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dark background of forest trees, and mark the site of a second ecclesiastical college as large as many an English county town, the vicinity of the Thuparama daghoba to the monastery being regarded as an inestimable religious privilege. An additional consecration was bestowed on this hallowed spot in A.D. 311, when the ruined temple opposite the shrine was selected for the first resting-place of Buddha's Sacred Tooth, carried in solemn procession to the mountain sanctuary of distant Kandy by roads strewn ankle-deep in fragrant flowers. Anaradhupura contains seven cyclopean daghobas, and the three described above, and commonly known as the shrines of preaching, prayer, and adoration, take precedence of all others. The smaller daghobas scattered over the vast area of the ruined city contained the ashes of cremated monks and nuns reverenced as Buddhist saints. The forest-clad mountains of brick work, with the exception of the brazen Ruanweli daghoba, were originally faced with costly chunam, composed of burnt oyster-shells pounded in cocoa-nut water, mixed with the gum of fruit-trees, and the marble purity of the snowy domes soaring into the deep blue of the tropical sky produced an effect of dazzling magnificence as they reflected the radiance of the sun from every polished surface. Various animals and birds are represented with life-like accuracy on architrave and pediment, where the lion, elephant, horse, and bullock alternate with the royal peacock and the sacred. geese, universally reverenced by Eastern nations, though the origin of the cult is lost in antiquity. The lotus occupies the same position in the decorative treatment of column and corbel as the acanthus in Greek architecture. The luxuriant growth of these sacred flowers, which open their rose and azure chalices by thousands in every tank and pool, probably results from the immense demand for the symbolical blossom in the bygone days of Anaradhupura's power and pride. Traces of sun-worship linger in the veneration of the lotus, sacred to Buddhist and Brahmin as to the early Egyptians, whose mystic rites correspond in numerous details with the various religious systems of India. The

mysterious flower, which sinks below the water at sunset and rises to the surface with the earliest beam of returning light, was inseparably connected in the Oriental mind with those ideas of Divine power and magnetic influence ascribed to the sun as the sovereign ruler of the natural and spiritual worlds.

This ancient cultus culminated in the tropics, where the omnipresence of the god of day was an incontrovertible fact impressed upon the consciousness of the people with overwhelming force. We find that in B.C. 288 a golden lotus was carried in an ark to the sacred Bo-Tree of Anaradhupura, and that the priestly procession worshipped sunward beneath the quivering leaves of the green canopy overhead. This venerable tree, believed to be the most ancient in the world and planted 2183 years ago, was a branch from the sacred peepul-tree of BuddhaGya, and was brought hither by Mahindo, the apostle of Buddhism, in B.C. 307. The gnarled boughs of the original trunk, thinly veiled by a fluttering cloud of triangular leaves terminating in sharp points, rise in the midst of a thick grove sprung from the parent stock. The Bo-Tree is still a centre of pilgrimage, and native groups are now encamped before it, each family party sheltered by a gigantic palm-leaf which serves as a tent, the yellow fronds, curiously ribbed and fluted, forming fantastic curves and angles above the dark faces of the gayly-clad pilgrims. The stone terraces and sculptured steps of the paved enclosure, adorned with granite statues of Buddha, were royal gifts offered in honor of the holy tree; and the sacred monkeys which from time immemorial have frequented the grove were always maintained at the expense of the reigning monarch. The Bo-Tree is held in such profound veneration that every bough broken off by the wind is borne in solemn procession round the enclosure, and finally cremated with elaborate funeral ceremonies.

Notwithstanding the vigilance of the yellow-robed custodian who follows me round the grove, I yield to the temptation of gathering a few leaves as souvenirs of the living monument to the early light which dawned upon the spiritual darkness of the Eastern world. The young priest looks aghast at the

temerity of the unbeliever, and lays a restraining hand on mine as I raise it to the sacred bough, but his indignant glance melts into a compassionate smile as I carefully place the treasures already secured in a blotting-book. Perhaps further reflection suggests the possibility of some occult virtue emanating from the consecrated foliage with sufficient power to sanctify the sacrilege and convert the heretic. A rock tem ple in a range of crags at the end of a green glade contains curious chapels, approached by bamboo ladders and bridges of palm-trees which climb dizzy heights and span deep chasms. Several granite coffins lie outside the ruined houses of the priests, flanked by the mystic" yoga stones" used as mediums of divination and prophecy. Oil and sandalwood were placed in the central hole and kindled into a flame, before which the seer sat in rapt abstraction, until his fixed gaze penetrated beyond the blaze of sacred fire into the mysteries of those upper and under worlds invisible to the natural man, but revealed to the eye of faith. A steep cliff, wreathed with vines and creepers, was the ancient citadel of Anaradhupura, and the caverns originally used as the magazines and guard-rooms of this almost impregnable fortress are now occupied by Buddhist hermits, supported by doles of rice from the pilgrims, who place their offerings in iron bowls left for the purpose on a ledge of rock outside the caves.

The noonday heat descends almost in visible and palpable form upon this ruined city of the jungle. The quivering atmosphere waves and dances like a floating veil between heaven and earth, while an unearthly hush steals over the forest, where foliage droops and flowers close their petals under the intolerable glare. Only the snakes which abound in fever-stricken Anaradhupura can brave the white heat of the tropical furnace, and sun themselves during the noontide hours with undisturbed security, while the patient oxen lie panting in their stalls, and the most enthusiastic explorers are compelled to take a siesta until the heat declines. Soon after 3 P.M. the leaves begin to whisper in their dreams, and a faint, indefinable sense of waking life just stirs the drowsy si

lence of the slumbering woods. The afternoon expedition round the outer circle is an ideal sylvan drive. The rough cart-track penetrates the green depths of the shadowy forests, where perpetual twilight broods beneath the sombre foliage of the stately ebony, and golden sunbeams gleam through the pale-green branches of slender satinwood trees which relieve the gloom of the woodland verdure with the smooth whiteness of their glistening stems. Thickets of maidenhair spring from an emerald carpet of velvet moss and choke the murmuring brooks which glide between flowery banks and vanish amid the myriad trees, where the intense hush is emphasized rather than broken by rippling stream and fluttering leaf. The white bullocks drawing the red cart beneath interlacing boughs harmonize with the rural loveliness of the forest landscape, and in each green dell and woodland glade ruined temples, kneeling statues, and overthrown columns hallow the wilderness of tropical vegetation with countless memorials of the mysterious past. At the roadside a colossal Buddha, black with age and impressive as the Sphinx, smiles across the endless leagues of forest in the unbroken calm of more than two thousand years. A wreath of faded flowers and some ashes of burned camphor at the base of the statue show that a native peasant has recently laid his simple offering before the hoary monument, which bears eternal witness to the faith of bygone generations, countless as the leaves whirled away on the breath of the storm. The old religion, though not extinct, has degenerated from the comparative purity of the stream at its source, and at the present time a Buddhist monk, forbidden by the rule of his order to slay even the gnat which stings him, is being tried by the provincial judge for the murder of one of his brethren.

These impenetrable forests often aid the culprit to defeat the ends of justice, and the native assassin who can thread the labyrinths of the jungle generally contrives to baffle pursuit, and to support himself on the wild fruits and berries of the woods until beyond the reach of his accusers.

In the coolness of the sunset hour we

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ascend the Thuparama daghoba by the rough steps and narrow paths which wind up to the summit of the gigantic cone through tangled brushwood and feathery fern. A flight of granite stairs gives access to the stone galleries above the dome which command a full view of Mahintole, a forest clad hill to which Mahindo was traditionally transported through the air. A Via Sacra extended hither from Anaradhupura, a distance of eight miles, the road being lined with temples, shrines, and monasteries. The daghoba of Mahintole contains a single hair plucked from. the eyebrow of Buddha, and enclosed in a mass of brickwork one hundred feet high. A perilous ledge on the mountain-top is reverenced as Mahindo's bed; and a large seven-headed cobra carved in the rock, and known as the Snake Bath, marks the site of a sacred fountain. Rock chambers and monastic ruins cover the hill, and the picturesque stairs, which ascend through a grove of ironwood and tamarind-trees, bear numerous inscriptions in Pali and Sanscrit, commemorating supernatural favors experienced by pilgrims to this famous sanctuary. Beyond Mahintole the gray cliffs of Trincomalee stand out in sharp silhouette against the golden afterglow; but the swiftly falling night compels a hasty descent from our airy perch, and, with a hurried glance at the recent excavations below the daghoba, we regain the bullock cart with frantic speed, rushing through the long grass in terror of possible snakes, forgotten until the guide alarms us with a realistic imitation of the hissing tic polonga, in order to quicken loitering footsteps.

The gradual decay of Anaradhupura dates from the introduction of Tamil troops from Malabar into Ceylon, as supplementary reinforcements of the native army. These hired mercenaries overran the country, rebelled against the Cingalese kings, and finally conquered the capital. They were in turn routed by the native troops; but the nucleus of the Tamil population remained in Anaradhupura, and the alien race gradually regained its former status. The Cingalese monarch was at length slain in a revolutionary disturbance, and in A.D. 300 the royal race of theChildren of the Sun" became ex

tinct; the city again fell into the hands of the enemy, and a Tamil sovereign ascended the throne. Four centuries later perpetual warfare raged in Anaradhupura between the rival creeds of Buddhism and Brahmanism, in consequence of the Tamil usurpers inculcating the doctrines of their national religion. The city became such a hotbed of fanaticism that political interests were at a discount, and the king, after vainly endeavoring to quell the strife, deserted Anaradhupura, and fixed his capital at Pollonarua, in the south of the island. The adoption of this stringent measure failed to secure peace, and the religious contest was continued in the new metropolis until the Portuguese invasion. This was succeeded by the Dutch occupation, followed in turn by the French and English rule, the fourfold European race absorbing many of the native characteristics, and gradually welding the mixed nationalities of Ceylon into cohesive form.

On the return journey from Anaradhupura we halt to see the five celebrated rock temples of Dambool, the typical Buddhist sanctuary of Ceylon. Quaint frescoes of religious processions adorn the walls of the principal temple, and long rows of yellow Buddhas, interspersed with colored figures of ancient Cingalese kings, brighten the dim twilight of the cavernous interior. A recumbent image hewn in the living rock looms in gigantic proportions from the depths of this shadowy crypt, and is repeated in each of the minor temples. Monastic cells perforate the cliffs, and a steep path over slippery sheets of granite affords a final glimpse of the mountains and forests which separate Anaradhupura from the world. The golden light of evening suffuses the sky, and the chirping of the little jungle birds, those "clocks of the forest" which for half an hour at dawn and sunset wake the woods with music, now fills the air. Between glossy hedges of coffee a bullock-wagon lumbers heavily along, laden with a gorgeous parasite dreaded here as a noxious weed, but cherished in England as a precious exotic. We utter an involuntary exclamation of horror as the snowy clusters of velvety blossoms, with vivid scarlet hearts, are tossed in huge heaps on

the roadside and left to wither in the

sun.

As we descend the rocks the veil of night falls over the beauty of the remote province so rich in mighty memories. We look back regretfully on the shrine of that antique civilization which

existed long before the predestined conquerors of Ceylon emerged from the darkness of barbarism into the glimmering dawn, as it stole through the benighted West with the pale promise of coming day.-Cornhill Magazine.

I.

GOUNOD.

BY MLLE. DE BOVET AND CH. M. WIDOR.

THE necessary condition of the special organization of artists in general, and in particular of musicians, who are always vibrating to the least breath like a violin-string, is an extreme nervous impressionability, that makes them more or less irritable. Among the things that irritate them most is the common habit of continually quoting to them what is called their masterpiece, as if the rest of their works did not exist at all, and should be regarded with calm condescension.

How many persons, on being presented to Gounod, have I not heard saythey could think of nothing else "Ah! cher maître . . . Faust! as if that was his whole work. "Thank you for it," he might have answered, as I know he thought it; "but there are a few other little works of mine." And I have even reason for believing that he much preferred to be spoken to, not about Roméo et Juliette, which in public opinion ran almost a dead heat with Faust in the race for glory, but about Sapho and Polyeucte, the choruses of Ulysse and Biondina, and a number of other works for which he felt that particular affection which a good father reserves for the less brilliant and less generally appreciated of his children, but whose graces and merits he knows.

However, whatever may be the intrinsic value of each of the elements that go to make up the greatness of an artist, there is always one which surpasses the others. That is the work par excellence, the complete, finished, absolute work, which is in exact relation to the author's temperament; in fine, the dominant work, which ill-edu

cated and superficial minds wrongly consider the only work. It is not so much the capo d'opera, the head of the work, as the chef-d'œuvre in the sense in which the artisans of old understood it, that is to say, the work by which their mastery of their art and the maturity of their talent were affirmed, but which by no means meant that they might not have produced before, and could not produce afterward, as good and even better works.

Even before 1859, the composer, who had already attained his fortieth year, had gained the sympathy of the conoscenti, and a reputation in artistic circles. A critic of the time thus defines him: "A distinguished musician, a born artist, whose purity of style, fineness of taste, and lofty bent of mind promise France a master in music." But it was only at this decisive epoch in his career that he struck the heart of the general public, piercing it in spite of its cuirass of indifference and antagonism to new genius, and it is under the title of "the author of Faust" that he will live in posterity, without insult to his memory.

But that work did not establish his reputation immediately. In accordance with the essential condition of all profound and lasting success, it was some time before Faust took root. In the Revue des Deux Mondes of 1st April, 1859, P. Scudo, the first French critic of the day, gave a long account of the first representation of the 19th March, and the prognostics he makes regarding the future of the author are not a little curious. "Whatever may be the ulterior success of this opera, it will certainly contribute to spread and consolidate the reputation of M. Gounod.

We are disposed to believe that, by the qualities we have just enumerated, no less than by the poverty and effacement of fundamental ideas, that is to say, of melody, he is perhaps destined to fill in contemporary art the role of a Cherubini, with peculiar and more modern nuances. This criticism would scarcely be expected by us, and in our time, which feels a little and affects much disdain for "melody" in the sense in which the followers of the god Rossini then understood it, one cannot help smiling at it. If we believe the young musical generation, is not Gounod out of fashion"? And is it possible that the revolutionist of thirty years ago could be the retrograde of today? But it is so. One day, when Gounod was speaking with me about one of those bitter attacks, of which, in these irreverent days, the apprentices in art are not sparing in respect to the masters, thinking, no doubt, they are winning for themselves a brevet of genius thereby, he said, with his gentle smile :-"6 And to think that in my youth I was execrated as an iconoclast. On est toujours le Wag

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ner de quelqu'un."

All this proves how difficult it is to pronounce an equitable judgment on any form of art which breaks a traditional mould. The wisest are deceived, and, as Gounod said-whom I shall often have occasion to quote about him self-"Let those who have never sinned throw the first stone." But though it is hard to fix beforehand the place which a mind will occupy in the history of ideas, it is scarcely difficult to state the place which it has occupied. This, therefore, I do not propose to do in these pages, but rather to try and give a portrait of the illustrious man who has just died, a portrait, the scrupulous fidelity of which, in default of other merit, the particular facilities I had of approaching him put me in a position to guarantee. Everything is contained in a temperament; the physical determines the moral, and the moral in turn moulds the intellectual. This is especially true of an artist of Gounod's sincerity, who always wrote under the dictation of his heart, with the help of technical knowledge acquired by study and skill of hand resulting of experi

ence, but without affectation or mannerism, without the prejudice of a school, and without any studied seeking for independence. A knowledge of the soul of a creator is the best means of penetrating into the character of what he has created. And if I chance to touch upon the technical side of Gounod's work, it will only be to cast into relief its intimate relation with its moral being.

II.

The life of Gounod has been too often written for me to narrate it in detail. Besides, although it is possible to produce volumes of facts about the life of a great man, regarding whom, partly through snobbery, partly through admiration, and sometimes owing to a venomous desire of detraction, everything interests the crowd, it is easy, and doubtless preferable, to condense it into a few lines. Emile Augier, when interviewed by a reporter in search of copy, gave him these two bits of information about himself: "I was born in 1825, and afterward I wrote comedies. . I don't remember anything else." The career of a hard-working man such as he who now engages our attention might be graphically portrayed by the chronological table of his works.

That is what he did one day himself, on my asking him to furnish me with some significant data regarding his career. With what sorrowful emotion I think of that day! It was at his house in the Place Malesherbes, in that vast and simple atelier which gave an impression of refinement rather than of luxury, and where a certain indescribable intimacy and meditativeness floated. in the atmosphere, so that one felt on entering enveloped as with a caress by a gentle warmth of confidence and tenderness, a sensation of warmth which lasted even after one had left the house. I see his tall, robust figure moving briskly and easily, with a black velvet jacket open on his broad chest, a black silk cravat carefully tied under the turned-down neck of his scrupulously white flannel shirt, fine polished shoes on feet small as a woman's, a short pipe between his dazzling white teeth: gay, talkative, fascinating, receiving every

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