A more thoroughly picturesque sight than the great pilgrimage in June it would be hard to imagine; and yet perhaps the first fact that strikes a European, accustomed possibly to associate large gatherings with the incidents of a Lord Mayor's Show and the rowdy horse-play of London streets, is the extreme orderliness of the people. Excellent proof of this lies in the fact that the five last pilgrimages have not left a trace on the records of the policecourt. Could any other nation in the world boast of so spotless a register in similar circumstances? Does it not give one some insight into the character of the people and of the religion they profess? A creed which has never shed a drop of blood to make a proselyte also teaches the avoidance of the crimes and squabbles that mar a pilgrimage. Anyhow it has what certain other creeds have not, a commandment against the use of intoxicating liquors, which is better than the presence of many police. Here are no public-houses to turn exuberant piety into potvaliance; no flaring liquor - bars to excite the weary wayfarer into sudden pugnacity. A long draught of tankwater, or a glass or two of red syrup, do not necessarily excite a tendency to assault your neighbour or to take a lodging for the night in the nearest gutter.

But there is certainly another fact which assists in promoting good behaviour, and that is the weather. The morality of the pilgrims is seldom put to the test of rain-water, for although the moon has of late years lost all credit as a weather-power, she undoubtedly contrives usually to secure a magnificent night for the display of her full beauty; and the climax of the festival is on the night of the full moon. All the previous day the pilgrims come trooping in: you meet them whithersoever you ride or drive, along the king's highway or the narrow village path, nearly always in single file and invariably chattering. It is the rarest thing in the world to meet two Singalese travellers walking

side by side, and rarer still to find them travelling in silence. The two facts seem incompatible: they are really the outcome of the village path, where there is seldom room to walk abreast, and where the human voice has its uses in warning such unwelcome fellow-travellers as snakes and bears to take themselves out of the way.

But the main body of the pious make their appearance on the following morning, by tens and twenties, by villages and companies. You hardly appreciate the rapidity with which the town is filling, so noiseless is the tramp of naked feet on dusty roads, so simple are the arrangements of their little

camps of talipot leaves. And yet very comfortable withal. The favourite formation appears to be three sides of a square, without too nice a distinction between the separate tents; and the rapidity and skill with which the most suitable site is selected, the big leaves spread slantwise and secured, and a fine crackling fire prepared for cooking purposes would do credit to the best organised of German army-corps. It is only on the evening of the great day that you thoroughly grasp the fact that the little population of two thousand has swelled to five times that number, and that locomotion in the neighbourhood of the centres of attraction has become a matter of patience. But everywhere the prevailing characteristics are extreme good-humour and extreme devotion. It is a very different sort of devotion from that which you may witness on the great day at Trichinopoly, say, or at Madura. There is absolutely nothing revolting, nothing despicable, no disgusting obscenity, or barbaric, over-wrought excitement. It is far more like a Roman Catholic gala-day in a a country village in Switzerland or Italy. The very ritual and offerings are touching in their simplicity and elevating in their intentions. To adorn and pay respect in some form or other to one or all of the monuments erected in honour of

the "Enlightened One" is the primary object in each pilgrim's mind. Be it only a big white lotus, or a few strips of areka-flower, or even a shred of cloth tied on to a stick and a handful of roasted rice, there is room for all on the great stone altar; even as there was room in the temples of a far higher creed for a pair of turtle-doves or two young pigeons. Every age is represented the tiny infant in its mother's arms, crowing with delight at the stirring crowds and the flash of the fireworks; and the grey, tottering veteran leaning on his long staff, with shaking hands scarce capable of holding the little offering he is pressing ⚫ forward to deposit on the stone slab at the foot of the giant dagoba. There are troops of laughing girls gay with jewellery, the yellow gold gleaming lazily on full brown arm and delicate ankle, not unaccompanied by village swains prepared to draw as fine a line as possible between the worship of the ideal and the courtship of the real. And there is a very large attendance of elderly and eminently energetic female devotees (for piety sometimes increases as charms diminish), who perform their varied voluntary labours in a business-like way that tells of long experience. It is amusing to watch their keen desire to make their little store of offerings go as far as possible, and have something, however trifling, to leave at every shrine. Threepence or fourpence, in half-cent pieces, will go a long way with judicious management; and strips of areka-flower are capable of almost infinite subdivision. It is with a look of quiet contempt that they pass by one spot which has certain charms for their more frivolous younger sisters: a spot where there are three stone bulls, excellently carved; once perhaps the pride of a palace-chamber or the ornament of a temple, but now lying promiscuously on mother earth. The legend has it that whatsoever woman turns one of them completely round shall be blessed with a fruitful marriagebed. They are of different sizes, and of

course by turning the biggest you are more likely of success. Nor is it a bad plan to make assurance doubly sure by turning all three; for is there not a mystic significance in the very number? And, to quote a distant analogy, was it not thrice that the huntress-deity of Rome had to be invoked-the goddess,

"Quæ laborantes utero puellas

Ter vocata audis adimisque leto"? Apart from this spot, where in sooth there is much laughter and delicate jesting, in the choice of shrines for adoration there is a grand impartiality, rather than any particular fashion or choice; but the Sacred Bo-tree of course is the primary and ultimate object of respect; and the compound and terraces which surround it are ever filled with enthusiastic crowds, shouting "Sadu!" in long-drawn choruses, and performing endless genuflexions before the grim old trunk gaily decked on this gala-day with flags and wreaths and coloured paper. Proud is the devotee who can throw a handful of roasted rice right into the middle of the branches; prouder he who can beg or buy a fallen leaf from the lynx-eyed priest on guard; proudest of all the erudite pilgrim who has brought with him a book, whether it be a few strips of talipot leaf, the heir-loom of many generations, or a brand-new publication from the printing-presses of Colombo. With an air of profound and mystic knowledge, and spectacles a-tilt upon his nose, he stands the centre of a knot of admiring fellowvillagers, who hold up their lamps and candles for his enlightenment, and listen to his monotonous sing-song with immense satisfaction. Nor is he to be easily put down by the rival scholar, who takes up his position with his band of admirers just opposite. It becomes a regular contest of vocal endurance; and when the book is finished, it is simple enough to begin it again rather than leave your opponent in sole possession of the field. And so the long night wanes, and the

great moon sinks ever in the west, and a faint flush of prophetic pink steals upwards from the east. But devotion ceases not, though it claims a slight pause for hurried refreshment. Myriads of little fires are soon blazing merrily; and a brisk trade is done in cakes and coffee, in sweetmeats and sugar-cane. The devil-dancers cease because they are few, and even the sound of the inevitable tom-tom is still for a moment; and so noticeable is the cessation that the very silence it leaves behind it is a noise in itself.

But there is little time for breakfast, for there is much to be done ere sunset. It would never do to leave the more distant shrines unvisited, and this means a walk of five or six miles, with pauses innumerable. For instance, here is a new batch of arrivals, a little late but very demonstrative, bearing in their hands or on brass dishes quite a large collection of offerings-cloth and quaint flags and lotus flowers and a little silver-work -and all marching under cover of a long strip of white cloth held up on poles in front and rear. There is a look of unfeigned pride on the faces of the members of the procession; a mingling of the joy of a journey successfully accomplished and of the certainty that their particular offerings will not be surpassed at any shrine. They stop and offer us the privilege of touching, that we may partake in the merit of their gift; and while you are about it it is as well to touch everything, and so get all possible merit with the least possible trouble. Consequently the operation is a long one, and gives one time to reflect how rapidly the world has been moving in other places, how slowly and changelessly among some at least of these Oriental nations. Here in this nineteenth century, in this half-forgotten corner of the world, is precisely the same procession, the same ceremonial, the same little touches of human nature that were visible at this very spot years before the Christian era. There is no sign of what we mean by the

present; no hint of the English rule which is changing and obliterating so many customs and ceremonies elsewhere; no police to move you on, no excursion-train to move you off; nothing but the telegraph-wires along the Government high road to give a thin, unnoticed warning of the change that is to come.

Once more a start is effected, and very picturesque is the sight, as the long line of pilgrims winds in and out among the brilliant foliage and fantastic creepers that line the narrow track; the gay colours of their clothing blending strangely yet completely with the varied hues of the half-cleared jungle. Nothing harmonises so completely with the forest scenery as the yellow of the priests' robes; it seems to relieve and give a new meaning to the endless green of grass and tree, like a witty commentary on a monotonous book. The Abhayagiria dagoba, rising two hundred and fifty feet out of the jungle, is a great centre of attraction to the passing crowds. The upper part of it is being repaired; there is a path to the top, and a great chance of acquiring merit lies in the carrying up of bricks for the use of the workHeaps of serviceable bricks are cunningly and suggestively piled below; any one can carry two at least, while some of us can manage six, and the proud, stout bearer of seven elicits a little burst of applause from his feebler neighbours. And so up the narrow steep path we go, young men and maidens, old men and children, toiling under our loads and confident in our piety; only want of breath will not allow us to shout properly till we stand at last on the broad square platform close to the summit; and then the beauty of the view that bursts upon us almost takes our breath away again. The vast stretch of waving trees, a veritable jungle-sea, with its countless hues and soft undulations, an ἀνήριθμον γέλασμα of rippling leaves; the brown-red house-roofs peeping out at intervals; the quiet waters of snug ponds and lakes glittering beneath the

men.

slant rays of the rising sun; and the great still dagobas towering skywards, brickwork giants of an age when, say the people, there were giants on the earth.

But we must leave the pilgrims to their further tasks, and pass homewards through the on-coming masses, ever good-humoured, ever shouting. They are audible enough through the long hot day, as they come trooping back, weary but satisfied, to prepare for departure, and by eventide all are gone. They are filing homewards to distant villages along the dusty ways; and the glory of the setting sun lights up the remnant of them, as they

"Fold up their tents like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away."

We are told by missionaries that one of the greatest hindrances to their work in the East lies in the interest shown by Europeans in Eastern forms

of creed, and notably in Buddhism. It may be so; far be it from one to underrate the difficulties they have to meet, or the admirable zeal and energy they show in meeting them. On the other hand one could wish sometimes that there was more of a tendency among them to look for those atoms of the Divine which are said to exist in all creeds, rather than denounce their followers indiscriminately as forsaken heathen, and their ritual as the work of the devil; that they would occasionally leave their well-trodden pulpits and visit such gatherings of the people as this pilgrimage, would criticise them in a kindly spirit and notice what there is in them of piety and self-sacrifice and education, and so, it may be, learn to lead the people towards the highest truths by methods more successful and more rational than mere denunciation.

S. M. BURROWS.

LYME, September, 1888.

F. T. PALGRAVE.

THE diversity, the undulancy, of human nature! So deep a sense of this went with Montaigne always that himself, too, seemed to be ever changing colour sympathetically therewith. Those innumerable differences, mental and physical, of which men had always been aware, with which they had so largely fed their vanity, were ultimate. That the surface of humanity presented an infinite variety was the tritest of facts: pursue that variety below the surface, the lines did but part further and further asunder, with an ever-increasing divergency which made any common measure of truth impossible. Diversity of custom! What was that but diversity in the moral and mental view-diversity of opinion? And diversity of opinion, what but diversity of mental constitution? How various in kind and degree had he found men's thoughts concerning death, for instance "some (ah me!) even running headlong upon it with a real affection". Death, life; wealth, poverty; the whole sum of contrasts, nay! duty itself, "the relish of right and wrong," depend upon the opinion each one has of them, and "receive no colour of good or evil but according to the application of the individual soul". Did Hamlet learn of him that "there is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so"?" "What we call evil is not so of itself: it depends upon us, to give it another taste and complexion. Things, in respect of themselves, have peradventure their weight, measure, and conditions; but when once we have taken them into us, the soul forms them as she pleases. Death is terrible to Cicero, courted by Cato, indifferent to Socrates. Fortune, cir

cumstance, offers but the matter: 'tis the soul adds the form. Every opinion, how fantastic soever to some, is to another of force enough to be espoused at the risk of life". For opinion was the projection of individual will, of a native original predilection. Opinions!-they are like the clothes we wear, which warm us not with their heat but with our own. Track your way (as he had learned to do) to the remote origin of what looks like folly; at home it was found to be justifiable, as a proper growth of wisdom. In the vast conflict of taste, preference, conviction, there was no real inconsistency. It was but that the soul looked " upon things with another eye, and represented them to itself with another kind of face; reason being a tincture almost equally infused into all our manners and opinions.

There never were in the world two opinions exactly alike". And the practical comment was, not as one might have expected, towards the determination of some common standard of truth amid that infinite variety, but to this effect rather, that we are not bound to receive every opinion we are not able to refute, nor to accept another's refutation of our own; those diversities being themselves ultimate, and the priceless pearl of truth lying, if anywhere, not in large theoretic apprehension of the general, but in minute vision of the particular-in the perception of the concrete phenomenon, at this particular moment, from this unique point of view, that for you this for me, now but perhaps not then.

Now, and not then! For if men are so diverse, not less disparate are the many men who keep discordant