I have a lively recollection of one occasion on which, so I was told, I was the first European to enter a certain temple. No experience in my varied life has left a more indelible impression on my memory. The Mission was engaged in scientific operations between Phantiet and Phanry, the ancient home of the Cham, and our headquarters consisted of a number of rude huts in the very heart of the forest.

One day I received a visit from the headman of a neighbouring village, a diminutive individual with a face the colour of a dead leaf. I had previously rendered him some service by treating him for severe ophthalmia and he now proposed to show his gratitude by revealing to me the whereabouts of a ruined temple which was so concealed in the forest as hitherto to defy discovery by Europeans. He told me I should find two statues, in excellent preservation, of kings who had been raised to the rank of deities by their subjects. Also I was to have every opportunity of sketching and taking photographs.

The temple was not more than thirty miles distant, so my expedition was duly announced as a mere excursion for pleasure. We set out, accompanied by two young natives, my usual companions in my private wanderings, who had charge of the photographic and other apparatus as well as our arms and provisions. Our journey was without incident, for my kind guide gave me the fullest instructions as to the route to the Temple of Song Sui.

This remarkable sanctuary is the tomb of an ancient king of the Cham and the object of a very popular pilgrimage at certain seasons of the year. It consists of three separate pavilions in a large enclosure which is divided into two halves, one higher than the other. The lower half is used by the general public while the upper is reserved for the family of any worshipper who desires to make a sacrificial offering.

The statue of the King is in the central building. It is cut from a single block of granite and coloured to show a robe of red and gold. On the King's head is a fez to which a golden helmet is added on special occasions. The neck and the ears are pierced with holes from which necklaces and earrings are suspended. The eyebrows meet above the nose, the moustaches are twisted upwards and the eyes are half-closed.

The door of the central pavilion is of beaten iron, hand-forged. Of the two other pavilions one alone remains, a picturesque ruin. The other has completely disappeared in the undergrowth, a few stones remaining to mark the site. In the survivor there is a statue of one of the King's two wives standing between two elaborate steles. The Queen's hair is arranged in the shape of a cone, a fashion which is typical of the statues of the Kmer. The nails are stained red, and all the fingers (except the middle one), and also the thumb, are covered with rings.

A balustrade, very similar to those which decorate European tombs, runs round behind this pavilion. In this enclosure an unhappy black goat is chained up, destined to decapitation at the precise moment when the sacrifice is consummated. The floor is made of stone with a narrow trench through which the blood is drained off.

Having exhibited the resemblances between this temple and those of the Kmer I propose to suggest other resemblances, not less striking, between it and some of the ancient Egyptian tombs.

The royal steles of the Egyptians are of a fairly regular outline, gently rounded at the top and usually semicircular. As is well known, their purpose was to hand down to posterity the identity and genealogy of a particular Pharaoh. The monarch's statue, on the other hand, was the actual living image of the departed, for it was universally believed that the dead man's double returned to make its abode in his form. It is even possible that the first idea of statuary had its origin in this conception of a magical reanimation.

The deceased was always represented in his robes of state (however scanty) and seated on the throne. Food was set on a small table within his reach. The figure was dressed, covered with jewels and smothered in perfumes. The nails were coloured with henna and the eyes blackened. Every step in the proceedings was accompanied by formal chanting.

In the case of royal statues these ceremonies were observed up to the twelfth dynasty. They then fell into desuetude and it became customary merely to paint up the statue with clothes, jewels and other accoutrements in as realistic a manner as possible. In the British Museum there are three large wooden statues, taken from royal tombs of the thirteenth century, which are remarkable illustrations of this process of evolution in statuary.

It is to this process of evolution, due to a change of ideas, that we must ascribe the gradual disappearance of the belief that the soul of the deceased returned to dwell in his statue, and also of the equally primitive belief that the purpose and meaning of offering a sacrifice was to furnish the deceased with food in his new existence.

I was extremely interested in my visit with its valuable discoveries, and it may readily be imagined that I was in great haste to return to camp and develop my plates. My guide announced that he knew a route which would save us many miles. The morning passed uneventfully enough. On many occasions we crossed the tracks of elephants, but I was not to be moved from my purpose. Hunting was out of fashion that day. We were too bent on getting home.

To be ready for any emergency I gave one of my rifles to the Cham chief who was a good shot. Some alligators were sunning themselves on the sandy banks of a stream. We broke in upon their siesta without hesitation and without apology.

My companion informed me that we should pass through a certain village and that, at the rate at which we were then marching, we should reach it before nightfall. However, our two boys, less accustomed to forced marching than their elders, began to show signs of distress. I could see them shifting from one shoulder to the other the bamboo-pole from which our impedimenta was slung and they soon began to complain of the thorns in the path which lacerated their feet. The two boys were quite young, the elder being perhaps sixteen. They had been attached to the Mission for more than six months, a long period for natives, who dislike regular occupation and are ever in search of change. I had a peculiar affection for these two. They were indefatigable servants and remarkably docile and even-tempered.

Their complaints seemed reasonable enough and to relieve them the chief and I shouldered the bamboo-pole. We set off again but soon put a large and growing distance between ourselves and the younger generation lagging behind. Meanwhile the sun was hastening towards his western bed. At one time the loiterers seemed to have put on a spurt, but the effort exhausted itself and they fell behind once more. At a bend of the path we decided to wait until the boys came up. We kept ourselves carefully out of sight lest the vision of our halt should inspire them to a similar indulgence.

Some minutes passed, but no one appeared. Had the rascals given up the attempt to follow us or had they lost their way? I ran back to the bend in the path. The route by which we had come stretched away in a straight line for miles, but no human being was in sight.

Our coolies had fled!

The mask-like countenance of my companion betrayed neither surprise nor any other emotion. The truants were not of his faith nor did they hail from his village. They were but vulgar Annamites, at best a race of sneaking hucksterers. His sympathies were evidently confined to the faithful of his own parish.

I confess I was irritated by his obvious indifference. To my knowledge the forest through which we had passed was infested with tigers and the stunted leafless trees were the most illusory refuge from the brutes. I had an uncomfortable premonition that our pleasure-party, so happily begun, was entering the realms of tragedy.

In the course of our three years' residence in southern Annam no less than twelve natives had been devoured by tigers. Several of the victims were attached to the Mission, and on more than one occasion I had been the hapless witness of their horrible sufferings.

On one occasion a coolie suddenly vanished through the wicker-work floor of our hut, which was built on piles quite nine feet high. The tiger, however, had climbed on to a baulk of timber which was lying on the ground below and using this as a platform had succeeded in catching hold of one end of his victim's waist-cord which happened to be hanging through the interstices of the floor. The beast gave a violent tug and dragged the hapless coolie through the floor. The man, taken by surprise, was helpless and fell, an unresisting prey, into the tiger's jaws.

I feel considerable diffidence in telling a story which I myself should not have believed had the tragedy not occurred before my very eyes.

On another occasion one of my colleagues and myself were taking our evening meal, waited on by a Cham boy about twelve years old. It was shortly after seven, I think, and the rain was falling in torrents. All at once we heard a shriek proceeding from the direction of the kitchen and in a moment the boy entered, white with terror.

"The Tiger," he could hardly get the words out, "seized hold of my coat." He showed us a huge rent in the flimsy material which covered his trembling body. Outside it was pitch dark. We had no lamps and it seemed highly risky to venture forth with so undesirable a neighbour watching us. We quickly set about protecting ourselves by barricading the entrance to the room with a palisade of wattles. The real mystery was how the beast had made its way into the enclosure, guarded as it was by a solid fence made of baulks of timber and forming a veritable blockhouse. An hour later we heard the stamping of hoofs, violent kicks and terror-stricken neighing. Then silence. About midnight our light went out. It would have been madness to go to the kitchen to fetch another, so we found ourselves condemned to wait in the darkness, listening for every sound and our nerves on edge. Needless to say, sleep was impossible. At dawn we ventured out. Everything was in confusion. Our horses had broken loose and stampeded over the fence. One of them lay disembowelled before us and half its hindquarters had disappeared. On the face of the embankment on which our house was elevated, immediately before the door of the room where we had been sitting, were the traces of a tiger's paws clearly visible in the clay.

The boy had not been mistaken. He had indeed been seized by the beast and owed his safety to his worn and tattered clothing. The marks of teeth and claws on some of the baulks of the palisade showed us that the visitor had climbed over. We learnt one lesson from this experience. Our camp, with its solid rampart ten feet high, was only an illusory protection against a really determined man-eater!

All these horrible recollections—and many others which can find no place here, this not being a story of adventure—flashed through my mind in the space of a few seconds.

Meanwhile time was flying and night came down on us unheralded by twilight as in Europe. Our search was all in vain and no answer came to our repeated shouts. The coolies had gone.

It was not until late at night and after much struggling that we reached the village. In spite of the friendly light thrown by a torch I remained all night a prey to the most vivid hallucinations. Time after time I watched a huge tiger spring out of the darkness with the corpse of one of the missing boys in his jaws.

Two days later the elder of the two came into the village. He was shivering with fever and dared not present himself before me, so I went to see him. Ghastly was the story he had to unfold. Just before the bend in the path which I have mentioned the two boys had been unable to go further and had sat down. When we were out of sight they had attempted to continue their journey, but before they had advanced a few yards a huge tiger had sprung upon the younger, while the elder had remained dumb with astonishment and terror. Helpless with fear and weariness the survivor had wandered in the forest and at last, in sheer desperation, had climbed into a tree expecting at every moment to share the fate of his luckless companion.

The Cham chief, who listened to this harrowing story with an air of indifference and barely concealed scorn, at length delivered himself of an aphorism:

"Fear claims far more victims than courage."

CHAPTER IV
RITES AND SUPERSTITIONS (continued)

Of all the races which inhabit Indo-China the Cham come easily first for the variety and individuality of their agrarian rites. There is practically no difference between the Bani and Kaphir in this respect. Both peoples recognize three kinds of sacred ricefields in which no manner of work may be carried on without the accompaniment of a special ritual. If, in the course of ploughing a rice-field, excessive fatigue has been occasioned to either man or beast, sufficient to cause illness, the field becomes taboo, "Hamu Tabung." The evil eye has been cast upon it, and no remedy exists but to sell the contaminated place at no matter what sacrifice. It need hardly be said that the only possible purchasers are the few Annamite Christians who are scattered throughout these regions. The Buddhist Annamites shun such a spot as if it were plague-stricken. The cause of the mischance is supposed to be the presence of some ancient burial-ground, the existence of which was not suspected.

Every village has its two or three sacred ricefields the "Hamu Canrauv," which are invariably the first to be ploughed. As a rule they are the property of the local aristocracy. The owner with his wife, who plays the principal part in the ceremony, goes to the field in question, either in the evening or at dawn. They lay down a mat at one corner and on it place two eggs, a cup of spirits and three betel leaves, which the wife offers as a sacrifice to Pô Olwah Tak Alâ, the great Lord of the Underworld, begging him to accept them. To set a good example, husband and wife share the good things between them while making three furrows round the field. After this ceremony ploughing and sowing may proceed in the ordinary manner.

There are also fields where cultivation is forbidden, the "Hamû Klaik Lavâ." To speak more accurately the interdict only extends to open cultivation and the tabooed area is ploughed and worked in secret. These operations are accomplished in the following manner. With the first signs of day the husband and wife go to the field and after making three furrows in silence return home. When morning comes they walk to the place and profess the greatest astonishment that the work of ploughing has already begun. "Who is the kindly Spirit," they exclaim, "who has worked for us while we slept?" Without loss of time they run back to their house to fetch suitable offerings. So great a marvel as a field which cultivates itself is worthy to be consecrated with a sacrifice. Accordingly they first bury five pieces of betel in the ground and throw a handful of rice into the three magic furrows, after which plough and bullocks are sprinkled with holy water and the remaining operations may be carried out without further concealment.

A sacrifice is offered as soon as the stalks have emerged from the ground and are tall enough "to hide the doves." Another marks the moment of flowering, and a third, the most important, celebrates the time of harvest. On this last occasion the owner cuts off the heads of three of the stalks and wraps them up in a cloth. The next step is to pass them through the smoke of a fire in which several pieces of eagle-wood are burning. These ears are the first-fruits offered to the goddess Pô Nögar, and they are afterwards hung in the owner's house until the next sowing time comes round. The same field will then be sown from the rice thus gathered.

For "unconsecrated" ricefields the ritual is less complicated. When the harvesting is due the oldest woman of the group is selected to cut three tufts, which she sets with much pomp against the bank which borders the field and harangues the grain as yet ungathered in the following terms:

"Follow the example you see here before you and you will be worthy of a place in my barns." After this address harvesting proceeds without interruption.

When the grain is safely gathered in, the Cham believe that it sleeps all day and only awakes at night. It would be the height of desecration and imprudence to disturb its slumbers, and consequently we soon learnt the futility of asking our hosts for paddy in the daytime. We were invariably informed that we must wait until night. It was only at a late hour that the owner would consent to open the door of his barn and give us what we wanted.

There was a very curious rite, fallen into desuetude since our occupation in 1888, which accompanied the gathering of the precious essence known as eagle-wood or aloe-wood. This substance is mentioned in the Bible, the Egyptian papyri, and by many Greek, Hindu and Arab writers. It seems to have been used extensively for embalming the dead, as also for combining with camphor to make a kind of incense burnt in the temples. It appears under different names, "ahalot" in Hebrew, "aghäluhy" in Arabic, "ἀγάλλοχον" in Greek, "agaru" in Sanscrit. The Cham call it "galao." Portuguese explorers, who seem to have been the first to discover its commercial value, used the Arabic name and translated it "pao de Aguila." In Latin this becomes "lignum aquilae," and so, in modern tongues, "eagle-wood," or "agal-wood," "adlerholz," and "bois d'aigle."

This essence has attracted the attention of travellers of all nations owing to its various properties, and was formerly a commercial product of great importance among the Cham. It is found all over this region, which seems to have been the land of its origin, for it is never met with further north than the thirteenth or fourteenth degree of latitude.

Botanists are not yet agreed as to the class of trees from which it is produced. The most up-to-date investigators assert that it is produced by diseases due to malnutrition in certain trees such as the aquilaria secundaria, aloexylum agallochum, and aquilaria agallocha, all of the family of the aquilarinæa. It is an aromatic substance with a slightly resinous odour and bitter to the taste.

The natives distinguish three varieties, according to their commercial value. The first quality, which is almost impossible to find to-day, commanded a price of no less than fifty-four pounds a kilogramme. The medium quality was worth sixteen pounds for the same quantity, and the cheapest quality was worth rather more than one pound a kilogramme.

The variety of uses to which this accommodating substance can be put is astonishing, though it is not suitable for cabinet-making.

It is largely used for incense. When thrown into a fire it melts like wax and gives off an odour which is supposed to be particularly pleasing to the Gods. Certain other of its properties are no less useful to man, who values more material favours. Thus, for example, it has very great value as a safeguard against dysentery, which is prevalent throughout Indo-China. No Mandarin in all this region ventures forth on a journey without having a supply of this indispensable medicine with him.

Of course, the oriental imagination is not content to confine the virtues of this substance to those which have been demonstrated by actual experience. The supernatural is bound to appear somewhere, and accordingly all kinds of magical powers are also attributed to it. Thus every person who bears this talisman will never succumb, however long he may be deprived of food. On the contrary, his body will no longer be subjected to earthly necessities but will enter on a state of divinity which requires no sustenance. The Mandarins have every reason to appreciate this arrangement, especially at the time of their presentation at the Imperial Court at Hué. Etiquette exacts that until the Sovereign actually enters the throne-room they must remain quite motionless, and they sometimes find themselves compelled to stand for hours without stirring!

With properties so invaluable as this, it is hardly to be wondered at that eagle-wood figured largely in the gifts presented by the sovereign of Annam to the Emperor of China by way of tribute every three years. To ensure a sufficient supply, all trade in this substance, whether for home or export, was strictly prohibited, but the prohibition was removed after our occupation, when the obligation of tribute was suspended and finally annulled.

According to Masoudi, the celebrated Arab writer, eagle-wood has a celestial origin.

Other legends of Hindu origin say that the aloes tree grew in an earthly paradise and that fragments of it were swept over the face of the globe by a series of floods.

It is also said that the tree originally grew only on the tops of inaccessible mountains where fearful monsters or wild beasts guarded it from the greedy hands of man.

However that may be, it is certain that at the present time the public is not interested in the origin of this substance so much as its exploitation for commercial purposes. An industry formerly so flourishing should be systematically revived, if only for its prospective financial importance.

Balap, where the members of our mission remained for some time, is celebrated as the residence of Pô Galao, the "Lord of the Eagle-wood," on whom devolved in former times the duty of supervising the gathering of the precious substance. His associates were sixteen men of the same village and a certain number of the "Raglaï" Moï, a group living in the neighbourhood whose keen sense of smell is vital to success. A good nose is of far greater importance than good sight, for eagle-wood exhales a characteristic odour which has to be detected from among the various smells of the virgin forest. Indeed the task of finding the tree is beset with difficulties. The undergrowth is so thick, the vegetation so hardy and rampant, that progress can only be made by clearing a path with knife and hatchet. The decaying vegetation is a prolific source of fevers. It is easily understood that with so many perils ahead the expedition never sets out without a preliminary sacrifice to the deities who can assure or withhold success. Of these deities the most important to appease are the four tutelary divinities of the valley of Phanrang. To earn their goodwill it is necessary to build a special barn for the sacrifice and make offerings of a goat, cooked rice, eggs and spirits.

As soon as the expedition starts the searchers are bound by a religious law of silence. Should any member of the party speak it would be almost certain that the wood would lose its perfume, and therefore all its value.

Of course, an occasional direction to the "Raglaï" Moï is unavoidable, and for this purpose the Cham make use of certain brief vivid expressions. For example, if they wish to indicate an axe they say "the wood-pecker." When they want to speak of fire they say "the red."

For a long time it was believed that this conventional language was a form of religious speech, somewhat similar to the "Bhasa Hantu," or language of the Spirit, employed by the Malays. Further research, however, has proved that these expressions are confined to a few detached words borrowed from the Raglaï dialect and used by the Cham to communicate with them alone.

The women who remain behind in the villages are strictly forbidden to quarrel amongst themselves while their husbands are away looking for eagle-wood. A breach of this regulation would mean that the men would run grave risk of being attacked by tigers or bitten by serpents. The cynical, however, assert that even this evil possibility is insufficient to preserve harmony in the village!

While I was at Malam near Phantiet I was present at the annual festival of the Cham Bani of that village. The ceremony is known as "Raja," a name which is also applied to the priestess who officiates.

On reaching the courtyard of the compound to which I was invited I observed a large hut and several sheds ornamented with branches of trees on which sheets of coarse cotton were spread. The sheds served to accommodate the many guests who, like myself, had accepted the invitation to be present at the festival. The hut was devoted to the ceremonies of ancestor-worship, which were that day celebrated.

This building faced the east. On entering I immediately noticed at the back of the room a kind of trough serving as an altar. From the ceiling hung paper figures of boats, carts, animals and various domestic objects. In the middle of the room, suspended from the two principal beams, was a swing with its seat covered with brightly-coloured materials, which took on a strangely gay and barbaric aspect under the lights of many little candles.

The native orchestra comprised a flute, a stringed instrument with some resemblance to a guitar, gongs and tambourines. The conductor, who seemed to be the principal performer, also improvised on a flat drum, timing his melodious drone to fill the intervals when the priestess was resting.

The latter, clothed in a long white robe and with a wreath of flowers in her hair, joined with an assistant priest in the steps of a saraband. Together they gave vent to their feelings in dancing, singing, prayers, imprecations, tears, grinding of teeth and hypnotic ecstasies, all with the object of appeasing the shades of the ancestors. Suddenly the priestess seated herself on the swing in the narrow passage left between the candles. She swung herself slowly to and fro, running her hands up and down the supporting ropes and droning through endless prayers. When she had finished the priest followed her example and went through the same rigmarole. So curious was the scene that I could not resist the malevolent idea of taking a photograph and without reflection I fired a piece of magnesium ribbon.

Woe to me for my impatience! In the confusion which followed the flash both I and my camera were almost upset. I had purposely given the company no notice of my intention in order to avoid the "posing" which self-conscious sitters cannot avoid. The Faithful, in their amazement, had taken the sudden apparition as an emanation of the Gods themselves. Something more than explanations was necessary to allay the general alarm, and it was only after a generous distribution of tobacco that I was able to restore some measure of harmony.

The religious celebrations lasted three days, interspersed with feasts and other diversions, notably an acrobatic display by a performer who roused his audience to a frenzy of enthusiasm. At the beginning of each feast a priest called all the deities by name and executed the movements of a dance in their honour. These evolutions are an invitation to the divinities to take their place in the celebrations.

At dawn on the second day the priestess filled with cakes and fruit a toy boat hollowed out of the trunk of a banana-tree by some ingenious artisan. In this frail canoe a rag monkey was placed, squatting on its haunches in a very grotesque position. The boat was meant to commemorate the vessel which in former days came from China every three years to fetch the tribute exacted from a vassal state.

After this the roysterers fell upon the improvised temple and hacked it to pieces amongst general rejoicings.

The next day, by way of applying the closure to the festivities, the whole crowd, headed by the priest and priestess, marched to a neighbouring canal, taking the symbolical boat with them. While the orchestra poured forth an unmelodious symphony the lilliputian vessel was entrusted to the waters, in which it speedily filled and disappeared.

There are strong resemblances between this Cham ceremony and the celebrations in India which mark the changes of the monsoon. In this latter country travellers find the same gaily bedecked sheds, the same rude figures cut out of paper, and the same swing scene. The Hindus regard the backward and forward movement of the swing as a symbol of the movements of the seasons.

Most of the rites which obtain among the Cham, in fact, recall the ritual observances of the Vedic and Brahminic religions, of which the following are among the most characteristic features.

The place selected for the crowning act of sacrifice, "Devayajana," is always an open space, whether at a cross-roads or in an enclosure. The improvised temple is made of branches or clods of earth and is invariably destroyed by the worshippers after the solemn ceremony is over.

Each sacrifice is regarded as the conclusion of a treaty between the gods and mortals. The value of the offering is in proportion to the extent of the favours desired. Most sacrifices are for heat or rain, two necessaries of life without which neither health nor prosperity is possible.

The officiating priest and his bodyguard of acolytes are housed and fed at the expense of the "Yajamana," the individual for whose ultimate benefit the benevolence of the gods is solicited. I ought to add that the previous life and blamelessness of this person have nothing to do with the efficacy of the sacrifice. On the contrary, the only thing that matters is the exact, punctilious observance of the rite itself.

It is plain that intellect plays little part in these religious ceremonies. Throughout, each act is designed to fire the imagination and arouse the emotions, rather than carry conviction.

It is equally certain that rites of undoubted Dravidian origin are to be observed among the Cham. The common denominator of all the religions of India is the worship of divinities personifying the earth or the elements, generally in the shape of a woman, and almost always considered malevolent.

Horrible sacrifices are offered to appease them, and the religious ceremonies usually terminate in the most abandoned orgies. The presiding priest, or "Devil Dancer," after a series of frantic contortions, falls to the ground in a hypnotic trance, during which the incoherent expressions that fall from his lips are greedily noted and repeated by the Faithful, who regard them as the words of Divinity itself.

For a last example there are certain fêtes, such as the "Durgapuja" in Bengal, marked by buffoonery and pantomime, in which the worshippers conclude the ceremonies by carrying a statue of the goddess in procession to the river banks, and casting it into the waters to the strains of an ear-shattering orchestra.

CHAPTER V
RITES AND SUPERSTITIONS (continued)

The exorcisms of the "Padjao" directed towards expelling disease from the bodies of the Cham are too similar to those of the Moï sorceress to merit description, which would be little more than repetition.

On the other hand, the burial rites of the Kaphir Cham are highly characteristic.

Children who die before the age of puberty, and therefore not initiated into the full rights and mysteries of manhood, are buried in the earth, while adults of both sexes are cremated. The reason for this distinction is not far to seek. The adults are regarded as a class set apart with its own complex of funeral rites and observances. Further, those who die while still of tender years die in innocence and need no such purification from their sins as is implied in the practice of submitting the bodies of their elders to the scourge of fire.

After death the spirits of the little ones are supposed to dwell in the bodies of rats, and their memory is perpetuated from time to time by ceremonies in which the head of the family, clad in a new robe for the occasions, makes offerings, waves his hands in the air to imitate the movements of a bird, performs certain mystical passes, and puts a red flower in a bronze vase.

The burial rites which are still practised by the Kaphir Cham of Phanrang and Phanry serve as excellent comments on the duties of the priest in case of the death of any inhabitant of a village.

The fundamental notion on which all the observances are based is that the soul of the deceased must have a new body in which it may take refuge after the loss of its earthly dwelling-place. All the ceremonies are designed to create this new body. It is universally agreed that rice alone can operate the necessary transformation, and as the rice must be of the finest quality procurable, each family preserves the best stalks from the harvest and lays them up in anticipation of a death.

When the dread moment arrives the selected grains are mixed in a bowl into which a gold ring, symbol of immortality, has been dropped. The priest now glues a few grains together with melted wax to form a soft round ball, which is introduced under the dead man's tongue. A few mystical passes, and the soul leaves its old shell for the new ætherial body thus called into existence. The next and last step is to give the soul its necessary directions. These depend upon the manner of life of the deceased. Virtuous men are sent to the sun, women against whom there is no reproach to the moon. If the credit and debit items of a man's moral account balance out he is dispatched to the planets. The wicked are dispersed among the clouds, as are also the poor and lowly, an inequitable disposition worthy of a theocracy!

The actual ceremony of cremation follows after a period which is determined by the state of the corpse and the financial position of the deceased's family. From the moment of death to the cremation custom exacts that all visitors to the family should be housed and fed at the expense of the relations. These visitors come to keep the deceased company and pretend to entertain him by their wit and conversation. They also cheer up the relations and do their best to keep sorrow at a convenient distance.

The family build a special shed under which the corpse is laid, after having been dressed in eight robes, one over the other. Thus swathed in white linen the body looks exactly like a package with the head, covered with a thin veil, emerging from one end. It is strictly forbidden to offer any nourishment to the deceased before he leaves his own house. The bed on which the corpse is laid is turned towards the south and surmounted by a kind of canopy from which hang birds cut out of paper. It seems that the function of this winged escort is to conduct the soul to its future home. Clumps of hemp and various foods are strewn around the bier and the walls of the shed are hung with martial trophies.