History of Indian and Eastern Architecture

Of these, one of the most remarkable is that of Ananda. As will be seen from the annexed plan (Woodcut No. 346), it is a square of nearly 200 ft. on each side, with projecting porticos on each face, so that it measures 280 ft. across each way. Like all the great pagodas of the city, it is seven storeys in height; six of these are square and flat, each diminishing in extent, so as to give the whole a pyramidal form; the seventh, which is or simulates the cell of the temple, takes the form of a Hindu or Jaina temple, the whole in this instance rising to the height of 183 ft.

Internally, the building is extremely solid, being intersected only by two narrow concentric corridors; but in rear of each projecting transept is a niche most artificially lighted from above, in which stands a statue of Buddha more than 30 ft. in height. This is the arrangement we find in the Chaumuk temple at Palitana and at Sadri (Woodcut No. 133), both Jaina temples of the 15th century, and which it is consequently rather surprising to find here as early as the 11th century (A.D. 1066[576]); but the form and the whole of the arrangement of these temples are so unlike what we find elsewhere that we must be prepared for any amount of anomalies.

Next in rank to this is the Thapinya—the Omniscient—erected about the year 1100 by the grandson of the king who built the Ananda. It is very similar to the Ananda both in dimensions and in plan, except that it has only one porch instead of four, and consequently only one great statue in its cell instead of four standing back to back. Its height is 201 ft., and it is the highest in the place (Woodcuts Nos. 347, 348).

The third in importance is called the Gaudapalen, built in 1160. This temple is smaller than those just mentioned, but makes up in richness and beauty of detail for its more diminutive dimensions.

The Dhamayangyee, now in ruins, is quite equal in dimensions to the Ananda, and very much resembles it in plan and design; while one called the Sem Byo Koo, is, in its details, the most beautiful of any.

The general appearance of these temples will be understood from the annexed view (Woodcut No. 349) of that called Gaudapalen, and their general arrangements from the section of the Thapinya, of which a plan is given (Woodcut No. 347). They are all so similar that it is needless to multiply illustrations, the only real difference being in the greater or less amount of ornament in stucco which has been applied to each.

The first thing that strikes the inquirer on examining these temples is their remarkable dissimilarity with anything on the continent of India. They are not topes in any sense of the term, nor are they viharas. The one building we have hitherto met with which they in any way resemble is the seven-storeyed Prasada at Pollonarua (Woodcut No. 106), which, no doubt, belongs to the same class. It is possible that the square pagodas at Thatún, when properly examined, may contain the explanation we are searching for. They evidently were not alone, and many other examples may still be found when looked for. On the whole, however, I am inclined to believe, improbable as it may at first sight appear, that their real synonyms are to be found in Babylonia, not in India. The Birs Nimroud is, like them, a seven-storeyed temple, with external stairs, leading to a crowning cell or sanctuary. Of course, during the seventeen centuries which elapsed between the erection of the two buildings, considerable changes have taken place. The lowest stairs in Burmah have become internal; in Babylonia they were apparently external. At the head of the third flight at the Birs, Sir Henry Rawlinson found the remains of three recesses. At Pagan these had been pushed into the centre of the third storey. The external flights were continued on the upper three storeys at both places; but in Babylonia they lead to what seems to have been the real sanctuary, in Burmah to a simulated one only, but of a form which, in India, always contained a cell and an image of the deity to whom the temple was dedicated.

It may be asked, How is it possible that a Babylonian form should reach Burmah without leaving traces of its passage through India? It is hardly a sufficient answer to say it must have come viâ Thibet and Central Asia; because, in the present state of our knowledge, we do not know of such a route being used. It is a more probable explanation to say that such monuments may have existed in the great Gangetic cities, but, like these Burmese examples, in brick and plaster; and have perished, as they would be sure to do in that climate, and where hostile races succeeded the Buddhists. But, however it may be eventually accounted for, it hardly appears to me doubtful that these Burmese seven-storeyed temples are the lineal descendants of the Babylonian examples, and that we shall some day be able to supply the gaps which exist in their genealogy.

Meanwhile one thing must be borne in mind. The earliest capital of the Burmese was Tagoung in the north, and their real affinities are with the north. They got their religion by the southern route from Bengal, but it was engrafted on a stem of which we know very little, and all whose affinities have yet got to be traced to their source.

Before leaving these square temples, it may be well to point out some peculiarities which are new to us. In the first place it is a purely brick style, and, as such, using true radiating arches, not only to span the openings but to roof their passages and halls. This is so unlike what we find in any part of India Proper, that it seems to point with certainty to some foreign—most probably a northern—country for its origin. As frequently mentioned above, no Buddhist arch is known to exist in India,[577] and, except in the reign of Akbar, hardly a Hindu one, in any temple down to the present day. It could hardly, in consequence, be derived from that country, but there is no reason for believing that the Chinese or Tartar nations ever showed any aversion to these forms. We know, at all events, that the Assyrians and Babylonians used brick arches long before the Christian Era, and the art may have been communicated by them to the nations of Northern Asia, and from them it may have come down the Irawaddi.

It would be a curious speculation to try and find out what the Jains in western India would have done had they been forced to use brick instead of stone during the 11th and 12th centuries, which was the great building epoch on the Irawaddi and in Gujerat. Possibly they would have arrived at the same conclusion, in which case we can only congratulate ourselves that the westerns were not tempted with the fatal facility of bricks and mortar.

Another peculiarity is, that these square Burmese pagodas adopt the curvilinear sikra of the Indo-Aryan style. This may be considered a sufficient indication that they derived some, at least, of their architectural features, as well as their religion, from India; but as this form was adopted by both Jains and Hindus in the north of India, from the mouths of the Indus to the Bay of Bengal in that age, it hardly enables us to point out the particular locality from which it was derived, or the time at which it was first introduced. It is, however, so far as we at present know, the only instance of its being found out of India Proper.

Circular Dagobas.

Leaving these square quasi-Jaina temples, which are clearly exceptional, the dagobas of Burmah are found to be generally much more like those which are found in India and Ceylon, though many, having been erected only in the present century, are of forms more complex and attenuated than those in India Proper.

The one most like the Indian type is that known as the Kong Madú, not far from Mengûn, on the same side of the river. The mass of the dome, according to Colonel Yule,[578] is about 100 ft. diameter. It is taller than a semicircle—which would indicate a modern date—and stands on three concentric bases, each wider than the other. Round the whole is a railing, consisting of 784 stone pillars, each standing about 6 ft. out of the ground, and divided into four quadrants by four stone gateways (Woodcut No. 350). An inscription, on a white marble slab, records the erection of this pagoda between the years 1636 and 1650. I, at one time, thought it must be older; but the evidence of recent explorations renders this date more probable than it formerly appeared. If correct, it is curious as showing how little real change had occurred during the sixteen centuries which elapsed between the erection of the tope at Sanchi (Woodcuts Nos. 10-12) and the seventeenth century.

Perhaps the most important pagoda in the Burmese empire is the great Shoëmadu[579] at Pegu, of which a plan and elevation are given from those published by Colonel Symes in his account of his embassy to Ava. As will be seen from the woodcuts (Nos. 351, 352), the plan deviates considerably from the circular form, which is exclusively used in the edifices of this class hitherto described, and approaches more nearly to those elaborately polygonal forms which are affected by all the Hindu builders of modern date. It returns, however, to the circular form before terminating, and is crowned, like all Burmese buildings of this class, by an iron spire or tee richly gilt.

Another peculiarity is strongly indicative of its modern date: namely, that instead of a double or triple range of pillars surrounding its base, we have a double range of minute pagodas—a mode of ornamentation that subsequently became typical in Hindu architecture—their temples and spires being covered, and, indeed, composed of innumerable models of themselves, clustered together so as to make up a whole. As before remarked, something of the same sort occurs in Roman art, where every window and opening is surmounted by a pediment or miniature temple end, and in Gothic art, where a great spire is surrounded by pinnacles or spirelets; but in these styles it is never carried to the same excess as in Hindu art. In the present instance it is interesting, as being one of the earliest attempts at this class of decoration.

The building stands on two terraces, the lower one about 10 ft. high, and 1391 ft. square; the upper one, 20 ft. in height, and 684 ft. square; from the centre rises the pagoda, the diameter of whose base is 395 ft. The small pagodas are 27 ft. high, and 108 or 110 in number; while the great pagoda itself rises to the height of 331 ft. above its terrace, or 361 ft. above the country, thus reaching a height about equal to that of St. Paul’s Cathedral: while the side of the upper terrace is only 83 ft. less than that of the great Pyramid.

Tradition ascribes its commencement to two merchants, who raised it to the height of 12 cubits, at an age slightly subsequent to that of Buddha himself. Successive kings of Pegu added to it from time to time, till at last it assumed its present form, most probably about three or four centuries ago.

The next in importance, so far as we know, is the more generally known Shoëdagong pagoda at Rangûn, a building very similar in dimensions to the last named, and by no means unlike it, except that the outline of the base is cut up to even a greater extent, and the spire more attenuated—both signs of a comparatively modern date. The base is even more crowded by little temples than that at Pegu, and its whole height is somewhat less. There is, however, no essential difference between the two buildings, and this is principally interesting as leading us one step further in the series from the solid hemispherical mound to the thin spire, which, both in Burmah and Siam, is the modern form usually assumed by these edifices, till they lose all but a traditional resemblance to the buildings from which they originally sprang.

The general appearance of their spires may be gathered from the three shown on the left of the annexed woodcut (No. 353), which is precisely that of the Great Pagoda. This illustration is also valuable as showing the last lineal descendant of these great human-headed winged lions that once adorned the portals of the palaces at Nineveh; but after nearly 3000 years of wandering and ill-treatment have degenerated into these wretched caricatures of their former selves.

The Shoëdagong pagoda, like all the more important ones, is fabled to have been commenced about 2300 years ago, or about the era of Buddha himself; its sanctity, however, is owing to its containing relics, not only of the last Buddha, but also of his three predecessors—Buddha having vouchsafed eight hairs of his head to its two founders, on the understanding that they were to be enshrined with the relics of the three former Buddhas, where and when found.[580] After numerous miraculous indications, on this spot were discovered the staff of Kakusanda, believed to have lived some 3000 years before Christ, the water-dipper of Konagamma, and the bathing garment of Kasyapa, which, with the eight hairs above mentioned, are enshrined within this great pagoda.[581] Originally, however, notwithstanding the value of its deposit, the building was small, and it is probably not more than a century since it assumed its present form.

A crowd of smaller pagodas surrounds the larger one, of all sizes, from 30 ft. to 200 ft. in height, and even more. There is scarcely a village in the country that does not possess one or two, and in all the more important towns they are numbered by hundreds; indeed, they may almost be said to be innumerable. They are almost all quite modern, and so much alike as not to merit any distinct or separate mention. They indicate, however, a great degree of progressive wealth and power in the nation, from the earliest times to the present day, and an increasing prevalence of the Buddhistical system. This is a direct contrast to the history of Ceylon, whose glory was greatest in the earliest centuries of the Christian Era, and was losing its purity at the time when the architectural history of Burmah first dawns upon us. Thus the buildings of one country supplement those of the other, and present together a series of examples of the same class, ranging over more than 2000 years, if we reckon from the oldest topes in Ceylon to the most modern in Burmah.

At a place called Mengûn, about half-way between the former capital of Amîrapura and the present one at Mandalé, are two pagodas, which are not without considerable interest for our present purposes; if for no other reason, at least for this—that both were erected within the limits of the present century, and show that neither the forms nor aspirations of the art were wholly extinguished even in our day. The first is circular in form, and was erected in the year 1816, in the reign of a king of Burmah called Bodo Piyah, who is also the author of the second. As will be seen from the woodcut (No. 354), it is practically a dagoba, with five concentric procession-paths. Each of these is ornamented by a curious serpent-like balustrade, interspersed with niches containing, or intended to contain, statues of Buddha, and is accessible by four flights of steps facing the four cardinal points. The whole is surrounded by a low circular wall, 750 ft. in diameter, said to represent the serpent Ananta. Within this is a basement, measuring about 400 ft. across, and this, with the procession-paths and dagoba on the summit, make up seven storeys, intended, it is said, to symbolise the mythical Mount Meru.[582]

It will be recollected that, when speaking of the great dagobas of Anuradhapura in Ceylon, it was pointed out (ante, p. 190) that they had three procession-paths round their bases, ascended in like manner by flights of steps opposite the four cardinal points of the compass. It is interesting to observe here, after a lapse of 2000 years, and at a distance of nearly 1500 miles, the changes have been so small. It is true the number of procession-paths has increased from three to five, and the terraces become relatively much more important than in the older examples; but, barring this and some changes in detail, the

monuments are practically the same, notwithstanding all the curious varieties that have sprung up in the interval.

The other pagoda at this place was commenced by the same king, called Mentara Gyé, or Bodo Piyah, who died in 1819, and seems to have been an attempt to revive the old square forms of Pagan, in the same manner as the other was intended to recall memories of the older forms of early Indian Buddhism. “It stands on a basement of five successive terraces, of little height, the lower terrace forming a square of 450 ft. From the upper terrace starts the vast cubical pile of the pagoda, 230 ft. square in plan, and rising, in a solid mass, to the height of about 100 ft., with slightly sloping walls. Above this it contracts in successive terraces, three of which had been completed, raising the mass to a height of 165 ft., at the time the work was abandoned.”[583] From a model standing near, it is inferred that, if completed, it would have risen to the height of 500 ft.; it is even now a solid mass containing between 6,000,000 and 7,000,000 cubic feet of brickwork. Had it been carried out, it would have been the tallest building in the world. It was, however, shattered by an earthquake in 1839; but, even in its ruined state, is as large and imposing a mass of brickwork as is to be found anywhere.[584] Since the pyramids of Egypt, nothing so great has been attempted, and it belongs to the 19th century!

Monasteries.

As Burmah is a country in which the monastic system of Buddhism flourishes at the present day to the fullest extent, if we had more information regarding its monasteries, or kioums as they are called, it might enable us to understand the arrangement of the older ones. The travellers who have visited the country have been silent on the subject, principally because the monasteries are, in almost all instances, less magnificent than the pagodas to which they are attached, and are, with scarcely an exception, built of wood—a practice destructive of their architectural character, and also depriving them wholly of that monumental appearance of stability which is so essential to true architectural expression.

This peculiarity is not confined to the monasteries; all residences, from that of the poorest peasant to the palace of the king, having been constructed from time immemorial of this perishable material. The custom has now passed into a law, that no one shall have the power of erecting buildings of stone or brick, except it be the king himself, or unless the edifices be of a purely religious character. Even this exception is not always taken advantage of, for the king’s palace itself is as essentially a wooden erection as the dwelling of any of his subjects. It is, however, not the less magnificent on this account—rather, perhaps, more so—immense sums being spent on the most elaborate carvings, and the whole being lacquered, painted, and gilt, to an extent of which we have no conception in our more sober clime.

The general appearance of the façade may be realised from the annexed view (Woodcut No. 355); but its real magnificence consists in the profusion of gilding and carving with which every part is covered, and to which it is impossible to do justice on so small a scale.

The same profuse decorations are bestowed upon the monasteries, one of which is represented in the annexed woodcut (No. 356), showing a building in which all the defects arising from the use of so easily carved a material, are carried to excess. If the colouring and gilding could be added, it would represent a building such as the West never saw, and, let us hope, never will see; for, however dazzling its splendour, such barbaric magnificence is worthy only of a half-civilized race.

The naked form of these monasteries—if the expression may be used—will be understood from the following woodcut (No. 357) of one recently erected at Mandalé, and, though inhabited, not quite finished. It is five storeys in height, and, if I mistake not, as nearly reproduces the Lowa Maha Paya of Anuradhapura, as the circular Mengûn pagoda does the Abhayagiri or Ruanwelli dagobas there. Here, however, the storeys have lost their meaning; only one storey is used as a residence[585]—the first, or “piano nobile,” as we would call it. The upper storeys are only ornamental reminiscences of past utilitarian forms, but which evidently once had a meaning. Had the building been completed—perhaps it is now—it would have been ornamented with carving as richly as that represented in the preceding woodcut, for it is one of the advantages of wooden architecture, that its decorative features may be added after the fabric is practically complete in all essential points.

These many-storeyed kioums, with the tall seven-storeyed spires (shown in Woodcuts Nos. 353 and 356), bring us back to the many-storeyed temples in Nepal, which are in all essential respects so nearly identical, that it can hardly be doubted they had a common origin. We are not yet in a position to point out the connecting links which will fuse the detached fragments of this style into a homogeneous whole, but it is probably in China that they must be looked for, only we know so little of the architectural history of the western portion of that great country, that we must wait for further information before even venturing on this subject.

The fact that all the buildings of Burmah are of wood, except the pagodas, may also explain how it is that India possesses no architectural remains anterior to the age of Asoka. Except the comparatively few masonry pagodas, none of which existed prior to his era, there is nothing in Burmah that a conflagration of a few hours would not destroy, or the desertion of a few years entirely obliterate. That the same was the practice of India is almost certain, from the essentially wooden forms still found prevailing in all the earlier cave temples; and, if so, this fully accounts for the disappearance of all earlier monuments.

We know that wooden architecture was the characteristic of Nineveh, where all the constructive parts were formed in this perishable material; and from the Bible we learn that Solomon’s edifices were chiefly so constructed. Persepolis presents us with the earliest instance in Asia of this wooden architecture being petrified, as it were—apparently in consequence of the intercourse its builders maintained with Egypt and with Greece.

In Burmah these wooden types still exist in more completeness than, perhaps, in any other country. Even if the student is not prepared to admit the direct ethnographic connexion between the buildings of Burmah and Babylon—which seems hardly to admit of doubt—he will at any rate best learn in this country to appreciate much in ancient architecture, which, without such a living illustration, it is hard to understand. Solomon’s House of the Cedars of Lebanon is, with mere difference of detail, reproduced at Ava or Amîrapura; and the palaces of Nineveh and Persepolis are rendered infinitely more intelligible by the study of these edifices. Burmah is almost equally important in enabling us to understand what an active, prosperous Buddhist community may have been in India at a time when that religion flourished there; and altogether, if means were available for its full elucidation, it would form one of the most interesting chapters in the History of Architecture in Asia.

CHAPTER II.

SIAM.

In India we find civilized nations first established in the Punjab and on the watershed between the Sutlej and the Jumna. Between 2000 and 3000 years B.C. Oude seems to have become dry enough for human habitation, and Ayodhya[586] (from which the Siamese capital took its name) became the chief city. Between 1000 and 500 B.C. Janakpore on the north, and Rajagriha on the south, were the capital cities of Bengal; but both being situated on the hills, it was not till Asoka’s time (250 B.C.) that Patna on the Soane and Vaisali on the Gunduck, became capitals; and still another 1000 years elapsed before Gaur and Dacca became important, while Moorshedabad, Hooghly, and Calcutta, are cities of yesterday.[587] The same phenomenon seems to have occurred in Siam, and, what is of still more interest, as we shall presently see, in Cambodia.

As Ayuthia was for three centuries the flourishing capital of one of the great building races of the world, we should, of course, look for considerable magnificence having been displayed in its architecture. From the accounts of the early Portuguese and Dutch travellers who visited it in the days of its glory, it seems to have merited the title they bestowed upon it of the “Venice of the East,” and the remains justify their eulogiums. The buildings, however, seem to have been principally constructed of brick and wood; and as the city has now been practically deserted for more than a century, the wild fig-trees have everywhere inserted their roots into the masonry, and decay has progressed rapidly among the wooden erections. As described by recent visitors, nothing can be more wildly picturesque than this once splendid city, now overgrown with jungle; but such a stage of decay is, of all conditions, the least favourable to the researches of the antiquary.

The form which the older pagodas took at Ayuthia differs in many essential respects from those which we find either in India or in Burmah. The top or upper part has a rounded domical shape, which we can easily fancy to be derived from the tope, but the upright part looks more like the sikra of a Hindu temple than anything Buddhist. If we had a few earlier examples, perhaps we might trace the steps by which the one passed into the other; at present the gaps in the series are too great to be bridged over with anything approaching certainty. One link, however, seems to be supplied by the temples of Nakhon Wat in Cambodia, of which more hereafter.

The same outline is found in the crowning members of the pagodas of Bangkok, but they are covered with an elaboration of detail and exuberance of coloured ornament that has seldom been surpassed, nor is it desirable it should be, for it is here carried to an extent truly barbarous (Woodcut No. 360).

Notwithstanding the bad taste which they display, these Bangkok pagodas are interesting in the history of architecture as exemplifying the instinctive mode in which some races build, and the innate and irrepressible love of architecture they display. But it also shows how easily these higher aspirations degenerate into something very

like vulgarity, when exercised by a people in so low a stage of civilization as the modern Siamese.

The same remarks apply to their civic buildings: palaces and porticos, and even dwelling-houses, are all as rich as carving and gilding, and painting, can make them; but, as in the pagodas, it is overdone, and fails to please, because it verges on vulgarity.

The typical design of all these halls and minor buildings will be understood from the preceding woodcut, representing the Hall of Audience at Bangkok. Like all the others, it has two roofs intersecting one another at right angles, and a spire of greater or less elevation on the intersection. Sometimes one, two, or three smaller gables are placed in front of the first, each lower than the one behind it, so as to give a pyramidal effect to the whole. Generally, the subordinate gables are of the same width as those in the centre; but sometimes the outer one is smaller, forming a porch. In the audience hall just quoted there are three gables each way. These may be seen on the right and left of the central spire in the view, but the first and second towards the front are hidden by the outer gable. The point of sight being taken exactly in front, it looks in the view as if there were only one in that direction.

The Burmese adopt the same arrangement in their civil buildings, and in Siam and Burmah the varieties are infinite, from the simple pavilion with four gables, supported on four pillars,[588] to those with twelve and sixteen gables, combined with a greater complication of walls and pillars for their support.

As the Siamese are certainly advancing in civilization, it may be asked, Will not their architecture be improved and purified by the process? The answer is, unfortunately, too easy. The new civilization is not indigenous, but an importation. The men of progress wear hats, the ladies crinolines, and they build palaces with Corinthian porticos and sash-windows. It is the sort of civilization that is found in the Bazar in Calcutta, and it is not desirable, in an architectural point of view, at all events, if, indeed, it is so in any other respect.

CHAPTER III.

JAVA.

There is no chapter in the whole history of Eastern art so full of apparent anomalies, or which so completely upsets our preconceived ideas of things as they ought to be, as that which treats of the architectural history of the island of Java. In the Introduction, it was stated that the leading phenomenon in the history of India was the continued influx of race after race across the Indus into her fertile plain, but that no reflex wave had ever returned to redress the balance.[589] This seems absolutely true as regards the west, and practically so in reference to the north, or the neighbouring countries on the east. Thibet and Burmah received their religion from India, not, however, either by conquest or colonisation, but by missionaries sent to instruct and convert. This also is true of Ceylon, and partially so at least of Cambodia. These countries being all easily accessible by land, or a very short sea passage, it is there that we might look for migrations, if any ever took place, but it is not so. The one country to which they overflowed was Java, and there they colonised to such an extent as for nearly 1000 years to obliterate the native arts and civilization, and supplant it by their own. What is still more singular is, that it was not from the nearest shores of India that these emigrants departed, but from the western coast. We have always been led to believe that the Indians hated the sea, and dreaded long sea voyages, yet it seems almost certain that the colonists of Java came not from the valley of the Ganges, but from that of the Indus, and passed round Ceylon in thousands and tens of thousands on their way to their distant sea-girt home. The solution of this difficulty may perhaps be found in the suggestion that the colonists were not Indians after all, in the sense in which we usually understand the term, but nations from the north-west—the inhabitants in fact of Gandhara and Cambodia, who, finding no room for new settlements in India Proper, turning to their right, passed down the Indus, and sought a distant home on this Pearl of Islands.

Whoever they were, they carried with them the bad habit of all their cognate races, of writing nothing, so that we have practically no authentic written record of the settlement and of its subsequent history, and were it not that they made up for this deficiency to a great extent by their innate love of building, we should hardly know of their existence in the island. They did, however, build and carve, with an energy and to an extent nowhere surpassed in their native lands, and have dignified their new home with imperishable records of their art and civilization—records that will be easily read and understood, so soon as any one will take the trouble to devote to them the attention with which they deserve to be studied.

It has been said, and not without reason, that the English did more for the elucidation of the arts and history of Java during the five years they held the island (1811 to 1816) than the Dutch had done during the previous two centuries they had practically been in possession. The work of the governor, Sir Stamford Raffles, is a model of zealous energy and critical acumen, such as is rarely to be found of its class in the English language, and is the storehouse from which the bulk of our knowledge of the subject must still be derived. His efforts in this direction were well seconded by two Scotchmen, who took up the cause with almost equal zeal. One of these, John Crawfurd, noted down everything he came across with patient industry, and accumulated vast stores of information—but he could not draw, and knew nothing of architecture or the other arts, with which he had no sympathy. The other, Colin Mackenzie—afterwards Surveyor-General of India—drew everything he found of any architectural importance, and was the most industrious and successful collector of drawings and manuscripts that India has ever known; but he could not write. The few essays he attempted are meagre in the extreme, and nine-tenths of his knowledge perished with him. Had these two men been able to work together to the end, they would have left little for future investigation. There was, however, still a fourth labourer in the field—Dr. John Leyden—who, had his life been spared, could have easily assimilated the work of his colleagues, and with his own marvellous genius for acquiring languages and knowledge of all sorts, would certainly have lifted the veil that now shrouds so much of Javan history in darkness, and left very little to be desired in this respect. He died, however, almost before his work was begun, and the time was too short, and the task too new, for the others to do all that with more leisure and better preparation they might have accomplished.

During the last sixty years the Dutch have done a good deal to redeem the neglect of the previous centuries, but, as has happened in the sister island of Ceylon, it has been without system, and no master mind has arisen to give unity to the whole, or to extract from what is done the essence, which is all the public care to possess. The Dutch Government have, however, published, in four great folio volumes, 400 plates, from Mr. Wilsen’s drawings, of the architecture and sculptures of Boro Buddor; and the Batavian Society[590] have published sixty-five photographic plates of the same monument; and as Dr. Leemans of Leyden has added a volume of text, historical and descriptive, there is no monument in the East so fully and so well illustrated as this one, and probably none that better deserves the pains that have been bestowed upon it.[591] The same Society have also published 332 photographs of other Javan antiquities and temples, but, unfortunately, for the most part without any accompanying text. A thoroughly well qualified antiquary, Heer Brumund, was employed to visit the localities, and write descriptions, but unfortunately he died before his task was half complete. A fragment of his work is published in the 33rd volume of the ‘Transactions’ of the Society, but it is only a fragment, and just sufficient to make us long for more. At the same time an Oriental scholar, Dr. Friederich, was employed by Government to translate the numerous inscriptions that abound in the island, and which, without doubt, would explain away all the difficulties in the history of the island and its monuments. Some of these were published in the 26th volume of the ‘Verhandelingen’ in 1856, and more were promised, but ill-health and accidents have hitherto prevented this being done, and if he should happen to die before publishing the results, the accumulations of half a century may perish with him.

From the above it may be gathered that a considerable amount of information exists in English and Dutch publications regarding the antiquities of Java, but it is rudis indigestaque moles—descriptions without illustration, and drawings and photographs without description, very few plans, and, except for Boro Buddor, very few architectural details; no statistical account, and no maps on which all the places can be recognised. It is provoking to think when so much has been done, how little more is required to bring order out of chaos, and fuse the whole into one of the most interesting and most easily intelligible chapters of architectural history.

History.

Amidst the confusion of their annals, it is rather fortunate that the Javans make no claim to more remote political history than the fabled arrival in the island of Adji Saka, the founder of the Saka era of the Buddhists, in A.D. 79. It is true that in the 8th or 9th century they obtained an abridged translation of the ‘Mahabharata,’ and, under the title of the ‘Brata Yudha,’ adopted it as a part of their own history, assigning sites on the island for all the principal scenes of that celebrated struggle which took place in the neighbourhood of Delhi and Hastinapura, adding only their own favourite Gendara Desa (Gandhara), to which they assigned a locality on the north of the island.[592] It is thus, unfortunately, that history is written in the East, and because it is so written, the Javans next thought it necessary to bring Salivahana, the founder of the Saka era, to their island also. Having, as Buddhists, adopted his era, their childish vanity required his presence there, but as it is certain he never saw the island, his visit is fabled to have resulted in failure, and said to have left no traces of his presence.

The next person who appears on the scene is one of the most mysterious in Indian history. In the annals of Siam,[593] of Cambodia,[594] of Java,[595] and at Amravati,[596] a prince of Rom, or Rum, coming from Taxila, plays a most important part, but without apparently any very permanent result. Nowhere is his name given, nor any particulars; most probably it is only a reminiscence of King Commerce. Nothing is more likely than that the ships of the Roman or Byzantine emperors, with their disciplined crews, should have made an impression on the semi-civilized communities of these remote lands, and the memory be perpetuated in fabled exploits to modern times.[597]

Leaving these fabulous ages, we at last come to a tradition that seems to rest on a surer foundation. “In the year 525 (A.D. 603), it being foretold to a king of Kuj’rat, or Gujerat, that his country would decay and go to ruin, he resolved to send his son to Java. He embarked with about 5000 followers in six large and about 100 small vessels, and after a voyage of four months, reached an island they supposed to be Java; but finding themselves mistaken, re-embarked, and finally settled at Matarem, in the centre of the island they were seeking.” “The prince now found that men alone were wanting to make a great and flourishing state; he accordingly applied to Gujerat for assistance, when his father, delighted at his success, sent him a reinforcement of 2000 people.” “From this period,” adds the chronicle, “Java was known and celebrated as a kingdom; an extensive commerce was carried on with Gujerat and other countries, and the bay of Matarem was filled with adventurers from all parts.”

During the sovereignty of this prince and his two immediate successors, “the country advanced in fame and prosperity. The city of Mendang Kumulan, since called Brambanan, increased in size and splendour: artists, particularly in stone and metals, arrived from distant countries, and temples, the ruins of which are still extant, were constructed both at this place and at Boro Buddor, in Kedu, during this period by artists invited from India.”[598]

All this is fully confirmed by an inscription found at Menankabu, in Sumatra, wherein a king, who styles himself Maha Raja Adiraja Adityadharma King of Prathama—the first or greatest Java—boasts of his conquests and prowess, and he proclaims himself a Buddhist, a worshipper of the five Dyani Buddhas, and records his having erected a great seven-storeyed vihara in honour of Buddha.[599] This inscription is dated fifty years later, or in A.D. 656, but its whole tone is so completely confirmatory of the traditions just quoted from Sir S. Raffles, that there seems little doubt the two refer to events occurring about the same time.

The only other event of importance in these early times bearing on our subject is Fa Hian’s visit to the island in A.D. 414, on his way from Ceylon to China by sea. The more, however, I think of it, the more convinced I am that Java the Less, or Sumatra, was really the island he visited. It certainly was the Iabadius, or Yavadwipa, of Ptolemy, and the Java the Less of the Arab geographers and of Marco Polo;[600] and all the circumstances of the voyage seem to point rather to this island than to Java proper. His testimony is, however, valuable, as they seem to have been united under one emperor in A.D. 656, and may have been so two centuries earlier. “In this country,” he says, “Heretics and Brahmans flourish; but the Law of Buddha is not much known.”[601] As he resided there five months, and had been fourteen years in India, he knew perfectly what he was speaking about.

That there were Brahmans in these islands before the advent of the Buddhist emigrants in the 7th century seems more than probable from the traditions about Tritrésta collected by Sir S. Raffles[602] and others; but, if so, they were Aryan Brahmans, belonging to some of the non-building races, who may have gone there as missionaries, seeking converts, but hardly as colonists or conquerors. Indeed, all over the island circles of stone are found, either wholly unfashioned or carved into rude representations of Hindu deities—so rude that even Ganesa can hardly sometimes be recognised; and it frequently requires an almost Hindu trustfulness to believe that these rude stones sometimes represent even Siva and Vishnu and other gods of the Hindu Pantheon.[603] It seems as if the early Brahmans tried to teach their native converts to fashion gods for themselves, but, having no artistic knowledge of their own to communicate, failed miserably in the attempt. The Buddhists, on the contrary, were artists, and came in such numbers that they were able to dispense with native assistance, nearly if not altogether.

The next recorded event that seems to bear on our investigations is the mission of the children of Dewa Kusuma to Kling or India, in order that they might be educated in the Brahmanical religion.[604] This event took place in A.D. 924, and seems to point distinctly to a time when the Buddhist religion, as evidenced by the erection of Boro Buddor, had died out, and the quasi-Hindu temples of Brambanam and Singa Sari had superseded those of the Buddhists. Those at Brambanam are said to have been completed in A.D. 1097, which seems an extremely probable date for the Chandi Sewa, or “1000 temples,” which, however, are much more Jaina than Hindu. From that period till the beginning of the 15th century, the series of monuments—many of them with dates upon them[605]—are tolerably complete, and there will be no difficulty in classifying them whenever the task is fairly undertaken.

At this time we find the island divided into two kingdoms; one, having its capital at Pajajaram, about forty miles east of Batavia, occupied the whole of the western or Sunda part of the island. The Sundas, however, were not a building race, and the portion occupied by them need not be again referred to here. It contains no buildings except the rude Hindu remains above referred to.

The eastern portion of the island was occupied by the kingdom of Majapahit, founded, apparently, about the year 1300. It soon rose to a higher pitch of power and splendour than any of the preceding kingdoms, and the capital was adorned with edifices of surpassing magnificence, but mostly in brick, so that now they are little more than a mass of indistinguishable ruins. When, however, it had lasted little more than a century, Mahomedan missionaries appeared on the island, and gradually—not by conquest or the sword, but by persuasion—induced the inhabitants of the island to forsake the religion of their forefathers and adopt that of the Arabian Prophet. In the year 1479 the Mahomedans had become so powerful that the city of Majapahit was taken by them by storm, and the last Hindu dynasty of the island overthrown, and those that remained of the foreign race driven to take refuge in the island of Bali.[606]

Then occurred what was, perhaps, the least-expected event in all “this strange eventful history.” It is as if the masons had thrown away their tools, and the chisels had dropped from the hands of the carvers. From that time forward no building was erected in Java, and no image carved, that is worth even a passing notice. At a time when the Mahomedans were adorning India with monuments of surpassing magnificence no one in Java thought of building either a mosque, or a tomb, or a palace that would be deemed respectable in any second-class state in any part of the world.

For nearly nine centuries (A.D. 603-1479) foreign colonists had persevered in adorning the island with edifices almost unrivalled elsewhere of their class; but at the end of that time, as happened so often in India, their blood had become diluted, their race impure, their energy effete, and, as if at the touch of a magician’s wand, they disappear. The inartistic native races resumed their sway, and art vanished from the land, never, probably, again to reappear.

Boro Buddor.

There may be older monuments in the island of Java than Boro Buddor, but, if so, they have not yet been brought to light. The rude stone monuments of the western or Sunda end of the island may, of course, be older, though I doubt it; but they are not architectural, and of real native art we know nothing.

When Sir S. Raffles and J. Crawfurd wrote their works, no means existed of verifying dates by comparison of styles, and it is, therefore, little to be wondered at if the first gives A.D. 1360,[607] and the second A.D. 1344,[608] as the date of this building. The former, however, was not deceived by this date, inasmuch as at page 67 he says, “The edifices at Singa Sari were probably executed in the 8th or 9th century. They nearly resemble those of Brambanam and Boro Boddor. It is probable the whole were constructed about the same period, or within the same century; at any rate, between the sixth and ninth century of the Christian Era.” This, perhaps, errs a little the other way. Heer Brumund, on historical grounds, places Boro Buddor “in the ninth, perhaps even in the eighth century of the Christian Era.”[609] On architectural grounds I would almost unhesitatingly place it a century earlier. The style and character of its sculptures are so nearly identical with those of the latest caves at Ajunta (No. 26, for instance), and in the western Ghâts, that they look as if they were executed by the same artists, and it is difficult to conceive any great interval of time elapsing between the execution of the two. If I am correct in placing the caves in the first half of the 7th century, we can hardly be far wrong in assigning the commencement, at least, of the Javan monument to the second half of that century. This being so, I am very much inclined to believe that Boro Buddor may be the identical seven-storeyed vihara, mentioned by Aditya Dharma in his inscription at Menankabu.[610] Its being found in Sumatra does not appear to me to militate against this view. Asoka’s inscriptions are found in Gandhara, Saurastra, and Orissa, but not in Behar. At home he was known: but it may be that he desired to place a permanent record of his greatness in the remote portions of his dominions. The date of the inscription, A.D. 656, accords so exactly with the age I would assign to it from other sources, that it may at least stand for the present. Of course, it was not completed at once, or in a few years. The whole group, with Chandi Pawon and Mendout, may probably extend over a century and a half—down, say, to A.D. 800, or over the whole golden age of Buddhism in the island.

It certainly is fortunate for the student of Buddhist art in India that Boro Buddor (Woodcuts Nos. 362 and 363) has attracted so much attention; for, even now, the five folio volumes of plates recently devoted to its illustration do not contain one figure too many for the