From Egypt to Japan Part 15

Caste is a cold and cruel thing, which hardens the heart against natural compa.s.sion. I know it is said that high caste is only an aristocracy of birth, and that, as such, it fosters a certain n.o.bility of feeling, and also a mutual friendliness between those who belong to the same order. A caste is only a larger family, and in it there is the same feeling, a mixture of pride and affection, which binds the family together. Perhaps it may nurture to some extent a kind of clannishness, but it does this at the sacrifice of the broader and n.o.bler sentiment of humanity. It hardens the heart into coldness and cruelty against all without one sacred pale. The Brahmin feels nothing for the sufferings of the Pariah, who is of another order of being as truly as if he were one of the lower animals. Thus the feeling of caste extinguishes the sentiment of human brotherhood.

Taking all these elements together, Hindooism must rank as the most despotic, the most cruel, and the vilest of all that is called religion among men. There is no other that so completely upturns moral distinctions, and makes evil good and good evil. Other religions, even though false, have some sentiment that enn.o.bles them, but Hindooism, the product of a land fertile in strange births, is the lowest and basest, the most truly earth-born, of all the religions that curse mankind.

And what burdens does it lay upon a poor, patient, and suffering people, in prayers, penances, and pilgrimages! The faith of Hindooism is not a mild and harmless form of human credulity. It exacts a terrible service, that must be paid with sweat and blood. Millions of Hindoos go every year on pilgrimages. The traveller sees them thronging the roads, dragging their weary feet over the hot plains, many literally _crawling_ over the burning earth, to appease the wrath of angry G.o.ds! A religion which exacts such service is not a mere creature of the imagination--it is a tremendous reality, which makes its presence felt at every moment. It is therefore not a matter of practical indifference. It is not a mere exhibition of human folly, which, however absurd, does no harm to anybody. It is a despotism which grinds the people to powder.

Seeing this, how they suffer under a power from which they cannot escape, can there be a greater object of philanthropy in all the world than to emanc.i.p.ate them from the bondage of such ignorance and superst.i.tion? Scientific men, the apostles of "modern thought,"

consider it not only a legitimate object, but the high "mission" of science, by unfolding the laws of nature, to disabuse our minds of idle and superst.i.tious fears; to break up that vague terror of unseen forces, which is the chief element of superst.i.tion. If they may fight this battle in England, may we not fight the battle of truth with error and ignorance in Hindostan? Englishmen think it a n.o.ble thing for brave and adventurous spirits to form expeditions to penetrate the interior of Africa to break up the slave trade. But here is a slavery the most terrible which ever crushed the life out of human beings.

Brahminism, which is fastened upon the people of India, embraces them like an anaconda, clasping and crushing them in its mighty folds. It is a devouring monster, which takes out of the very body of every Hindoo, poor and naked and wretched as he may be, its pound of quivering flesh. Can these things be, and we look on unmoved? Can we see a whole people bound, like Laoc.o.o.n and his sons, in the grasp of the serpent, writhing and struggling in vain, and not come to their rescue?

Such is Hindooism, and such is the condition to which it has reduced the people of India. Do we need any other argument for Christian missions? Does not this simple statement furnish a perfect defence, and even an imperative demand for their establishment? Christianity is the only hope of India. In saying this I do not intend any disrespect to the people of this country, to whom I feel a strong attraction. We are not apt to hear from our missionary friends much about the virtues of the heathen; but virtues they have, which it were wrong to ignore.

The Hindoos, like other Asiatics, are a very domestic people, and have strong domestic attachments. They love their homes, humble though they be, and their children. And while they have not the active energy of Western races, yet in the pa.s.sive virtues--meekness, patience under injury, submission to wrong--they furnish an example to Christian nations. That submissiveness, which travellers notice, and which moves some to scorn, moves me rather to pity, and I find in this patient, long-suffering race much to honor and to love. Nor are they unintelligent. They have very subtle minds. Thus they have many of the qualities of a great people. But their religion is their destruction.

It makes them no better, it makes them worse. It does not lift them up, it drags them down. It is the one terrible and overwhelming curse, that must be removed before there is any hope for the people of India.

Is there not here a legitimate ground for an attempt on the part of the civilized and Christian world to introduce a better faith into that mighty country which holds two hundred millions of the human race? This is not intrusion, it is simple humanity. In seeking to introduce Christianity into India, we invade no right of any native of that country, Mohammedan or Hindoo; we would not wantonly wound their feelings, nor even shock their prejudices, in attacking their hereditary faith. But we claim that here is a case where we cannot keep silent. If we are told that we "interfere with the people," we answer, that we interfere as the Good Samaritan interfered with the man who fell among thieves, and was left by the roadside to die; as the physician in the hospital interferes with those dying of the cholera; as one who sees a brother at his side struck by a deadly serpent applies his mouth to the wound, to suck the poison from his blood! If that be interference, it is interference where it would be cruelty to stand aloof, for he would be less than man who could be unmoved in presence of misery so vast, which it was in any degree in his power to relieve.

Thus India itself is the sufficient argument for missions in India.

Let any one visit this country, and study its religion, and see how it enters into the very life of the people; how all social intercourse is regulated by caste; how one feels at every instant the pressure of an ancient and unchangeable religion, and ask how its iron rule is ever to be broken? Who shall deliver them from the body of this death?

There is in Hindooism no power of self-cure. For ages it has remained the same, and will remain for ages still. Help, if it come at all, must come from without, and where else can it come from, but from lands beyond the sea?

Therefore it is that the Christian people of England and America come to the people of India, not in a tone of self-righteousness, a.s.suming that we are better than they, but in the name of humanity, of the brotherhood of the human race. We believe that "G.o.d hath made of one blood all nations of men to dwell on the face of the earth," and these Hindoos, though living on the other side of the globe, are our brothers. They are born into the same world; they belong to the same human family, and have the same immortal destiny. To such a people, capable of great things, but crushed and oppressed, we come to do them good. We would break the terrible bondage of caste, and bring forth woman out of the prison-house where she pa.s.ses her lonely existence. This involves a social as well as a religious revolution.

But what a sigh of relief would it bring to millions who, under their present conditions, are all their lifetime subject to bondage.

There is a saying in the East that in India the flowers yield no perfume, the birds never sing, and the women never smile. Of course this is an exaggeration, and yet it has a basis of truth. It is true that the flowers of the tropics, though often of brilliant hues, do not yield the rich perfume of the roses of our Northern clime; and many of the birds whose golden plumage flashes sunlight in the deep gloom of tropical forests, have only a piercing shriek, instead of the soft, delicious notes of the robin and the dove; and the women have a downcast look. Well may it be so. They lead a secluded and solitary life. Shut up in their zenanas, away from society, they have no part in many of the joys of human existence, though they have more than their share of life's burdens and its woes. No wonder that their faces should be sad and sorrowful. Thus the whole creation seems to groan and travail in pain.

Now we desire to dispel the darkness and the gloom of ages, and to bring smiles and music and flowers once more into this stricken world.

Teaching a religion of love and good will to men, we would cure the hatred of races, and bring all together in a common brotherhood. We would so lift up the poor of this world, that sorrow and sighing shall flee away, and that every lowly Indian hut shall be filled with the light of a new existence. In that day will not nature share in the joy of man's deliverance? Then will the birds begin to sing, as if they were let loose from the gates of heaven to go flying through the earth, and to fill our common air with the voice of melody. Then shall smiles be seen once more on human faces; not the loud cackling of empty laughter; but smiles breaking through tears (the reflection of a peace that pa.s.seth understanding), shall spread like sunshine over the sad faces of the daughters of Asia.

But some "old Indian" who has listened politely, yet smiling and incredulous, to this defence of missions, may answer, "All this is very fine; no doubt it would be a good thing if the people of India would change their religion; would cast off Hindooism, and adopt Christianity. But is it not practically impossible? Do all the efforts of missionaries really amount to anything." This is a fair question, and I will try to give it a fair answer.

"Do missionaries do any good?" Perhaps we can best answer the question by drawing the picture of an Indian village, such as one may see at thousands of points scattered over the country. It is a cl.u.s.ter of huts, constructed sometimes with a light frame-work of bamboo, filled in with matting, but more commonly of mud, with a roof of thatch to prevent its being washed away in the rainy season. These huts are separated from each other by narrow lanes that can hardly be dignified with the name of streets. Yet in such a hamlet of hovels, hardly fit for human habitation, may be a large population. Every doorway is swarming with children. On the outskirts of the village is _the missionary bungalow_, a large one-story house, also built of mud, but neatly whitewashed and protected from the rains by a heavy thatched roof, which projects over the walls, and shades the broad veranda. In the "compound" are two other buildings of the same rude material and simple architecture, a church and a schoolhouse. In the latter are gathered every day ten, twenty, fifty--perhaps a hundred--children, with bare feet and poor garments, though clean, but with bright eyes, and who seem eager to learn. All day long comes from that low building a buzz and hum as from a hive of bees. Every Sunday is gathered in the little chapel a congregation chiefly of poor people, plainly but neatly dressed, and who, as they sit there, reclaimed from heathenism, seem to be "clothed and in their right minds." To the poor the Gospel is preached, and never does it show its sweetness and power, as when it comes down into such abodes of poverty, and gives to these humble natives a new hope and a new life--a life of joy and peace. Perhaps in the same compound is an orphanage, in which are gathered the little castaways who have been deserted by their parents, left by the roadside to die--or whose parents may have died by cholera--and who are thus rescued from death, and given the chance which belongs to every human creature of life and of happiness.

Perhaps the missionary is a little of a physician, and has a small chest of medicines, and the poor people come to him for cures of their bodily ailments, as well as for their spiritual troubles. After awhile he gains their confidence, and becomes, not by any appointment, but simply by the right of goodness and the force of character, a sort of unofficial magistrate, or head man of the village, a general peacemaker and benefactor. Can any one estimate the influence of such a man, with his gentle wife at his side, who is also active both in teaching and in every form of charity? Who does not see that such a missionary bungalow, with its school, its orphanage, and its church, and its daily influences of teaching and of example, is a centre of civilization, when planted in the heart of an Indian village?

How extensive is this influence will of course depend on the many or the few devoted to this work, and the wisdom and energy with which they pursue it. The number of missionaries in India is very small compared with the vast population. And yet the picture here drawn of one village is reproduced in hundreds of villages. Take the representatives of all the churches and societies of Protestant Christendom, they would make a very respectable force. But even this does not represent the full amount of influence they exert. Moral influences cannot be weighed and measured like material forces. Nor are missionaries to be counted, like the soldiers of an army. They are not drawn up on parade, and do not march through the streets, with gleaming bayonets. Their forces are scattered, and their work is silent and unseen.

But in all quiet ways, by churches, schools, and orphanages, their influence is felt; while by the printing-press they scatter religious truth all over India, the effect of which, in tens of thousands of those whom it does not "convert," is to destroy the power of their old idolatry.

That more Hindoos do not openly embrace Christianity is not surprising, when one considers the social influences which restrain them. When a Hindoo becomes a Christian, he is literally an outcast.

His most intimate friends will not know him. His own family turn him from their door, feeling that he has brought upon them a disgrace far greater than if he had committed a crime for which he was to perish on the scaffold. To them he is _dead_, and they perform his funeral rites as if he were no more in this world. The pastor of the native church in Bombay has thus been _buried_ or _burned_ by his own family.

Another told me that his own father turned from him in the street, and refused to recognize him. These things are very hard to bear. And so far from wondering that there are not more conversions among the natives of India, I wonder that there are so many.

But what sort of Christians are they? Are they like English or American Christians? When I landed in India, and saw what a strange people I was among, how unlike our own race, I asked a question which many have asked before: Whether these people _could_ become Christians? It is a favorite idea of many travellers--and of many English residents in India--that not only is the number of conversions small, but that the "converts" are not worth having when they are made. It is said that it is only low caste natives, who have nothing to lose, that will desert their old religion; and that they are influenced only by the lowest motives, and that while they profess to be converted, they are in no wise changed from what they were, except that to their old heathen vices they have added that of hypocrisy.

Hearing these things, I have taken some pains to ascertain what sort of people these native converts are. I have attended their religious services, and have met them socially, and, so far as I could judge, I have never seen more simple-minded Christians. Some of them are as intelligent as the best instructed members of our New England churches. As to their low caste, statistics show, among them, a greater proportion of Brahmins than of any other caste, as might be expected from their greater intelligence.

The work, then, has not been in vain. The advance is slow, but it is something that there _is_ an advance. I am told, as the result of a careful estimate, that if the progress continues in the future as it has for the last fifteen years, in two centuries the whole of India with its two hundred millions of people, will be converted to the Christian religion. This is a spread of Christianity more rapid than that in the age of the apostles, for it was three centuries before the faith which they preached became master of the Roman empire.

With such a record of what Christian Missions have done in India, with such evidences of their good influence and growing power, they are ent.i.tled to honor and respect as one of the great elements in the problem of the future of that country. To speak of them flippantly, argues but small acquaintance with the historical forces which have hitherto governed India or indeed Britain itself. It ill becomes Englishmen to sneer at missions, for to missionaries they owe it that their island has been reclaimed from barbarism. When Augustine landed in Britain their ancestors were clothed in skins, and roaming in forests. It was the new religion that softened their manners, refined their lives, and in the lapse of generations wrought out the slow process of civilization.

In Johnson's "Tour to the Hebrides," he refers to the early missionaries who civilized Britain in a pa.s.sage which is one of the most eloquent in English literature: "We were now treading that ill.u.s.trious island which was once the luminary of the Caledonian regions, whence savage clans and roving barbarians derived the benefits of knowledge and the blessings of religion.... Far from me and from my friends, be such frigid philosophy as may conduct us indifferent and unmoved over any ground which has been dignified by wisdom, bravery or virtue. That man is little to be envied whose patriotism would not gain force upon the plain of Marathon, or whose piety would not grow warmer among the ruins of Iona."

That power which has made England so great; which has made the English race the foremost race in all this world; is now carried to another hemisphere to work the same gradual elevation in the East. It is a mighty undertaking. The lifting up of a race is like the lifting up of a continent. Such changes cannot come suddenly; but in the slow lapse of ages the continent may be found to have risen, and to be covered, as it were, with a new floral vegetation; as that faith, which is the life of Europe, has entered into the vast populations of Asia.

CHAPTER XX.

BENARES, THE HOLY CITY.

We had begun to feel ourselves at home in India. A stranger takes root quickly, as foreign plants take root in the soil, and spring up under the sun and rain of the tropics. A traveller makes acquaintances that ripen into friendship and bind him so fast that it is a real pain when he has to break away and leave these new friends behind. Thus Allahabad had become our Indian home. The missionary community was so delightful, and everybody was so kind and hospitable, that we had come to feel as if we were only in an outlying corner of America. The missionary bungalow was like a parsonage in New England; and when we left all, and the train rolled across the long bridge over the Jumna, from which we saw Miss Seward and Miss Wilson standing on their veranda, and waving us farewell, it seemed as if we were leaving home.

But the holy city was before us. Some seventy miles from Allahabad stands a city which, to the devout Hindoo, is the most sacred place on earth--one which overtops all others, as the Himalayas overtop all other mountains on the globe. There are holy shrines in different countries, which are held sacred by the devotees of different religions; but there are four chief holy cities--Rome, Jerusalem, Mecca, and Benares. As the devout Catholic makes a pilgrimage to Rome, to receive the blessing of the Holy Father; as the Jew traverses land and sea, that his feet may stand within the gates of Jerusalem, where he weeps at the place of wailing under the walls of the ancient temple; as the caravan of the Arab still crosses the desert to Mecca; so does the devout Hindoo come to Benares, and count it his supreme joy if he can but see its domes and towers; and eternal felicity to die on the banks of the sacred river.

A couple of hours brought us to the Ganges, from which we had a full view of the city on the other side of the river. If the first sight did not awaken in us the same emotions as in the mind of the Hindoo, the scene was picturesque enough to excite our admiration. The appearance of Benares is very striking. For two miles it presents a succession of palaces and temples which are built not only on, but almost in, the river, as Venice is built in the sea; the huge structures crowding each other on the bank, and flights of steps going down into the water, as if they would receive the baptism of the sacred river as it flowed gently by; as if the people listened fondly to its murmurs, and when wakened in their dreams, were soothed to hear its waters lapping the very stones of their palaces.

We crossed the river on a bridge of boats, and drove out to the English quarter, which is two or three miles distant, and here rested an hour or two before we took a courier and plunged into the labyrinth of the city, in which a stranger would soon be lost who should attempt to explore it without a guide. Benares would be well worth a visit if it were only for its Oriental character. It is peculiarly an Indian city, with every feature of Asiatic and of Indian life strongly marked. Its bazaars are as curious and as rich as any in Asia, with shawls of cashmere, and silks wrought by fine needlework into every article of costly array. It has also cunning workmen in precious metals and precious stones--in gold and silver and diamonds. One special industry is workmanship in bra.s.s. We brought away a number of large trays, curiously wrought like shields. One contains a lesson in Hindoo mythology for those who are able to read it, as on it are traced all the incarnations of Vishnu.

While thus rambling about the city, we had an opportunity to see something of the marriage customs of the Hindoos, as we met in the streets a number of wedding processions. The heavenly influences were favorable to such unions. The Hindoos are great astrologers, and give high importance to the conjunction of the stars, and do not marry except when Jupiter is in the ascendant. Just now he rides high in the heavens, and this is the favored time of love. The processions were very curious. The bridegroom was mounted on horseback, tricked out in the dress of a harlequin, with a crowd on horses and on foot, going before and following after, waving flags, beating drums, and making all manner of noises, to testify their joy; while the bride, who was commonly a mere child, was borne in a palanquin, covered with ribbons and trinkets and jewelry, looking, as she sat upright in her doll's house, much more as if she were a piece of frosted cake being carried to the wedding, than a living piece of flesh and blood that had any part therein. Altogether the scene was more like a Punch-and-Judy show, than any part of the serious business of life. Engagements are often made when the parties are in childhood, or even in infancy; and the marriage consummated at twelve. These child-marriages are a great curse to the country, as they fill the land with their puny offspring, that wither like weeds in the hot sun of India. It is a pity that they could not be prohibited; that marriages could not be forbidden until the parties had reached at least sixteen years of age.

Another thing which greatly amused us was to see how the people made way for us wherever we came. The streets are very narrow, and there is not room for a jostling crowd. But their politeness stopped at no obstacle. They meant to give us a free pa.s.sage. They drew to one side, making themselves very small, and even hugging the wall, to get out of our way. We accepted this delicate attention as a mark of respect, which we thought a touching proof of Oriental courtesy; and with the modesty of our countrymen, regarded it as an homage to our greatness.

We were a little taken aback at being informed that, on the contrary, it was to avoid pollution; that if they but touched the hem of our garments, they would have had to run to the Ganges to wash away the stain!

But we need not make merry with these strict observances of the people, for with them Religion is the great business of life, and it is as the Mecca of their faith that Benares has such interest for the intelligent traveller. No city in India, perhaps none in all Asia, dates back its origin to a more remote antiquity. It is the very cradle of history and of religion. Here Buddha preached his new faith centuries before Christ was born in Judea--a faith which still sways a larger part of mankind than any other, though it has lost its dominion in the place where it began. Here Hindooism, once driven out, still fought and conquered, and here it still has its seat, from which it rules its vast and populous empire.

It is always interesting to study a country or a religion in its capital. As we go to Rome to see Romanism, we come to Benares to see Hindooism, expecting to find it in its purest form. Whether that is anything to boast of, we can tell better after we have seen a little of this, its most holy city. Benares is full of temples and shrines.

Of course we could only visit a few of the more sacred. The first that we entered was like a menagerie. It was called the Monkey Temple; and rightly so, for the place was full of the little creatures. It fairly swarmed with them. They were overhead and all around us, chattering as if they were holding a council in the heart of a tropical forest. The place was for all the world like the monkey-house in the Zoological Gardens in London, or in our Central Park in New York, and would be an amusing resort for children were it not regarded as a place for religious worship. Perhaps some innocent traveller thinks this a touching proof of the charming simplicity of the Hindoos, that they wish to call on all animated nature to unite in devotion, and that thus monkeys (speaking the language which monkeys understand) are permitted to join with devout Hindoos in the worship of their common Creator. But a glance shows the stranger that the monkeys are here, not to worship, but to be worshipped. According to the Pantheism of the Hindoos, all things are a part of G.o.d. Not only is he the author of life, but he lives in his creatures, so that they partake of his divinity; and therefore whatsoever thing liveth and moveth on the earth--beast, or bird, or reptile--is a proper object of worship.

But the monkeys were respectable compared with the hideous idol which is enthroned in this place. In the court of the Temple is a shrine, a Holy of Holies, where, as the gilded doors are swung open, one sees a black divinity, with thick, sensual lips, that are red with blood, and eyes that glare fiendishly. This is the G.o.ddess Doorgha, whose sacred presence is guarded by Brahmin priests, so that no profane foot may come near her. While they kept us back with holy horror from approaching, they had no scruples about reaching out their hands to receive our money. It is the habit of strangers to drop some small coin in the outstretched palms. But I was too much disgusted to give to the beggars. They were importunate, and said the Prince of Wales, who was there a few days before, had given them a hundred rupees.

Perhaps he felt under a necessity of paying such a mark of respect to the religion of the great Empire he was to rule. But ordinary travellers are under no such obligation. The rascals trade in the curiosity of strangers. It might be well if they did not find it such a source of revenue. So I would not give them a penny; though I confess to spending a few pice on nuts and "sweets" for the monkeys, who are the only ones ent.i.tled to "tribute" from visitors; and then, returning to the gharri, we rode disgusted away. In another part of the city is the Golden Temple, devoted to the G.o.d Shiva, which divides with that of the monkeys the homage of the Hindoos. Here are no chattering apes, though the place is profaned with the presence of beasts and birds. Some dozen cows were standing or lying down in the court, making it seem more like a stable or a barnyard than a holy place. Yet here was a fakir rapt in the ecstasies of devotion, with one arm uplifted, rigid as a pillar of iron. He was looked upon with awe by the faithful who crowded around him, and who rewarded his sanct.i.ty by giving him money; but to our profane eyes he was a figure of pride (though disguised under the pretence of spirituality), as palpable to the sight as the peac.o.c.k who spread his tail and strutted about in the filthy enclosure.

But perhaps the reader will think that we have had enough of this, and will gladly turn to a less revolting form of superst.i.tion. The great sight of Benares is the bathing in the Ganges. This takes place in the morning. We rose early the next day, and drove down to the river, and getting a boat, were rowed slowly for hours up and down the stream. It is lined with temples and palaces, which descend to the water by flights of steps, or _ghauts_, which at this hour are thronged with devout Hindoos. By hundreds and thousands they come down to the river's brink, men, women, and children, and wade in, not swimming, but standing in the water, plunging their heads and mumbling their prayers, and performing their libations, by taking the water in their hands, and casting it towards the points of the compa.s.s, as an act of worship to the celestial powers, especially to the sun.

As the boatmen rested on their oars, that we might observe the strange scene, C---- started with horror to see a corpse in the water. It was already half decayed, and obscene birds were fluttering over it. But this is too common a sight in Benares to raise any emotion in the breast of the Hindoo, whose prayer is that he may die on the banks of the Ganges. Does his body drift down with the stream, or become food for the fowls of the air, his soul floats to its final rest in the Deity, as surely as the Ganges rolls onward to the sea.

But look! here is another scene. We are approaching the Burning Ghaut, and I see piles of wood, and human bodies, and smoke and flame. I bade the boatmen draw to the sh.o.r.e, that we might have a clearer view of this strange sight. Walking along the bank, we came close to the funeral piles. Several were waiting to be lighted. When all is ready, the nearest male relative walks round and round the pile, and then applies to it a lighted withe of straw. Here was a body just dressed for the last rites. It was wrapped in coa.r.s.e garments, perhaps all that affection could give. Beside it stood a woman, watching it with eager eyes, lest any rude hand should touch the form which, though dead, was still beloved. I looked with pity into her sad, sorrowful face. What a tale of affection was there!--of love for the life that was ended, and the form that was cherished, that was soon to be but ashes, and to float away upon the bosom of the sacred river.

Another pile was already lighted, and burning fiercely. I stood close to it, till driven away by the heat and smoke. As the flames closed round the form, portions of the body were exposed. Now the hair was consumed in a flash, leaving the bare skull; now the feet showed from the other end of the pile. It was a ghastly sight. Now a horrid smell filled the air, and still the pile glowed like a furnace, crackling with the intense heat, and shot out tongues of flame that seemed eager to lick up every drop of blood.

In this disposal of the dead there is nothing to soothe the mourner like a Christian burial, when the body is committed to the earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, when a beloved form is laid down under the green turf gently, as on a mother's breast.

The spectacle of this morning, with the similar one at Allahabad, have set me a-thinking. I ask, What idea do the Hindoos attach to bathing in the Ganges? Is it purification or expiation, or both? Is it the putting away of sin by the washing of water; the cleansing of the body for the sins of the soul? Or is there in it some idea of atonement?

What is the fascination of this religious observance? Perhaps no stranger can fully understand it, or enter into the feeling with which the devout Hindoo regards the sacred river. The problem grows the more we study it. However we approach the great river of India, we find a wealth of a.s.sociations gathering around it such as belongs to no other river on the face of the earth. No other is so intimately connected with the history and the whole life of a people. Other rivers have poetical or patriotic a.s.sociations. The ancient Romans kept watch on the Tiber, as the modern Germans keep watch on the Rhine. But these are a.s.sociations of country and of patriotic pride--not of life, not of existence, not of religion. In these respects the only river in the world which approaches the Ganges is the Nile, which, coming down from the Highlands of Central Africa, floods the long valley, which it has itself made in the desert, turning the very sands into fertility, and thus becoming the creator and life-giver of Egypt.

What the Nile is to Egypt, the Ganges is to a part of India, giving life and verdure to plains that but for it were a desert. As it bursts through the gates of the Himalayas, and sweeps along with resistless current, cooling with its icy breath the hot plains of India, and giving fertility to the rice fields of Bengal, it may well seem to the Hindoo the greatest visible emblem of Almighty power and Infinite beneficence.

But it is more than an emblem. The ancient Egyptians worshipped the Nile as a G.o.d, and in this they had the same feeling which now exists among the Hindoos in regard to the Ganges. It is not only a sacred river because of its a.s.sociations; it is itself Divine, flowing, like the River of Life in the Book of Revelation, out of the throne of G.o.d.

It descends out of heaven, rising in mountains whose tops touch the clouds--the sacred mountains which form the Hindoo Kylas, or Heaven, the abode of the Hindoo Trinity--of Brahma and Shiva and Vishnu.

Rushing from under a glacier in the region of everlasting snow, it seems as if it gushed from the very heart of the Dweller on that holy mount; as if that flowing stream were the life-blood of the Creator.