The Tomahawk., 1917-12-27

- - covered with the incrustations
of it's myriad images, says Doctor
Dearmer in the Manchester (England)
Guardian. Dark hued people in daz-
zling colors swarm along the street.
the white lines of Vishnu or of SILVA
cleaning on their foreheads under the
bright December sun; and from the
street stream passes continually
through the high gateway into the
dark arcade OF shops and great paint
ed fmages-the piers of this architec-
ture-through which one can dimly
see passage beyond high passage, as
far as the vague hint Of the shrine at
the end Of this dark perspective.
There is an hour in the year when
a beam from the rising sun pierces
the whole long length through the
midst of the temple and strikes the
image Of the god SILVA Sundareswar
In the depths Of his inmost sanctuary,
where none but Hindus may ever en-
ter.
To pass through that first high but
gloomy passage into the precincts Of
the temple itself is to travel back 5000
years. I feel that shall never long
be transplanted into ancient Egypt
again. I have been there, and I know
what it must have been like.
Nor will the Parthenon be ever
again to me an empty ruin. I can
imagine it now as it was, only Greek
refinement instead of Hindu coarse
ness and excess, with the Greek beau
ty Of sculptured gods and goddesses
instead Of the cruel, minatory gro
.tesques of this strange pantheon. 1
can picture now what the ancient
paganism was like, and how the
philosophers taught one thing while
the people fiercely believed another,
and how the common worship Of the
crowd and the ancient immemorial
tradition drew the hearts of the
philosophers in spite of themselves.
Life and Traffic Ancient.
True, the architecture of this Indian
temple is but a few hundred years
old; for most Hindu buildings are
modern compared with their faith.
But the spirit is as old as Egypt-the
half sinister air Of mystery, and the
swarms upon swarms Of people,
.crowding the vast corridors, passing
out into the sunshine under the paint
ed colonnade round the square expanse
of bright green water, each seeking his
special god, each worshiping where his
fancy leads him. The people are dark
er, the pervading smell is of melted
chi instead of incense. But it is the
life that is the same, the life of thou
sands who are here because all the
gods are real to them-the women, for
instance, who clasp their hands and
prostrate themselves when our guide
"Opens the doors which protect the
rilded cars and subsidiary Images
(slapping them Familiarity with his
handy
It is the life and the traffic that are
so real, so UNNECESSARILY old, from the
temple elephant, swaying to and fro IN
a corridor that is not the least dwarfed
by him, to the men who are chanting
Vedas by the tank, and the little naked
children turning solemnly round be-
cause their parents do so, and the
hundreds of drowsy men who squat at
different boards on the floor selling
corktree flowers and other offerings
for the gods.
Ruined temples smell Of flowers, or
earth, or desert sand, and are washed
clean and dried by nature. But this llv-
ing city. of columns smells of life, and
the stoNe pavement Is soft with dirt;
the weird carvings are obscured with
many layers of solid whitewash or
blackened by greasy hands and hot
elbows; the sacred idols drip with oil
and are blackened also.
In the Heart Of the Temple.
One gigantic image especially no one
who has seen it is likely to forget, as 1t
looms out, black and sticky, in the light
of two flaring lamps (made as the
Greeks made lamps) that are held up
by two half-naled servants. 1t is Cane
sha. the good-naturcd elephant god, as
broad as he is long, but looking porten-
tous and horrible. his trunk lying
across the huge protuberance Gf his
jnhumanly human abdomen.
And the life of the temple is 50 real
because it is also the life Of the city.
It is inwoven not only by the tradi-
lion that in India is literally tineless.
.,nt by the customs of every hour, and
by the heaviest of all customs, caste.
At any hour the life Of the people may
no seen in epitome here, in the heart OF
the temple; three gaunt widows well
wrapped in their dull white saris are
.auatting on the ground to feed a sleek
.z.- PRO hr,nan clad in q lnin cloth.