 Preface of the Dawn and the Day When Humboldt first ascended the Andes and saw the trees, shrubs, and flora he had long before studied on the Alps, he had only to look at his barometer, or at the sea of mountains and hills below, the rocks and soil around and the sun above, to understand this seeming marvel of creation, while those who knew less of the laws of order and universal harmony might be lost in conjectures about pollen floating in the upper air, or seeds carried by birds across seas. Forgetting the preservation is perpetual creation, and that it takes no more power to clothe a mountain just risen from the sea in appropriate verger than to renew the beauty and the bloom of spring. Max Müller, who looks through antiquity with the same clear vision with which Humboldt examined the physical world, when he found the most ancient Hindus bowing in worship before Dyaus Pitar, the exact equivalent of the Zeus Potter of the Greeks and the Jupiter of the Romans, and of our Father who art in the heavens in our own divinely taught prayer, instead of indulging in wild speculations about the chance belief of some ancient chief or patriarch transmitted across continents and seas, and even across the great gulf that has always divided the Aryan from the submittic civilization, and preserved through ages of darkness and unbelief, saw in it the common yearning of the human soul to find rest on a loving Father's almighty arm. Yet when our Oriental missionaries and scholars found such fundamental truths of their own religion as the common brotherhood of man, and that love is the vital force of all religion, which consists not in blood oblations, or in forms and creeds, but in shunning evil and doing good, and that we must overcome evil by good and hatred by love, and that there is a spiritual world and life after death embodied in the teachings of Buddha. Instead of finding in this great fact new proof of the common Father's love for all his children, they immediately began to indulge in conjectures as to how these truths might have been derived from the early Christians who visited the East, while those who were disposed to reject the claims of Christianity have exhausted research and conjecture to find something looking as if Christianity itself might have been derived from the Buddhist missionaries to Palestine and Egypt. Both overlooking the remarkable fact that it is only in fundamental truths that the two religions agree, while in the dogmas, legends, creeds, and speculations, which form the wall of separation between them, there as wide asunder as the poles. How comes it on the one theory that the Nestorians, whose peculiar creed had already separated them from the balance of the Christian Church, taught their Buddhist disciples no part of that creed to which they have adhered with such tenacity through the ages? And on the other theory, how comes it, if the Divine Master was, as some modern writers claim, and a scene, that is, a Buddhist monk, that there is not in all his teachings a trace of the speculations and legends which had already buried the fundamental truths of Buddhism almost out of sight? How sad to hear a distinguished Christian scholar like Sir Monier Williams cautioning his readers against giving a Christian meaning to the Christian expressions he constantly met with in Buddhism, and yet informing them then a learned and distinguished Japanese gentleman told him it was a source of great delight to him to find so many of his most cherished religious beliefs in the New Testament, and to see an earnest Christian missionary like Good Father Hook, when, in the busy city of Lhasa, on the approach of evening, at the sound of a bell, the whole population sunk on their knees in a concert of prayer, only finding in it an attempt of Satan to counterfeit Christian worship, and on the other hand to see ancient and modern learning ransacked to prove that the brightest and clearest light that ever burst upon a sinful and benighted world was but the reflected rays of another faith? And yet this same Sir Monier Williams says, We shall not be far wrong in attempting an outline of the Buddha's life if we begin by assuming that intense individuality, fervent earnestness, and severe simplicity combined with singular beauty of countenance, calm dignity of bearing, and almost superhuman persuasiveness of speech were conspicuous in the great teacher. To believe that such a character was the product of a false religion or that he was given over to believe a lie savers too much of that worst agnosticism which would in effect deny the universality of God's love and would limit his care to some favored locality or age or race. How much more in harmony with the broad philosophy of such men as Humboldt and Mueller, and with the character of a loving father, to believe that at all times and in all countries he has been watching over all his children and giving them all the light they were capable of receiving. This narrow vein is especially out of place in treating a Buddhism and Christianity as Buddha himself predicted that his Dharma would last but five hundred years when he would be succeeded by Maitreya, that is love incarnate, on which account the whole Buddhist world was on tiptoe of expectation at the time of the coming of our Lord, so that the wise men of the East were not only following their guiding star, but the prediction of their own great prophet in seeking Bethlehem. Had the Christian missionaries to the East left behind them their creeds, which have only served to divide Christians into hostile sects and sometimes into hostile camps, and which so far as I can see, after years of patient study, have no necessary connection with the simple living truths taught by our Savior, and had taken only their new testaments and their earnest desire to do good, the history of missions would have been widely different. How of the Earth? Earthy seemed the walls that divided the delegates to the world's great Congress of Religions recently held in Chicago, and how altogether divine, the love which like an endless golden chain joined all in one. Whatever others may think, it is my firm belief that Buddhism and Christianity, which we cannot doubt have influenced for good such vast masses the human family, both descended from hell, both descended from heaven clothed in robes of celestial purity, which have become sadly stained by their contact with the selfishness of a sinful world, except for which belief, the following pages would never have been written, which are now sent forth in the hope that they may do something to enable Buddhists and Christians to see eye to eye, and something to promote peace and goodwill among men. While following my own conceptions, and even fancies in many things, I believe the leading character is an incidence to be historical, and I have given nothing as the teaching of the great master which was not, to my mind, clearly authenticated. To those who have read so much about agnostic Buddhism, and about nirvana, meaning annihilation, it may seem bold in me to present Buddha as an undoubting believer in the fundamental truths of all religion, and as not only a believer in a spiritual world, but an actual visitor to its sad and blissful scenes. But the only agnosticism I have been able to trace to Buddha was a want of faith in the many ways invented through the ages to escape the consequences of sin, and to avoid the necessity of personal purification. And the only annihilation he taught, and yearned for, was the annihilation of self in the highest Christian sense, and escape from that body of death, from which the Apostle Paul so earnestly sought deliverance. Doubtless agnosticism, and almost every form of belief and unbelief, subsequently sprang up among the intensely accurate and speculative peoples of the East, known under the general name of Buddhists, as they did among the less acute and speculative people of the West, known as Christians. But the one is no more primitive Buddhism than the other is primitive Christianity. While there are innumerable poetic legends, of which Spence Hardy's Manual of Buddhism is a great storehouse, and many of which are given by Arnold in his beautiful poem, strewn thick along the track of Buddhist literature, constantly tempting one to leave the straight path of the development of a great religion, I have carefully avoided what did not commend itself to my mind as either historical or spiritual truth. It was my original design to follow the wonderful career of Buddha, until his long life closed with visions of the Golden City, much as described in Revelation, and then to follow that most wonderful career of Buddhist missions, not only through India and Ceylon, but to Palestine, Greece, and Egypt, and over the table lands of Asia, and through the Chinese Empire to Japan, and then by the black stream to Mexico and Central America, and then to follow the wise men of the East, until the light of the world dawned on them on the plains of Bethlehem, a task but half accomplished, which I shall yet complete if life and strength are spared. A valued literary friend suggests that the social life described in the following pages is too much like ours, but why should their daily life and social customs be greatly different from ours? The Aryan migrations to India and to Europe were in large masses, of course, taking their social customs, or as the Romans would say, their household gods with them. What wonder then that the home, as Tacitus describes it in the wilds of Germany, was substantially what Mueller finds from the very structure of the Sanskrit and European languages, it must have been in Bacteria, the common cradle of the Aryan race. There can scarcely be a doubt that 2,500 years ago the daily life and social customs in the North of India, which had been under undisputed Aryan control long enough for the Sanskrit language to spring up, come to perfection and finally become obsolete, were more like ours than like those of modern India after the many, and especially the Mohammedan, conquests, and after centuries of oppression and alien rule. If a thousand English-speaking Aryans should now be placed on some distant island, how much would their social customs and even amusements differ from ours in a hundred years? Only so far has changed climate and surroundings compelled. I give as an introduction an outline of the golden, silver, brazen, and iron ages, as described by the ancient poets, and believed in by all antiquity, as it was in the very depths of the darkness of the Iron Age that our great light appeared in Northern India. The very denseness of the darkness of the Age in which he came makes the clearness of the light more wonderful, and accounts for the joy with which it was received, and the rapidity with which it spread. Not to enter into the niceties of chronological questions, the mission of Buddha may be roughly said to have commenced about 500 years before the commencement of our era, and with incessant labours and long and repeated journeys have lasted 45 years, when, at about the age of 80, he died, or, as the Buddhists more truthfully and more beautifully say, entered Nirvana. Henry T. Niles, Toledo, January 1st, 1894 Since this work was in the hands of the printer, I have read the recent work of Bishop Cobblestone, of Colombo Ceylon, and it was a source of no small gratification to find him in all material points agreeing with the result of my somewhat extensive investigations as given within foreign Ceylon, if anywhere, we would expect accuracy. Here the great Buddhist development first comes in contact with authentic history during the third century BC, in the reign of the great Asoka, the discovery of whose rock inscriptions shed such a flood of light on primitive Buddhism, while it still retained enough of its primitive power, as we learn from those inscriptions themselves to turn that monarch from a course of cruel tyranny, and as we learn from the history of Ceylon to induce his son and daughter to abandon royalty and become the first missionaries to that beautiful island. H. T. M. End of Preface Recording by Scott Robbins Introduction of the Dawn and the Day This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Dawn and the Day by Henry Thayer Niles Introduction The golden age when men were brothers all, the golden rule their law and god their king. When no fierce beasts did through the forest roam, nor poisonous reptiles crawl upon the ground, when trees bore only wholesome luscious fruits, and thornless roses breathed their sweet perfumes, when sickness, sin, and sorrow were unknown, and tears but spoke of joy too deep for words. When painless death but led to higher life, a life that knows no end in that bright world whence angels on their ladder Jacob saw, descending talk with man as friend to friend, that age of purity and peace had passed but left a living memory behind, cherished and handed down from sire to son through all the scattered peoples of the earth, a living prophecy of what this world, this sad and sinful world, might yet become. The Silver Age, an age of faith not sight, came next when reason ruled instead of love, when men as through a glass but darkly saw, what to their fathers clearly stood revealed in God's own light of love and lumen truth, of which the sun that rising paints the east, and whose last rays with glory gild the west, is but an outbirth. Then were temples reared, and priests mid-clouds of incense sang his praise, who out of densest darkness called the light, and from his own unbounded fullness made the heavens and earth and all that in them is. Then landmarks were first set, lest men contend for God's free gifts, that all in peace had shared. Then laws were made to govern those whose sires were laws unto themselves. Then sickness came, and grief and pain attended men from birth to death. But still a silver light lined every cloud, and hope was given to cheer and comfort men. The brazen age brilliant but cold succeeds. This was an age of knowledge, art, and war, when the knights errant of the ancient world, adventures seeking, roamed with brazen swords, which by a wondrous art then known now lost, were hard as flint and edge to cut a hair, or cleave in twain a warrior armor clad, and armed with shields adorned by Vulcan's art, wonder of coming times and theme for bards. Then science searched through nature's heights and depths. Heaven's canopy thick set with stars was mapped. The constellations named, and all the laws searched out, that guide their motions, rolling, sphere on sphere. Then men by reasonings piled up mountain high, thought to scale heaven, and to dethrone heaven's king, whose imitators weak with quips and quirks and ridicule would now destroy all sacred things. This age great Homer and old Hesiod sang, and gods they made of hero, artist, barred. At length this twilight of the ages fades, and starless night now sinks upon the world, an age of iron, cruel, dark, and cold. On Asia first this outer darkness fell, one seat of paradise, primordial peace, perennial harmony, and perfect love. A despot's will was then a nation's law. An idle's car crushed out poor human lives, and human blood polluted many shrines. Then human speculation made of God, a shoreless ocean, distant, waveless, vast, of truth that sees not, an unfeeling love, when souls as drops were taken back to fall, absorbed and lost, when countless ages passed, they'd complete their they'd complete their round as souls of men, of beasts, of birds, and of all creeping things. And even worse the cruel iron casts, one cast too wholly for another's touch, had every human aspiration crushed, the common brotherhood of man destroyed, and made all men but Pharisees or slaves. And worst of all, and what could even be worse, woman, born of man's bone, flesh of his flesh, the equal partner of a double life, who in the world's best days stood by his side to lighten every care and heighten every joy, and in the world's decline still clung to him. She only true when all beside were false, when all were cruel she alone still kind, light of his hearth and mistress of his home, soul spot where peace and joy could still be found. Woman herself cast down, despised was made, slave to man's luxury and brutal lust. Then war was wrapping, havoc needless blood, infants impaled before their mother's eyes, women dishonored, mutilated, slain, parents but spared to see their children die. Then peace was but a faithless hollow truce, with plots and counterplots, the daggers point and poisoned cup instead of open war, and life a savage grim conspiracy of mutual murder, treachery, and greed. Oh dark cruel age, oh cruel creeds, oh cruel men, oh crushed and bleeding hearts, that from the very ground in anguish cry, is there no light, no hope, no help, no God, end of introduction. Reading by Scott Robbins. Section 2, Book 1 of the Dawn and the Day. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Dawn and the Day by Henry Thayer Niles. Book 1. Northward from Ganges' stream in India's plains, an ancient city crowned a lofty hill, whose high embattled walls had often rolled, the surging angry tide of battle back. Walled on three sides, but on the north a cliff. At once the city's quarry and its guard, cut out in galleries with vaulted roofs, upborn upon Cyclopean columns vast, chiseled with art, their capitals adorned with lions, elephants, and bulls life-size. Once dedicate to many monstrous gods, before the Aryan race as victors came, then prisons, granaries, and magazines. Now only known to bandits and wild beasts, this cliff extending at each end bends north, and rises in two mountain chains that end in two vast snow-capped Himalayan peaks, between which runs a glittering glacial stream, a mighty moving mass of crystal ice crushing the rocks in its restless course, from which burst forth a river that had made of all this valley one great highland lake, which on one side had burst its bonds and cut in myriad years a channel through the rock, so narrow that a goat might almost leap from cliff to cliff, these cliffs so smooth and steep, the eagles scarce could build upon their sides, this yawning chasm so deep one scarce could hear the angry waters roaring far below. This stream guided by art now fed a lake above the city and behind this cliff, which guided dense and channels through the rock, fed many fountains sending crystal streams through every street and down the terraced hill, and through the plain and little silver streams spreading the richest verger far and wide. Here was the seat of King Sudodhana, his royal park walled by eternal hills, where trees and shrubs and flowers all native grew, for in its bounds all the four seasons met, from ever laughing ever blooming spring to savage winter with eternal snows, here stately palms the banyan's many trunks darkening whole acres with its grateful shade, and bamboo groves with graceful waving blooms, the champak and its fragrant golden flowers, asokas one bright blaze of brilliant bloom, the mora yielding food and oil and wine, the sacred sandal and the spreading oak, the mountain-loving fir and spruce and pine, and giant cedars grandest of them all, planted in ages past and thinned and pruned with that high art that hides all trace of art, were placed to please the eye and show their form in groves, in clumps, in jungles, and alone. Here all a forest seemed, there open groves with vine-clad trees, vines hanging from each limb, a pendant chain of bloom with shaded drives, and walks with rustic seats, cool grots and dells, with fountains playing and with babbling brooks, and stately swans sailing on little lakes, while peacocks, rainbow-tinted trikes, pheasants, glittering like precious stones, parrots, and birds of all rich plumage fly from tree to tree, the whole scene vocal with sweet varied song, and here a widespread lawn bedecked with flowers, with clumps of brilliant roses grown to trees, and fields with dahlias spread, not stiff and prim like the starched ruffle of an ancient dame, but growing in luxuriance, rich and wild, the colors of the evening and the rainbow joined, white scarlet yellow crimson deep maroon, blending all colors in one dazzling blaze. There orchards bend beneath their luscious loads, here vineyards climb the hills, thick set with grapes, there rolling pastures spread where royal mares high bred, and colts too young for bit or spur, now quiet feed then as trumpets call, with lion-bound's tails floating neck-out stretched, nostrils distended, feet as the flying wind, they skim the plain and sweep in circles wide, nature's olympic copied, nair excelled, here deer with dappled fawn, bound o'er the grass, and sacred herds and sheep with skipping lambs, there great white elephants in quiet nooks, while high on cliffs, framed in with living green, goats climb and seem to hang and feed in air, sweet spot with altar pleas and nothing to offend. Here on a hill the royal palace stood, a gem of art and near another hill, its top crowned by an aged banyan tree, its sides clad in strange jottismati grass, by day a sober brown, but in the night glowing as if the hill were all a flame, twin wonders to the dwellers in the plain, their guides and landmarks day and night, this glittering palace and this glowing hill, within above the palace rose a tower, which memory knew but as the ancient tower, four square and high, an altar and a shrine, on its broad top where burned perpetual fire, emblem of boundless and eternal love, and truth that knows no night, no cloud, no change, long since gone out with that most ancient faith, in one great father, source of life and light, still round this ancient tower, strange hopes and fears, and memories handed down from sire to son were clustered thick, an army old men say, once camped against the city when strange lights burst from this tower, blinding their dazzled eyes, they fled amazed, nor dared to look behind, the people bloody war and cruel bondage saw, on every side, and they at peace and free, and thought a power to save dwelt in that tower, and now strange prophecies and sayings old, were everywhere rehearsed, that from this hill should come a king or savior of the world, even the poor dwellers in the distant plain looked up, they too had heard that hence should come, one quick to hear the poor and strong to save, and who shall dare to chide their simple faith, this humble reverence for the great unknown, brings men near God and opens unseen worlds, whence comes all life, and where all power doth dwell. Morning and evening on this tower, the king, before the rising and the setting sun, blindly but in his father's faith, bowed down, then he would rise and on his kingdom gaze, east, west, hills beyond hills stretched far away, wooded, terraced, or bleak and bold and bare, till in dim distance all were leveled lost, one rich and varied carpet spread far south, of fields, of groves, of busy cities wrought, with mighty rivers seeming silver threads, and to the north the Himalayan chain, peak beyond peak, a wall of crest and crag, icebound, snow capped, backed by intensest blue, untrawed, immense that like a crystal wall, in myriad varied tints the glorious light of rising and of setting sun reflects, his noble city lying at his feet, and his broad park, tinged by the sun's slant rays, a thousand softly rich and varied shades. Still on this scene of grandeur, plenty peace, and ever-varying beauty he would gaze with sadness, he had heard these prophecies, and felt the unrest that great world within hid from our blinded eyes, yet ever near. The very soul and life of this dead world, which seers and prophets open-eyed have seen, on which the dying often raptured gaze, and where they live, when they are mounted as dead, this world was now a stir for telling day. A king shall come, they say, to rule the world, if he will rule, but wence this mighty king. My years decline apace, and yet no son of mine to rule or light my funeral pile. One night, Queen Maya, sleeping by her lord, dreamed a strange dream. She dreamed she saw a star gliding from heaven and resting over her. She dreamed she heard strange music soft and sweet, so distant joy and peace was all she heard. In joy and peace she wakes and waits to know what this strange dream might mean, and whence it came. Drums, shells, and trumpets sound for joy, not war. The streets are swept and sprinkled with perfumes, and myriad lamps shine from each house and tree, and myriad flags flutter in every breeze, and children crowned with flowers dance in the streets, and all keep universal holiday, with shows and games, and laugh and dance and song, for to the gentle queen a son is born, to King Sudodhana the good and heir. But scarcely had these myriad lamps gone out, the sounds of revelry had scarcely died, when coming from the palace in hot haste one cried, Maya the gentle queen is dead. Then mirth was changed to sadness, joy to grief, for all had learned to love the gentle queen, but at Siddhartha's birth this was foretold. Among the strangers bringing gifts from far, there came an ancient sage, whence no one knew. Age bowed, head like the snow, eyes filmed in white, so deaf the thunder scarcely startled him, who met them, as they said, three journeys back, and all his talk was of a newborn king. Just born to rule the world if he would rule. He was so gentle, seemed so wondrous wise, they followed him, he following, he said, a light they could not see, and when encamped, more noon and night devoutly would he pray, and then would talk for hours as friend to friend, the questionings about this newborn king, gazing intently at the tense blank wall, with nods and smiles as if he saw and heard, while they sit lost in wonder as one sits, who never saw a telephone but hears unanswered questions, laughter it unheard jests, and sees one bid a little box goodbye. And when they came before the king, they saw laughing and cooing on its mother's knee, picture of innocence, a sweet young child. He saw a mighty prophet, and bowed down, eight times in reverence to the very ground, and rising said, thrice happy house, all hail. This child would rule the world if he would rule, but he, too good to rule, is born to save. But Maya's work is done, that Deva's wait. But when they sought for him, the sage was gone, whence come or wither gone, none ever knew. Then gentle Maya understood her dream, the music nearer, clearer sounds she sleeps. But when the funeral pile was raised for her, of aloe, sandal, and all fragrant woods, and decked with flowers and rich with rare perfumes, and when the queen was gently laid thereon, as in sweet sleep, and the pile set aflame, the king cried out in anguish, when the sage again appeared and gently said, weep not, seek not, oh king, the living with the dead. Tis but her cast off garment, not herself that now dissolves in air. Thy loved one lives, become thy Deva, who was erst thy queen. This said, he vanished, and was no more seen. Now other hands take up that mother's task, another breast nurses that sweet young child with growing love, for who can nurse a child, feel its warm breath and little dimpled hands, kiss its soft lips, look in its laughing eyes, hear its low-going love notes soft and sweet, and not feel something of that miracle, a mother's love so old yet ever new, stronger than death, bravest among the brave, gentle as brave, watchful both day and night, that never changes, never tires nor sleeps. Once comes this wondrous and undying love, once can it come, unless it comes from heaven, whose life is love, eternal, perfect love. From babe to boy, from boy to youth he grew, but more in grace and knowledge than in years, at play his joyous laugh rang loud and clear, his foot was fleetest in old boyish games, and strung his arm and steady nerve and eye to whirl the quite and send the arrow home, yet seeming off to strive he'd check his speed and miss his mark to let a comrade win. In fullness of young life he climbed the cliffs where human foot had never trod before. He led the chase, but when soft-eyed gazelles or bounding deer or any harmless thing came in the range of his unerring dart, he let them pass, for why thought he should men in wantonness make war on innocence. One day the prince Siddhartha saw the grooms, gathered about a stallion snowy white, descended from that great Nicaean stock, his father's brought from Iran's distant plain, named Kantaka. Some held him fast with chains till one could mount, he like a lion snared, frantic with rage and fear did fiercely bound. They cut his tender mouth with bloody bit, beating his foaming sides until the prince, sterner than was his want, made them desist, while he spoke soothingly, patted his head and stroked his neck, and dropped those galling chains when Kantaka's fierce flaming eyes grew mild. He quiet stood by gentleness subdued, such mighty power hath gentleness and love, and from that day no horse so strong and fleet, so kind and true, easy to check and guide, as Kantaka, Siddhartha's noble steed. To playmates he was gentle as a girl, yet should the strong presume upon their strength to overbear or wrong those weaker than themselves, his sturdy arm and steady eye checked them, and he would gently say, Brother, not so, our strength was given to aid and not oppress. For an ancient book he found a truth, a book no longer read, a truth forgot, entombed in iron casts and buried deep in speculations and in subtle creeds, that men high, low, rich, poor, our brothers all, which pondered much in his heart's fruitful soil, had taken root as a great living truth. That to a mighty doctrine soon would grow, a mighty tree to heal the nations with its leaves, like some small grain of wheat appearing dead, in mummy case three thousand years ago, securely wrapped and sunk in Egypt's tombs, themselves buried beneath the desert sands, which now brought forth and planted in fresh soil, and watered by the dews and rains of heaven, shoots up and yields a hundred fold of grain, until in golden harvest now it waves, on myriad acres many thousand miles, from where the single ancient seed had grown. Thus he grew up with all that heart could wish, or power command, his very life itself, so fresh and young, sound body with sound mind, the living fountain of perpetual joy, yet he would often sit and sadly think, sad thoughts and deep and far beyond his years, how sorrow filled the world, how things were shared, one born to waste, another born to want, one for life's cream, the others to drain its drags, one born a master, the others object slaves, and when he asked his masters to explain, when all were brothers, how such things could be, they gave him speculations, fables old, how Brahm first Brahmans made to think for all, and then Shatryas, warriors from their birth, then Sudras, to draw water and hue wood. But why should one for others think, when all must answer for themselves? Why brothers fight, and why one born another slave, when all might serve and help each other, he would ask, but they could only answer, never doubt, for so the holy Brahmans always taught. Still he must think, and as he thought he sighed, not for his petty griefs that last an hour, but for the bitter sorrows of the world, that crush all men, and last from age to age. The good old king saw this, saw that the prince, the apple of his eye, dearer than life, stately and form, supple and strong and limb, quick to learn every art of peace and war, displaying and excelling every grace, and attribute of his most royal line, whom all would follow where so ever he led, so fit to rule the world if he would rule, thought less of ruling than of saving men. He saw the glory of his ancient house, suspended on, and if, if he will rule, the empire of the world, and power to crush, those cruel bloody kings who curse mankind, and power to make a universal peace. If not this high career with glory crowned, and seeking truth through folly's devious ways, by self-inflicted torture seeking bliss, and by self-murder seeking higher life, on one foot standing till the other pawing, arms stretched aloft, fingers grown bloodless claws, or else impaled on spikes with festering sores, covered from head to foot, the body wastes with constant anguish and with slow decay. Can this be wisdom? Can such a life be good that shuns old duty's line on our path, useless to others filled with grief and pain? Not so my father's god teaches to live, rising each morning most exact in time. He bathes the earth and sky with rosy light, and fills all nature with new life and joy. The cock's shrill clarion calls us to awake, and breath this life and hear the bursts of song, that fill each grove, inhale the rich perfume of opening flowers, and work while day shall last. Then rising higher, he warms each dank cold spot, dispels the sickening vapours, clothes the fields with waving grain, the trees with golden fruit, the vines with grapes, and when tis time for rest sinks in the west, and with new glory guilds the mountaintops, the clouds in western sky, and calls all nature to refreshing sleep. If he be god, the useful are like god. If not, god made the sun, who made all men, and by his great example teaches them, the diligent are wise, the useful good. Sorely perplexed he called his counsellors, grown gray in serving their beloved king, and said, Friends of my youth, manhood and age, so wise in council and so brave in war, who never failed in danger or distress, oppressed with fear I come to you for aid. You know the prophecies that from my house shall come a king, or savior of the world. You saw strange signs precede Siddhartha's birth, and saw the ancient sage whom no one knew fall down before the prince and hail my house. You heard him tell the queen she soon would die, and saw her sink in death as in sweet sleep. You laid her gently on her funeral pile, and heard my cry of anguish when the sage again appeared and bade me not to weep. For her as dead who lived and loved me still, we saw the prince grow up to man's estate, so strong and full of manliness and grace, and wise beyond his teachers and his years, and thought in him the prophecies fulfilled, and that with glory he would rule the world, and bless all men with universal peace. But now dark shadows fall a thwart our hopes. Often in sleep the prince will start and cry as if in pain, O world, sad world, I come. But roused he'll sometimes sit the live-long day, forgetting teachers, sports, and even food, as if with dreadful visions overwhelmed, or buried in great thoughts profound and deep. But yet to see our people riding forth, to their acclaims he answers with such grace and gentle stateliness my heart would swell. As I would hear the people to each other say, whoever saw such grace and grandeur joined. Yet while he answers, gladness with light joy, his eyes seem searching for the sick and old, the poor and maimed and blind, all forms of grief, and oft he'd say, tears streaming from his eyes, let us return, my heart can bear no more. One day we saw beneath a peeple tree, an aged Brahmin, wasted with long fests, loathsome with self-inflicted ghastly wounds, a rigid skeleton standing erect, one hand stretched out, the other stretched aloft, his long white beard, grown filthy by neglect, where at the prince with shuddering horrors shook and cried, O world, must I be such for thee? And once he led the chase of a wild boar in the great forest near the glacier's foot, on Kintaka so fleet he soon outstripped the rest, and in the distance disappeared. But when at night they reached the rendezvous, Siddhartha was not there, and through the night they searched, fearing to find their much-loved prince, a mangled corpse under some towering cliff, but searched in vain and searched again next day, till in despair they thought to bring me word that the prince was lost, when Kintaka was seen, loose-reigned and free, and near Siddhartha sat under a giant cedar-spreading shade, absorbed in thought and contemplation lost, unconscious that a day and night had passed. I cannot reason with such earnestness. I dare not chide such deep and tender love, but much I fear his reasons overthrow, or that he may become like that recluse he shuddered at, and not a mighty king with power to crush the wrong and aid the right. How can we turn his mind from such sad thoughts, to life's full joys, the duties of a king, and his great destiny, so long foretold? The oldest and the wisest answered him, Most noble king, your thoughts have longed than mine, oft have I seen him, lost and musing, sad and overwhelmed with this absorbing love. I know no cure for such corroding thoughts, but thoughts less sad for such absorbing love, but stronger love. But how awake such thoughts, the king replied, how kindle such a love. His love seemed but as phosphorescent flames that skim the surface, leaving him heart whole, all but this deep and all-embracing love that folds within its arms a suffering world. Yes, noble king, so roams the antlered deer, adding each year a branch to his great horns, until the unseen archer lays him low. So lives our prince, but he may see the day two laughing eyes shall pierce his inmost soul, and make his whole frame quiver with new fire. The next full moon he reaches man's estate, we all remember fifty years ago when you became a man, the sports and games, the contests of fair women and brave men, and beauty, arts and arms that filled three days with joy and gladness, music, dance and song. Let us with double splendor now repeat that festival, with prizes that shall draw from all your kingdom and the neighbor states, their fairest women and their bravest men, if any chance shall bring his destined mate. You then shall see love dart from eye to eye, as darts the lightning's flash from cloud to cloud, and this seemed good, and so was order done. The king, to all his kingdom, couriers sent, and to the neighbor states inviting all to a great festival and royal games, the next full moon, day of Siddhartha's birth, and offered varied prizes rich and rare, to all in feats of strength and speed and skill, and prizes doubly rich and doubly rare, to all such maidens fair as should compete in youth and beauty, when so ere they came, the prince to be the judge and give the prize. Now all was joy and bustle in the streets, and joy and stir and palace and in park, the prince himself joining the joyful throng, forgetting now the sorrows of the world, devising and directing new delights, until the park became a fairy scene. Behind the palace lay a maiden wide, for exercise and arms and manly sports, its sides bordered by gently rising hills, where at their ease the city's myriad sat under the shade of high prune spreading trees, fanned by cool breezes from the snow-capped peaks, while north and next the lake, a stately dome stood out, on slender and graceful columns raised, with seats rank above rank in order placed, the throne above and near the throne were bowers, of slender latticework with trailing vines, thick set with flowers of every varied tint, breathing perfumes where beauty's champions might sit, unseen of all yet seen all. At length Siddhartha's natal day arrives, with joy to rich and poor, to old and young, not joy that wealth can buy or power command, but real joy that springs from real love, love to the good old king and noble prince. When dawning day tinges with rosy light, the snow-capped peaks of Himalayas chain, the people are a stirrer. In social groups, the old and young companions, neighbors, friends, baskets well filled, they choose each vantage ground, until each hill a sea of faces shows, a sea of sparkling joy and rippling mirth. At trumpet sound all eyes are eager turned, up toward the palace gates now opened wide, from whence a gay procession issues forth, a chorus of musicians coming first, and next the prince mounted on Kuntaka, then all the high-born, youth and rich attire, mounted on prancing steeds with trappings gay, and then the good old king in royal state, on his huge elephant widest snow. Surrounded by his aged counselors, some on their chargers, some in litter's-born, their long white beards floating in every breeze, and next competitors for every prize, twelve archers who could pierce the lofty swans sailing from feeding grounds by distant seas, to summer's nests by Tibet's marshy lakes, or hit the worrying pheasant as it flies, for in this peaceful rain they did not make, men targets for their art, and armor joints the marks through which to pierce and kill. Then wrestlers, boxers, those who hurl the quite, and runner's fleet both live than light of limb, and then twelve mighty spearmen, who could pierce the fleeting boar or deer or fleet gazelle. Then chariots, three horses yoked to each, the charioteers and Persian tunics clad, arms bare, legs bare, all were athletes in power, in form and race, each an Apollo seemed. Yoke to the first were three Nicaean steeds, each snowy white, proud stepping, rangy, tall, chests broad, legs clean and strong, necks arched and high, with foreheads broad and eyes large, full and mild, a race that oft Olympic prizes won, and whose descendants far from Iran's plains bore armored knights in battles deadly shock on many bloody European fields. Then three of ancient Babylonian stock, blood, bay, and glossy as rich Tyrian silk, such horses Israel's sacred prophets saw bearing their conquerors in triumph home, a race for ages kept distinct and pure, fabled from Alexander's Charger sprung, then three from distant desert Tartar steps, eunect, ill-favored creatures, lank and gaunt, that made the people laugh as they passed by, who ceased to laugh when they had run the race. Such horses bore the mighty Mongol hosts, then with the cyclone speed swept o'er the earth. Then three, one gray, one bay, one glossy black, descended from four horses long since brought by lovesick chief from Araby the Blessed. Seeking with such rare gifts an Indian bride, whose slender graceful forms compact in light, combined endurance, beauty, strength, and speed, a wondrous breed whose fame descendants bore the Muslim hosts that swept from off the earth, thy mighty power corrupt, declining Rome. And with each other now alone contend, in speed whose sons cast out, abused and starved, alone can save from raging whirlwind flames, that all devouring sweep our western plains. Then stately elephants came next in line, with measured step, and gently swaying gate, covered with cloth of gold richly in rot, each bearing in a houda gaily decked, a fair competitor for beauty's prize, with merry comrades and some sober friend, the Vena, Bansuli, Sitar, and Harp, filling the air with sweetest melody, while rippling laughter from each houda rang, and sweetest odors from opening flowers breathed from their rich apparel as they passed. And thus they circled round the maiden wide, and as they pass along the people shout, long live the king, long live our noble prince, to all which glad acclaims the prince responds with heartfelt courtesy and royal grace. When they had nearly reached the palace gate, on their return the king drew to the right, with his attendants, while the prince with his drew to the left, reviewing all the line that passed again down to the judge's seat, under the king's pavilion near the lake. The prince eagerly watched them as they passed, noting their brawny limbs and polished arms, the pose and skill of every charioteer, the parts and varied breed of every horse, aiding his comrades with his deeper skill. But when the queens of beauty passed him by, he was all smiles and gallantry and grace, until the last, Yasodara came near. Whose laugh was clearest of the merry crowd, whose golden hair and prison sunlight seemed, whose cheek, blending the lily with the rose, spoke of more northern skies and Aryan blood, whose rich, not gaudy robes, exquisite taste, had made to suitors so they seemed a part of her sweet self, whose manner simple, free, not bold or shy, whose features no one saw her features, for her soul covered her face, as with a veil of evermoving life. When she came near and her bright eyes met his, he seemed to start, his gallantry was gone, and like an awkward boy he sat and gazed, and her laugh too was hushed, and she passed on, passed out of sight, but never out of mind. The king and all his counsellors saw this. Good king, our dearest truck, Asida said. If this love cure him not, nothing can cure. End of Section 2, Book 1, Recording by Scott Robbins. Recording by Christine Blashford, www.cyplecast.com. The Dawn in the Day by Henry Theoniles, Book 2. She passed along, and then the king and prince, with their attendance wheeled in line and moved, down to the royal stand each to his place. The trumpet sound, and now the games begin. But see the scornful curl of culture's lip, at such low sports, disceptic preachers here, herang the sleepers on their sinfulness, hear grave philosophers so limp and frail, they scarce can walk God's earth to breathe his air. Talk of the waste of time, short-sighted men. God made the body just to fit the mind, each part exact, no scrimping and no waste. Neglect the body, and you cramp the soul. First brawny wrestlers shining from the bath, wary and watchful, quick with arm and eye, after long play clinch clothes, arms twined, knees locked, each nerve and muscle strained, and stand as still, as if a bronze from Vulcan's fabled shop, or else by power of magic changed to stone, in that supremist moment when a breath, or feather's weight would tip the balanced scale, and when they fall the shouts from hill to hill, sound like the voices of the mighty deep, as wave on wave breaks on the rock-bound shore. Then boxes, eye to eye and foot to foot, one arm at guard, the other raised to strike. The hurlers of the coit next stand in line, measured the distance with experienced eye, adjust the rings, swing them with growing speed, until at length on very tiptoe poised, like Mercury just lighted on the earth, with mighty force they whirl them through the air. And then the spearmen having for a mark, a lion rampant standing as in life, so distant that it seemed but half life-size, each vital part marked with a little ring. And when the spears were hurled, six trembling stood, fixed in the beast, piercing each vital part, leaving the victory in even scale. For these was set far off a lesser mark, until at length by chance, not lack of skill, the victory so long in doubt was won. And then again the people wildly shout, the prince-victor and nobly vanquished praised. Next runners, lithe and light, glide round the plain, whose flying feet like Mercury seemed winged, their chests expanded in their swinging arms, like oars to guide and speed their rapid course. And as they passed along the people cheered, each well-known master of the manly art. Then archers with broad chests and brawny arms, such as the blacksmith's heavy hammer-wields, with quick hard blaze that make the anvil-ring, and myriad sparks from the hot-iron fly, a golden eagle on a screen there mark, so distant that it seemed a sparrow-size. Four said the prince, let not this joyful day, give anguish to the smallest living thing. They strain their bows until their muscles seem, like knotted cords, the twelve-strings twang at once, and the ground trembles as at the swelling tones of mighty organs or the thunder's roll. Two arrows pierce the eagle, while the rest all pierce the screen, a second mark was set. When low, high up in air, two lines of swans, having one leader, seek their northern nests, their white plumes shining in the noonday sun, calling each other in soft mellow notes. Instant one of the people cries, a mark! Where at the thousands shout, a mark, a mark! One of the archers chose their leader, won the last, their arrows fly. The last swan left its mates, as if so wounded, while the first came down, like a great eagle swooping for its prey, and fell before the prince its strong wing pierced, its bright plumes darkened by its crimson blood. Where at the people shout and shout again, until the hills repeat the mighty sound, the prince gently but sadly raised the bird, stroked tenderly its plumes, calmed its wild fear, and gave to one to care for and to cure. And now the people for the chariot race grow eager while beneath the royal stand, by folding doors hid from the public view, the steeds, harnessed and ready, champ their bits, and pour the ground impatient for the start. The charioteers alert with one strong hand, hold high the reins, the other holds the lash. Timor, a name that since has filled the world, a tartar chief whose sons long after swept, as with destruction's broomfare India's plains, with northern jargon calmed his eager steeds, as him from Kashmir's rugged lovely veil, his prancing Babylonians firmly held. Channa from Ganges' broad and sacred stream, with bit and word checked his nissian three, while Devadatta, cousin to the prince, soothed his impatient Arabs with such terms as fondest mothers to their children use. Atar, my pet, mirror my baby hush. Regille, my darling, be still, be still. With necks high arched, nostrils distended wide, and eager gaze they stood as those that saw some distant object in their desert home. At length the gates open as of themselves, when at the trumpet sound the steeds dash forth, as by one spirit moved under tight rain, and neck and neck they thunder down the plain, while rising dust-clouds chase the flying wheels, but wait not lack of nerve or spirit tells. As Iman Channa urged their steeds in vain, by tartar and light Arab left behind, as the light galley leaves the man of war, they sweat and labour ere a mile is gained, while their light rivals past the royal stand, fresh as at first just warming to the race. And now the real race at length begins, a double race, such as the Romans loved. Horses so matched in weight and strength and speed, drivers so matched in skill that as they pass, As Iman Channa seemed a single man. Timor and Devadatta, side by side, wheel almost touching wheel, dash far ahead. As Iman Channa left so far behind, no longer urged a race already lost. The Babylonian and Nisayans' steeds no longer pressed so far beyond their power, with long and even stride sweeps smoothly on, striking the earth as with a single blow, their hot breath rising in a single cloud. Arab and tartar with a longer stride and lighter strake skin lightly owe the ground, watching the horses with a master's eye, as Devadatta and Timor four times, as Iman Channa thrice, swept by the stand. The prince saw that another round would test, not overtax their powers, and gave the sign, when three loud trumpet blasts to all proclaimed that running one more round would end the race. These ringing trumpet calls that brought defeat, or victory so near, startle and rouse, the charioteers more ardent urged their steeds, the steeds are with hot emulation fired, the social multitude now cease to talk, even age stops short in stories often told, boys downy chinned in raff and tumble sports, like half-grown bears engaged turn quick and look, and blooming girls with merry ringing laugh romping in gentler games watching meanwhile, with sly and sidelong look the wrapper sports, turn eagerly to see the scene below. While mothers for the time forget their babes and lovers who had sought out quiet nooks to tell the tale that all the past has told, and coming times will tell, stand mute and gaze. The homestretch soon is reached, and Channa's three, by word and lash, urge to their topmost speed, the foaming Babylonians left behind, while Devadatta and Timor draw near. A whole round gained Timor a length ahead, but Devadatta loosens now his reins, chides his fleet-pets with lash-swung high in air, wounds their proud spirits not their tender flesh. With lion-bounds they pass the tartar steeds, that with hot rival rage in open mouths, and flaming eyes and fierce and angry cries, dash-full at regal side, but dash in vain. Fear adding speed the Arabs sweep ahead. Meanwhile the prince springs forward from his seat, and all on tiptoe still and eager stand, so that the rumbling of the chariot-wheels, the tramp of flying feet and driver's cries, alone the universal stillness break, as when before the bursting of some fearful storm, birds, beasts and men stand mute with trembling awe, while heaven's artillery and roaring winds are in the awful silence only heard. But when the double victory is gained, drums, shells and trumpets mingle with the shouts, from hill to hill re-echoed and renewed, as when after the mornings threatening bow, dark lurid whirling clouds obscure the day, and forked lightning's dart thwart the sky, and angry winds roll up the boiling sea, and thunder raging winds and warring waves join in one mighty and earth-shaking roar. Thus end the games and the procession forms, the king and elders first, contestants next, and last the prince, each victor laurel-crowned, and after each his prize, while all were given, some choice memorial of the happy day. Sinctures to all athletes to gird the loins, and falling just below the knee, the belt of stoutest leather joined with silver clasps, the skirt of softest wool or finest silk adorned with needle-work and decked with gems, such as the modest Aryans always wore, in games intended for the public view, before the Greeks became degenerate, and savage Rome compelled those noble men, whose only crime was love of liberty, by discipline and numbers overwhelmed, bravely defending children, wife and home, naked to fight each other or wild beasts, and called this brutal savagery high sport, for them and for their proud degenerate dames, of whom fewer what Caesar's wife should be. The athlete's prizes all were rich and rare, some costly emblem of their several arts. The archers' prizes all were bows, the first made from the horns of a great mountain-goat that long had ranged the Himalayan heights, till some bold hunter climbed his giddy cliffs, and brought his unsuspecting victim down, his lofty horns the bow smith root to root had firmly joined and polished bright, and tipped with finest gold and made of bow, worthy of Sinhahamu's mighty arm. The other prizes bows of lesser strength, but better suited to their weaker arms. A chariot, the charioteer's first prize, its slender hubs made strong with brazen bands, the spokes of whitest ivory polished bright, the fellies ebony with tyres of bronze, each axles end a brazen tiger's head, the body-waven of slender bamboo shoots, entwined with silver wire and decked with gold. A mare and cult of the victorious breed, the second prize, more worth in Timor's eyes. Then forty chariots, though each were made of ebony or ivory or gold, and all the laurel India ever grew, the third a tunic of soft cashmere wool, on which, by skillful needles deftly wrought, the race itself as if in life stood forth. The fourth a belt to gird the laggard's loins and whip to stimulate his laggard's deeds. And thus arrayed they moved once round the course, then to the palace as a fitter place, for beauty's contest than the open plain. The singers chanting a triumphal hymn, while many instruments deep tamed and shrill, and all the multitude the chorus swell. This day his mission ceased to press the prince, and he forgot the sorrows of the world so deep and earnest seemed the general joy. Even those with grinning skeletons at home, in secret closets locked from public view, and care and sorrow rankling at their hearts, joined in the general laugh and swelled the shouts, and seemed full happy though they only seemed. But through the games, while all was noisy mirth, he felt a new strange feeling at his heart, and ever and anon he stole a glance at beauty's rose-embowered hiding-place, to catch a glimpse of those two laughing eyes, so penetrating yet so soft and mild. And at the royal banquet spread for all, it chanced Yassidara sat next to the prince, an accident by older heads designed, and the few words that such constraint allowed were music to his ears and touched his heart, and when her eyes met his her rosy blush told what her maiden modesty would hide. And at the dance when her soft hands touched his, the music seemed to quicken time to speed, but when she bowed and passed at other hands, winding the mystic measure of the dance, the music seemed to slacken time to halt, or drag his limping moments lingering on. At length after the dance the beauties passed before the prince, and each received her prize, so rich and rare that each thought hers at the first, a treasure to be kept and shown with pride, and handed down to his children yet unborn. But when Yassidara before him stood, the prizes all were gone, but from his neck he took a golden chain thick set with gems, and clasped it round her slender waist, and said, Take this, and keep it for the giver's sake. And from the prince they passed before the king. The proud and stately he would greet with grace, the timid cheer with kind and gracious words. But when Yassidara bowed low and passed, he started, and his colour went and came, as if oppressed with sudden inward pain. Asita, oldest of his counsellors, sprang to his side, and asked, What ails the king? Nothing, my friend, nothing, the king replied, but the sharp probing of an ancient wound. You know how my sweet queen was loved of all, but how her life was woven into mine, filling my inmost soul none air can know. My bitter anguish words can never tell, as that sweet life was gently breathed away. Time only strengthens this enduring love, and she seems nearer me as I grow old. Often in stillest night's most silent hour, when the sly nibbling of a timid mouse in the deep stillness sounds almost as loud as builder's hammers in the busy day. My mire, as in life, stands by my side. A halo round her head, as she would say, A little while, and you shall have your own. Often in deepest sleep she seems to steal, into that inmost chamber of my soul, vacant for her, and nestled to my heart, breathing a peace my waking hours no-not. And when I wake and turn to clasp my love, my sinking heart finds but her vacant place. Since that sad day that stole her from my arms, I've seen a generation of sweet girls grow up to womanhood, but none like her. Hurt that bright vision that just flitted by seemed so like her it made me cringe and start. Oh, dear Asita, little worth is life, with all its tears and partings, woes and pains. If, when its short and fitful fever ends, there is no afterlife where death and pain and sundered ties and crushed and bleeding hearts and sad and last farewells are never known. Such was the old and such the newborn love, the new quick bursting into sudden flame, warming the soul to active consciousness, that man alone is but a severed part of one full rounded, perfect living whole, the older steady but undying flame, a living longer for the loved and lost, but each a real hunger of the soul, for what gave Paradise its highest bliss, and what in this poor fallen world of ours gives glimpses of its high and happy life. Oh, love, how beautiful, how pure, how sweet, life of the angels that surround God's throne, but when corrupt Pandora's box itself, whence spring all human ills and woes and crimes, the very fire that lights the flames of hell. The festival is past, the crowds have gone, the diligent there are a custom round of works and days, works to each day assigned. The thoughtless and the thriftless multitude to meet their tasks haphazard as they come, but all the same old story to repeat of cares and sorries sweetened by some joys. Three days the sweet Yazidara remained, for her long journey taking needful rest, but when the razy dawn next tinged the east and lit the mountaintops and filled the park with a great burst of rich and varied song, the good old king bade the sweet girl farewell, imprinting on her brow a loving kiss, while welling up from tender memories, big teardrops trickled down his furrowed cheeks, and as her train escorted by the prince and noble youth wound slowly down the hall, the rising sun with glory guilds the city that like a diadem circled its brow, while giant shadows stretch across the plane. And when they reach the plane they halt for rest, deep in a garden's cooling shade, where flowers that fill the air with grateful fragrance hang, by ripening fruits and where all seems at rest save two young hearts and tiny tireless birds that dart from flower to newer to suck their sweets, and even the brook that babbled down the hill now murmurs dreamily as if asleep, sweet spot, sweet hour, how quick its moments fly, how soon the cooling winds and sinking sun and bustling stare of preparation tells, it is time for her to go and when they part, the gentle pressure of the hand, one kiss. A kiss not given yet not resisted tells, a tale of love that words are poor to tell, and when she goes how lonely seems her way, through graves, through fields, through busy haunts of men, and as he climbs the hill and often stops to watch her lessening train until at length, her elephant seems but a moving speck, proud cantaca pawing and neighing asks, as plain as men could ever ask in words, what makes my master choose this laggard place? At length she climbs those rocky rugged hills, that guarded well the loveliest spot on earth, until the mogul's centuries after came, like swarms of locusts swept before the wind, or ravening wolves to conquer fair Kashmir, and when she reached the top before her lay, as on a map spread out her native land, by lofty mountains walled on every side, from winds from wars and from the world shut out. The same great snow-capped mountains north and east, in silent glittering awful grandeur stand, and west the same bold rugged cliff-crowned hills that filled her eyes with wonder when a child, below the snow a deep belt of deepest green, below this belt of green great rolling hills, checkered with orchards, vineyards, pastures, fields, the veil beneath peaceful a sleeping babe, the city nestling round the shining lake, and near the park and palace her sweet home. O noble, peaceful, beautiful Kashmir, well named the garden of eternal spring, but yet with home and all its joy so near, she often turned and strained her eager eyes, to catch one parting glimpse of that sweet spot, where more than half of her young heart was left. At length their horns, whose mocking echoes, rolled from hill to hill, where answered from below, while from the park a gay procession comes, increasing as it moves to welcome her, light of the palace the people's idle home. The prince's thoughts by day and dreams by night, meanwhile were filled with sweet Yazidara, and this bright vision ever hovering near hid from his eyes those grim and ghastly forms, night-loving and light-shining brood of sin, that ever haunt poor fallen human lives, and from the darkened corners of the soul are quick to sting each pleasure with sharp pain, to pour some bitter in life's sweetest cup, and shadow with despair its brightest hopes, made him forget how sorrow fills the world, how strength is used to crush and not to raise, how creeds are bandages to blind men's eyes, lest they should see and walk in duty's path, that leads to peace on earth and joy in heaven, and even made him for the time forget his noble mission to restore and save. He sought her for his bride but waited long, for princes cannot wed like common folk, friends called a feast prepared some bridal gifts, some tears at parting and some solemn vows, rice-scattered slippers thrown with noisy mirth, and common folk are joined till death shall part, till death shall part, O faithless cruel thought, death nigh shall part souls joined by holy love, who through life's vows, joys, and cares have to each other clung faithful till death, tender and true in sickness and in health, bearing each other's burdens, sharing griefs, lightening each care and heightening every joy. Such life is but a transient honeymoon, a feeble foretaste of eternal joys, but princes when they love, though all approve, must wait on counsel's embassies and forms, but how the coach of state lumbers and lags with messages of love whose own light wings glide through all bars, outstripple flitest things, no bird so light, no thought so fleet as they. But while the prince chafed at the long delay, the sweet Yazidara began to feel the bitter pangs of unrequited love, but her young hands busy with others once, and her young heart busy with others' woes, with acts of kindness filled the lagging hours best of all medicines for aching hearts. Yet often she would seek a quiet nook deep in the park where giant trees cross arms, making high gothic arches and a shade that Noonday's fiercest rays could scarcely pierce, and there alone with her sad heart communed, yes, I have kept it for the givers' sake, but he has quite forgot his love, his gift, and me, how bright these jewels seemed warmed by his love, but now how dull, how icy, and how dead. But sooner soft eyed antelopes and fawns, and fleet gazelles came near and licked her hands, and birds of every rich and varied plume gathered round and filled the air with song, and even timid pheasants brought their broods, for her sweet loving life had here restored the peace and harmony of paradise, and as they shared her bounty she was soothed by their mute confidence and perfect trust. But though time seems to lag, yet still it moves, resistless as the ocean's swelling tide, bearing its mighty freight of human lives with all their joys and sorrows, hopes and fears, onward for ever onward to life's goal, at length the embassy is sent, and now, just as the last faint rays of rosy light fade from the topmost Himalayan peaks, and tired nature sinks to quiet rest, a horseman dashes through the silent streets. Bearing the waiting prince the welcome word that one short journey of a single day divides him from the sweet Yazidara, and light-winged rumours spreads the joyful news, and ere the dawn had danced from mountaintop, or a hill and veil and plain to the sweet notes of nature's rich and varied orchestra, and dried the pearly tears that night had wept. The prince led forth his train to meet his bride, wondering that Cantaca always so free, so eager and so fleet should seem to lag, and in that fragrant garden's cooling shade where they had parted now again they meet, and there we leave them reverently alone, for art can never paint nor words describe the peace and rest and rapture of that scene. Meanwhile the city rings with busy stir, the streets are swept and sprinkled with perfumes, and when the evening shades had veiled the earth, and heaven's blue vault was set with myriad stars, the promised signal from the watchtower sounds, and myriad lamps shine from each house and tree, and merry children strew their way with flowers, and all come forth to greet Siddhartha's bride, and welcome her, their second mire home. And at the palace gate the good old king receives her with such loving tenderness, as fondest mother sick with hope deferred, waiting and watching for an absent child at length receives him in her open arms. And now his cup with every blessing filled, full to the brim, to overflowing full. What more has life to give or heart to wish, stately informed with every princely grace, a very master of all manly arts, his gentle manners making all his friends, his young blood bounding on in healthful flow, his broad domains rich in all the earth can yield, guarded by nature and his people's love, and now that deepest of all wants supplied, the want of one to share each inmost thought, whose sympathy can soothe each inmost smart, whose presence care and loving touch can make the palace or the humblest cottage home. His life seemed rounded, perfect, full, complete. And they were happy as the days glied on, and when at night locked in each other's arms they sink to rest, heart beating close to heart, their thoughts all innocence and trust and love. It almost seemed as if remorseless time had backward rolled his tide and brought again the golden age with all its peace and joy. And our first parents' air the tempter came were taking sweet repose in paradise. But as one night they slept, a troubled dream disturbed the prince. Dreamed he saw one come as young and fair as Sweet Yazodara, but clad in widow's weeds, and in her arms a lifeless child crying most mighty prince, O bring me back, my husband and my child! But he could only say alas, poor soul! And started out of sleep he cried alas! Which waked the sweet Yazodara who asked, What ails my love? Only a troubled dream the prince replied, but still she felt him tremble, and kissed and stroked his troubled brow, and soothed him into quiet sleep again. And then once more he dreamed a pleasing dream. He dreamed he heard strange music, soft and sweet. He only caught its burden, peace be still. And then he thought he saw far off a light, and there a place where all was peace and rest, and waking side to find it all a dream. One day this happy couple side by side rode forth alone Yazodara unveiled, for why, said she, should those whose thoughts upure like guilty things hide from their fellow men, rode through the crowded streets their only guard, the people's love strongest and best of guards, for many arms would spring to their defence, while some grim tyrant at whose stern command a million swords would from their scabbard sleep, cringes in terror behind bolts and bars. Starts at each sound, and fears some hidden mine, may into atoms blow his stately towers, or that some hand unseen may strike him down, and thinks that poison lurks in every cup, while thousands are in loathsome dungeons thrust, or pine in exile for a look or word. And as they pass along from street to street, a sea of happy faces lines their way, their joyful greetings answered by the prince. No face once seen, no name once heard forgot, while sweet Yazodara was weaved in smiles, the kind expression of her gentle heart went from a little cottage, by the way. The people making room for him to pass, there came an aged man so very old that time had ceased to register his years. His step was firm, his eye, though faded, mild, and childhood sweet expression on his face. The prince stopped short before him, bending low, and gently asked, what would my father have? Speak freely what I can, I freely give. Most noble prince, I need no charity, for my kind neighbours give me all unasked, and my poor cottage where my father's dwelt, and where my children and their mother died, is kept as clean as when sweet Genji lived, and young and old cheer up my lonely hours, and ask me much of other times and men. For when your father's father was a child, I was a man as young and strong as you, and my sweet Genji your companion's age. But oh the mystery of life explain, why are we born to tread this little round, to live, to love, to suffer, sorrow, die? Why did the young like field-flowers bloom to fade? Why are the strong like the mown grass cut down? Why am I left as if by death forgot, left here alone a leafless fruitless trunk? Is death the end, or what comes after death? Often when deepest sleep shuts out the world, the dead still seem to live while life fades out, and when I sit alone and long for light the veil seems lifted and I seem to see, a world of life and light and peace and rest, no sickness, sin or sorrow, pain or death, no helpless infancy or hopeless age. But we poor Sudras cannot understand, yet from my earliest memory I've heard that from this hill one day should burst a light, not for the Brahmins only, but for all. And when you were a child I saw a sage bow down before you calling you that light. O noble mighty prince, let your light shine, let men no longer grape in dark despair. He spoke and sank exhausted on the ground. They gently raised him, but his life was fled. The prince gave one a well-filled purse, and said, Let his pile neither lack for sandalwood, nor any emblem of a life well spent. And when fit time had passed they bore him thence, and laid him on that couch where all sleep well, half-hidden flowers by loving children brought, a smile still lingering on his still-cold lips, as if they just had tasted Gunja's kiss, soon to be kissed by eager whirling flames. Just then two stately Brahmins proudly passed, passed on the other side gathering their robes, to shun pollution from the common touch, and passing said that the prince with Sudras talks as friend to friend, but wisdom comes with years. Silent and thoughtful then they homeward turned, the prince deep musing on the old man's words, the veil is lifted and I seem to see a world of life and light in peace and rest, o if that veil would only lift for me the mystery of life would be explained, as they passed on through unfrequented streets, seeking to shun the busy thoughtless throng. Those other words like duty's bugle-call, still ringing in his ears, let your light shine, that men no longer grape in dark despair. The old sad thoughts, long-checked by passing joys, rolling and surging, swept his troubled soul, as pent-up waters having burst their dams, sweep down the valleys and overwhelm the plains. Just then an aged angry voice cried out, O help, they've stolen my jewels and my gold, and from a wretched hovel, by the way, an old man came hated and shunned by all, whose life was spent in hoarding unused gold, grinding the poor devouring widows' homes, ill-fed ill-clad from eagerness to save, his sunken eyes glittering with rage and greed, and when the prince inquired what troubled him, trouble enough, he said, my sons have fled, because I would not waste in dainty fare, and rich apparel all my life has saved, and taken all my jewels, all my gold. Would that they both lay dead before my face, O precious jewels, O beloved gold! The prince helpless to soothe, hopeless to cure, this rust and canker of the soul passed on, his heart with all embracing pity filled. O deepening mystery of life he cried, why do such souls in human bodies dwell, fitter for ravening wolves or greedy swine, just at death's door cursing his flesh and blood? For thievery greed inherited from him, is this old age or swinish greed grown old, O how unlike that other life just fled, his youth's companion's wife and children dead? Yet filled with love for all by all beloved, with his whole heart yearning for others' good, with his last breath bewailing others' ways. My best beloved said sweet Yazodara, her bright eyes filled with sympathetic tears, her whole soul yearning for his inward peace, brood not too much on life's dark mystery, behind the darkest clouds the sun still shines. But said the prince, the many blindly grape in sorrow, fear and ignorance profound, while their proud teachers, with their heads erect, stalk boldly on blind leaders of the blind, come care, come fasting, woe and pain for me, and even exile from my own sweet home, all would I welcome could I give them light? But would you leave your home, leave me, leave all, and even leave our unborn pledge of love, the living blending of our inmost souls, that now within me stares to bid you pause? Only for love of you and him and all, O hard necessity, O bitter cup! But would you have me like a coward shun the path of duty, though beset with thorns, thorns that must pierce your tender feet and mine? Piercing the question as the sharpest sword, their love, their joys, tempted to say him nay. But soon she conquered all and calmly said, My love, my life, where duty plainly calls, I bid you go, though my poor heart must bleed, and though my eyes weep bitter, scolding tears. The heart's too full for words, too full for tears, gently he pressed her hand, and they passed home, and in the presence of this dark and known, a deep and all-pervading tenderness guides every act and tempers every tone, as in the chamber of the sick and loved, the step is light, the voice is soft and low. But soon their days with varied duties filled, their nights with sweet repose, glide smoothly on, until the shadow seems to lift and fade, as when the sun bursts through the passing storm, gliding the glittering raindrops as they fall, and paints the bow of hope on passing clouds. Yet still the old sad thoughts sometimes return, the burden of a duty unperformed, the earnest yearning for a clearer light, the thought that hour by hour and day by day, the helpless multitudes grip blindly on, clouded his joys, and often banished sleep. One day in this sad mood he thought to see his people as they are in daily life, and not in holiday attire to meet their prince. In merchant's dress his charioteer, his clerk, the prince and chana passed unknown and saw the crowded streets alive with busy hum. Those cross-legged with their varied wares, the wordy water cheapen or enhance, one rushing on to clear the streets for wanes with huge stone wheels by slow, strong oxen drawn, palanquin bearers droning out, who-who, ho-ho! While keeping step and praising him they bear, the housewives from the fountain water bring, in balanced water-jars, their black-eyed babes, a thwart their hips, their busy tongues, meanwhile, engaged in gossip of the little things that make the daily round of life to them, the skillful weaver at his clumsy loom, the miller at his millstone's grinding-meal, the armourer linking his shirts of mail, the money-changer at his heartless trade, the gaping eager crowd gathered to watch snake-chammers that can make their deadly charge dance harmless to the drone of beaded gourds, sword-players keeping many knives in air, jugglers and those that dance on ropes swung high, and all this varied work in busy idleness, as in a panorama passing by. While they were passing through these varied scenes, the prince whose ears were tuned to life's sad notes, whose eyes were quick to catch its deepest shades, found sorrow, pain and want, disease and death, were woven in its very warp and woof, a tiger springing from a sheltering bush had snatched a merchant's comrade from his side, a deadly cobra hidden by the path had stung to death a widow's only son, a breath of jungle wind a youth's blood chilled, or filled a strong man's bones with piercing pain, a household widowed by a careless step, the quick cross-lightning from an angry cloud struck down a bridegroom bringing home his bride, all this and more he heard and much he saw, a young man stricken in life's early primes shuffled along dragging one palsy limb, while one limp arm hung useless by his side, a dwarf sold little knick-knacks by the way, his body scarcely in the human form, to which long arms and legs seemed loosely hung, his noble head thrust forward on his breast, whose pale sad face as plainly told as words that life had neither health nor hope for him. An old man tottering from a hovel came, frail, haggard, palsy, leaning on a staff, whose eyes dull-glazed and meaningless proclaimed the body lingers when the mind has fled. One seized with sudden hot distemper of the blood writhing with anguish by the wayside sunk, the purple plague spot on his pallid cheek, cold drops of perspiration on his brow, with wildly rolling eyes and livid lips gasping for breath and feebly asking help. But ere the prince could aid death gave relief. At length they passed the city's outer gate, and down a stream now spread in shining pools, now leaping in cascades now bashing on, a line of foam along its rocky bed, bordered by giant trees with densest shade. Here day by day the city bring their dead, here day by day they build the funeral piles, here lamentations daily fill the air, where hissing flames each day taste human flesh, and friendly watchmen guard this mouldering pile till friends can cull the relics from the dust, and here just finished rose a noble pile by stately brahmanas for a brahman built, of fragrant woods and drenched with fragrant oils, loading the air with every sweet perfume that India's forests or her fields can yield, above a couch of sacred coosa grass, on which no dreams disturb the sleeper's rest. And now the sound of music reaches them, far off at first, solemn and sad and slow, rising and swelling as it nearer comes until a long procession comes in view, for brahman's first bearing in bowls the fire, no more to burn on one deserted hearth. Then stately brahmanas on their shoulders bore, a noble brother of their sacred caste, in manhoods bloom and early prime cut down, then brahman youth bearing a little child, half hidden flowers, and as in seeming sleep. Then other brahmanas in a litter bore, one young and fair in early womanhood, her youthful beauty joined with matron grace, in bridal dress adorned with costly gems. The very face the prince had dreaming seen, the very child she carried in her arms. Then many more uncovered, four by four, the aged first, then those in manhoods prime, and then the young with many acolytes chanting in unison their secret hymns, accompanied by many instruments, both wind and string, in solemn symphony, and at respectful distance other castes afraid to touch a brahman's sacred robes or even mingle with his grief their tears. And when they reached the fragrant funeral pile, weeping they placed their dead on their last couch. The child within its father's nervous arms, and when all funeral rites had been performed, the widow circled thrice the funeral pile, distributing her gifts with lavish hand, bidding her friends along and last farewell. Then stopped and raised her tearless eyes, and said, Farewell, along farewell to life and friends, farewell O earth and air and sacred sun, Nanda, my lord Udra, my child, I come. Then pale but calm with fixed ecstatic gaze, and steady steps she mounts the funeral pile, crying, They beckon me, I come, I come, then sunk as if the silver cord were loosed, as still as death upon her silent dead. The flames from the four corners leapt, mingling in one devouring eager blaze. No groan, no cry, only the crackling flames, the wailing notes of many instruments, and solemn chant by many voices raised. Perfect is she who follows thus her lord. O dark and cruel creeds, O perfect love, fitter for heaven than this sad world of ours! More than enough the prince had seen and heard, bowed by the grievous burdens others bore, feeling for others' sorrows as his own, tears of divinest pity filled his eyes, and deep and all-embracing love his heart, home he returned, no more to find its rest. But sooner light shines in that troubled house, as sun is born to sweet Yassadara, their eyes saw not neither do ours that sun whose light is wisdom and whose heat is love, sending through nature waves of living light, giving its life to everything that lives, which through the innocence of little ones, as through wide-open windows sends his rays to light the darkest warm, the coldest heart. Sweet infancy life solace and its rest, driving away the loneliness of age, weaving in smiles the wrinkled brow of care, nectar to joyful, barmed troubled hearts, joyful once more is King Sudodana, a placid joy-beams from that mother's face, joy-lit the palace flew from street to street, and from the city over hill and plain. Joy filled the prince's agitated soul, he felt a power from whence he could not tell, drawing away he knew not where it led, he knew the dreaded separation near, yet half its pain and bitterness was past, he need not leave his loved ones comfortless, his loving people still would have their prince, the king and young Rahula have his son. And sweet Yassadara, his very life would have that nearest dearest comforter, to soothe her cares and drive away her tears. But now strange dreams disturb the good old king, dreams starting him in terror from his sleep, yet seeming prophecies of coming good, he dreamed he saw the flag his father's loved, in tatters torn and trailing in the dust, but in its place another glorious flag, whose silk and folds seemed wave and thick with gems, that as it waved glittered with dazzling light, he dreamed he saw proud embassies from far bringing the crowns and sceptres of the earth, bowing in reverence before the prince, humbly in treating him to be their king, from whom he fled in haste as if in fear. Then dreamed he saw his son in tattered robes begging from Sudras for his daily bread. Again he dreamed he saw the ancient tower where he in worship had so often knelt, rising and shining clothes with living light, and on its top the prince beaming with love, scattering with lavish hand the richest gems, on eager crowds that caught them as they fell. But soon it vanished and he saw a hill, rugged and bleak, cliff-crowned and bold and bare, and there he saw the prince kneeling alone, wasted with cruel fastings till his bones, waved to his skin and in his sunken eyes with fitful flicker gleamed a lamp of life, until they closed and on the ground he sank, as if in death or in a deadly swoon. And then the hill sank to a spreading plain stretching beyond the keenest visions' ken, covered with multitudes as numberless, as ocean sands or autumn's forest leaves, and mounted on a giant elephant, white as the snows on Himalaya's peaks. The prince rode through their midst in royal state, and as he moved along he heard a shout rising and swelling like the mighty voice of many waters breaking on the shore. All hail, great Chakravartin, king of kings! Hail, king of righteousness, hail, prince of peace! Strange dreams, where is their birthplace, where their home? Lighter than foam upon the crested wave, fleeter than shadows of the passing cloud, they are of such fantastic substance made, that quick as thought they changed their fickle forms, now grander than the waking vision views, now stranger than the wildest fancy veins. And now so grim and terrible they start the hardened conscience from its guilty sleep. In troops they come, trooping they fly away, waved into being by the magic wand of some deep purpose of the inmost soul, some hidden joy or sorrow, guilt or fear, or better as the wise of old believed, called into being by some heavenly guest to soothe, to warn, instruct, or terrify. Strange dreams by night and troubled thoughts by day disturb the prince and banish quiet sleep. He dreamed that darkness visible and dense shrouded the heavens and brooded earth, whose rayless, formless, vacant nothingness curdled his blood and made his eyeballs ache, when suddenly from out this empty void a cloud shining with golden light was born, by gentle winds loaded with sweet perfumes, sweeter than springtime on this earth can yield. The cloud passed just above him and he saw, myriads of cherub faces looking down, sweet as Rahula freed from earthly stain, such faces mortal brush could never paint, enraptured Raphael near such faces saw. But still the outer darkness hovered near, and ever and on a bony hand darts out to snatch some cherub face away. Then dreamed he saw a broad and pleasant land, with cities, gardens, graves, and fruitful fields, where bee-fed flowers half hide the ripening fruits. And spicy breezes stir the trembling leaves, and many birds make sweetest melody, but bordered by a valley black as night, that ever vomits from its sunless depths, great whirling clouds of suffocating smoke, blacker than hide the burning aeternal's head, blacker than over lake Avernus hung, no bird could fly above its fatal fumes. Eagles on tireless pinions upward-born, in widening circles rising towards the sun, venturing too near its exaltations fall, as sinks the plummet in the silent sea, and lions springing on their antlered prey drop still and lifeless on its deadly brink, only the jackals' dismal howl is heard to break its stillness and eternal sleep. He was born forward to the very verge of this dark valley by some power unseen. A wind that pierced his merry parts the clouds, and far within below he saw a sight that stood his hair on end beaded his brow with icy drops and made his blood run cold. He saw a lofty throne blacker than jet, but shining with a strange and baleful light, that made him shade his blinded dazzled eyes, and seated on that throne a ghastly form that seemed a giant human skeleton. But yet in motion, terrible and quick, as lightning, killing air at the thunder's roll, his fleshless skull had on a seeming crown, while from his sunken sockets glared his eyes, like coals of fire or eyes of a basilisk, and from his bony hand each instant flew, a nearing dart that flew to pierce and kill, piercing the infant in its mother's arms, the mother when she feels her firstborn's breath, piercing the father in his happy home, piercing the lover tasting love's first kiss, piercing the vanquished when his banners fall, piercing the victor mid-triumphant shouts. Piercing the mighty monarch on his throne, while from a towering cypress growing near every disease to which frail flesh is air, like ravening vultures watch each arrow's flight, and quick as thought glide off on raven's wings to bring the wounded writhing victim in, as well-trained hunters mark their master's aim, then fly to bring the wounded quarry home, meanwhile a stifling stench rose from below, as from a battlefield where nations met, and fiery ranks of living valor fought, now food for vultures mouldering cold and low, and bleaching bones were scattered everywhere. Startled he wakes and rises from his couch, the lamps shine down with soft and mellow light. The fair Yassidara still lay in sleep, but not in quiet sleep, her bosom heaved as if a sigh was seeking to escape. Her brows were knit as if in pain or fear, and tears were stealing from her close shut lids. But sweet Rahula slept, and sleeping smiled as if he too those cherub faces saw. In haste alone he noiselessly stole forth, to wander in the park and cool his brow, and calm his burdened agitated soul. The night had reached that hour preceding dawn, when nature seems in solemn silence hushed, awed by the glories of the coming day, the moon hung low above the western plains, and numbered stars with double brightness shine. And half-transparent mists the landscape veil, through which the mountains in dim grandeur rise. Silent alone he crossed the maiden wide, where first he saw the sweet Yassidara, where joyful multitude so often met. Now still as that dark valley of his dream he passed the lake mirror of heaven's high vault, whose ruffled waters ripple on the shore, stirred by cool breezes from the snow-capped peaks, and heedless of his way passed on and up, through giant cedars and the lofty pines over a leafy carpet velvet soft, while solemn voices from their branches sound, strangely in unison with his sad soul. And on and up until he reached a spot above the trees above the mist-wrapped world, where opening chasms yawned on every side. Perforce he stopped and roused from reverie, gazed on the dark and silent world below. The moon had sunk from sight, the stars grew dim, and densest darkness veiled the sleeping world, when suddenly bright beams of rosy light shot up the east, the highest mountaintop glittered as if both land and sea had joined their richest jewels and most costly gems, to make its crown from mountain peak to peak. The brightness spread and darkness sunk away, until between two giant mountaintops glittered a wedge of gold, the hills were tinged, and soon the sun flooded the world with light, as when the darkness heard the first command, let there be light, and light from chaos shone. Raptured he gazed upon the glorious scene, and can it be, he said, with floods of light, filling the blue and boundless vault above, bathing in brightness mountain, hill, and plain, sending its rays to oceans hidden depths, with light for bird and beast and creeping thing, light for all eyes, oceans of light to spare, that man alone from outer darkness comes, gropes blindly on his brief and restless round, and then in starless darkness disappears. There must be light, fountains of living light, for which my thirsty spirit pining pants, as pants the hunted heart for water-brooks. Another sun lighting a better world, where weary souls may find a welcome rest, gladly I'll climb yon giddy mountain heights, or gladly take the morning's wings and fly, to earth's remotest bounds if light were there. Welcome to me the hermit's lonely cell, and welcome dangerous labours, fastings, pains, all would be welcome could I bring the light, to myriads now in hopeless darkness sunk. Farewell to kingdom, comforts, home, and friends, all will I leave to seek this glorious light. The die is cast, the victory is gained, though love of people, servant, wife, and child, half selfish, half divine, may bid him pause, are higher love and selfish, all divine, for them and every soul bade him go forth, to seek for light, and seek till light be found. Hone, he returned, now strong to say farewell. Meanwhile the sweet Yassidara still slept, and dreamed she saw Siddhartha's empty couch. She dreamed she saw him flying far away, and when she called to him he answered not, but only stopped his ears and faster flew, until he seemed a speck, and then was gone. And then she heard a mighty voice cry out, the time has come, his glory shall appear. Waked by that voice she found his empty couch, Siddhartha gone, and with him every joy, but not all joy, for there Rahula lay, with great wide-open eyes and cherub smile, watching the lights that flickered on the wall, caught in her arms she pressed into her heart, to still its tumult and to ease its pain. But now that step she knew so well is heard, Siddhartha comes filled with unselfish love, until his face beamed with celestial light. That like a holy halo crowned his head, gently he spoke, My dearest and my best, the time has come, the time when we must part, let not your heart be troubled at his best. This said a tender kiss spoke to her heart, in love's own language of unchanging love, when sweet Rahula stretched his little arms, and Kuying asked his share of tenderness, Siddhartha from her bosom took their boy. And those all troubled both together smiled, and with him playing that sweet jargon spoke, which though no lexicon contains its words, seems like the speech of angels poorly learned, for every sound and syllable and word was filled with brimful of pure and perfect love. At length grown calm they tenderly communed of all their past, of all their hopes and fears, and when the time of separation came his holy resolution gave her strength to give the last embrace and say farewell, and forth he rode mounted on Kantaka, a prince, a loving father, husband, son, to exile driven by all embracing love. What wonder as the ancient writing say that nature to her in most depths was stirred, and as he passed the bird's best forth in song, fearless of hawk or kite that hovered near? What wonder that the beast of field and wood and all the jungle's savage denizens gathered in groups and gambled fearlessly, leopards with kids and wolves with skipping lambs, for he who rode alone, bowed down and sad, taught millions, claws of millions, yet unborn, to treat with kindness every living thing? What wonder that the deepest hells were stirred? What wonder that the heavens were filled with joy? For he, bowed down with sorrow, going forth, shall come with joy and teach all men the way from earth's sad turmoil to nirvana's rest. End of book three.