid in entering a night school. He learned more rapidly than anyone I ever knew. Soon he came to me and wanted a job that would occupy him half a day so that he could go to school the other half of the day. I got him the job and in a few months he was not only perfecting himself in English, but reading law. Nothing can keep this boy down; in a few years he will be a leader among his people. Under the old Spanish system he never would have been permitted to rise from the low caste in which fortune first placed him."



More than a thousand American teachers are scattered over the Philippine Islands, and for ten years these men and women have been training the young of both sexes. Some have proved incompetent, a few have set a very bad example, but the great majority have done work of which any nation might be proud. They have not only been teachers of the young, but they have been counselors and friends of the parents of their pupils.

The work done in a material way in the Philippines is even more remarkable. Of the first importance is the offer of a homestead to every citizen from the public lands. So much was paid for the friar lands that these are far beyond the reach of anyone of ordinary means, but the government has large reserves of public land, which only need cultivation to make them valuable. Sanitary conditions have been enormously improved both in Manila and throughout the islands. In the old days Manila was notorious for many deaths from cholera, bubonic plague and smallpox. No sanitary regulations were enforced and the absence of any provisions for sewage led to fearful pestilences. Now not only has Manila an admirable sewerage system, but the people have been taught to observe sanitary regulations, with the result that in the suburbs of such a city as Manila the homes of common people reveal much better conditions than the homes of similar classes in Japan. The sewage of Manila is pumped three times into large sumps before it is finally dumped into the bay a mile from the city.

The island military police, known as the Constabulary Guard, has done more to improve conditions throughout the islands than any other agency. The higher officers are drawn from the United States regular army, but the captains and lieutenants are from civil life, and they are mainly made up of young college graduates. These men get their positions through the civil service and, though some fail to make good, the great majority succeed. Their positions demand unusual ability, for they not only have charge of companies of native police that resemble the Mexican rurales or the Canadian mounted police, but they serve as counselor and friend to all the Filipinos in their district. In this way their influence is frequently greater than that of the school teachers.

All this work and much more has been accomplished by the insular government without calling upon the United States for any material help. It does not seem to be generally known that the Philippine Islands are now self-supporting, and that the only expense entailed on the general government is a slight increase for maintaining regiments assigned to the island service and the cost of Corregidor fortifications and other harbor defenses. This has been accomplished without excessive taxation. Personal property is exempt, while the rate on real estate in Manila is only one and one-half per cent. on the assessed valuation, and only seven-eights of one per cent. in the provinces. The fiscal system has been put on a gold basis, thus removing the old fluctuating silver currency which was a great hardship to trade.

SCENES IN THE CITY OF MANILA AND SUBURBS

Every visitor to Manila in the old days exhausted his vocabulary in praise of the Luneta, the old Spanish city's pleasure ground, which overlooked the bay and Corregidor Island. It was an oval drive, with a bandstand at each end, inclosing a pretty grass plot. Here, as evening came on, all Manila congregated to hear the band play and to meet friends. The Manilan does not walk, so the broad drive was filled with several rows of carriages passing slowly around the oval. To-day the Luneta remains as it was in the old Spanish days, but its chief charm, the seaward view, is gone. This is due to the filling in of the harbor front, which has left the Luneta a quarter of a mile from the water-front. However, a new Luneta has been made below the old one, and the broad avenues opened up near by give far more space for carriages than before. Every evening except Monday the Constabulary Band plays on the Luneta, and the scene is almost as brilliant as in the old days, as the American Government officials make it a point to turn out in uniform. Nothing can be imagined more perfect than the evenings in Manila after the heat of the day. The air is deliciously soft and a gentle breeze from the ocean tempers the heat.

The best way to see the native life of Manila is to take a street-car ride through the Tondo and Caloocan districts, or a launch ride up the Pasig river. On the cars one passes through the heart of the business district, the great Tondo market, filled with supplies from the surrounding country as well as many small articles of native or foreign manufacture. This car line also passes the Maypajo, the largest cockpit in the world, where at regular intervals the best fighting cocks are pitted against each other and the betting is as spirited as on American race tracks in the old days. On the return trip by these cars one passes by the San Juan bridge, which marked the opening of the insurrection; the old Malacanan Palace, now the residence of Governor-General Forbes, and the Paco Cemetery, where several thousand bodies are buried in the great circular wall which surrounds the church. These niches in the wall are rented for a certain yearly sum, and in the old Spanish days, when this rental was not promptly paid by relatives, the corpse was removed and thrown with others into a great pit. Recently this ghastly practice has been frowned on by the authorities.

The average Manila resident does not pay more than fifty dollars in our money for his nipa house. The framework is of bamboo, bound together by rattan; the roof timbers are of bamboo, while the sides of the house and the thatch are made from the nipa tree. The sides look like mats. The windows are of translucent shell, while the door is of nipa or wood. These houses are usually about fifteen feet square, with one large room, and are raised about six feet from the ground. Under the house is kept the live stock. When the family has a horse or cow or carabao the house is ten feet from the ground, and these animals are stabled underneath. In nearly every house or yard may be found a game cock tied by the leg to prevent him from roaming and fighting.

In most of the houses that the cars passed in the big native quarter of Tondo, furniture was scanty. Usually the family has a large dresser, which is ornamented with cheap pictures, and the walls are frequently covered with prints in colors. There is no furniture, as the Filipino's favorite position is to squat on his haunches. In many of the poorest houses, however, were gramophones, which are paid for in monthly installments of a dollar or two. The Filipinos are very fond of music, and the cheap gramophones appeal to them strongly. Nearly every Filipino plays some instrument by ear, and many boys from the country are expert players on the guitar or mandolin. On large plantations the hands are fond of forming bands and orchestras, and often their playing would do credit to professional musicians. The Constabulary Band, recognized as the finest in the Orient, has been drilled by an American negro named Loring.

In the Santa Mesa district are the houses of wealthy Filipinos. These are usually of two stories, with the upper story projecting far over the lower, and with many ornamental dormer windows, with casement sashes of small pieces of translucent shell. In Manila the window is provided to keep out the midday heat and glare of the sun. At other times the windows are slid into the walls, and thus nearly the whole side of the house is open to the cool night air. Many of these houses are finished in the finest hardwoods, and not a few have polished mahogany floors. Bamboo and rattan furniture may be seen in some of these houses, while in others are dressers and wardrobes in the rich native woods. These houses are embowered in trees, among which the magnolia, acacia and palm are the favorites, with banana and pomelo trees heavy with fruit.



HONGKONG, CANTON, SINGAPORE AND RANGOON

HONGKONG, THE GREATEST BRITISH PORT IN THE ORIENT

The entrance to the harbor of Hongkong is one of the most impressive in the world. The steamer runs along by the mainland for several miles. Then a great island is descried, covered with smelting works, huge dockyards, great warehouses and other evidences of commercial activity. This is the lower end of the island of Victoria, on which the city of Hongkong has been built. The island was ceded by China to Great Britain in 1842, after the conclusion of the opium war. It is separated from the mainland of China by an arm of the sea, varying from one mile to five miles in width. This forms the harbor of Hongkong, one of the most spacious and picturesque in the world. It is crowded with steamers, ferryboats, Chinese junks with queer-shaped sails of yellow matting, sampans, trim steam launches and various other craft. As the vessel passes beyond the smelting works and the dry docks it rounds a point and the beauty of Hongkong is revealed.

The city is built at the foot of a steep hill nearly two thousand feet in height. Along the crescent harbor front are ranged massive business buildings with colonaded fronts and rows of windows. Behind the business section the hills rise so abruptly that many of the streets are seen to be merely rows of granite stairs. Still farther back are the homes of Hongkong residents, beautiful stone or brick structures, which look out upon the busy harbor. With a glass one can make out the cable railroad which climbs straight up the mountainside for over one thousand feet and then turns sharply to the right until the station is reached, about thirteen hundred feet above sea level.

Hongkong differs radically from Yokohama, Tokio, Kobe, Nagasaki or Manila, because of the blocks of solid, granite-faced buildings that line its water front, each with its rows of Venetian windows, recessed in balconies. This is the prevailing architecture for hotels, business buildings and residences, while dignity is lent to every structure by the enormous height between stories, the average being from fifteen to eighteen feet. This impression of loftiness is increased by the use of the French window, which extends from the floor almost to the ceiling, all the windows being provided with large transoms.

The feature of Hongkong which impresses the stranger the most vividly is the great mixture of races in the streets. Here for the first time one finds the sedan chair, with two or four bearers. It is used largely in Hongkong for climbing the steep streets which are impossible for the jinrikisha. The bearers are low-class coolies from the country, whose rough gait makes riding in a chair the nearest approach to horseback exercise. The jinrikisha is also largely in evidence, but the bearers are a great contrast in their rapacious manners to the courteous and smiling Japanese in all the cities of the Mikado's land.

Queen's road, the main business street of Hongkong, furnishes an extraordinary spectacle at any hour of the day. The roadway is lined with shops, while the sidewalks, covered by the verandas of the second stories of the buildings, form a virtual arcade, protected from the fierce rays of the sun. These shops are mainly designed to catch the eye of the foreigner, and they are filled with a remarkable collection of silks, linens, ivories, carvings and other articles that appeal to the American because of the skilled labor that has been expended upon them. Carvings and embroidery that represent the work of months are sold at such low prices as to make one marvel how anyone can afford to produce them even in this land of cheap living.

The crowd that streams past these shops is even more curious than the goods offered for sale. Here East and West meet in daily association. The Englishman is easily recognized by his air of proprietorship, although his usual high color is somewhat reduced by the climate. He has stamped his personality on Hongkong and he has builded here for generations to come. The German is liberally represented, and old Hongkong residents bewail the fact that every year sees a larger number of Emperor William's subjects intent on wresting trade from the British. Frenchmen and other Europeans pass along this Queen's road, and the American tourist is in evidence, intent on seeing all the sights as well as securing the best bargains from the shopkeepers. All these foreigners have modified their garb to suit the climate. They wear suits of white linen or pongee with soft shirts, and the solar topi, or pith helmet, which is a necessity in summer and a great comfort at other seasons. The helmet keeps the head cool and shelters the nape of the neck, which cannot be exposed safely to the sun's rays. Instead of giving health as the California sun does, this Hongkong sunshine brings heat apoplexy and fever. All the Orient is represented by interesting types. Here are rich Chinese merchants going by in private chairs, with bearers in handsome silk livery; Parsees from Bombay, with skins almost as black as those of the American negro; natives of other parts of India in their characteristic dress and their varying turbans; Sikh policemen, tall, powerful men, who have a lordly walk and who beat and kick the Chinese chair coolies and rickshaw men when they prove too insistent or rapacious; Chinese of all classes, from the prosperous merchant to the wretched coolie whose prominent ribs show how near he lives to actual starvation in this overcrowded land; workmen of all kinds, many bearing their tools, and swarms of peddlers and vendors of food, crying their wares, with scores of children, many of whom lead blind beggars. Everywhere is the noise of many people shouting lustily, the cries of chair coolies warning the passersby to clear the way for their illustrious patrons.

The Chinese seem unable to do anything without an enormous expenditure of talk and noise. Ordinary bargaining looks like the beginning of a fierce fight. Any trifling accident attracts a great crowd, which becomes excited at the slightest provocation. It is easy to see from an ordinary walk in this Hongkong street how panic or rage may convert the stolid Chinese into a deadly maniac, who will stop at no outburst of violence, no atrocity, that will serve to wreak his hatred of the foreigner.

Although Hongkong has been Europeanized in its main streets, there are quarters of the city only a few blocks away from the big hotels and banks which give one glimpses of genuine native life. Some of these streets are reached by scores of granite steps that climb the steep mountainside. These streets are not over twelve or fifteen feet wide, and the shops are mere holes in the wall, with a frontage of eight or ten feet. Yet many of these dingy shops contain thousands of dollars' worth of decorated silks and linens, artistic carvings, laces, curios and many other articles of Chinese manufacture. Unlike the Japanese, who will follow the tourist to the sidewalk and urge him to buy, these Chinese storekeepers show no eagerness to make sales. They must be urged to display their fine goods, and they cannot be hurried. The best time to see these native streets is at night. Take a chair if the climate overpowers you, but walk if you can. Then a night stroll through this teeming quarter will always remain in the memory. Every one is working hard, as in Japan, for the Chinese workday seems endless. All kinds of manufacture are being carried on here in these narrow little shops; the workers are generally stripped to the waist, wearing only loose short trousers of cheap blue or brown cotton, the lamplight gleaming on their sweating bodies. Here are goldsmiths beating out the jewelry for which Hongkong is famous; next are scores of shops in all of which shoes are being made; then follow workers in willow-ware and rattan, makers of hats, furniture and hundreds of other articles. In every block is an eating-house, with rows of natives squatted on benches, and with large kettles full of evil-smelling messes. The crowds in the streets vie with the crowds in the stores in the noise that they make; the air reeks with the odors of sweating men, the smell of unsavory food, the stench of open gutters. This panorama of naked bodies, of wild-eyed yellow faces drawn with fatigue and heat passes before ones' eyes for an hour. Then the senses begin to reel and it is time to leave this scene of Oriental life that is far lower and more repulsive than the most crowded streets in the terrible East Side tenement quarter of New York on a midsummer night.

Hongkong, both in the European and native quarters, is built to endure for centuries. Most of the houses are of granite or plastered brick. The streets are paved with granite slabs. Even the private residences have massive walls and heavy roofs of red or black tile; the gardens are screened from the street by high walls, with broken glass worked into the mortar that forms the coping and with tall iron entrance gates. These residences dot the side hill above the town. They are built upon terraces, which include the family tennis court. The roads wind around the mountainside, many of them quarried out of solid rock. All the building material of these houses had to be carried up the steep mountainside by coolies and, until the cable railway was finished, the dwellers were borne to their homes at night by chair coolies.

This cable railway carries one nearly to the top of the peak back of Hongkong, and from the station a short walk brings one to the summit, where a wireless station is used to flash arrivals of vessels to the city below. The view from this summit, and from the splendid winding road which leads to the Peak Hospital, not far away, is one of the finest in the world. The harbor, dotted with many ships and small boats, the indented coast for a score of miles, the bare and forbidding Chinese territory across the bay, the big city at the foot of the hill; all these are spread out below like a great panorama.

The British are firmly entrenched at Hongkong. Not only have they actual ownership of Victoria Island, on which Hongkong is built, but they have a perpetual lease of a strip of the mainland across from the island, extending back for over one hundred miles. The native city across the bay is Kowloon, and is reached by a short ride on the new railroad which will eventually connect Hankow with Paris. On the barren shore, about a mile from Hongkong, has been founded the European settlement of Kowloon City. It comprises a row of large warehouses, or godowns, a big naval victualling station and coaling depot, large barracks for two regiments of Indian infantry and several companies of Indian artillery, with many fine quarters for European officers. The city in recent years has become a favorite residence place for Hongkong business men, as it is reached in a few minutes by a good ferry. Near by are the great naval docks at Hunghom, extensive cement works and the deepest railway cut in the world, the material being used to fill in the bay of Hunghom.

A VISIT TO CANTON IN DAYS OF WILD PANIC

Every traveler who has seen the Orient will tell you not to miss Canton, the greatest business center of China, the most remarkable city of the empire, and among the most interesting cities of the world. It is only a little over eighty miles from Hongkong, and if one wishes to save time it may be reached by a night boat.

While in Manila I heard very disturbing reports of rioting in Canton and possible bloodshed in the contest between the Manchus in control of the army and the revolutionists. This rioting followed the assassination of the Tartar general, who was blown up, with a score of his bodyguard, as he was formally entering the city by the main south gate. When Hongkong was reached these rumors of trouble became more persistent, and they were given point by the arrival every day by boat and train of thousands of refugees from Canton. Every day the bulletin boards in the Chinese quarter contained dispatches from Canton, around which a swarm of excited coolies gathered and discussed the news. One night came the news that the Viceroy had acknowledged the revolutionists and had agreed to surrender on the following day. This report was received with great enthusiasm, and hundreds of dollars' worth of firecrackers were burned to celebrate the success of the new national movement.

That night I left Hongkong on the Quong Si, one of the Chinese boats that ply between Hongkong and Canton, under the British flag. A half-dozen American tourists were also on the boat, including several ladies.

The trip up the estuary of the Pearl river that leads to Canton was made without incident, and the boat anchored in the river opposite the Shameen or foreign concession early in the morning, but the passengers remained on board until about eight-thirty o'clock. The reports that came from the shore were not reassuring. Guides who came out in sampans said that there was only a forlorn hope of getting into the walled city, as nearly all the gates had been closed for two days. They also brought the alarming news that the Viceroy had reconsidered his decision of the previous night and had sent word that he proposed to resist by force any effort of the revolutionists to capture the city. The flag of the revolution had also been hauled down and the old familiar yellow dragon-flag hoisted in its place.

While waiting for the guide to arrange for chairs to take the party through the city, we had a good opportunity to study the river life which makes Canton unique among Chinese cities. Out of the total population of over two millions, at least a quarter of a million live in boats from birth to death and know no other home. Many of these boats are large cargo junks which ply up and down the river and bring produce to the great city market, but the majority are small sampans that house one Chinese family and that find constant service in transferring passengers and freight from one side of the river to the other, as well as to and from the hundreds of steamers that call at the port. They have a covered cabin into which the family retires at night.

These sampans are mainly rowed by women, who handle the boats with great skill. A young girl usually plies the short oar on the bow, while her mother, assisted by the younger children, works the large oar or sweep in the stern. The middle of the sampan is covered by a bamboo house, and in the forward part of this house the family has its kitchen fire and all its arrangements for food. The passenger sits on the after seat near the stern of the boat. These boats are scrubbed so that the woodwork shines, and the backs of the seats are covered with fresh matting.

Looking out from the steamer one saw at least two miles of these small sampans and larger craft massed along both shores of the river, which is here about a half-mile wide. The foreign concession or Shameen is free from these boats. It is really a sand spit, surrounded by water, which was made over to the foreigners after the opium war.

North of the Shameen is the new western suburb of Canton, which has recently been completed on European lines. It has a handsome bund, finely paved, with substantial buildings facing the river. Close up against this bund, and extending down the river bank for at least two miles are ranged row on row of houseboats. Every few minutes a boat darts out from the mass and is pulled to one of the ships in the stream.

Across the river and massed against the shore of Honam, the suburb opposite Canton, is another tangle of sampans, with thousands of active river folk, all shouting and screaming. These yellow thousands toiling from break of day to late at night do not seem human; yet each boat has its family life. The younger children are tied so that they cannot fall overboard, and the older ones wear ingenious floats which will buoy them up should they tumble into the water. Boys and girls four or five years old assist in the working of the boat, while girls of twelve or fourteen are experts in handling the oar and in using the long bamboo boat hook that serves to carry the small craft out of the tangle of river activity.



A type of river steamer which will amaze the American is an old stern-wheeler run by man power. It is provided with a treadmill just forward of the big stern wheel. Two or three tiers of naked, perspiring coolies are working this treadmill, all moving with the accuracy and precision of machinery. The irreverent foreigner calls these the "hotfoot" boats, and in the land where a coolie may be hired all day for forty cents Mexican or twenty cents in our coin this human power is far cheaper than soft coal at five dollars a ton. These boats carry freight and passengers and they move along at a lively pace.

After an hour spent in study of this strange river life I was fortunate enough to go ashore with an American missionary whose husband was connected with a large college across the river from Canton. She came aboard in a sampan to take ashore two ladies from Los Angeles. She invited me to accompany the party, and as she spoke Chinese fluently I was glad to accept her offer. We went ashore in a sampan and at once proceeded to visit the western suburb. This part of Canton has been built in recent years and is somewhat cleaner than the old town. It is separated from the Shameen by bridges which may be drawn up like an ancient portcullis. Here we at once plunged into the thick of native life. The streets, not over ten feet wide, were crowded with people.

We passed through streets devoted wholly to markets and restaurants, and the spectacle was enough to keep one from ever indulging hereafter in chop-suey. Here were tables spread with the intestines of various animals, pork in every form, chickens and ducks, roasted and covered with some preparation that made them look as though just varnished. Here were many strange vegetables and fruits, and here, hung against the wall, were row on row of dried rats. At a neighboring stall were several small, flat tubs, in which live fish swam about, waiting for a customer to order them knocked on the head. Then we passed into a street of curio shops, but the grill work in front was closed and behind could be seen the timid proprietors, who evidently did not mean to take any chances of having their stores looted by robbers. For three or four days the most valuable goods in all the Canton stores had been removed as rapidly as possible. Thousands of bales of silk and tons of rare curios were already safe in the foreign warehouses at the Shameen or had been carried down the river to Hongkong. Often we had to flatten ourselves against the sides of the street to give passage to chairs containing high-class Chinese and their families, followed by coolies bearing the most valuable of their possessions packed in cedar chests.

At an American hospital we were met by several young Englishmen connected with medical and Young Men's Christian Association work. They proposed a trip through the old walled city, but they refused to take the two ladies, as they said it would be dangerous in the excited condition of the people. So we set out, five in number. After a short walk we reached one of the gates of the walled city, only to find it closed and locked. A short walk brought us to a second gate, which was opened readily by the Chinese guards, armed with a new type of German army rifle. The walls of the old city were fully ten feet thick where we entered, and about twenty feet high, made of large slabs of granite.

Once inside the city walls a great surprise awaited us. Instead of crowded streets and the hum of trade were deserted streets, closed shops and absolute desolation. For blocks the only persons seen were soldiers and refugees making their way to the gates. In one fine residence quarter an occasional woman peered through the front gates; in other sections all the houses were closed and barred. Soon we reached the Buddhist temple, known as the Temple of Horrors. Around the central courtyard are grouped a series of booths, in each of which are wooden figures representing the torture of those who commit deadly sins. In one booth a victim is being sawed in two; in others poor wretches are being garroted, boiled in oil, broken on the wheel and subjected to many other ingenious tortures. At one end is an elaborate joss-house, with a great bronze bell near by. In normal conditions this temple is crowded, and true believers buy slips of prayers, which they throw into the booths to ward off ill luck.

The rush of refugees grew greater as we penetrated toward the heart of the city. On the main curio street the huge gilded signs hung as if in mockery above shops which had been stripped of all their treasures. Occasionally a restaurant remained open and these were crowded with chair coolies, who were waiting to be engaged by some merchant eager to escape from the city. Gone was all the life and bustle that my companions said made this the most remarkable street in Canton. It was like walking through a city of the dead, and it bore a striking resemblance to San Francisco's business district on the day of the great fire. At intervals we passed the yamens of magistrates, but the guards and attaches were enjoying a vacation, as no court proceedings were held. Progress became more and more difficult as the rush of refugees increased and returning chair coolies clamored for passageway. The latter had taken parties to the river boats and were coming back for more passengers. As it became evident that we could not see the normal life of the city, my companions finally urged that we return, as they feared the gates might be closed against us, so we retraced our way, this time taking the main street which led to the great south gate.

Not far from the gate we came on the scene of the blowing up of the Tartar general. Seven shops on both sides of the street were wrecked by the explosion. The heavy fronts were partly intact, but the interiors were a mass of brick and charred timbers, for fire followed the explosion. The general had waited several months to allow the political excitement that followed his appointment to subside. He felt safe in entering the city with a strong bodyguard, but not over one hundred yards from the gate a bomb was thrown which killed the general instantly, mangled a score of his retainers and killed over a dozen Chinese bystanders. The revolutionists tried to clear the street so that none of their own people should suffer, but they failed because of the curiosity of the crowd.

Near by this place is the old Buddhist water clock, which for five hundred years has marked the time by the drip of water from a hidden spring. The masonry of this water-clock building looks very ancient, and the clock is reached by several long flights of granite stairs.

After viewing the clock we reached the wall and passed through the big south gates, which are fully six inches thick, of massive iron, studded with large nails. Outside on the bund were drawn up several rapid-fire guns belonging to Admiral Li, the efficient head of the Chinese navy at Canton, who also had a score of trim little gunboats patrolling the river. These boats had rapid-fire guns at bow and stern.

So we came back to the Canton hospital, where we had luncheon. After this I made my way back to the steamer, to find her crowded with over one thousand refugees from the old city, with their belongings. The decks and even the dining saloon were choked with these people, and during the two hours before the boat sailed at least three hundred more passengers were taken on board. We sailed in the late afternoon and were followed by four other river steamers, carrying in all over six thousand refugees.

SINGAPORE THE MEETING PLACE OF MANY RACES

Of all the places in the Orient, the most cosmopolitan is Singapore, the gateway to the Far East; the one city which everyone encircling the globe is forced to visit, at least for a day. Hongkong streets may have seemed to present an unparalleled mixture of races; Canton's narrow alleys may have appeared strange and exotic; but Singapore surpasses Honkong in the number and picturesqueness of the races represented in its streets, as it easily surpasses Canton in strange sights and in swarming toilers from many lands that fill the boats on its canals and the narrow, crooked streets that at night glow with light and resound with the clamor of alien tongues.

Singapore is built on an island which adjoins the extreme end of the Malay Peninsula. It is about sixty miles from the equator, and it has a climate that varies only a few degrees from seventy during the entire year. This heat would not be debilitating were it not for the extreme humidity of the atmosphere. To a stranger, especially if he comes from the Pacific Coast, the place seems like a Turkish bath. The slightest physical exertion makes the perspiration stand out in beads on the face.

Singapore has a population of over three hundred thousand people; it has a great commercial business, which is growing every year; it already has the largest dry dock in the world. Its bund is not so imposing as that of Hongkong, but it has more public squares and its government buildings are far more handsome. As Hongkong owes much of its splendid architecture and its air of stability to Sir Paul Chator, so Singapore owes its spacious avenues, its fine buildings, its many parks, its interesting museum and its famous botanical gardens to Sir Stamford Raffles, one of the British empire-builders who have left indelibly impressed on the Orient their genius for founding cities and constructing great public enterprises. Yet, Singapore, with far more business than Manila, is destitute of a proper sewer system, and the streets in its native quarters reek with foul odors.

The feature of Singapore that first impresses the stranger is the variety of races seen in any of the streets, and this continues to impress him so long as he remains in the city. My stay in Singapore was four days, due to the fact that it was necessary to wait here for the departure of the British West India Company's steamer for Rangoon and Calcutta. In jinrikishas and pony carts I saw all quarters of the town, and my wonder grew every day at the remarkable show of costumes presented by the different races. One day, late in the afternoon, I sat down on a coping of the wall that surrounds a pretty park on Orchard road, and in the space of a half hour watched the moving show that passed by. At this hour all Singapore takes its outing to the Botanical Gardens, and one may study the people who have leisure and money.

The favorite rig is still the victoria drawn by high-stepping horses, with coachman and postilion, but the automobile is evidently making rapid strides in popular favor, despite the fact that the heavy, humid air makes the odor of gasoline cling to the roadway. A high-class Arab, with his keen, intellectual face, rides by with a bright Malay driving the machine. Then comes a fat and prosperous-looking Parsee in his carriage, followed by a rich Chinese merchant arrayed in spotless white, seated in a motor car, his family about him, and some relative or servant at the wheel. Along moves a rickshaw with an East Indian woman, the sun flashing on the heavy gold rings in her ears, while a carriage follows with a pretty blonde girl with golden hair, seated beside her Chinese ayah, or nurse. A score of young Britons come next in rickshaws, some carrying tennis racquets, and others reading books or the afternoon paper. The rickshaws here, unlike those of Japan or China, carry two people. They are pulled by husky Chinese coolies, who have as remarkable development of the leg muscles as their Japanese brothers, with far better chests. In fact, the average Chinese rickshaw coolie of Singapore is a fine physical type, and he will draw for hours with little show of suffering a rickshaw containing two people. The pony cart of Singapore is another unique institution. It is a four-wheeled cart, seating four people, drawn by a pony no larger than the average Shetland. The driver sits on a little box in front, and at the end of the wagon is a basket in which rests the pony's allowance of green grass for the day. The pony cart is popular with parties of three or four and, as most of Singapore's streets are level, the burden on the animal is not severe.

This moving procession of the races goes on until eleven-thirty o'clock, the popular dinner hour all along the Chinese coast. It is varied by the occasional appearance of a bullock cart, which has probably changed very little in hundreds of years. The bullocks have a pronounced hump at the shoulders, and are of the color and size of a Jersey cow. The neckyoke is a mere bar of wood fastened to the pole, and the cart is heavy and ungainly. Nowhere in Singapore does one find coolies straining at huge loads as in China and Japan, as this labor is given over to bullocks. Here, however, both men and women carry heavy burdens on their heads, while the Chinese use the pole and baskets, so familiar to all Californians.

The Malays and East Indians furnish the most picturesque feature of all street crowds. The Malays, dark of skin, with keen faces, wear the sarong, a skirt of bright-colored silk or cotton wrapped about the loins and falling almost to the shoe. The sarong is scant and reminds one strongly of the hobble-skirt, as no Malay is able to take a full stride in it. The skirt and jacket of the Malay may vary, but the sarong is always of the same style, and the brighter the color the more it seems to please the wearer. The East Indians are of many kinds. The Sikhs, who are the police of Hongkong, here share such duty with Tamils from southern India and some Chinese.

No Malay is ever seen in any low, menial employment. The Malay is well represented on the electric cars, where he serves usually as conductor and sometimes as motorman. He is also an expert boatman and fisherman. He is very proud and is said to be extremely loyal to foreigners who treat him with justice and consideration. The Malay, however, can not be depended on for labor on the rubber or cocoanut plantations, as he will not work unless he can make considerable money. Ordinary wages do not appeal to a man in a country where eight cents is the cost of maintenance on rice and fish, with plenty of tea. The Malay is a gentleman, even when in reduced circumstances, and he must be treated with consideration that would be lost or wasted on the ordinary Chinese.

The Chinese occupy a peculiar position in Singapore. It is the only British crown colony in which the Chinese is accorded any equality with white men. Here in the early days the Chinese were welcomed not only for their ability to do rough pioneer work, but because of their commercial ability. From the outset they have controlled the trade with their countrymen in the Malayan States, while at the same time they have handled all the produce raised by Chinese. They have never done much in the export trade, nor have they proved successful in carrying on the steamship business, because they can not be taught the value of keeping vessels in fine condition and of catering to the tastes of the foreign traveling public. On the other hand, the great Chinese merchants of Singapore have amassed large fortunes and have built homes which surpass those of rich Europeans. On Orchard road, which leads to the Botanical Gardens, are several Chinese residences which excite the traveler's wonder, because of the beauty of the buildings and grounds and the lavishness of ornament and decorations. These merchants, whose names are known throughout the Malay States and as far as Hongkong and Manila, represent the Chinese at his best, freed from all restrictions and permitted to give his commercial genius full play.

STRANGE NIGHT SCENES IN THE CITY OF SINGAPORE

The Chinese element in Singapore is so overwhelming that it arrests the attention of the most careless tourist, but no one appreciates the enormous number of the Mongolians in Singapore until he visits the Chinese and Malay districts at night. With a friend I started out one night about eight o'clock. It was the first night in Singapore that one could walk with any comfort. We went down North Bridge road, one of the main avenues on which an electric car line runs. After walking a half-mile we struck off to the right where the lights were bright. Just as soon as we left the main avenue we began to see life as it is in Singapore after dark. The first native street was devoted to small hawkers, who lined both sides of the narrow thoroughfare. Each had about six feet of space, and each had his name and his number as a licensed vender. The goods were of every description and of the cheapest quality. They had been brought in small boxes, and on these sat the Chinese merchant and frequently his wife and children. A flare or two from cheap nut oil illuminated the scene.

Passing in front of these stands was a constantly moving crowd of Chinese, Malays and East Indians of many races, all chaffering and talking at the top of their voices. At frequent intervals were street tea counters, where food was sold, evidently at very low prices. Ranged along on benches were men eating rice and various stews that were taken piping hot from kettles resting on charcoal stoves. One old Chinese woman had a very condensed cooking apparatus. Over two small braziers she had two copper pots, each divided into four compartments and in each of these different food was cooking.

Back of the street peddlers were the regular stores, all of which were open and apparently doing a good business. As in Hongkong, the Chinese workmen labor until ten or eleven o'clock at night, even carpenters and basket-makers working a full force by the light of gas or electricity. The recent events in China had their reflex here. All the makers of shirts and clothing were feverishly busy cutting up and sewing the new flag of the revolution. Long lines of red and blue bunting ran up and down these rooms, and each workman was driving his machine like mad, turning out a flag every few minutes. The fronts of most of these stores were decorated with flags of the revolution.

The most conspicuous places of business on these streets were the large restaurants, where hundreds of Chinese were eating their chow at small tables. The din was terrific, and the lights flashing on the naked yellow skins, wet with perspiration, made a strange spectacle. Next to these eating houses in number were handsomely decorated places in which Chinese women plied the most ancient trade known to history. Some of these women were very comely, but few were finely dressed, as in this quarter cheapness seemed to be the rule in everything. Around some of these places crowds of Chinese gathered and exchanged comment apparently on attractive new arrivals in these resorts of vice. Many of the inmates were young girls, fourteen or sixteen years old.

Less numerous than these houses were the opium dens, scattered throughout all these streets. These haunts of the drug that enslaves were long and narrow rooms, with a central passage and a long, low platform on each side. This platform was made of fine hardwood, and by constant use shone like old mahogany. Ranged along on these platforms wide enough for two men, facing each other and using a common lamp, were scores of opium smokers. As many as fifty men could be accommodated in each of these large establishments. The opium was served as a sticky mass, and each man rolled some of it on a metal pin and cooked it over the lamp. When cooked, the ball of opium was thrust into a small hole in the bamboo opium pipe. Then the smoker, lying on his side, drew the flame of the lamp against this opium and the smoke came up through the bamboo tube of the pipe and was inhaled. One cooking of opium makes never more than three whiffs of the pipe, sometimes only two. The effect on the novice is very exhilarating, but the seasoned smoker is forced to consume more and more of the drug to secure the desired effect. In one of these dens we watched a large Chinese prepare his opium. He took only two whiffs, but the second one was so deep that the smoke made the tears run out of his eyes. His companion was so far under the influence of the drug that his eyes were glazed and he was staring at some vision called up by the powerful narcotic. One old Chinese, seeing our interest in the spectacle, shook his head and said: "Opium very bad for Chinaman; make him poor; make him weak." Further along in this quarter we came upon several huge Chinese restaurants, ablaze with light and noisy with music. We were told that dinners were being given in honor of revolutionist victories.

In all our night ramble through the Chinese and Malay quarters of Singapore we saw not a single European, yet we met only courteous treatment everywhere, and our curiosity was taken as a compliment. Singapore is well policed by various races, among which the Sikhs and Bengali predominate. An occasional Malay is met acting as a police officer, but it is evident that such work does not appeal to the native of the Straits Settlements.

On our return to the hotel we crossed a large estuary which is spanned by several bridges. Here were hundreds of small boats moored to the shore, the homes of thousands of river people. This business of transportation on the water is in the hands of the Malays, who are most expert boatmen. It is a pleasure to watch one of these men handle a huge cargo boat. With his large oar he will scull rapidly, while his assistant uses a long pole.

One of the sights of Singapore is the Botanical Gardens, about three and one-half miles from town. The route is along Orchard road and Tanglin road, two beautiful avenues that are lined with comfortable bungalows of Europeans, and magnificent mansions of Chinese millionaires. The gardens occupy a commanding position overlooking the surrounding country, and they have been laid out with much skill. The drives are bordered with ornamental trees from all lands. The most beautiful of all the palms is the Traveler's tree from Madagascar. It is a palm the fronds of which grow up like a regular fan. At a little distance it looks like a peacock's tail spread to the full extent. It is so light, graceful and feathery that it satisfies the eye as no other palm does. Of other palms there are legion, from the Mountain Cabbage palm of the West Indies to endless varieties from Malay, Madagascar and western Africa.

CHARACTERISTIC SIGHTS IN BURMA'S LARGEST CITY

One of the characteristic sights of Rangoon is that of the big Siamese elephants piling teak in the lumber yards along Rangoon river. It is the same sight that Kipling pictured in the lines in his perfect ballad, Mandalay, which an Englishman who knows his Burma well says is "the finest ballad in the world, with all the local color wrong."

These lumber yards are strung along the river, but are easily reached by an electric car. Several are conducted by Chinese, but the finest yard is in charge of the government. At the first Chinese yard was the largest elephant in the city, a huge animal fifty-five years old, with great tusks admirably fitted for lifting large logs. A dozen tourists were grouped about the yard in the early morning, for these elephants are only worked in the morning and evening hours, when it is cool. An East Indian coolie was mounted on his back, or rather just back of his ears, with his legs dangling loose. With his naked feet he indicated whether the elephant was to go to the right or left, and when he wished to emphasize an order he hit the beast a blow upon the head with a heavy steel rod.

Much of the work which this elephant did was spectacular, as it showed the enormous strength of the animal as well as his great intelligence. He took up on his tusks a log of teak, the native wood of this country, as hard as hickory and much heavier, and, with the aid of his trunk, stood with it at attention until every camera fiend had taken his picture. Then his driver made the huge beast move a large log of teak from a muddy hole by sheer force of the head and neck. The animal dropped almost to his knees, and then putting forth all his strength he actually pushed the log, which weighed about a ton and one-half, through the mud up to the gangplank of the saw. Then he piled several huge logs one upon the other, to show his skill in this work.

Leaving this yard the party walked about a half-mile through trails, with marshy land on each side, to the big government timber yard. Here were thousands of logs which had been cut far up in the teak forests of the interior, dragged through the swamps of the Irrawaddy by elephants, then floated down the great river to Rangoon. All the logs in this yard were marked with a red cross to signify that they belonged to the government. Down by the river shore, where the ground was so soft that their feet sank deep into the slimy mud, were five elephants engaged in hauling logs up from the river to the dry ground near the shore.

The chief object of interest in Rangoon is the great Shwe Dagon pagoda, which dominates the whole city. Its golden summit may be seen for many miles gleaming above dull green masses of foliage. This pagoda is the center of the Buddhist faith, as it is said to contain veritable relics of Gautama as well as of the three Buddhas who came before him. Thousands of pilgrims from all parts of Burmah, Siam, Cochin-China, Korea, Ceylon and other Oriental countries visit the pagoda every year and their offerings at the various shrines amount to millions of dollars. The pagoda differs absolutely from the temples of Japan and China in form, material and the arrangement of lesser shrines; but its impressiveness is greatly injured by the presence of hundreds of hucksters, who sell not only curios and souvenirs of the pagoda, but food and drink.

The pagoda, which is about two miles from the business center of Rangoon, is built upon a mound. The circumference is thirteen hundred and fifty-five feet and the total height from the base is three hundred and seventy feet. It is constructed in circular style, its concentric rings gradually lessening in size until the top is reached. This is surmounted by a gilt iron work or "ti" on which little bells are hung. This "ti" was a gift from the late king of Burmah, who spent a quarter of a million dollars on its decoration with gold and precious stones. The mound on which the pagoda stands is divided into two rectangular terraces. The upper terrace, nine hundred feet by six hundred and eighty-five, is one hundred and sixty-six feet above the level of the ground. The ascent is by three flights of brick stairs, the fourth flight at the back being closed to permit of the building of fortifications by which the English may defend the pagoda in any emergency. The southern or main entrance is made conspicuous by two enormous leogryphs, which are of plastered brick.

Up these steep stairs the visitor climbs, pestered by loathsome beggars and importuned on every hand to buy relics, flowers and articles of gold and silver. One would fancy he was in a great bazar rather than in the entrance hall of the finest monument in the world erected in honor of Buddha. The four chapels ranged around the rectangular terrace are ornamented by figures of the sitting Buddha. Then one visits a score of magnificently decorated shrines, in which are Buddhas in every variety of position. In one is the reclining Gautama in alabaster, in whose honor the pagoda was built. In others are Gautamas of brass, ivory, glass, clay and wood. Before many of these shrines candles are burning and devotees are seated or are praying with their faces bowed to the stone pavement. On one side of the platform is a row of miniature pagodas, all encrusted with decoration of gold and precious stones, the gifts of thousands of pious devotees. Among these shrines are many small bells which are rung by worshippers when they deposit their offerings, and one great bell (the third largest in the world, weighing forty-two and one-fourth tons), given by King Tharrawaddy.

The eyes of the visitor are wearied with the splendid decoration of the chapels, the gilding, the carving, the inlaid glass work. It seems as though there was no end to the rows on rows of Buddhas in every conceivable position. Interspersed among them are tall poles from which float long streamers of bamboo bearing painted historical pictures, including those of the capture of the pagoda by the British. Thousands crowd these platforms. Some offer gifts to various shrines, others say prayer after prayer, still others strike bells to give warning to evil spirits that they have offered up their petitions to Buddha, others hang eagerly on the words of fortune tellers. All buy food and drink and the whole place suggests in its good cheer a country picnic rather than a pilgrimage to the greatest Buddhist shrine in the world.

When one has left the pagoda he bears the memory of magnificent decorations, of vast crowds, but of little real reverence. The great golden pagoda itself is the dominating feature in every view of Rangoon, just as the Washington monument dominates all other structures in Washington.



INDIA, THE LAND OF TEMPLES, PALACES AND MONUMENTS

CALCUTTA, THE MOST BEAUTIFUL OF ORIENTAL CITIES

Calcutta, the great commercial port of northern India and the former capital of the Empire, is the most beautiful Oriental city, not even excepting Hongkong. Its main claim to this distinction is the possession of the famous Maidan or Esplanade, which runs along the Hoogly river for nearly two miles and which far surpasses the Luneta of Manila in picturesqueness. The Maidan is three-quarters of a mile wide at its beginning and it broadens out to one and one-quarter miles in width at its lower end. Government House, the residence of the Viceroy, is opposite the northern end of the Maidan, while at the southern end is Belvedere, the headquarters of the Lieutenant-Governor of Bengal. With historic Fort William on one side and most of the large hotels, the big clubs and the Imperial Museum on the other, the Maidan is really the center of all civic life. At the southeast end is the race course; not far away is the fine cathedral. Near by are the beautiful Eden Gardens (the gift of the sisters of the great Lord Auckland), which are noteworthy for the Burmese pagoda, transported from Prome and set up here on the water's edge. It is seldom that a city is laid out on such magnificent lines as is Calcutta. It reminds one of Washington in its picturesque boulevards and avenues, all finely shaded with noble mango trees. And it also has the distinction of green turf even in the heat of summer, owing to the heavy dews that refresh the grass like showers.

Calcutta is associated in the minds of most readers with the infamous Black Hole into which one hundred and forty-six wretched white people were crowded on a hot night of June in 1750 and out of which only twenty-three emerged alive on the following morning. The Black Hole was the regimental jail of old Fort William and its site is now marked by a pavement of black marble and a tablet adjoining the fine postoffice building, while across the street is an imposing monument to the memory of the victims, whose names are all enumerated. The hole was twenty-two by fourteen feet, while it was only eighteen feet in height. These prisoners who were flung into this little jail were residents of Calcutta who fell into the hands of the Nawab of Murshedabad. Calcutta is also famous as the birthplace of Thackeray, a bust of whom ornaments the art gallery of the Imperial Museum. Scattered about the Maidan are statues of a dozen men whose deeds have shed luster on English arms or diplomacy.

Calcutta, as the first city of India that I had seen, impressed me very strongly, although the native life has been colored somewhat by contact with British and other Europeans. Here, for the first time, one sees ninety-nine out of one hundred people in the streets wearing turbans. Here also the women mingle freely in the streets, wearing long robes which they wind dexterously about their bodies, leaving the lower legs and the right arm bare. A few cover the face, but the great majority leave it exposed. Many are hideously disfigured by large nose rings, while others have small rings or jewels set in one nostril. Nearly every woman wears bracelets on arms and wrists, heavy anklets and, in many cases, massive gold or silver rings on the big toes. In some cases what look like heavy necklaces are wound several times around the ankles. It is the custom of the lower and middle classes not to put their savings in a bank, but to melt down the coin and make it into bracelets or other ornaments, which are worn by their women. Here in Calcutta also one sees for the first time hundreds of men and women wearing the marks of their caste on their foreheads, either painted in red or marked in white with the ash of cow dung.

Although the main streets of Calcutta are distinctly European, a walk of a few blocks in any direction from the main business section will bring you into the native or the Chinese quarter, where the streets are narrow, the houses low between stories and the shops mere holes in the wall, with only a door for ventilation. In one quarter every store is kept by a Chinese and here a large amount of manufacturing is done. In other quarters natives are carrying on all kinds of manufacture, in the same primitive way that they worked two thousand years ago. The carpenter uses tools that are very much like those in an American boy's box of toy tools; the shoemaker does all the work of turning out a finished shoe from the hide of leather on his wall. Outside these stores in the street the most common beast of burden is a small bullock of the size and color of a Jersey cow; These little animals pull enormous loads, and they are so clever that when they see an electric car approaching they will start on the run and clear the track.

Many of the houses in the native quarter of Calcutta are built of adobe, with earthen tiles, which make them bear a strong resemblance to the adobe dwellings of the Spanish-Californians before the American occupation. In many cases very little straw is used in this adobe, for the walls have frequently crumbled away under the heavy rains of winter. Other houses are built of brick, faced with plaster, which is either painted or whitewashed.

What impresses any visitor is the squalor and the wretchedness of these homes of India's poor. The clothing of a whole family is not worth one American dollar, while about ten cents in our money will feed a family of four. The houses have no furniture, except a bed of the most primitive pattern, made of latticed reeds; the smoke from the cooking fire goes up through the roof or else finds its way out the open door; seldom are there any windows, all the air coming in at the open door; the floor of the house is of dirt and on this squat father and mother and the children, with the family goat. In the small shops work is carried on seven days in the week until nine or ten o'clock at night, with an hour for lunch and siesta at midday. The hopelessness of the lot of the Hindoo (who is bound by rigid caste rules to follow in the footsteps of his father) can never be appreciated until one has seen him here in his native land.

For two hours I watched scores of natives taking a wash at the large, free bathing ghat near the pontoon bridge. On the river front is a restaurant, and back of this steps lead down to a spacious platform on the level of the river. A score of men and boys and one woman were taking a bath in the dirty water, which was thick with mud washed up by passing steamers. A few of these bathers had rented towels from an office on the stairs, but the great majority simply rubbed themselves with their hands and then dried in the sun. All washed their faces in the dirty water and rinsed their mouths with it. The men took off their loin clothes and washed these out, then wrapped them about their bodies and came out dripping water. The lone woman was very fat. She waded into the water and when she came out her thin robe clung to her massive form revealing all its curves. She calmly took a seat on the stairs and proceeded to massage her head.

The most interesting place near Calcutta is the Royal Botanical Gardens, situated on the opposite side of the river and about six miles from town. These gardens were laid out in 1786 and they vie with the botanic gardens at Singapore in the variety of trees and shrubs from all parts of the tropics. Here is the great banyan tree which covers one thousand square feet and is one hundred and forty-two years old. At a height of five and one-half feet from the ground the circumference of the main trunk is fifty-one feet; the height is eighty-five feet, while it has five hundred and seventy aerial roots, which have actually taken root in the ground. The tree at a little distance looks like a small grove.

The Imperial Museum at Calcutta is well worth a couple of hours, for it contains one of the finest collections of antiquities in the Orient. The museum is housed in an enormous building facing the Maidan, which has a frontage of three hundred feet and a depth of two hundred and seventy feet. In the ethnological gallery are arranged figures of all the native races of India with their costumes; agricultural implements, fishing and hunting appliances, models of Indian village life, specimens of ancient and modern weapons and many other exhibits. Another room that will repay study is a gallery containing old steel and wood engravings of the great characters in the mutiny, with busts of Clive, Havelock, Outram and Nicholson, and with a life-size bust of Thackeray.

BATHING AND BURNING THE DEAD AT BENARES

It is estimated that one million pilgrims visit the sacred city of Benares every year, and it is these pilgrims that furnish the largest income which the city receives from any source. Here are the most holy shrines of Buddhism; here Vishnu and Siva have their strongholds, and here must come Hindoos from all parts of India to bathe in the sacred waters of the Ganges and to offer up prayers at the many holy shrines in the city's temples.

Benares is sacred because here Buddha first made his residence. The place that he selected was ancient Sarnath, six miles from Benares, which is now a heap of ruins, in which British government experts are delving for remains of the great city that was founded six centuries before the Christian era. At Sarnath Buddha built a great temple and founded a school from which his disciples spread to all parts of India. But after 750 A.D. Buddhism disappeared gradually from India, and Hindooism took its place. The fine temples that now line the Ganges for three miles were built by Maratha princes in the seventeenth century. They also built the scores of bathing ghats that now furnish one of the most picturesque spectacles that the world affords. A ghat in Hindustani is a stone stairway that leads down to the water, and Benares has a succession of these magnificent stairways leading down to the Ganges, overlooked by palaces of many Maharajas and temples built by rulers and priests. No sight more splendid could be conceived than that of these domes and minarets flashing in the rays of the early morning sun while thousands of devout believers crowd the bathing ghats and offer prayers to Vishnu, after they have bathed in the waters of the Ganges; and mourning relatives burn the bodies of their dead after these have had the sacred water poured over their faces.



The visitor who wishes to see the pious Hindoos bathe in the Ganges goes to the river in the early morning soon after the sun has risen. He descends one of the large ghats and takes a boat, in which he may be rowed down the river past the bathing ghats and the one ghat where the dead are burned. The scene is one that will never be forgotten. Against the clear sky is outlined a succession of domes and spires that mark the position of a score of sacred shrines, with two slender minarets that rise from the mosque built by the great Moslem Emperor, Aurunzeb. The sunlight flashes on these domes and spires and it lights up thousands of bathing floats and stands that line the muddy banks of the river. The floats are dotted with hundreds of bathers and the number of these increases every few minutes. They come by hundreds down the great stone stairways to their favorite bathing places, where, after a thorough bath, they may be shaved or massaged or may listen to the expounding of the Hindoo sacred books by a learned Brahmin sitting in the shade of a huge umbrella. A characteristic feature of this hillside is the number of these large umbrellas, each of which marks the place of a priest or a holy man who has done some marvels of penance that give him a strong hold on the superstitious natives and induce them to pay him well for prayers or a sacred talisman.

With my boat moored near the bank and directly opposite the Manikarnika ghat, the favorite place on the river, I watched the stream of bathers for nearly an hour. The fanatical devotion that will induce a reasonable human being to bathe in the waters of the Ganges seems incredible to anyone from the Western World. The water of the sacred river is here of the consistency of pea soup. The city's sewer pipes empty into the Ganges just above the bathing ghats, and the current carries this filth directly to the place which the Hindoos have selected for their rites. The water is not only muddy and unclean, but it offends the nose. Yet Hindoos of good family bathe here side by side with the poverty stricken. They use the mud of the Ganges in lieu of soap; they scrub their bodies thoroughly, and then they actually take this foul-smelling water in their mouths and clean their teeth with it. This creed of Buddha is a pure democracy, for there is no distinction of class in bathing. Women bathe by the side of men, although they remain covered with the gauze-like garments that are a sop to modesty.

The Manikarnika ghat is the most picturesque of all these bathing places along the Ganges, as the long flight of stone steps is in good preservation and the background of temples and palaces satisfies the eye. The river front for thirty feet is densely crowded with bathers who stand on small floats or go into the shallow water. With a Western crowd so dense as this there would be infringments of individual rights that would lead to quarrels and fights, but the Hindoo is slow to anger, and, like the Japanese, he has great courtesy for his fellows. Hundreds bathed at the ghat while I watched them and no trouble ensued. Nothing could be more striking, nothing more Oriental than the picture of scores of bathers, in bright-hued garments, moving up and down these long flights of massive steps. In the background were a half-dozen temples, the most noteworthy of which is the red-domed temple of the Rajah of Amethi, whose beautiful palace overlooks this scene. Near the water is a curious leaning temple, whose foundations were evidently unsettled by the severe earthquake which destroyed several temples farther down the river.

The busiest men on these bathing ghats are the Hindoo priests, who reap a harvest from the hundreds of pilgrims who visit the ghats during the day. These priests cannot be escaped by the poorest Hindoo. They levy toll from every one who descends these long flights of stairs. One fellow I watched as he sat under his great umbrella. He had his sacred books spread before him, but he was given no leisure for reading them, as a constant stream of clients passed before him. Some of these were regular daily visitors from Benares, who pay a certain rate every week or every month, according to their financial standing. Others were pilgrims who, in their enthusiasm over the sacred Ganges (which they had traveled hundreds of miles to bathe in), were not careful in regard to their fees. Others were mourning relatives who applied for prayers for the corpse which they had brought to the waterside, and still others demanded hurried prayers for the dying, whose last breath would be drawn by the bank of the sacred river. Incidentally the priests sold charms and amulets guaranteed to bring good fortune. Most of the payments were in copper pice, four of which make one of our cents, but many of these priests had great heaps of this coin in front of them, showing that though India may be suffering from a bad harvest the faker may always feed on the fat of the land.

The spectacle, however, which stamps Benares upon the memory is the burning of the dead at a ghat by the Ganges. This ghat is reserved exclusively for the cremation of Hindoo dead. No Mussulman can use it. It was about eight o'clock in the morning when my boat reached this burning ghat. Already one body had been placed on a funeral pyre of wood. The guide said this body was that of a poor man who had no relatives or friends, as the place where the relatives sit until the cremation is complete was empty. Soon, however, two men came rushing down the stone steps with a corpse strapped to a bamboo stretcher. The body was that of a woman, dressed in red garments, which signified that she was a married woman. Unmarried women are arrayed in yellow and other colors, while men must be content with white. The stretcher-bearers placed their burden with its feet in the Ganges and then went in search of wood which is purchased from a dealer. Soon they had a supply, which they piled up in the form of a bier, and on this they placed the woman's corpse. Then one of the men, who, the guide said, was the dead woman's husband, with tears streaming from his eyes, bore some of the water of the Ganges to the bier, exposed the face of the dead and poured the sacred water upon her mouth and her eyes. Then while his companion piled wood above the body the husband sought the low-caste Hindoos who sell fire for burning the body. He soon returned with several large bundles of coarse straw, one of which was smoking. Seven times the husband passed around the bier with the smoking straw before he applied the flame to the wood. The fire licked greedily at the wood, and soon the flames had reached the body. Then the husband and his friend repaired to a stand near by, from which they watched the cremation.

Meanwhile two other bodies had been rushed down to the water's edge. One was evidently that of a wealthy woman, dressed in yellow silk and borne by two richly garbed attendants. The other was that of an old man, attended by his son. The latter was very speedy in securing wood and in building a funeral pyre. Soon the old man's corpse was stretched on the bier and the son was applying the torch. He was a good-looking young fellow, dressed in the clean, white garments of mourning and freshly shaved for the funeral ceremonies. While he was burning the body of his father another corpse of a man was rushed down to the river's edge and placed upon a bier. This body was fearfully emaciated, and when the two attendants raised it in its white shroud, one arm that hung down limp was not larger than that of a healthy five-year-old boy, while the legs were mere skin and bones. It was an ugly sight to see the Ganges water poured over the face of this corpse, which was set in a ghastly grin with wide-open eyes. The man had evidently died while he was being hurried to the burning ghat, as the Hindoos believe that it is evil for one to die in the house. Hence most of the corpses have staring eyes, as they breathed their last on the way to the river.

No solemnity marks this cremation by the river's edge. The relatives who bring down the body haggle over the price of the wood and try to cheapen the sum demanded by the low-caste man for fire for the burning. The greed of the priest who performs the last rite and who prepares the relatives for the cremation is an unlovely sight. All about the burning ghat where the poor dead are being reduced to ashes hundreds are bathing or washing their clothes. The spectacle that so profoundly impresses a stranger is to them so common as to excite no interest.

LUCKNOW AND CAWNPORE, CITIES OF THE MUTINY

Lucknow and Cawnpore are the two cities of India that are most closely associated in the minds of most readers with the great mutiny. The one recalls the most heroic defense in the history of any country; the other recalls the most piteous tragedy in the long record of suffering and death scored against the Sepoys. The British government in both of these cities has raised memorials to the men who gave their lives in defending them and, though the art is inferior in both, the story is so full of genuine courage, loyalty, devotion and self-sacrifice that it will always find eager readers. So the pilgrims to these shrines of the mutiny cannot fail to be touched by the relics of the men and women who showed heroism of the highest order. When one goes through the rooms in the ruined Residency at Lucknow he feels again the thrill with which he first read of the splendid defense made by Sir Henry Lawrence and of the Scotch girl who declared she heard the pipes of the Campbells a day before they actually broke on the ears of the beleaguered garrison. And when one stands in front of the site of the old well at Cawnpore, into which the bleeding bodies of the butchered women and children of the garrison were thrown, the tears come to his eyes over the terrible fate of these poor victims of the cruelty of Nana Sahib. The sight of these Indian cities also makes one appreciate more fully the tremendous odds against which this mere handful of English men and women contended.