CHAPTER III.

But—as I was saying when the stern old gentleman was pleased to interrupt me—I am to give you reasons why you are to cultivate your specialty. And I claim, first (as has been implied already), that you should do this because you have a specialty to cultivate. (This, on the principle of the old cook book, which begins its “Recipe for Broiling Hares,” with the straightforward exhortation: “First catch your hare.”) The second reason is, because you will then work more easily and naturally, with the least friction, with the greatest pleasure to yourself and the most advantage to those around you. “Paddle your own canoe,” but paddle it right out into the swift, sure current of your strongest, noblest inclination. Thirdly, by this means you will get into your cranium, _in place of aimless reverie, a resolute aim_. This is where your brother has had his chief intellectual advantage over you. Quicker of wit than he, far less unwieldy in your mental processes, swifter in judgment, and every whit as accurate, you still have felt, when measuring intellectual swords with him, that yours was in your left hand, that his was in his right; and you have felt this chiefly, as I believe, because from the dawn of thought in his sturdy young brain, he has been taught that he must have a definite aim in life if he ever meant to swell the ranks of the somebodies upon this planet, while you have been just as sedulously taught that the handsome prince might whirl past your door “’most any day,” lift you to a seat beside him in his golden chariot and carry you off to his castle in Spain.

And of course you dream about all this; why shouldn’t you? Who wouldn’t? But, my dear friends, dreaming is the poorest of all grindstones on which to sharpen one’s wits. And to my thinking, the rust of woman’s intellect, the canker of her heart, the “worm i’ the bud” of her noblest possibilities has been this aimless reverie; this rambling of the thoughts; this vagueness, which when it is finished, is vacuity. Let us turn our gaze inward, those of us who are not thorough-going workers with brain or hand. What do we find? A wild chaos; a glimmering nebula of fancies; an insipid brain-soup where a few lumps of thought swim in a watery gravy of dreams, and, as nothing can come of nothing, what wonder if no brilliancy of achievement promises to flood our future with its light? Few women, growing up under the present order of things, can claim complete exemption from this grave intellectual infirmity.

Somehow one falls so readily into a sort of mental indolence; one’s thoughts flow onward in a pleasant, gurgling stream, a sort of intellectual lullaby, coming no-whence, going no-whither. Only one thing can help you if you are in this extremity, and that is what your brothers have—the snag of a fixed purpose in this stream of thought. Around this will soon cluster the dormant ideas, hopes, and possibilities that have thus far floated at random. The first one in the idle stream of my life was the purpose, lodged there by my life’s best friend, my mother, to have an education. Then, later on, Charlotte Bronte’s “Shirley” was a tremendous snag in the stream to me. Around that brave and steadfast character clustered a thousand new resolves. I was never quite so steeped in reveries again, though my temptations were unusual; my “Forest Home,” by a Wisconsin river, offering few reminders to my girlish thought, of the wide, wide world and its sore need of workers. The next jog that I got was from the intellectual attrition of a gifted and scholarly woman who asked me often to her home and sent me away laden with volumes of Wordsworth, Niebuhr and the British essayists. Margaret Fuller Ossoli was another fixed point—shall I not rather say a fixed star?—in the sky of my thought, while Arnold of Rugby, to one who meant to make teaching a profession, was chief of all. Well, is it possible that any word I have here written may set some of you thinking—that’s it, _set_ you, a fixed purpose rather than a floating one—about a definite object in life toward which, henceforth, you may bend a steady, earnest gaze? I am not speaking of a thorough intellectual training only. It is rather to the life-work, which only a lifetime can fully compass, that I would direct your thoughts. Rather than that you should fail to have a fixed purpose concerning it, I would that your mental attitude might be like the one confided to me by a charming Philadelphia girl, whose letter of this morning has the following _naïve_ statement:

“I feel such an aching in me to do or be something uncommon, and yet a kind of awful assurance that I never shall.”

Nor do I here refer to that general knowledge of household arts which forms the sole acquirement set forth in the regulation “Women’s Department” of the bygone age newspaper, which in many localities remains in this like the boulder of a past epoch.

It was once thought to be a high virtue for women, no matter how lofty in station or how ample of fortune, to do their own work with the needle. Homer represents Penelope spinning, surrounded by her maids, and classic art abounds with illustrations of like character. But the virtues of one age often become the mistakes of the next. When loom, needle and broom were woman’s only weapons, she did well to handle them deftly, no matter what her rank, for they were her bread-winning implements, and fortune has been proverbially fickle in all ages. But men, by their “witty inventions,” have perpetually encroached on “woman’s sphere.”

Eli Whitney, with his cotton gin, Elias Howe, with his sewing machine, and a hundred other intricate-brained mechanics who have set steel fingers to do in an hour what women’s fingers could not accomplish in a year; all these have combined to revolutionize the daily cares of the gentler sex. With former occupations gone, and the world’s welcome ready when they succeed in special vocations new to them, it becomes not only the privilege but the sacred duty of every woman to cultivate and utilize her _highest_ gift. There is no more practical form of philanthropy than this, for every one who makes a place for herself “higher up” leaves one lower down for some other woman who, but for the vacancy thus afforded her in the world’s close crowded ranks, might be tempted into paths of sin. There is an army of poor girls wholly dependent, for a livelihood, upon the doing of house work. They have no other earthly resource between them and the poor house or haunt of infamy. There is another class to whom an honorable support can come only by sewing or millinery work. Whoever then fits herself for some employment involving better pay and higher social recognition, graduates out of these lower grades and leaves them to those who can not so advance, has helped the world along in a substantial way, because she has added to the sum of humanity’s well being.

To young women in wealthy homes, these considerations should come with even greater convincing force. As David Swing has wisely said to his own rich congregation:

“The rhetoric thrown at women of property for not doing ‘their own work’ could only be useful in an age of fashionable idleness, but in a busy age it is a part of nature’s law that what are called the ‘better classes’ shall leave for the poorer classes some labor to be done, just as the Mosaic law left some sheaves in the field for the gleaner. The world’s work is to be apportioned according to the need and capability of its workers, and the higher order of power must not encroach upon the task which nature seems to have set apart for the employment and support of the less capable.”

Let it not be concluded that I have meant to speak lightly of the intricate, skilled labor involved in making healthful and attractive that bright, consummate flower of a Christian civilization—the home. I have felt that this theme has been so often treated that it needed no amplification at my hands, but I will add that, having been entertained in scores of homes belonging to “exceptional women,” “women with a career,” etc., my testimony is that for wholesomeness, heartsomeness, and every quality that superadds home-making to housekeeping, I have never seen their superiors, and seldom, take them all in all, their peers. But as a rule, these women have earned the “wherewithal” to make a home, by the exercise of some good gift of brain or hand, and thus having been enabled to put a proxy in the kitchen, they direct, but do not attend to the minutiæ of their daily household cares.

Cultivate, then, your specialty, because the independence thus involved will lift you above the world’s pity to the level of its respect, perchance its honor. Understand this first, last, and always: _The world wants the best thing._ It wants your best. It needs you as a significant figure to give its ciphers value; to designate as an example; to serve up in a eulogy, perchance to shine in the galaxy by whose light alone its centuries maintain their places in the firmament of history. I know this may strike you as contradiction, for the paradox of paradoxes is this crotchety but kind, narrow-minded but just old world in which you and I are cast away, like Æneas in the domain of Dido. The effrontery of “Madame Grundy” passes all comprehension, and would be laughable if it were not so sad. She tells us women distinctly that we positively shall not do for society the thing we can do best; she declares that if we attempt it we shall be frowned down, and practically ostracised, if not utterly made away with, and then, if we go right on and succeed, she trumpets our names from sea to shore, showers us with greenbacks, and nods her conventional old head with a knowing “I told you so.” And _per contra_, while on one hand this same unreasonable old lady cripples our attempts to succeed, on the other she snubs us for not doing so. In fact, she is so poor a mathematician that she has never yet so much as tried to learn the value of the “unknown quantity.” The mute Milton is, to her, indeed “inglorious.” Her code of ethics recognizes just one crime (not mentioned in the Decalogue), and it is Failure. Her law is written on a single table—it is a table of stone—and it reads thus: “Succeed and live; make shipwreck of success, and die.”

And so, young friends, fold away your talents in a napkin if you choose; the world will not openly reprove you. She will never urge you to bring out your hidden treasure, but she knows right well when you defraud her, and the relentless old tyrant will punish you, with tireless lash, because you did not bring all your tithes into the storehouse of the common good, because you lived “beneath your privilege;” because, for yourself (which means for _her_), you did not “covet earnestly the best gifts.” She will cut you on the public street when she would have shown you all her teeth in smiles. She will send poverty on your track, when you might have sat down at her banquet an honored guest. Yes, the world wants the best thing; _your best_, and she will smite you stealthily if you do not hand over your gift. Now last, but not least (under the head of reasons for seeking to know your true vocation as a human being), let me bring forward the _rationale_ of the bread-and-butter argument. In sooth, no writer or speaker may omit it with impunity, if he would retire in good order from an American audience. Briefly, then, your specialty, well trained, is your best bread-winning implement, and she who earliest grasps this, and who firmest holds it, comes off best in the race. “Be not simply good, be good for something,” said Henry D. Thoreau. A bright eyed girl of eighteen used to come to me on Friday evenings to give me German lessons. To be sure, I have lived in Germany, and she has never been out of Illinois, but then that language is not my specialty, while it is hers. “How is it that though so young, you have made yourself independent?” I inquired of her one day. Listen to the reply: “My mother was always quoting this saying of Carlyle: ‘The man who has a sixpence commands the world—to the extent of that sixpence.’ I early laid this sentiment to heart. Besides, when I was fifteen years old, I heard a sermon on the text: ‘This one thing I do.’ Being of a practical turn of mind, I made an application of which the preacher, perhaps, had no intention. I thought, why not in everyday affairs as well as in religion do one thing well, rather than many things indifferently, and in that way secure the magic sixpence of Carlyle! My father was a rich man then, but I resolved to prepare myself to teach the German language, of which I was very fond, by way of a profession. When the Chicago fire came we lost our property, but I discovered that I could not only support myself, but help my father to many a convenient sixpence, because, in prosperous days I had forearmed myself with a cultivated specialty.”

As she told me this, I thought how, from widely different premises and conditions in life young people may reach similar conclusions. For instance, on the top of the great St. Bernard, I said to the “Hospitable Father,” a noble young monk, “How is it that you, so gifted and well taught, are spending your life away up here among eternal snows?” And I shall never forget his look of exaltation as he simply answered, “’Tis my vocation.”

After all, this is the vital question: With what sort of a weapon will you ward off the attacks of the blood-hound Poverty, which Dame Fortune is pretty sure to let on everybody’s track sooner or later, that she may try his mettle, and learn what manner of spirit he is of? In times like these, when men’s hearts are failing them for fear, when riches are saved the trouble of “taking to themselves wings” by the faithless cashiers and bookkeepers who are adepts at furnishing these flying implements, and, above all, when labor is coming to be king, the question “_What_ will _you_ do?” has fresh significance. Remember, going forth from the uncertain Eden of your dreams, into the satisfying pleasures of honest, hard work, “the world is all before you, where to choose.” Will you share some other woman’s home, and help her make it beautiful? No task more noble or more needed awaits the thoughtful worker of to-day. The world exists but for the sake of its homes. Will you bestow your hand upon some fine æsthetic industry, as drawing, designing, engraving, telegraphing, phonographing, photographing? Will you be an architect? a printer? an editor? Will you enter one of the three learned professions? Braver women than you or I have won a foot-hold for us in each of them; as to the brain-hold, that is our affair. I will not now pursue the question further. Only the “Cyclopædia of Woman’s Occupations” (a book I recommend to your attention) can exhaust it, and with it exhaust you and the world’s work, too, for that matter!

After all, it doesn’t so much signify what you may do as that you do it well, whatever it may be. For the value of skilled labor is estimated on a democratic basis, nowadays. President Eliot, of Harvard University, the cook in the Parker House restaurant, and Mary L. Booth, who edits _Harper’s Bazar_, each receive $4,000 per year.

Think a moment. Will you be led to say: “The good old ways are good enough for me,” and so drop into the swollen ranks of teacherdom, or rattle awhile on a martyrized piano, and then set up for a musician, though you have not a particle of music in throat or finger-tips? Or will you stay at home and let papa support you until you grow tired of doing nothing and expecting nothing, and proceed to marry some man whom you endure rather than love, just to get decently out of your dilemma?

Nay, I do you injustice. Few girls who breathe the free air of our western prairies will be so cowardly. I may not construct your horoscope, but this much I will venture—that when you marry, no matter what you _find_, you will _seek_ not a name, behind which to cover up the insignificance of your own; not a “good provider,” to feed and clothe one who has learned how to feed and clothe herself; not a “natural protector,” to shield you in his plaidie, the gallant, gallant laddie, from the cauld, cauld blast; but you will seek (and may heaven grant that you shall find) that rarest, choicest, most elusive prize of man’s existence, as of woman’s; one which—mournfully I say it—the modern marriage is by no means certain to involve, namely, _a mate_. At this juncture, shrewd _mater familias_ whispers to _pater_: “That’s the first orthodox word she’s said.” Some youth throws down the magazine and mutters to himself: “There, I knew it would come to this! Look at the absurdity of these women! Why, they preach up all sorts of trades and professions, and then they come back, at last, to the ‘good old way’ they have forsaken, and advise every young lady to get a situation in a school of one scholar, and her board thrown in.”

Meanwhile, heroic Hypatia sits near by, and “musing in maiden meditation, fancy free,” on a “career,” murmurs within herself, “To this complexion must it come at last!”

Peace, peace, good friends! This seeming inconsistency is readily explained. In this century, when the wage of battle has cost our land an army of her sons, when widows mourn, and unwedded thousands are forced to meet the hard-faced world (from which rose-water theorists would shield them), America is coming to the rescue of her daughters! For the nearer perfect—that is, the more Christian—a civilization has become, the more carefully are the _exceptional_ classes of society provided for. All our philanthropic institutions under state or private patronage illustrate this. In less enlightened days, your ideal woman composed the single, grand class for which public prejudice set itself to provide. She was to be the wife and mother, and she was carefully enshrined at home. But, happily, this is the world’s way no longer. The exceptions are so many, made by war, by the thousand misunderstandings and cross-purposes of social intercourse, by the peculiar features of the transition period in which we live, by the absurdly extravagant customs of our day, and the false notions of both men and women—that not to provide for them would be a monstrous meanness, if not a crime. And the provision made in this instance is the most rational, indeed, the only rational one which it is in the power of society or government to make for any save the utterly incapable, namely: _a fair chance for self-help_. Nor (to pursue the line of our argument still further) can we forget that skeleton hand which, in utter disregard of “the proprieties” in destiny’s drama, thrusts itself so often into the charmed domestic circle, and snatches the beloved “provider” away forever, while it sets gaunt famine by the fireside in his stead? Can we forget that, in ten thousand families, wives are this moment waiting in suspense and agony the return of wretched husbands to homes made hideous by the drunkard’s sin—wives whose work of brain or hand alone keeps their children from want, now that their “strong staff is broken, and their beautiful rod?” There are delicate white fingers turning the page on which I print these words, that will never wear the marriage ring; there are slight forms bending over my friendly lines, which, not far down the years, will be clothed in widow’s weeds. Alas, there are as surely others, who, when they have been wooed and won, shall find that they are worse than widowed. And what of these three classes of women, sweet and helpless? Clearly, to all of them I am declaring a true and blessed gospel, in this good news concerning honest independence and brave self-help! Clearly, also, no one is wise enough to go through the assembly of my readers, and tell me who, in future years, shall need a bread-winning weapon with which to defend herself and perchance, also, the helpless ones between whom and the world there may be no arm but hers. But it is a principle in public as well as private economy, that _the wisest foresight provides for the remotest contingency_, and thus, in its full force, all that I have been saying applies to every woman who may read this article on “How to Win.” Suppose that many of you, dear girls, are destined to a downy nest, instead of a strong-winged flight. What then? Will the years spent in making the most of the best powers with which God has endowed you be worse employed than if you had given them to fashion and frivolity? Those “_ad interim_” years which separate the graduate’s diploma from the bride’s marriage certificate, can they possibly be invested better than in the acquisition of some useful trade or dignified profession? And then, aside from this, I would help the youngest of you to remember (even in the bewildered years of her second decade) what noble Margaret Fuller said: “No woman can give her hand with dignity, or her heart with loyalty, until she has learned _how to stand alone_.” It is not so much _what comes to you_ as _what you come to_, that determines whether you are a winner in the great race of life. Never forget that the only indestructible material in destiny’s fierce crucible is _character_. Say this, not to another—say it to yourself; utter it early, and repeat it often: _Fail me not, thou_.

THE LIFE OF MINERALS.

BY M. J. THOULET.

Translated for THE CHAUTAUQUAN from the _Révue Scientifique_.

The definition given to-day to mineralogy places it among the exact sciences. Long continued study has shown that it possesses all the inflexibility of chemistry, of physics, of mathematics. The work of one making a specialty of this subject is similar to that of a millwright who collects the different pieces, forged and cast and prepared in various ways by other workmen, and arranges them all in their proper relations to one another, joins them, and forms the mill with all its complication of machinery in good order, ready to run without friction, without jar. The mineralogist gathers up the facts and theories wrought out by workers in other fields of science, studies their variations, their agreements and connections, demonstrates their presence and their union in inorganic bodies, and sums up and announces all the results of his labor in the form of laws which shall be exact rules for events past, present, and future; for a science incapable of foreseeing and foretelling is not a true science. Mineralogy is not chemistry, nor physics nor mathematics, any more than the millwright is the smith or the smelter. It is a distinct science pursuing a particular aim, and which, although borrowing from other sciences certain of their results, nevertheless possesses its own individuality. It might be said to be a direct application of these three sciences, together with geology, to the study of the life of minerals.

I have just used a very significant expression: _The life of minerals_. Others have used it before me. “Not only do stones live, but they suffer from sickness, from old age, and death,” wrote Cardan in the sixteenth century. And he was right. Eternal matter performs an eternal cycle; the incessant variations which it experiences; the movement which is never arrested, which from modification to modification, from transformation to transformation draws it along without a single moment of rest; the continual births and deaths and resurrections _are life_. Every man, every animal, every plant, and every stone obey without any power to resist, and they are all borne along without relaxation or repose toward a vortex whose beginning and ending are concealed within the shadows of eternity. There is no difference between the mineral and vegetable, or animal. Inorganic life is identical with organic life, varying only in degree.

From the moment which we call birth, that is to say at the commencement of one of these periods of transformation, our eyes see, hour by hour, moment by moment, the living being develop. The atoms entering into its construction seek like atoms to which they ally themselves, and molecules combine with other molecules. What matters it about the form of being? Simple or complicated, the law is the same, and it is obeyed. The individual appears with its own chemical constitution, its own form and look, its own variations, all decided under its predetermined conditions. Among these conditions a single one is variable, but the equilibrium is constantly preserved; the individual changes from time to time in its own appointed way, but it never ceases to exist.

In the same manner as organic life bears the impress of its surroundings, so do minerals submit themselves to external influences. The one perhaps is more frail, more delicate, less able to resist, more susceptible to impressions; the natural forces of the other, more powerful because they are simpler, yield less readily to circumstances. Both alike are forced to take their part in the great concert of forces in which they fare only infinitely feeble notes; both alike are influenced by the majestic assembly of powers which act upon them, and upon which they, in turn, also act, conformably to one of the first laws of matter, that of equality between action and reaction.

Let us take any mineral whatever and subject it to a constantly increasing temperature. We notice first that it undergoes a change of form. Cease the application of heat and it will gradually resume its former shape. Let us heat it again, and more intensely. All the properties of the matter which constitutes it become changed, some quickly, some slowly, and it is incapable now of taking back its first appearance. Its crystalline form is different, and its mechanical elasticity, its hardness, and its electric properties; even its color is changed. We will still increase the heat. The molecules disperse, following certain directions, and, following others, gather themselves together. Suddenly a limit, varying according to the chemical composition, the crystalline type, or the pressure, is broken; the solid, beginning to melt, becomes a liquid. Heat it still higher and we shall see new phenomena appearing, volatilization and dissolution. Another limit is passed and the atom, becoming isolated, is free henceforward from the laws of chemistry, and must now obey laws yet unknown, the task of discovering and formulating which is awaiting some worker in the realms of physics or mechanics.

The dissolution of a mineral, is it not death? Every abrupt limit of all the powers of a body is death, and all death precedes a resurrection.

As a child, which at the same moment when it opens its eyes upon the light and utters its first cry, begins already to die, so with the mineral scarcely formed, death commences. Feldspar, which constitutes in great part the soil pressed by our feet, under the influence of air and of water, of drought by day and dews by night, of the heat of summer and the cold of winter, of all agents mechanical, chemical and physical acting upon it, is reduced to its elements by a series of almost insensible transformations. Its fragments are broken to still finer bits, and when they have become dust disintegration still goes on, and gradually the silicon, the aluminum, the iron, the lime, the magnesium, and the potassium which composed them form clay. The iron oxydizes, the silicon separates itself, is dissolved by rain and carried off by the streams. Each element then enters into a new combination; sometimes it again becomes part of a stone; sometimes it helps to form the structure of a plant; sometimes that of a man. Where can birth, signifying the beginning of all existence, be placed, or where shall we find any real death? I perceive only periods of life.

Of old, naturalists made more frequent and much stronger affirmations than they do to-day. Confidence in self is the property of youth; maturity learns to doubt, which is the beginning of wisdom, provided that it does not remain content, but rather compels man to seek with increased ardor the truth which seems to fly from him. The ancients placed between the animal and the vegetable limits which in reality did not exist. Up to the present time limits of the same nature have been set between organic and inorganic life. But in proportion as we examine minerals we shall see the differences disappear and the resemblances increase. Man is born of parents; the whole animal and vegetable worlds are perpetuated in obedience to the laws of reproduction, each after his own kind. It was this absolute identity between parent and offspring that separated distinctly the other kingdoms from the mineral; but recently a scientist has discovered that the same fixed law is established in this department of life also. M. Gernez prepared a solution consisting of octahedral borax in five equivalents of water, and rhomboidal borax in ten equivalents of water. The two bodies, excepting their proportion of water, had the same chemical composition. The liquid, treated with suitable precaution, remained perfectly limpid, and he could place in it fragments of all imaginable substances, without causing it to give rise to any remarkable phenomena. But when even an infinitely small crystal of octahedral borax was dropped into it, the temperature rose, and in a few minutes all the octahedral borax contained in the solution took the crystalline form. Meanwhile, the rhomboidal borax was held in solution, and in order to crystallize it in its turn, there was needed only the contact of a rhomboidal crystal.

The mineral was evidently born of a parent; it was identical with this parent; its symmetry was the same under the same circumstances. Similar results from numerous experiments with other substances were obtained.

… Under the influence of agents whose masters we are, molecules group themselves, following fixed laws, and arrange themselves in their relative positions. Just as soldiers off drill, and scattered throughout the camp, when the order of the commander is given, obey and fall into line, so do molecules obey the forces in command over them.

Stranger still, this crystal perfectly formed, seems sometimes to have a conception of an ideal of beauty, a perfect symmetry, the ellipsoid of the cubic system, which is a sphere; it seeks it, tries to reach it, and if it can not be attained, it falls to acting a part. It disguises itself, just as is sometimes done among men, and strives to appear the being it is not. The crystal, no more than the man, will ever assume a place in a lower rank; each seeks to appear better than he is. To attain its object the crystal will unite itself with the other crystals of the same kind; then these will gather into groups. As they can not modify their own angles they will crowd one against another. Let it cost what it may, if it is a possible thing they will have their imperfections removed, and will improve their individual appearance, and if any measure of success is attained, the little crystals will enjoy in silence their usurped glory.

If science, with the apparent rigidity of her measures, weights and figures holds for the scholar oftentimes disagreeable surprises, she sometimes cheers him by rewards full of a strange grandeur. Azote, or nitrogen in its free state, constitutes more than three fourths of the volume of the atmosphere, and is in its appearance the type of inertia. Its presence seems to have no other rôle than to reduce the over-exciting action of the oxygen upon our organs of respiration. In order to cause it to enter into combination with other substances, it is necessary to have recourse to the most energetic forces. Among these in nature only one, electricity, lightning, is able to accomplish this result. But the union once effected, the gas is capable of undergoing a thousand variations. As passive as it was while free, so active does it become after entering into any combination. As it is found in the constitution of all animal and vegetable life, we find that without the storm-cloud no organic life could exist. The origin of all creatures is to be found in a clap of thunder.

Such examples as these show that imagination as well as science derives great profit from the intimate study of the phenomena presented by minerals. One commences their study by measuring, by weighing, by carefully analyzing; one gathers now and then slowly a little knowledge; then suddenly this apparently barren field disappears to give place to large horizons, to vast generalizations of majestic simplicity, resting upon the solid foundation of experimentation. Let us not underestimate the rôle of the imagination in scientific researches. It gives to the scholar persistence in his daily toil; it is his hope at the moment he begins an undertaking, his guide during the work, and his recompense when he has finished. What a charm in the frequent discoveries of analogies between the highest orders of beings and those which occupy the lowest rounds in the ladder of perfection!

Similarity is to be observed also in the growth of individuals in the different kingdoms. One sees at first crystal skeletons, then gradually the crystals developing into perfection. Neither the chemist with all his delicate tests, nor the physician armed with his accurate instruments can decipher the feeblest trace of heterogeneity; the child grown has become a man; the mineral fully developed has reached also its age of virility.

Minerals may be hindered in their development, may become irregular, imperfect, deformed; upon certain of their angles new facets may appear, in other parts facets may slowly become obliterated. As soon as the obstacle causing the trouble is removed the wounds will heal over, perhaps leaving their scars, and the crystals will pursue their normal course. Sometimes an accidental circumstance, as that of too ardent a sun, or a season too wet, will cause a fissure, and a malady commences. Oxydation or hydration is produced, and the mineral begins to disintegrate; finally, as a result of the accident, the last particles are lost to sight. We think it has been destroyed. But it is dead; it has died just as a man dies. Its elements are just as imperishable as are those of man’s body, which, when it is laid away in the grave are not annihilated, but, as they are resolved, enter again into new forms in the great torrent of life. Their atoms are immutable, what they have been, they are, and will be to all eternity; eternally young, eternally the same, moving without rest, unmindful of time or of combinations. The ancient symbol of the serpent with his tail in his mouth well represents the cycle of life. Periods succeed periods.

The day ends in twilight and the night is followed by a new dawn. All limits are effaced. The stone, the flower, the animal intermingle their natures. With this thought in mind all life seems like a great net-work, whose meshes are interlaced in countless ways, before which the seeker after truth stands with ardent soul. But at the moment he thinks to grasp the solution of the absorbing problem, he is only made more deeply aware of his own weakness. And looking forward over the great expanse stretching out before him to infinity, he experiences only one sentiment, that of admiration; and his desire ever increases to learn still, and to learn always.

THE MACHINERY OF OUR FOREIGN SERVICE.

Report of a lecture delivered by Hon. Eugene Schuyler in the National Museum, Washington, D. C., on Saturday, February 28th.

This topic is especially interesting from the fact that so little is known of it except by those in the service of the government whose duties are connected with the foreign service. The government of the United States, in uneventful times at least, is a despotism in the hands of five or six men, working under and through constitutional forms, and subject only to the penalty which is always exacted from very grave mistakes. These men are the President, the Secretary of State, the Secretary of the Treasury, the Speaker of the House of Representatives, the chairman of the standing Committee on Appropriations, and the chairman of the standing Committee on Ways and Means. In times of disorder, others are added to this list, both from the Senate and from the Cabinet officers. The chairmen of committees for other branches of the service also, at such times, rise into prominence. Without the consent of some one, two or three of these dignitaries no important step in public affairs can be taken. The Secretary of State and the Secretary of the Treasury are the only Cabinet officers who in ordinary times can influence, not only the policy of the government, but also the welfare of the country, without the permission of Congress; it may be, even without the knowledge of the President.

The currency question, the silver coinage, the position taken recently by the Clearing House in New York, and the state of the gold market, show how a sudden emergency may induce, if not compel, the Secretary of the Treasury to take action which might strongly affect for good or for evil the most vital interests of the nation. Nor is it otherwise with the Secretary of State, who by an intemperate or ill-timed insistence on national or individual rights, or by even a want of tact may cause irritations hard to be appeased. On the other hand, by an ignorance of precedence, an unguarded admission or an act of good nature, he may give up rights which the nation has jealously claimed for a century, or has held in reserve for future use. However, judging by the past, I think our Secretary of State will do none of these things. This official is selected with greater care than any other public officer. He is usually a statesman of high rank or of long experience, and frequently a cautious and shrewd lawyer into the bargain. The _possibilities_ of diplomatic mistakes, however, are such that it is necessary for the Secretary of State to be surrounded by thoroughly trained and skilled subordinates. This department is among the earliest of the great divisions of the administration created by Congress in 1789 for facilitating public business, and during the first forty years of our national existence was in reality, as now in rank, the leading department of the government. Years ago, indeed, our foreign policy was of far more consequence to the country than our domestic policy, although we still had to struggle, if not for our existence, at least for our position and our national rights. The Secretary of State, therefore, is the leading statesman of the party, and at one time in the nation’s history was almost sure of succeeding to the presidency. The duty of the Secretary of State not only is the supervision and management of all the foreign relations of the United States, but also those duties which in other countries are generally given to the Keeper of the Seals, or to the Minister of Justice: such, for instance, as the keeping, promulgation, and publication of the laws; the custody of the great seal, and the preservation of the government archives, as well as the charge of all special relations between the general government and the several states. The first Assistant Secretary is to be considered as a political officer, in the full confidence of his chief, able to advise him, and even at times to replace him; while the second and third Assistant Secretaries have by necessity and custom become permanent officers. The affairs of the department are managed with great secrecy, not only because the officials are careful and trustworthy persons, but because the general public, as a rule, is but slightly interested in matters pertaining to our foreign relations, save when some great subject is under dispute. In England, France or Italy the case is different, since the Minister of Foreign Affairs has a place in Parliament, and can be interrogated at any time with regard to particular questions arising with foreign countries, by which means the public can not help being more or less informed on such matters, even though the progress of negotiations may be kept secret. Here the only method for obtaining such information is by a resolution of either house of Congress, asking from the President the papers on the question in point, and making an investigation, if considered necessary, through the Committee on Foreign Affairs. These papers, however, may be refused, if thought by the President that their publication would be disadvantageous to the interests of the government. There is probably no other country, even Russia or Germany not excepted, where so little is known by the public of the negotiations carried on at any one time by the Secretary of State. This has great advantages, enabling the government to conduct with tranquility a negotiation which may be extremely necessary, and often to settle disputes which, if public opinion were excited, might result in a breach of friendly relations. On account of this quiet way of doing business, many people are of the opinion that very little work is done by the State Department. Clerks often work till late at night and all Sunday, sometimes, preparing commercial and statistical information in response to a question asked in Congress. The work of the chief clerk, in one sense, is the hardest of all, for he has to work in a public room, accessible to all, must inspect every paper that comes in or goes out, must carry the whole business of the department in all its details in his head, must see every one who calls, assist those who have legitimate business, listen to others, giving “suave answers, but no information,” and withal be patient and keep his temper. During the last fiscal year the real expense of the State Department to the nation was less than $400,000; since the total sum expended ($1,288,355.28) was in great part met by the fees, which amounted to $899,652.67.

The State Department has not sole authority for the administration of foreign affairs, for the consideration and approval of the Senate is required, not only regarding nominations to diplomatic and consular posts made by the President, but also regarding treaties made with foreign powers before they can be ratified. It is fortunate, however, that the Senate can only affirm or reject a treaty; but, owing to the wording of the article of our Constitution, which says that the President “with the _consent and advice_ of the Senate shall conclude treaties,” the Senate considers that it has the right to amend a treaty already negotiated, a practice which causes great difficulty, as frequently a Senator to whom the subject under discussion is not quite clear, insists on the addition of two or three words to an instrument, which causes a long delay and frequently protracted negotiations. Treaties are discussed in secret session, partly because the Senate is acting as a privy council to the President, and partly because, if the debates were open, things might be said which would give offense to foreign governments. As to this latter point, I can only observe that the practice of debating a treaty in open session has not been found to work badly in those countries in which it is the habit.

A feeling of jealousy has been growing up between the House of Representatives and the Senate, and has become very evident during the last few months, the House maintaining that, as it alone was empowered to initiate measures touching the revenue, the President had no right to negotiate a commercial treaty without previously consulting that body. I do not think that this contention is supported by the Constitution, but at the same time the practice of our government has changed so much of recent years, in giving larger and larger powers to the lower House, that it is not without some reason that such a view is supported. In order to obviate such disputes, the Secretary of the State Department, before making a commercial treaty and engaging the country in a new commercial system, should, as was done in the negotiation of the Mexican treaty, ask Congress for authority to conclude it. Again, the powers allowed by the Senate to its standing committees form another obstacle to the ratification of treaties, since it is impossible, except by an actual vote of the Senate, to compel the committee to report to the full Senate a treaty which has already been referred to it for consideration. In the Senate committees are elected; in the House they are named by the Speaker. The sub-committee of three, which is in charge of the appropriations for the diplomatic and consular service, is generally named by the chairman of the Committee on Appropriations, and in nine cases out of ten is composed of persons possessing no previous acquaintance with the subject. To the sub-committee are presented the estimates made up by the Secretary of State, and a bill is then prepared. It can raise a grade here, establish a consul there, pare down a salary in one place, or abolish a mission in another. Of course some of the changes made by this sub-committee are often very excellent, and even necessary but its main idea seems to be to reduce the appropriation to the lowest limit from motives of economy; not that the nation at large cared for a saving of ten or twenty thousand dollars, but because by gaining the reputation of being economical, constituents might believe its members worthy of a new election. The bill is next reported to the House, where party strength is drilled to support the committees. Every amendment is there voted down, for the men whose salaries are sometimes retroactively voted down, are too far away to be heard. From the House the bill is passed to the Senate. The general theory of the Senate committees is to reject every change made by the House, and to hold pretty closely to the law of the last Congress, restoring what had been omitted, and adding some appropriations for unforeseen expenses, secret service money, or as technically expressed, for “expenses in carrying out the Neutrality Act,” etc. The Senate generally passes the amended bill with slight debate, except in unusual cases. The House next, on motion of the sub-committee, is wont to reject without debate all the Senate amendments, and very often suggests a committee of conference. In like manner the Senate refuses to recede from its amendments, and accepts the conference. Then a secret meeting is held of the two sub-committees, who bargain with each other, giving and taking, each yielding part, and reporting the results to their respective houses in such a technical form that it is impossible to understand it without a careful examination of all the papers. This the clerk reads hastily, and it is passed without debate, often containing new matter never before proposed in the open House. I am not blaming either body, but simply explaining a system which is becoming the habitual way of passing all appropriation bills. How can an already underpaid consul perform his duties properly and vigorously, when every few months he has to consider the chances of having his salary cut down, or when engaged in an important investigation by order of his government, he is quietly informed that his salary ceased a month or six weeks before?

The interests of our country demand that our diplomatic and consular service should be fixed by a general law, subject of course to necessary changes, to be recommended by the department, and not undergo this annual tinkering, to which no other branch of the government and no other class of officials are subjected.

Let us next consider the duties of the agents of the government under the control of the State Department, which belongs to one of two classes, those in the consular and those in the diplomatic service.

Consuls differ from diplomatic agents (by whatever name they may be known), in that while the latter are the representatives of one state or government to another, consuls are the representatives of the individuals of the nation sending them, empowered to protect individual interests, and to procure for their fellow-citizens, as far as possible, the same protection to their rights that they enjoy at home. They represent commercial interests only. They can address themselves directly to the local authorities when the rights of their fellow-citizens are infringed, but if redress be not given, they can not apply to the supreme government, except in cases specially provided for by treaty. They must refer the matter to legation or their own government. In other words they have _no_ diplomatic or representative rights, powers or privileges. Formerly consuls had power as arbitrators, but gradually the legal jurisdiction over disputes was withdrawn in nearly all except non-Christian countries, although for purposes of wills or intestate property this jurisdiction has still been in some measure preserved. With regard to maritime matters the case is different; and here, for the purpose of avoiding protracted disputes in the courts of the country, the consuls are still allowed large jurisdiction. This is nowadays in most cases regulated by special treaties.

Consuls are in a certain way charged with watching over the execution of treaties, for they must protect any of their countrymen whose rights are invaded, and must immediately bring to the attention of their government any such infringement. In general, they observe the movements of naval forces of all nations on the coast near the port in which they are placed, and it is their duty also to watch over the dignity of their own country in maintaining the rights of their flag. Not only are they obliged to give aid, advice, and assistance to the ships of their commercial marine, but they should in their correspondence with their government report all events touching the navigation, the various changes in the commerce of the countries where they live, and especially anything touching the special commerce with the country which sends them. In fine, they are bound to keep pace with the state and progress of manufactures, the rise of new branches of industry, and in general, the increase or diminution of the public wealth, taking especial care to be well acquainted with all matters where other countries may gain advantage over their own. They are given a sort of police jurisdiction over the commercial vessels of their own country; they are generally charged with the duty of investigating shipwrecks and saving property from the wrecked or stranded vessels; with all disputes between captains and sailors; with arresting deserters; and with sending back shipwrecked or discharged seamen. In time of war their duties in these respects are still more important, for they are obliged, so far as the international law, the special treaties, or the laws of the country in which they are placed will permit them, to protect at all hazard the commercial and naval interests of their country against arbitrary acts, whether committed by the country to which they are sent, or by the nation at war with it.

On the death of one of their countrymen they in general take possession of his effects, and in case of property left in the country, manage, keep, and dispose of it for the benefit of the heirs. They are charged, beside, with notarial duties of all kinds, and in most cases they are the only authorities who can validate legal instruments between citizens of their country, or others to be used at home.

In addition to the general duties of a consul various special duties are imposed on American consuls by our tariff system, which do not generally exist in the services of other countries.

It is necessary for our consuls to verify in triplicate every invoice of goods sent to the United States. Not only is he obliged to take the oaths of the manufacturer or exporter, but he is expected to have a special knowledge of the trade of the place and of the actual value of the goods, so that he can control the statements made to him; for our system does not accept the valuations of goods always at the actual price paid for them, but at the market value of the place where they are manufactured or chiefly sold. Besides keeping a number of official records, registers, and fee books, carrying on his ordinary correspondence with the Department of State, and carefully prescribed forms relating to the business of his office, and of everything of interest of a commercial nature to the government, the consul is obliged to make quarterly, semi-annual and annual returns, both to the State Department and to the Treasury. He must, for instance, at the end of each quarter give a digest of the invoices verified by him during that period; of the arrivals and departures of American vessels, a return nowadays exceedingly simple; of deceased American citizens; a record of his notarial services, or unofficial fees; a summary of the whole consular business; and, in case the consul has extraterritorial jurisdiction, a return of the business of the consular coast, and also a record of his official fees.

Still other duties are the submitting of quarterly, semi-annual, and annual reports. The consul at Shanghai has such duties placed upon him as give him supervisory control over all consulates in China, vest him with semi-diplomatic powers, cause him to participate in the municipal government of the foreign settlement, make him a judge in civil causes, give him charge of the gaol in which American prisoners are confined, constitute him judge of a criminal court, of a court of probate and divorce, of an equity and _nisi prius_ court, appoint him United States postmaster, give him the duties of a seaport consulate, and place under his control the protection of the revenue of his government.

Diplomats are agents of a higher class and with different functions. According to Caloo, who is now generally accepted as the best modern writer of international law, diplomacy is the science of the relations existing between different states, such as result from their reciprocal interests, the principles of international law, and the stipulations of treaties and conventions; or, more concisely, diplomacy is the science of relations, or simply the art of negotiations. According to Caloo, the essential nature of diplomacy is to assure the well-being of peoples, to maintain between them peace and good harmony, while guaranteeing the safety, the tranquility, and the dignity of each of them. The part played by diplomatic agents consists principally in conducting negotiations relative to these important objects, in watching over the execution of treaties which follow from them, in preventing anything which might injure the interests of their fellow-citizens in the countries where they reside, and in protecting those of them who may be obliged to ask for their assistance. According to rules adopted by the Congress in Vienna in 1815, diplomatic agents were divided into three classes: (1) Ambassadors, legates, or nuncios; these two latter being sent only by the Pope; (2) Envoys, ministers plenipotentiary, or other persons accredited to a sovereign or sovereign state; and, (3) _Chargés d’Affaires_, who are accredited only to the Minister of Foreign Affairs. According to the old custom, ambassadors represented the person of the sovereign, and accordingly enjoyed higher ceremonial honors than were paid to other diplomatic agents. They could also address themselves personally to the sovereign or chief magistrate of the country to which they were sent for matters of business, instead of having to negotiate with the Ministers of Foreign Affairs. Nowadays ambassadors differ from other diplomatic agents only in rank and precedence. The United States having no ambassadors, and but few envoys and ministers plenipotentiary, does not always receive equal privileges of rank with some other countries. Our interests certainly demand that in every country we should be represented by agents of the highest title known or accepted there. More questions are settled by a few informal words at a dinner table than by a formal process of correspondence, although, of course, when great principles are at stake a formal mode of procedure is necessary. It is therefore evidently to be desired that diplomatic agents in a given place should be of equal rank and on a friendly footing with each other.

There are several cases in which the Minister of the United States, if he had more official authority, could manage to have matters arranged which ultimately affect our interests. At Constantinople, for instance, where there is an effort to undermine the treaty rights of all foreigners, the ambassadors have of late adopted the habit of meeting one another in an unofficial way, and of laying down rules and taking action regarding extraterritorial matters, which are then proposed to the rest of the diplomatic body. In general, the representatives of the smaller states are asked for their approval or dissent, but given no chance to suggest or argue. Three years ago, indeed, our government found it necessary to protest against this course, for it was beginning to be tacitly understood that only the ambassadors of what were called the Signatory Powers—those who were represented at the Congress in Berlin in 1878—should have any voice in matters which affected the interests of all foreigners in Turkey. Our protest had the theoretical result of bringing about occasional conferences of all foreign representatives, but the practice remains much as before.

Foreign ministers of the United States should be enabled to live in a style suitable to their rank. Nor is this simply a question of display, but for a minister to be useful he must make acquaintance with the leading persons of the country, and entertain them at his house.

The necessary qualifications for employment in the diplomatic service are a knowledge of French, and generally at least of one other language; a good acquaintance with history, treaties and international law. It is also necessary that he be a gentleman: _i. e._, acquainted with the ways of the world, and the usages and manners of the best society in each capital in which he is expected to move. The word “gentleman” does not necessarily imply a man of good birth, or belonging to a well known family, although the son or grandson of the President of the United States would always have more credit and influence in the place to which he was sent than one of whom nothing was known.

* * * * *

It is hard to create among a Christian people, enthusiasm for an infidel, however talented he may have been, or however much good he may have done; for his revelation to man, even if true, is an unwelcome and painful revelation, adding nothing to his happiness or comfort in life or in death; while the faith of the believer is an inspiring one, filling his life with the sunshine of hope, and surrounding it with a halo of imperishable glory. Most people have an instinctive dread of the man who with ruthless hand, attempts to destroy all those sacred hopes and fears which have been instilled into their minds by their nearest and dearest benefactor, their mother.—_“How to Get On in the World,” by Robert Waters._

MADURA AND ITS PAGODA.

BY BISHOP JOHN F. HURST.

When I was buying my ticket at Tuticorin for Madura, the station agent was kind enough to say:

“Don’t you know there is cholera in Madura?”

“What, real Asiatic cholera?”

“It’s real Asiatic cholera, and nothing else,” he answered.

“I have not heard it before,” I replied. “I have only this moment landed from the steamer ‘Nerbudda,’ and have had no news of any kind. Many deaths?”

“Oh, no. Nothing compared with last year. Five thousand died during the season. Only about ten die a day just now, and we don’t consider that anything.”

I mused a moment on the mortality of ten cholera patients a day in a place of fifty thousand, and then asked: “Do you think it safe to go?”

“I can’t answer that. It all depends.”

Two facts now came to my relief. One was, that few people in India think cholera contagious. There are no separate hospitals for such cases. Cholera patients are put in the same wards with patients suffering from fever and other diseases. The other fact was, that two weeks before, when I was in Puna, there had been a cholera case in the native bazar, and yet I had a most pleasant ride through that part of the city, and had suffered no harm, and saw no alarm anywhere. The truth is, nobody thinks of cholera as any more likely to happen than any mild disease. Dr. Waugh told me only yesterday that cholera prevailed more or less in all Indian towns, but that nobody minded it. It might be next door, but it frightened no one. The only thing is to watch its beginning, and manage it, as you can, with care and caution. Another is, to take care of one’s diet. This must be said, however, that when cholera does come, and its first stage is neglected, the collapse is very sudden.

Taking all things together it did not seem much of a risk to spend my intervening day, before meeting an engagement at Bangelore, in the Mysore, in making a halt in Madura, and using my only opportunity to see the famous Pagoda there—the largest, not only in India, but in the world.

Long before reaching Madura one can see the great towers which rise above the Pagoda, and dominate not alone the city, but the whole surrounding country. In many of the Indian cities the temple is in the suburbs, and even completely alone, in the country, having been left by the drift of the population far out into other directions. But this is not the case in Madura. The Pagoda is in the very heart of the old city. The bazars lead directly toward it, and overflow into it. It is the city in miniature, with its dirt, ill odors, poverty, wealth, superstition, and infamous idolatry. All the surging tide of tradesmen drifts toward and about it. No adequate conception of an Indian temple can be formed from any European illustration of sacred places. Perhaps the Troitskoi Monastery in Russia, where many cathedrals are grouped around one central sacred place, making the whole a very Canterbury, is as near an approach to an Indian temple and its spaces as can be found anywhere west of Asia.

Madura has long been celebrated for this Pagoda. There are conflicting opinions as to its antiquity. It is probable that the place itself was regarded sacred, and was the site of a temple long before a city was built here. It is not unlikely that the temple was the first building, and that the city grew out of it, and all about it. The immense structure gives clear evidence of its own antiquity. It was built in the third century before the Christian era, by King Kula Shekhara. It is evidently a case where the city has sprung into life from religious associations, and become the capital of a large territory. Some parts of the Pagoda are modern, and were built by Nurmala Nark, in the former half of the seventeenth century, but one can easily distinguish the newer from the older. The effect, throughout, is one of great and undisturbed antiquity.

The Pagoda space is an immense parallelogram, extending 744 feet from east to west, and 847 feet from north to south. This area is enclosed by a light wall, and is flanked, at various points, by nine colossal towers. These towers are of peculiar structure, all after the same model, and so disposed toward each other as to form a symmetrical combination. Each constitutes a kind of gateway, for entrance from different sides of the wall. As you enter you find yourself passing through a great open corridor. The _gopura_ is shaped like a tent, and on every side is ornamented with carvings. These represent the fabulous doings of the god Shiva and his wife, Minakshi, and ascend in lessening rows, or stories, until the apex is reached, which is sharp and curved, and reminds one of the general form of an old Roman gallery. The colors of these _gopuras_ are very rich, and, in the case of several, shine like fine tiling, or even gay enamel. The blue is especially rich, and is fairly dazzling in the bright sunlight. While Shiva is the god to whom the temple is supposed to have been dedicated, the more frequent representations of his wife Minakshi prove her to be the favorite of the people.

THE SCENE IN THE MADURA TEMPLE.

Two _gopuras_ constitute the great entrances. Through one of these I went, with a crowd of about fifty ill-clad beggars following me. They held high carnival as they passed around and against me, and called for alms. I noticed many sleepers in the darker corners, in various parts of the temple spaces. They lie in every position. It seems a habit of the Maduran when he gets thoroughly tired in his tent, or in the bazar, to drop into this temple and fall down for a good nap at the feet of Shiva, or some other idol, for Madura is a spot which for ages has been held strangely sacred by the Hindoo worshiper. Having passed through the _gopura_, and completed the passage of the great corridor, you see the beginnings only of this wonderful temple. There stretch out before you great reaches of passages, and halls, and still farther corridors, in all possible directions. But for my safe guide, who added to his other duties the good one of keeping off the crowd of ragged and starving and ill-smelling beggars with a stout bamboo rod, I should have lost my way at once. At your right you see an immense hall, the Hall of One Thousand Columns, which extends far away until it is lost in such dark and distant spaces as I cared not to explore. But, beyond it—for I came back that way—there is a special temple sacred to the ruling god, Shiva. At your left are venders of images, sweetmeats, toys, and various other articles, which, for some reason, are permitted to be sold within the sacred walls. The men who sell them are squatted over the floor, on mats of palm, and their wares lie about them. Think of a seller of small wares, in a temple, sitting or standing, with his goods arranged on a counter or row of shelves! Such a thing would be preposterous beyond measure. The drift is downward. No Hindoo will stand if he can possibly drop on the floor. He doubles up his legs under him. That is his normal position. He may be talking with you this moment, and as much interested in standing or walking as any one. But a sudden change comes over him. Down he drops, and no boy ever closed the two blades of a jack-knife more quickly than the Hindoo doubles himself up, either on the temple floor, or at the side of the street, or in his own doorway. And there he can sit by the hour, nay, the whole day, and be as calm as the serene face of Buddha himself.

Perhaps these sellers in the Madura Pagoda have some ancestral claim on the favors of the authorities, by which they receive the privilege of spreading out their wares in the holy place. Over your head there flies about a flock of doves. They are sacred, and woe to the hand that would hurt a feather on their sweet heads! The worshipers feed them. It is a sacred privilege. Yonder, to your left, three sacred elephants are feeding and frisking their trunks about as if they really knew that they were picking up great wisps of straw and hay within the most holy place in all this region. Come, I must hasten, or their priestly keepers will loosen the chains of one of them in a trice, and have the mammoth dropping down on all fours, and pulling me up on his back, to take an elephant ride through this labyrinth of marvels. Imagine the absurdity of an elephant ride on a temple floor! Yet that is what you can do here, and take a long promenade, and never have him repeat his pathway. I have had two elephant rides, and want no more for a decade, at least. But by going through this first doorway I get away from the venders, and the elephants, and pass out of sight of the Hall of a Thousand Columns, and its great, interminable spaces. Here one is in a corridor nearly two hundred feet long, with pillars groaning beneath a wealth of sculptured images. Now comes a brazen door. The frame is vast and heavy, and is entirely surrounded with brazen lamps, all of which are lighted during a festive season, perhaps the _Tailotsava_, “the oil festival.”

Monier Williams happened to visit the Madura Pagoda at the time of the “oil festival,” and thus describes the wretched scene: “A coarse image of the goddess (Minakshi), profusely decorated with jewels, and having a high head-dress of hair, was carried in the center of a long procession, on a canopied throne, borne by eight Brahmans, to a platform in the magnificent hall, opposite the temple. There the ceremony of undressing the idol, removing its ornaments, anointing its head with oil, bathing, redecorating and redressing it was gone through, and shouting, singing, beating of tom-toms, waving of lights and cowries, ringing of bells, and deafening discord from forty or fifty so-called musical instruments, each played by a man who did his best to overpower the sound of all the others combined. At the head of the procession was borne an image of Ganesa. Then followed three elephants, a long line of priests, musicians, attendants bearing cowries and umbrellas, with a troop of dancing girls bringing up the rear.

“No sight I witnessed in India made me more sick at heart than this. It presented a sad example of the utterly debasing character of the idolatry which, notwithstanding the counteracting influences of education and Christianity, still enslaves the masses of the population, deadening their intellects, corrupting their imaginations, warping their affections, perverting their consciences, and disfiguring the fair soil of a beautiful country with hideous usages and practices unsanctioned by even their own minds and works.”—“Religious Thought and Life in India.”