historical inscriptions (third century B.C.), but we may still meet with older ones, and as to the books written on paper or MSS., who would dare to fix the date of the earliest, even of the Bower MS., and my own Horiuzi facsimile?

That during all the centuries there was a literature in India, entirely mnemonic and traditional, is doubted by few, and that in order to hand down that literature the most perfect system of learning by heart was contrived and cultivated by the Brâhmans, is a fact that ought to be clearly seen and considered, for it throws light on some of the most important problems in the early history of India, and indirectly of other countries also. A mere shake of the head and shrugging of the shoulders is here no longer allowed. The question with Sanskrit has always been, Are theories stronger than facts, or facts stronger than theories? The facts, as I have shown, are accessible to anybody who will make a journey to Benares, and the same facts would have met him if he had gone to India in the time of the Prâtisâkhyas, fifth century B.C.

One cannot be too careful in stating facts or opinions which are unwelcome to certain scholars. I have had experience in these matters, and I could easily form a volume if I collected the opinions which have been ascribed to me, but which I never expressed except with considerable limitations. It will most likely be said that I represent the Indian mnemonic system of preserving literary work as preferable to written or printed books. I have occasionally given expression to my regret that the old system of learning by heart at our public schools should have gone so completely out of fashion. Old men like myself know what a precious treasure for life the few lines are that remain indelibly engraved on our memory from our earliest schooldays. Whatever else we forget they remain, and they remind us by their very sound of happy days, of happy faces, and happy hearts.

Alas! our memory has been systematically ruined, and it hardly deserves that name any longer when we remember what memory was in ancient times. We seem to be piling every day heaps of ashes on that divine light within us. Men who read the Times every morning, possibly Notes and Queries, then Blue Books, then possibly novels, or it may be serious works on such different subjects as geology, philology, geography, or history, are systematically ruining their memory. They are under the suzerainty of books, and helpless without them. I know there are exceptions, but it is difficult to verify them, and in arranging facts affecting persons, we should be very careful to distinguish between what we have seen ourselves and what has been told us by others. Of the mnemonic achievements of certain Pandits and of the Panditâ Râmabâi, I can speak from personal experience. I have seen and heard them recite their tasks, and that in the presence of other people.

I knew Macaulay, of whom it was said and believed that he could repeat a leading article of the Times after having read it once; but I never had the heart to ask him to let me hear him do so. Professor Conington at Oxford enjoyed the same reputation, but I never heard him either repeat a few pages after he had read them. Still, there is nothing so very incredible in this, for when I was at school at Leipzig and the whole class was punished by being kept back till they had learnt two or three chapters of Cicero, I generally was off in about ten minutes. I could not do that now for my very life.

6

I lately read a very interesting book by the Rev. H. C. Adams, a master at Winchester, which was, and is still, famous for its system of standing up.' As it was published in his lifetime, and in the lifetime of the pupils whom he mentions by name, I think he may be fairly trusted. He tells us in Wykehamica (1878) that he knew a schoolfellow who never could learn his repetition, but who could nevertheless go through the whole of the scores in the matches with Eton and Harrow from the very first, giving each player his correct number of runs, and particularly the manner in which he was out.

He knew another, of no remarkable capacity, able to say the whole of the English Bible by rote. Put him on where you would, he would go fluently on as long as there was any one to listen.

When large standings up were said, sometimes 13,000 and 14,000 lines were said, and were said well too. In Bishop Wordsworth's time, one boy in the Senior Part of the Fifth took up the whole of Virgil for his standing up, and acquitted himself brilliantly, that being only a portion of his eight lessons. I have made the reading of the Times every morning responsible for the gradual paralysis of our memory, but what shall we say when we are told the late editor of the Times, Mr. Chenery, whose death is still deplored by so many friends, knew the Korân and the Old Testament in Arabic and Hebrew by heart as well as any Ullema or Rabbi? 15 Perhaps those who, like myself, knew him well, may feel a little sceptical. He certainly never mentioned this extraordinary power to me. Judging by our own capacity or incapacity, we may perhaps recall to mind the well-known lines of Horace which we learnt at school many years ago, and which may still supply some comfort to weaker memories and humbler souls:

Est quodam prodire tenus, si non datur ultra.

I could mention a number of similar cases, but very few which I witnessed myself, and I know from sad experience that second-hand evidence in such matters is extremely treacherous. Many times an actor is reported to know ever so many pieces by heart, but that means generally that with the help of other actors, and sometimes with the help of the souffleur, he can act and repeat his part. I have

15 See Academy, February 16, 1884.

heard Brandram recite several plays of Shakespeare entirely by himself, and without a hitch or a flaw. I have myself, in my youth, repeated compositions of more than a hundred thousand notes on the pianoforte without any effort. The memory is then, I believe, chiefly muscular, not mental, and if any little hitch happens, the chain is often broken, and we must begin again. It might be useful to collect such instances, but it would require great care in distinguishing between what one has seen of such marvels, and what one has only heard.

The whole of this subject is of supreme importance to the student of ancient language, literature, laws, and religion. The date of the introduction of writing, and writing for literary purposes, ought to be settled before we take another step. As it is, it is generally neglected, and leaves antiquity as if surrounded by a constantly shifting mist. It is then that different scholars give expression to their vague and unsupported theories, and such words. as incredible, impossible, and unthinkable are boldly met by palpable, inevitable, and self-evident. F. A. Wolf was a great light-bringer by placing in his Prolegomena this question of a mnemonic literature in front of all other questions. I followed his example for India, and almost the first essay I ever wrote was ' On the Introduction of Writing into India.' One cannot foresee and anticipate all the doubts in other minds, or answer beforehand all the questions that may be asked. All I can say is that before I wrote that essay I had wrestled with many of those doubts myself, and that they generally arose from ill-supported dates assigned by tradition to the authorities quoted for or against the principle that a mnemonic literature existed nearly everywhere before a written literature, and that nowhere were the difficulties inherent in a mnemonic literature met more systematically and more successfully than in India. Once more I must ask my friends and fellow-labourers not to confound knowledge of the alphabet with its employment for literary purposes. A gulf of centuries often lies between these two events. Only we must not allow mere impressions to obscure our sight when trying to pierce through many dark and deceptive clouds surrounding the earliest beginnings of literature and civilisation.

F. MAX MÜLLER.

A DEVIL-DANCE IN CEYLON

Lady like see?' It was our
I had commissioned him to

'LADY, Poya night.' Devil dance. Appoo (house-servant) who spoke. acquire all information concerning the holding of such rites, made up of barbarism, superstition, and genuine Oriental occultism. Yes, Lady' would like see.' Accordingly at nine P.M., by the brilliant light of the tropical moon, my husband and I set forth. We had not proceeded far when we overtook a Sinhalese astrologer, whom I had previously interviewed, and who had acquired renown for learning both celestial and terrestrial. Claiming acquaintance, I considered my virtue in this respect for once rewarded, as his ‘learning' proved of valuable assistance in comprehending the strange performances we were about to witness. First, I was informed this was not only Poya but Nakkhatan—that is, when a special configuration of planets occurs and lends weight to the importance of the rites as well as the probability of success. Secondly, the occasion was a Sanni Yakun Neteena, when a woman made sick by an obsessing demon,' or 'made solitary,' as the natives say, was to be dispossessed. The scene of action was among the cocoanut-palms that fringe the sea coast, some seven miles out of Colombo in the vicinity of charming Mount Lavinia.

A goodly company of natives was already assembled, and the Kattadiya (devil priest or charmer) had already commenced by chanting an invocation in front of an extemporised altar, called the Mal Bulat Tatawa. Very pretty and skilfully constructed was this altar; ola leaves, areca or betel flowers, and the huge blossom of the cocoanut-palm, which mostly resembles a wheat-sheaf, being the principal materials employed.

The Kattadiya was a man of powerful physique-for a Sinhalese singularly so a man one would select as a person endowed with magnetism, will power, and a dominating influence. Nevertheless his caste is an extremely low one. His dress consisted of a waistcloth with a garland of garulla leaves worn around his head and loins. The devil-dancers (Netun Karayo) were arrayed in red and

1 Full or half-full moon night, when the Sinhalese always hold high revel of some sort or other.

white jackets with full accordion-pleated skirts and paniers.' Some wore masks terrifyingly hideous, others had their faces daubed with red and green paint. They also wore garulla leaves arranged as fans erect on the brow. These fans swayed to the rhythm of their movements as they spun, whirled, and flung themselves about in frantic fashion to the measure of the tom-tom beaters' ear-splitting music. The spectacle was in keeping with the frenzy-wild and weird. Although the moon was at full her brilliance was only occasional, the foliage of the towering palms being so dark and dense. To obviate this, half-broken cocoanut-shells filled with oil in which floated a wick, were slung up on the trees around. The glare as contrasted with the moon's soft light was ghastly and dazzling.

The dance once begun terminated but to begin again. The 'possessed' woman (Taincama) for whom this Yakunnetina was held was now led forth from a tiny thatched hut, occupied by the fisher caste, by the Kattadiya. I was struck first by her exceptionally intelligent countenance, then by her glassy, fixed, and evillooking eyes. The Kattadiya addressed the demon' supposed to be obsessing her. The answer, given through the woman's lips, was blasphemous and defiant. The 'demon' declined to quit. Brandishing a couple of torches kept aflare by fresh resin thrown by two attendants, the Kattadiya then commenced what seemed an inexhaustible incantation, gazing fixedly meanwhile into the depths of the Taincama's (possessed woman) ferocious eyes. For some time not a flinch nor a flicker. It was physically an optic marvel how she remained obdurate to the glare and gaze-without even a quiver of the eyelid! After an hour or so the eyelids gradually drooped, and, with the finale of the incantation, were completely closed. Saffron mixed with cocoanut oil was next daubed on her brow, the Kattadiya breathing heavily thereon meanwhile. Apparently she was his puppet now, so far as automatic movements were concerned. What she did, however, she, or the 'demon' directing, rebelled against. It was as though he (the Kattadiya) had spun a web into which her body was drawn, though her mind offered strenuous opposition. When the dhorjee (wand) was pointed between her temples and held there, the wild contortions of resistance ceased. She was calm, reposeful as a statue. Rebellion was there, though, all the same, subdued for the time being only, not vanquished.

After the tumult of the savage music and the mad spectacle of the frenzied dancers, the sudden stillness was a relief, although appalling. The monotonous moan of the sea breaking on the coral reefs, and the shriek of a bird of night or flying fox,' alone broke the silence, weird, almost awful in its sudden contrast to the late deafening noise and madding scene. After a while a sign from the Kattadiya called from obscurity seven natives, naked save for the tiniest of waist-cloths. Each carried a plantain leaf of curry, besides betel'