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and late researches have tended to verify this tradition. There is every reason to believe that the government by nomes, or districts, grew out of this system of irrigation. Each nome seems early to have felt the necessity of looking after its own interests, and to have begun a system of irrigation to meet its requirements. The nomes existed long prior to any historic period, and each exercised its own independent government, apparently in the patriarchal form. There were forty-two of these nomes, each quite distinct from the others. Bunsen concludes that these nomes existed separately 6000 years before Menes, but Bunsen’s dates are largely imaginative, and, yet, we must acknowledge that he was very learned, generally judicious, and thoroughly honest in all his re. searches. After a time these nomes combined, and later still they became united into separate kingdoms, the one of Upper and the other of Lower Egypt. Under Menes, or rather under an unknown predecessor, the kingdom of Upper Egypt was reduced to subjection by the king of Lower Egypt, and the kings of this united kingdom always after bore the double title of Upper and Lower Egypt, and wore the double crown. From the facts which we have considered, we are led to the conclusion that the civilization of Egypt carries us back to a very remote period. The establishment of the monarchy cannot have been less than 4000 years before Christ, but this rests upon a previous period, which we are not able to define, and regarding which we can only say that then the Egyptian language and writing, art and religion, society and government, were being developed. We are confident too that the scene of this development must have been the Nile valley. The writing, and especially the religion, and the system of government bear too strongly the impress of the peculiar features of the country to admit any doubt of this. We are not inclined to attempt assigning any dates to this prehistoric period, for it cannot possibly be done. The prehistoric development must have been slow, and we can only repeat that we must calculate it by cycles and not by years. But we must bear in mind that when we have marked the origin of that distinct Egyptian development we have only reached one lengthened stage backward in the history

of the Egyptian people. Though the Egyptian language never reached great perfection, for it early became stratified in what we may call the Miocene state, between the monosyllabic and the confixative, yet there is enough to assure us that it is of the Semitic branch, and we are carried back to the home of the Semitic family in Central Asia; we have to watch the growth of the Semitic people till they became numerous and formed themselves into separate tribes; we have to notice the development of distinct dialects; we have to trace the successive advance from the rudest state to the nomadic, the pas. toral, and there is reason to believe the earlier forms of agricultural life. Then we must follow them in their migrations till their settlement in Egypt. Sir William Dawson displays a most lamentable ignorance when he assigns one generation to the period between the flood and the establishment of the Egyptian monarchy. We think that we have shown the utter absurdity of such an idea. We have confined ourselves to the development of Egyptian civilization, because this is the field that Sir William has chosen, but the development of other nations of antiquity reveals very similar facts. The Aryans, and especially the Indians or Sanskritspeaking people, at a very early period developed civilizations essentially different from that of the Egyptians, yet equally remarkable. The Indians were the last to leave the home of the Aryan family; they had seen the Celts, and Teutons, and the GraecoItalic tribes leave, and turn their faces westward, before they, in company with the Persians, directed their course to the East. From the first book of the Zendavesta we learn that the combined Indians and Persians travelled north-east, but later turned toward the Himalayas. These migrations must have occupied a long time, for the Wendidad mentions sixteen lands which they visited, and where they made lengthened sojourns, for linguistic deposits from this Indo-Persic migration are still discernible. The quarrel which resulted in the separation of the Indians and Persians took place after the passage of the Himalayas, yet subsequently to this period the Indians and the Persians each developed their respective systems, which are in every respect very different from one another, but which, nevertheless, appear in their most perfect form in the earliest of the Vedas, and in the Avesta. In the earliest of the Vedas the Sanskrit language, with its remarkably full and perfect grammar, is in its highest development—a development only compatible with the highest civilization; but the language of the Vedas had already become hieratic in its character and had ceased to be the common language of the people. The language also of the Avesta, the Zend, was a dead language in the time of Alexander. Here again we have to do with cycles during which the civilization of the

Indians or the Persians was developed—a civilization which was already effete at the time of the composition of the Vedas or of the Avesta, if we may judge from the language as well as from the character of these works respectively. In whatever direction we study the development of the Semitic or the Aryan nations, we cannot fail to be impressed with the antiquity of their civilization, and we cannot accept those chronological tables which assign a limited period to this development and which are based on data utterly inadequate.—Westminster Review.

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THERE is a charm in India which cannot be defined. It may be the infinite variety of form, color, and character in every-day life, it may be that here more than in any other land the past is not a dead past. You live among palaces, men, and manners which have remained unchanged for centuries, while you see the strong rule of a conquering modern race, not destroying but organizing the empire to which it has succeeded, and, by virtue of your English birth, you become, not a mere student of bygone history, but an actual part of that great drama which is continually unrolled “from the silent hills to the sounding sea.”

After the English traveller has duly admired the stately modern buildings and the gay native bazaar of Bombay, a city which East and West have combined to rear as a fitting portal to their joint land, perhaps the first thing which strikes him is the immensity of India. He may have been told that India is not a country but a continent inhabited by races speaking a hundred and six different languages besides dialects, but it is not till he begins to journey from place to place that he realizes the vast distances which he must traverse. Now he ascends among precipitous mountains whose summits are flattened into the semblance of giant fortifications by the tropical storms, now the train bears him through marshy paddy-fields often under floods over which the natives paddle their little boats, while the rising or setting sun glows through the palm

trees, turning the muddy waters to vivid red. Again he crosses interminable plains soon to be rich with corn and grain of every kind, or with yellow-flowering cotton, unless perchance he finds himself in some stony wilderness where a ready legend explains that Hanouman's monkeys dropped great boulders on their way from the Himalayas to build a bridge to Ceylon over which the great hero Rama might pass to the rescue of his lost Sita. In the Deccan, castle after castle rises on little mounds fortified like Norman strongholds. In Oude the villages are fortresses surrounded by mud walls and telling their own story of tribal disputes and midnight raids. The district, however, which brings most vividly before the mind the days of wild horsemen scouring the fields and sweeping down the mountain passes is Rajpootana, where the descendants of genuine feudal chiefs still keep their feudal state. The capital of any one among them may stand for a type of the rest. The palace, a graceful irregular mass of buildings, with its zenana, armory, and durbar hall, surrounds a courtyard in which saunter and squat armed and unarmed retainers. The interior is decorated in a compromise between Oriental and European taste—the more Oriental the better, as when an untravelled native noble begins to invest in English furniture, the result is apt to suggest a modern hotel furnished on the sweating ' The great object in any case is to hang the ceilings with as many chandeliers and colored glass balls as possible. The walls and columns are generally gayly painted, and a favorite fancy is a “hall of mirrors” in which walls and ceiling are inlaid with innumerable little looking-glasses or pieces of talc, or of colored glass. Occasionally you find a durbar hall with real marble carved columns worthy of all admiration. The idea of order is still far to seek. At the entrance of the finest palace you find the shoes, bedding, and old clothes of the guards thrown about, and piled up promiscuously; and framed cuttings from illustrated papers, cheap prints, or photographs will be nailed up quite crooked on decorated palace walls. The hall of the old Palace of Tanjore in the south, which is used as a depository for the royal valuables, contains among its treasures a framed colored advertisement of Coats's cotton. To return to Rajpootana. The chiefs themselves are generally handsome young men, gorgeously attired in long silk or velvet coats and tightly fitting colored trousers; their turbans on state occasions glitter with gems, and they wear splendid necklaces of pearls and diamonds. Their manners are courteous and they are most hospitable to visitors. Some who have been educated in the Rajcot College speak English well. Those of their subjects who can trace their descent to a common ancestor form their clan and may number hundreds, or even thousands, varying in wealth and position from the highest zemindar to the poorest ryot, but all claiming a species of equality. At Jeypore the rich young blood-relations of the Maharajah from whom he claims feudal service are obliged, in addition to their country seats, to have town houses, in order to attend the special class in his college which has been formed for their instruction. This college educates boys of all classes; the chiefs are taught apart from the others, and their studies are less severe, but it is hoped “to make men of them.” This shows wisdom and foresight. Hitherto education has been mainly confined to the middle-classes, and the natural leaders of the people have allowed themselves to be outstripped in the intellectual race. Sons of clerks and shopkeepers graduate in the Calcutta and Bombay universities, studying in the local colleges and going up to the centres for examination. By dint of the marvellous

memory and calculating powers of the Hindu, they acquire a verbal acquaintance with English literature and a knowledge of mathematics which are astounding. These are the men who, instigated by discontented English agitators, demand “representative institutions.” They cannot dig, and though they cannot justly be accused of being ashamed to beg, they would prefer the chance of voting themselves large salaries for exercising their undeniably fluent powers of speech. Most of the native States have colleges, high schools, and jails on approved systems. When you see such generous and enlightened rulers as, for instance, the Maharajah of Bhownuggur, the impression carried away is that the British raj exercises a wise discretion in allowing these provinces to continue under native government, with the assistance of British Residents and Agents, if only caution is observed in not bestowing the much-coveted rewards and decorations on the chiefs when they first succeed to their dominions. Those who have worked hard and spent their revenues to improve the condition of their subjects well deserve recognition ; but if young gentlemen who have been British wards during their minority at once get all they have to hope for, they lose a great incentive to action, and are apt to become careless and absentee rulers. One curious feature is the universal use of the English language for notices and time-tables in institutions under purely native management, as also for the words of command in the armies of native princes. These armies do not look very formidable at present, whatever they may become when drilled by English officers, and brigaded with English troops. The prospect of this drill has given rise to some curious rumors. A Eurasian officer at Ulwur asked whether it was true that the Russians were near at hand, and a battle to be fought in a few days. No one can be surprised at the rapidity with which reports circulate in India when he watches the out-of-door existence led by the people. The day begins at the tanks or river-side. There may be seen numberless men and women washing themselves and their clothes all at once. A woman unrolls one end of her colored sari, or cloth, about eight yards long, and washes that, standing herself meanwhile in the water; then she winds herself up in the wet end, and washes the other—a decorous but uncomfortable fashion of public bathing. The sari, with a very short jacket coming a little way below the shoulders, constitutes the ordinary costume of a southern woman, the sari being wrapped round the legs, and also drawn over the head and shoulders. In the north she generally wears a petticoat and a shorter sari or chuddar worn more like a mantilla. Not only human beings but elephants and buffaloes may at times be seen enjoying a morning bath. The elephants will lie right down in the water, while their attendants scrub them with cocoa-nuts. The rivers have very wide beds which are covered during the rains by rushing streams ; after these subside great expanses are left bare on which pumpkins and water-melons are plentifully grown. From the river one can return to the town and watch the further domestic arrangements of the population. A great deal of hair-dressing goes on, all in the street; many men have their heads shaved bare with the exception of one little tuft on the crown or a strip on either side above the ears; but the style of wearing the hair varies almost as much as the way of tying the turban or the shape of the Hindu cap. Here a man, extended on a bedstead of rope laced backward and forward on a wooden frame, is being rubbed with sandal-wood oil, there a woman is adorning the space in front of her door by sticking little yellow flowers into the earth ; here again are girls coming from the well bearing on their heads polished brass lotas, or carthenware chatties ; there are the bheesties carrying the water in skins tucked under their arms, or in vessels piled one above the other in nets suspended from the long poles which they carry over the shoulder. Everywhere are little brown babies whose sole costume is a piece of string tied round their waists, and possibly bracelets or anklets. Now pass flocks of goats to the milking, or little humped bullocks drawing rough wooden carts or carrying burdens ; perhaps a line of camels fastened together with total disregard of their comfort by means of a string tied to the tail of one and passed through the nostrils of his companion immediately following. Here comes a merchant borne in a palki or a great man reclining in a carriage driven by a gayly but untidily clad coachman and preceded by mounted sowars carrying little flags on lances.

Turning into the bazaar, the scene is even more animated. On either side of the narrow street are little open shops, like platforms raised about a couple of feet from the ground, sheltered by projecting awnings of bamboo, thatch, or tiles. The side-posts and lintels are sometimes, as at Muttra, curiously carved ; sometimes, as at Baroda, gaudily painted red, green, and yellow. On the platform the master of the establishment often spreads his charpoy and bolster, such a bed as the healed paralytic would have carried away with him, and waits placidly for the bargaining customers. Even the pie, about a third of a farthing, is not minute enough for native transactions, and a pile of cowrie shells by his side represents yet smaller change. Here you see every kind of petty ware in process of manufacture or displayed for sale—grain of all kinds, pink and yellow flowers to offer in the temple or to hang round the neck of an honored guest, tempting gold and silver braid, colored cloths folded as they arrived from Manchester, or held out to dry as they are drawn fresh from the dyeing vat. Boys squat with strings tied to their toes which they are twisting ready for bead necklaces; men are concocting from sugar, milk, cocoa, and gram, the endless variety of sweetmeats dear to the native palate ; women are grinding corn with circular stones, or spinning cotton with rudelyfashioned handwheels. Heavy silver ornaments and glittering native jewelry with imitation stones attract the young wives —nose-rings, earrings, anklets, and particularly the lac bracelets which have to be squeezed over the hand without breaking previous to payment, at the expense of a crushing of bones which brings tears to the eyes. Native women, moreover, often have their arms elaborately tattooed, but this custom does not obtain among the men. Cheap purchases are made standing in the street, but if you wish to indulge in more costly wares you are invited inside, and perhaps to an upper room. Then a lengthy process of weighing silver goods or gold-worked cloth in scales against rupees, and of wearisome bargainings, has to be gone through. It begins with the unvarying protest that the vendor does not tell lies and asks the price he means to take, and ends with his acceptance of such a deduction as you are strongminded enough to insist upon.

As the day wears on, wedding parties perambulate the streets, women come bearing on their heads baskets of bridal gifts, and if the marriage is a tolerably rich one the bridegroom approaches mounted on an elephant and preceded by nautch girls. Evening falls suddenly. One minute you have clear daylight, the next a gorgeous western sky, and before you have gazed your fill at its beauty comes darkness with twinkling stars. The natives will not retire yet awhile to their closely packed houses. They light little fires out of doors and, squatted around them, gossip far into the night. If you drive through the town at midnight, you may see figures wrapped in blankets or quilts lying everywhere, under verandas, on the ledges of shops, on bedsteads in the road. It almost looks like a city where the plague has stricken down the inhabitants, but it only indicates that the wise Hindu has chosen the open air of heaven for his bed as well as for his dressing-room. Many who rent little shops in the town live in surrounding villages, and certainly their cottages do not strike one as attractive abodes. A mud-hovel roofed with tiles, the light let in through the door and a few holes in the walls, was the dwellingplace of a Brahmin and his family, seven persons in all, in a village near Benares. Two rooms opened into each other, and the inner one into a little court with a kind of cooking shed beyond. The sole contents appeared to be two bedsteads, one or two brass vessels, a couple of small idols, and a few ragged articles of clothing. On account of his sacred caste the Brahmin was allowed to live rent-free, and he possessed two acres of land and two cows. He supplemented the income derived from these by begging in a neighboring temple, a fact which he announced with much satisfaction. The middle-class Hindus are beginning to furnish their houses with considerable comfort. We saw the bedroom of one at Madras provided with punkah and mosquito curtains, and adorned with highly colored pictures of the gods, and with colored prints of events in their lives got up in Religious Tract Society style. Apart from their beautiful embroideries and their hereditary skill in inlaying, in carving patterns in wood and stone, and in working in brass, the Hindus of to-day

have little idea of art in the European sense of the word. English ears find native music and singing somewhat shrill and monotonous. Painting and sculpture reached their Indian acme in the days of the Moghuls, and the limitations of the Mahommedan religion prevented any attempts at representation of the human form. The great Akbar, indeed, liberal in this as in all other ways, thought that the study of the divine handiwork tended to greater reverence for the Deity, but even he could not reverse the bigotry of his creed. Nevertheless masterpieces of paintings executed in India in his day still exist, though almost entirely as illustrations in books. A Persian translation of the Ramayana in the possession of Colonel Hanna at Delhi, and of the Mahabharata belonging to the Maharajah of Jeypore, contain numerous full-page illustrations which, for richness of color, delicacy of outline, and beauty of execution, vie with any French or Italian missal of the Middle Ages. It is needless to dwell on the marble dreams of Delhi and Agra. Every curve of every flower, the pomegranates dropping from the arches, the gossamer tracery of the screens, the jewelled glory of the mosaics will never pass from the memory of those who have seen them, and cannot be shown by pen or pencil to those who have not. The Taj, that fairy palace of a love stronger than death, sprung from sunset clouds and silvered by the moon, has but one fault—it is too perfect. Nothing is left to the imagination. There are no mysterious arches, no unfinished columns, nothing is there that seems to speak of human longing and unfulfilled aspiration; you feel that a conqueror has made Art his slave, and the work is complete; you can demand nothing more exquisite in this world. Nevertheless something is lacking to the original design. The lady of the Taj had desired that Shah Jehan should be buried in another and identical mausoleum, only of black marble, on the opposite side of the Jumna, united with hers by a golden bridge. Aurengzebe, however, said, “My parents are not like those birds which must sleep the male on this side of the river, the female on that,” and he showed his respect of their conjugal affection, as also his economy, by burying Shah Jehan by Arjumund. The splendid Jain temples offer the

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