purpose of rendering its peculiarities available for scientific purposes: the fact being that this monument was erected just at the time when the Buddhist system attained its greatest development, and just before its fall. It thus contains within itself a complete epitome of all we learn from other sources, and a perfect illustration of all we know of Buddhist art or ritual. The 1000 years were complete, and the story that opened upon us at Bharhut closes practically at Boro Buddor.

The fundamental formative idea of the Boro Buddor monument is that of a dagoba with five procession-paths. These, however, have become square in plan instead of circular; and instead of one great domical building in the centre we have here seventy-two smaller ones, each containing the statue of a Buddha (Woodcut No. 364), visible through an open cage-like lattice-work; and one larger one in the centre, which was quite solid externally (Woodcut No. 365), but had a cell in its centre, which may have contained a relic or some precious object. There is, however, no record of anything being found in it when it was broken into. All this is, of course, an immense development beyond anything we have hitherto met with, and a sort of half-way house between the majestic simplicity of the Abhayagiri at Anuradhapura, and the somewhat tawdry complexity of the pagoda at Mengûn (Woodcut No. 354).

With the idea of a dagoba, however, Boro Buddor also combines that of a vihara, such as that illustrated by Woodcuts Nos. 66, 67. There the cells, though only copied solid in the rock, still simulated the residences of the monks, and had not yet advanced to the stage we find in the Gandhara monasteries, where the cells of monks had become niches for statues. Here this is carried further than in any example found in India. The cells of the Mahavellipore example are here repeated on every face, but essentially as niches, and are occupied by 436 statues of Buddha, seated in the usual cross-legged attitude. In this respect Boro Buddor is in advance of the Takht-i-Bahi, which is the monument in India that most nearly approaches to it in mythological significance. So great, indeed, is the similarity between the two, that whatever date we assign to the one drags with it that of the other. It would, indeed, be impossible to understand how, in the 7th century, Buddhism had been so far developed towards the modern Nepalese and Thibetan systems if we had not these Gandhara monasteries to fall back upon. On the other hand, having so similar a Buddhist development in Java in the 7th century, it seems difficult to separate the monuments of the north-west of India from it by any very long interval of time.

As will be observed from the plan and elevation (Woodcuts Nos. 362, 363, page 645), the monument may be described either as a seven or a nine-storeyed vihara, according as we reckon the platform on which the seventy-two small dagobas stand as one or three storeys. Its basement measures over 400 ft. across, but the real temple is only 300 ft. from angle to angle either way. It is not, however, either for its dimensions or the beauty of its architectural design that Boro Buddor is so remarkable, as for the sculptures that line its galleries. These extend to nearly 5000 ft.—almost an English mile—and as there are sculptures on both faces, we have nearly 10,000 lineal ft. of bas-reliefs; or, if we like to add those which are in two storeys, we have a series of sculptures, which, if arranged consecutively in a row, would extend over nearly three miles of ground. Most of them, too, are singularly well preserved; for when the Javans were converted to Mahomedanism it was not in anger, and they were not urged to destroy what they had before reverenced; they merely neglected them, and, except for earthquakes, these monuments would now be nearly as perfect as when first erected.

The outer face of the basement, though extremely rich in architectural ornaments and figure-sculptures, is of comparatively little historical importance. The first enclosed—or, as the Dutch call it, the second—gallery is, of all the five, the most interesting historically. On its inner wall the whole life of Sakya Muni is pourtrayed in 120 bas-reliefs of the most elaborate character. The first twenty-four of these are occupied with scenes in the Tusita heavens, or events that took place before the birth. In the twenty-fifth we have Maya’s dream, depicted exactly as it is at Bharhut or Sanchi, 700 or 800 years earlier. In the following sculptures it is easy to recognise all the familiar scenes of his life, his marriage, and domestic happiness, till he meets the four predictive signs; his subsequent departure from home, and assumption of the ascetic garb; his life in the forest; his preaching in the Deer-garden at Benares—the whole Lalita Vistara, in short, pourtrayed, with very few variations from the pictures we already possess from Gandhara to Amravati, with this singular exception: in all Indian examples the birth and the Nirvana are more frequently repeated than any other events; for some reason, not easily guessed, they are omitted here, though all the events that preceded and followed them are minutely detailed.[611] Below these bas-reliefs depicting the life of Buddha is an equally extensive series of 120 bas-reliefs of subjects taken from the Jataka, all of which might, no doubt, be easily identified, though this has not yet been attempted.

In the three galleries above this Buddhism is represented as a religion. Groups of Buddhas—three, five or nine—are repeated over and over again, mixed with Bodhisatwas and saints of all sorts. Among these, the five Dhyani Buddhas are conspicuous in all, perhaps more than all, the variety of manifestations which are known in Nepal and Thibet,[612] which, as Lassen points out, almost inevitably leads to the conclusion that this form of faith was introduced from Nepal or Western Thibet.[613]

Whether this is exactly so or not, no one probably who is familiar with Buddhist art in its latest age on the western side of India will probably doubt that it was from these parts that the builders of Boro Buddor migrated. The character of the sculptures, and the details of the ornamentation in cave 26 at Ajunta, and 17 at Nassick, and more especially in the later caves at Salsette, at Kondoty, Montpezir, and other places in that neighbourhood, are so nearly identical with what is found in the Javan monument, that the identity of the workmen and workmanship is unmistakeable. It is true we have no monument in that part of India to which we can point that at all resembles Boro Buddor in design, but then it must be borne in mind that there is not a single structural Buddhist building now existing within the limits of the cave region of Western India. It seems absurd, however, to suppose that so vast a community confined themselves to caves, and caves only. They must have had structural buildings of some sort in their towns and elsewhere, but not one fragment of any such now exists, and we are forced to go to Gandhara, in the extreme north-west, for our nearest examples. As already pointed out, there are many points of similarity between Jamalgiri, and more especially between Takht-i-Bahi and Boro Buddor; and if any architect, who was accustomed to such work, would carefully draw and restore these northern monasteries, many more might become apparent.[614] We know enough even now to render this morally certain, though hardly sufficient to prove it in the face of much that may be brought forward by those who care to doubt it. Meanwhile, my impression is, that if we knew as much of these Gandhara monasteries as we know of Boro Buddor, we could tell the interval of time that separated them, probably within half a century at least.

Stretching such evidence as we at present have, as far as it will bear, we can hardly bring the Takht-i-Bahi monastery within one century of Boro Buddor. It may be two—and Jamalgiri is still one or two centuries more distant in time. But, on the other hand, if we had not these Gandhara monasteries to refer to, it would be difficult to believe that the northern system of Buddhism could have been so completely developed, even in the 8th century, as we find it at Boro Buddor. It is this wonderful progress that has hitherto made the more modern date of that monument probable—it looks so much in advance of anything we know of in Indian Buddhism. But all this we must now revise by the light these Javan monuments throw on the subject.

Being merely a pyramid, situated on the summit of a hill, there were no constructive difficulties encountered in the erection of Boro Buddor, and it is consequently no wonder that it now remains so entire, in spite of its being, like all Javan buildings, erected wholly without mortar. It is curious to observe, however, how faithfully its architects adhered to the Indian superstition regarding arches. They did not even think it necessary to cut off the angles of the corbel-stones, so as to simulate an arch, though using the pointed-arched forms of the old chaitya caves of the west. The two systems are well exemplified in the preceding Woodcut (No. 366), but it runs throughout. All the niches are surmounted by arch forms—circular, elliptical, or pointed—but all are constructed horizontally, and it may be added that, in nine cases out of ten, the keystones are adorned with a mask, as in this last example.

Mendoet.

At a place called Mendoet, about two and a half miles from Boro Buddor, there is a temple of a very different class, which, though small, is of extreme interest for the history of Javan architecture. It stands on a basement 70 ft. square, and 15 ft. to 16 ft. high. The temple itself is about 45 ft. square, including a projection on each face, which gives it a slightly cruciform shape. Inside is a cell, about 20 ft. square, roofed by an inverted pyramid of steps, in which are three colossal images seated, and about 11 ft. high each. The central one is Buddha, curly headed of course, and clad in a diaphanous robe.[615] The two other colossi, though having only two arms each, are almost certainly intended for Vishnu and Siva. On one of the faces, externally, is Laksmi, eight-armed, seated on a lotus, with attendants. On another face is a figure, four-armed, seated cross-legged on a lotus, the stem of which is supported by two figures with seven-headed snake-hoods. It is in fact a slightly altered repetition of a group inserted among the older sculptures on the façade of the cave at Karli.[616] That insertion I have always believed to be of the 6th or 7th century; this group is certainly slightly more modern. The curious part of the matter is, that the Mendoet example is so very much more refined and perfect than that at Karli. The one seems the feeble effort of an expiring art; the Javan example is as refined and elegant as anything in the best ages of Indian sculpture. The same remarks apply to the sacred tree under which the figure is seated. Like all the similar conventional trees at Boro Buddor, they are complicated and refined beyond any examples known in India.

The great interest, however, of this little temple arises from the fact that it almost certainly succeeded immediately to Boro Buddor. If it is correct to assume A.D. 650-750 as the period during which that temple was erected, this one must have been built between A.D. 750 and A.D. 800. It shows, too, a progress in design at a time when Buddhist art in India was marked by decay; and it exhibits such progress in mythology, that though there can be no doubt as to the purity of the Buddhism of Boro Buddor, anyone might fairly argue that this temple belonged either to that religion or to Hinduism. It is in fact one of those compromises that in India would be called Jaina; in other words, one of those transitional examples of which we have many in Java, but the want of which leaves such a gap in our history of architecture in India.

Brambanam.

At a distance of twenty miles south-east from Boro Buddor is a group of temples, marking the site of the old Hindu capital of the island, which are almost as interesting as that great temple itself. They are unfortunately much less known, or, at all events, have not been illustrated to anything like the same extent. They are, however, so much more ruined, that it may be owing to this that their details have not been so completely made out; but from whatever cause, we cannot speak of them with the same confidence as of Boro Buddor.

The oldest group at Brambanam seems to be that known as Loro Jongram, consisting of six larger temples, enclosed in a wall, and surrounded by fourteen smaller cells.[617] They may be of the age of Deva Kosuma, or of the beginning of the 9th century, and possibly are not the earliest Hindu temples here, but till we have more illustrations it is impossible to speak of this with confidence.

The great interest of the place centres in a temple known as the Chandi Siwa, or, “thousand temples,” which is, or was, when complete, only second to Boro Buddor in interest. The general character of the great temple will be understood from the annexed plan of a smaller one at the same place (Woodcut No. 367). Both consist of a central temple, surrounded by a number of smaller detached cells. In this instance there are only sixteen such, each of which is supposed to have contained an image—Buddha—Jaina, or Saiva, according to the dedication of the central cell.

In the great temple the central cell measured 45 ft. each way, and with the four attached cells, one of which served as an entrance porch, it formed a cross 90 ft. each way, the whole being raised on a richly ornamented square base. This building is richly and elaborately ornamented with carving, but with a singular absence of figure-sculpture, which renders its dedication not easy to be made out; but the most remarkable feature of the whole group is the multitude of smaller temples which surround the central one, 238 in number. Immediately beyond the square terrace which supports the central temple stand twenty-eight of these—a square of eight on each side, counting the angular ones both ways. Beyond these, at a distance of 35 ft., is the second square, forty-four in number; between this and the next row is a wide space of above 80 ft., in which there are only six temples, two in the centre of the north and south faces, and one on each of the others. The two outer rows of temples are situated close to one another, back to back, and are 160 in number, and form a square, each face of which is about 525 ft. All these 238 temples are similar to one another, about 12 ft. square at the base, and 22 ft. high,[618]

all richly carved and ornamented, and in every one is a small square cell, in which was originally placed a cross-legged figure, probably of one of the Jaina saints, though the drawings which have been hitherto published do not enable us to determine whom they represent—the draughtsmen not being aware of the distinction between Buddhist and Jaina images.

When looked a little closely into, it is evident that the Chandi Siwa is neither more nor less than Boro Buddor taken to pieces, and spread out, with such modifications as were necessary to adapt it to that compromise between Buddhism and Brahmanism which we call Jaina.

Instead of a central dagoba, with its seventy-two subordinate ones, and its five procession-paths, with their 436 niches containing figures of Buddha, we have here a central cell, with four subordinate ones, each containing no doubt similar images, and surrounding these 236 cells, containing images arranged in five rows, with paths between, but not joined together with sculpture-bearing screens, as in the earlier examples, nor joined side by side with the sculpture on their fronts, or inside, as was invariably the case in similar temples in Gujerat of the same age.

Sir Stamford Raffles states A.D. 1098[619] for the completion of this temple which, from the internal evidence, I fancy cannot be far from the truth. It would, however, be extremely interesting if it could be fixed with certainty, as these Javan monuments will probably be found to be the only means we have of bridging over the dark ages in India. Already we can see that Takht-i-Bahi, Boro Buddor, and Chandi Siwa form landmarks in a series extending over at least 500 years, which we may hope some day to fill up, though the materials for it do not at present exist. We have not even correct drawings of the pickle-bottle-like cells of the Gandhara monasteries, and those at Chandi Siwa are so ruined, that it is difficult to make out their form. It seems, however, quite clear that they, with the domes and spires that crown the cells of the Boro Buddor façade, form parts of one connected series. They are, in fact, merely developments of one form which, with a little information, it would be very easy to trace back to its original source.

Tree and Serpent Temples.

There is still another class of temples in Java which, when properly investigated, promises to throw great light on some vexed questions of Indian mythology and art. They are found principally in the provinces of Kediri and Malang, in the eastern part of the island, and, from dates on some of them, seem to be among the most modern examples of Javan art, all hitherto known being dated in the century preceding the overthrow of Majapahit in A.D. 1479.

Four of these are described by Heer Brumund,[620] but only one, so far as I know, that of Panataram in Kediri, has been photographed, and no plans or architectural details of any have yet been published. It is consequently difficult to speak with certainty regarding them, but they are too interesting to be passed over in silence. The annexed woodcut will convey some idea of that at Panataram, though necessarily on too small a scale to render all its details recognisable. Generally they may be described as three-storeyed pyramids, having a flat platform on the top, with a well-hole in its centre open to the sky. In this instance the lower platform, so far as I can make out, is about 100 ft. square, with a projection or bastion on each face, behind which the stairs leading to its summit are arranged, as in the great Ceylonese dagobas (ante, p. 190). From this a flight of sixteen steps leads direct to the platform of the second, and a similar flight to that of the third storey. The basement here is ornamented with numerous bas-reliefs on panels, representing subjects, taken principally from the ‘Ramayana,’ but many also from local legends. Each of these is separated from that next it, by a panel, with a circular medallion, containing a conventional animal, or a foliaged ornament. The bas-reliefs of the second storey are better executed, and, from their extent, more interesting; their subjects, however, seem to be all taken from local legends not yet identified. The third is ornamented by panels, with winged figures, griffons, Garudas, and flying monsters, more spirited and better executed than any similar figures are in any examples of Hindu art I am acquainted with.

According to Heer Brumund, the temple of Toempang is quite equal to this. “It is,” he says, “the most beautiful in Melang. It leaves those of Singa Sari far behind, and may be called the Boro Buddor of Melang.”[621] Unfortunately we have nothing but verbal descriptions of these temples, and of those on the mountain of Sangraham, so it is impossible to feel quite sure about their arrangement or appearance; but as those who have seen them, all describe them as similar, we must be content with this assurance till some photographer visits the place, or, what would be better, till some one goes there who is capable of making a plan and drawing and a few architectural details.

The most remarkable peculiarity of these terraced temples is that all have a well-hole in the centre of their upper platform, extending apparently to their basement. Sometimes it appears to be square, at

others circular, and enlarging as it descends, being 7 ft. or 10 ft. wide at top.

Both Heer Brumund and Dr. Leemans expend a considerable amount of ingenuity in trying to explain the mystery of these well-temples.[622] Both assume that the wells were covered with pavilions or cell-temples (Kamer tempels), but without any warrant, so far as I can make out. At Panataram, for instance, the parapet of the upper terrace is a frail structure, that any man with a crowbar might destroy in a morning, or any earthquake would certainly shake down; yet neither it nor a single stone elsewhere in this temple has been displaced; but of this central pavilion not one vestige now remains, either in situ or strewn around. Besides this, a temple without a floor, and with nothing inside but a facilis descensus of 20 ft. or 30 ft., and no means revocare gradum, does not seem likely to have been popular either with priests or people, and in fact no form of worship can be suggested that would be suitable to them. Neither here nor elsewhere does there seem anything to controvert the theory that these wells were always open to the upper air.

The only suggestion that occurs to me as at all likely to meet the case is that they were Tree-temples; that a sacred tree was planted in these well-holes, either on the virgin soil, or that they were wholly or partially filled with earth and the tree planted in them. The Bo-tree at Buddh Gaya is planted on a terrace, and raised 30 ft. above the plain, ascended on one side by steps; but no excavations have been made, or at least published, which would show whether or not there were three storeys on the three other sides. The Naha Vihara at Ceylon, or the temple of the Bo-tree, is, in reality, just such a temple as that at Panataram. It is apparently in five—practically, in three—storeys, with the tree planted in a well-hole on its summit. We have, unfortunately, no plan of it or of the Javan temples; but if any one will read Captain Chapman’s description of the Maha Vihara,[623] and compare it with Heer Brumund’s of temples in Malang and Kediri, abstracted by Dr. Leemans,[624] I do not think he can fail to see the resemblance. No plan has yet been made of the Ceylonese vihara, and such photographs as exist have been taken with no higher aim than to make pretty pictures; so that it is extremely difficult to arrive at any correct notions as to its form. Meanwhile the following woodcut (No. 369), copied literally from one in Sir Emerson Tennent’s book, will convey an idea of its general appearance. The structure is wholly in brick, and its ornamentation was consequently painted on plaster, which has wholly[625] disappeared, so that no means of comparison exist between the two modes of decoration. With regard to the Javanese sculptures on these temples, it is safe to assert that not one of them shows any trace of Buddhism—none even that could be called Jainism—nor any trace of the Hindu religion as now known to us. We are, for instance, perfectly familiar with the Hindu Pantheon, as illustrated by the sculptures of the nearly contemporary temple of Hullabîd (ante, p. 402); but not a trace of these gods or goddesses, nor of any of the myths there pourtrayed, is to be found in these well-temples. Whatever they are, they belong to a religion different from any whose temples we have hitherto met with in this volume, but one whose myths pervade the whole story of Indian mythology. The worship of trees seems to have been taken up in succession by the Buddhists, Jainas, and Vaishnavas, but may be earlier than either, and may, in like manner, have survived all three.

In India, at the present day, there is nothing so common as to see in the villages of Bengal little three-storeyed pyramids of mud—exact models of these Javan temples—on the top of which is planted the Tulsi shrub, the sacred plant of the Vaishnavas (Ocymum sanctum, or Sweet Basil), which succeeded the Ficus religiosa in the affections of the Hindus. Frequently, however, this emblem is planted in vases, or little models of ordinary temples, the top of which is hollowed out for the purpose. Numbers of these exist also in Java; but no one—at least in recent times—having visited the island who was familiar with the ordinary domestic religion of the Hindus, the Dutch antiquarians have mistaken every model of a dagoba—of which thousands exist in India—and described it as a lingam, and every Tulsi vase as a Yoni. In most cases they are neither the one nor the other. Even this mistake, however, is instructive, as it shows how much of their emblems, at least, these religions interchanged in the ages of toleration. They are distinct enough now, but before A.D. 750 it is difficult to draw a line anywhere.

At Panataram there is another temple, which, if any one in the island is entitled to be called a Serpent temple, certainly merits that appellation. The Batavian Society have devoted twenty-two photographs to the illustration of its sculptures, but have given no plan and not one syllable of description. There is not even a general view from which its outline might be gathered, and no figure is introduced from which a scale might be guessed. Its date appears to be A.D. 1416. The figures, however, from which this is inferred are not on the temple itself but on a bath or tank attached to it, though, from the character of its sculptures, it is almost certainly coeval.

The reason why it is called a Serpent temple is, that the whole of the basement-moulding is made up of eight great serpents, two on each face, whose upraised heads in the centre form the side pieces of the steps that lead up to the central building, whatever that was. These serpents are not, however, our familiar seven-headed Nagas that we meet with everywhere in India and Cambodia, but more like the fierce crested serpents of Central America. The seven-headed serpent does occur very frequently among the sculptures at Boro Buddor—never independently, however, nor as an object to be worshipped, but as adorning the heads of a Naga people who come to worship Buddha or to take a part in the various scenes represented there. Even then they are very unlike the Indian Naga, whose hood is unmistakably that of an expanded cobra. Those at Boro Buddor and Panataram are crested snakes, like that represented in the Japanese woodcut in ‘Tree and Serpent Worship,’ page 56.

The sculptures on these monuments are not of a religious or mythological character, but either historical or domestic. What they represent may easily be ascertained, for above each scene is a short descriptive inscription, quite perfect, and in a character so modern that I fancy any scholar on the spot might easily read them. It, probably, has been done, but our good friends the Dutch are never in a hurry, and we must, consequently, wait.

Meanwhile it is curious to observe that we know of only two monuments in our whole history which are so treated, and these the earliest and the last of the great school:[626] that at Bharhut, so often alluded to above, erected two centuries before Christ; and this one, erected in the 15th century, while the struggle with the Mahomedan religion was gathering around it that strength, which, within half a century from that time, finally extinguished the faith to which it belonged.

There is one other temple of this class at a place called Matjanpontih, regarding which some more information would be interesting. It is described by Heer Brumund as partly of brick, partly of stone, but singularly rich in ornamentation. “The sub-basement,” he says, “is composed of a tortoise and two serpents; the heads of these three animals unite on the west face and form the entrance.”[627]

This and many others of the description are nearly unintelligible without illustrations, but many of them seem to point to a class of Serpent temples, which, if better known, might throw considerable light on the mystery that still shrouds that form of faith in India.

Djeing Plateau.

On an elevated plateau, near the centre of the island, on the back of Mount Prahu, there exists a group of some five or six small temples. They are not remarkable either for the size or the beauty of their details, when compared with those of the buildings we have just been describing; but they are interesting to the Indian antiquary, because they are Indian temples pure and simple and dedicated to Indian gods. So far, we feel at home again; but what these temples tell us further is, that if Java got her Buddhism from Gujerat and the mouths of the Indus, she got her Hinduism from Telingana and the mouths of the Kistnah. These Djeing temples do not show a trace of the curved-lined sikras of Orissa or of the Indo-Aryan style. Had the Hindus gone to Java from the valley of the Ganges, it is almost impossible they should not have carried with them some examples of this favourite form. It is found in Burmah and Siam, but no trace of it is found anywhere in Java.

Nor are these temples Dravidian in any proper sense of the word. They are in storeys, but not with cells, nor any reminiscences of such; but they are Chalukyan, in a clear and direct meaning of the term. The building most like these Javan temples illustrated in the preceding pages is that at Buchropully (Woodcut No. 216), which would pass without remark in Java if deprived of its portico. It, however, like all the Chalukyan temples we know of in India, especially in the Nizam’s territory, is subsequent to the 10th century. Most of them belong to the 13th century, and pillars may probably have been less frequently used at the time of Deva Kosuma’s visit in A.D. 816. Be this as it may, it is a remarkable fact that there is not a single pillar in Java: at least no book I have had access to, no drawing, and no photograph gives a hint of the existence of even one pillar in the island. When we think of the thousands that were employed by the Dravidians in the south of India, and the Jains in the north-west, it is curious they escaped being introduced here. The early style of Orissa, as mentioned above, is nearly astylar; but in Java this is absolutely so, and, so far as I know, is the only important style in the world of which this can be predicated. What is not so curious, but is also interesting, is, that there is not a true arch in the whole island. In the previous pages, the Hindu horror of an arch has often been alluded to; but then they frequently got out of the difficulty by the use of wood or iron. There is no trace of the use of these materials in the island, and no peculiarly Javan feature can be traced to a wooden original. All is in stone, but without either the pillars or the arches which make up nine-tenths of the constructive expedients of the mediæval architects, and figure so largely in all the western styles of architectural art.

It may also be mentioned here, while describing the negative characteristics of Javan art, that no mortar is ever used as a cement in these temples. It is not that they were ignorant of the use of lime, for many of their buildings are plastered and painted on the plaster, but it was never employed to give strength to construction. It is owing to this that so many of their buildings are in so ruinous a state. In an island where earthquakes are frequent, a very little shake reduces a tall temple to a formless heap in a few seconds. If cemented, they might have been cracked, but not so utterly ruined as they now are.[628]

Be this as it may, the Javan style of architecture is probably the only one of which it can be said that it reached a high degree of perfection without using either pillars, or arches, or mortar in any of its buildings.

Suku.

At a place called Suku, not far from Mount Lawu near the centre of the island, there is a group of temples, which, when properly illustrated, promises to be of great importance to the history of architecture in Java.[629] They are among the most modern examples of the style, having dates upon them of A.D. 1435 and A.D. 1440,[630] or less than forty years before the destruction of Majapahit and the abolition of the Hindu religion of Java. So far as can be made out, they are coarser and more vulgar in execution than any of those hitherto described, and belonged to a degraded form of the Vaishnava religion. Garuda is the most prominent figure among the sculptures; but there is also the tortoise, the boar, and other figures that belong to that religion. The sculptures, too, are said, many of them, to be indecent, which is only too characteristic a feature of Vishnuism.[631]

The most interesting feature connected with the remains at Suku, as well as of all the later buildings in Java, is their extraordinary likeness to the contemporary edifices in Yucatan, and Mexico. It may be only accidental, but it is unmistakable. No one, probably, who is at all familiar with the remains found in the two provinces, can fail to observe it, though no one has yet suggested any hypothesis to account for it. When we look at the vast expanse of ocean that stretches between Java and Central America, it seems impossible to conceive that any migration can have taken place eastward—say after the 10th century—that could have influenced the arts of the Americans; or, if it had taken place, that the Javans would not have taught them the use of alphabetical writing, and of many arts they cultivated, but of which the Americans were ignorant when discovered by the Spaniards. It seems equally improbable or impossible that any colonists from America could have planted themselves in Java so as to influence the arts of the people. But there is a third supposition that may be possible, and, if so, may account for the observed facts. It is possible that the building races of Central America are of the same family as the native inhabitants of Java. Many circumstances lead to the belief that the inhabitants of Easter Island belong to the same stock,[632] and, if this is so, it is evident that distance is no bar to the connexion. If this hypothesis may be admitted, the history of the connexion would be this:—The Javans were first taught to build monumental edifices by immigrants from India, and we know that their first were their finest and also the most purely Indian. During the next five centuries (A.D. 650-1150) we can watch the Indian influence dying out; and during the next three (A.D. 1150-1450) a native local style developing itself, which resulted at last in the quasi-American examples at Panataram and Suku. It may have been that it was the blood and the old faith and feelings of these two long dissevered branches of one original race that came again to the surface, and produced like effects in far distant lands. If this or something like it were not the cause of the similarity, it must have been accidental, and, if so, is almost the only instance of its class known to exist anywhere; and, strangely enough, the only other example that occurs is in respect to the likeness that is unmistakable between certain Peruvian buildings and the Pelasgic remains of Italy and Greece. These, however, are even more remote in date and locality, so the subject must remain in its present uncertainty till some fresh discovery throws new light upon it.

This, however, is not the place, even if space were available, to attempt to investigate and settle such questions; but it is well to broach them even here, for, unless attention is directed to the subject, the phænomena are not observed with that intelligent care which is indispensable for the elucidation of so difficult a problem.

The above is, it must be confessed, only a meagre outline of what might be made one of the most interesting and important chapters in the History of Indian Architecture. To do it justice, however, it would require at least 100 illustrations and 200 pages of text, which would swell this work beyond the dimensions within which it seems at present expedient to restrict it. Even, however, were it determined to attempt this, the materials do not exist in Europe for performing it in a satisfactory manner. We know all we want, or are ever likely to know, about Boro Buddor and one or two other monuments, but with regard to most of the others our information is most fragmentary, and in respect to some, absolutely deficient. Any qualified person might, by a six months’ tour in the island, so co-ordinate all this as to supply the deficiencies to such an extent as to be able to write a full and satisfactory History of Architecture in Java. But it is not probable that the necessary information for this purpose will be available in Europe for some years to come, and it may be many—very many—unless the work is undertaken on a more systematic plan than has hitherto been the case. Both in this island and in Ceylon the intentions have been good, but the performance disappointing and unsatisfactory. The Dutch have, however, far outstripped our colonial authorities, not only in the care of their monuments, but in the extent to which they have published them. It is only to be hoped that a wholesome rivalry will, before long, render the architectural productions of both islands available for the purposes of scientific research.

CHAPTER IV.

CAMBODIA.

The first European who visited these ruins in modern times was M. Mouhot, a French naturalist, who devoted the last four years of his life (1858-1861) to the exploration of the valleys of the Mekong and Menam rivers. Though the primary object of his travels was to investigate the natural productions of the country, he seems to have been so struck with the ruins of Ongcor Wat that he not only sketched and made plans of them, but wrote descriptions of all the principal buildings. Unfortunately for science and art he never returned to Europe, being struck down by fever while prosecuting his researches in the northern part of the country; and, though his notes have been published both in this country[633] and in France, they were not prepared for publication by himself, and want the explanatory touches which only an author can give to his own work. Though his melancholy death prevented M. Mouhot from obtaining all the credit he was entitled to for his discovery, it has borne rich fruit as far as the public are concerned.

The next person who visited these ruins was the very learned Dr. Adolph Bastian;[634] who has written a most recondite but most unsatisfactory work on the Indo-Chinese nations, in five volumes. He has also written an account of the ruins in the ‘Journal of the Royal Geographical Society’ (Vol. xxxv.), and four papers in the ‘Ausland’ (Nos. 47-50). It is impossible to find out from all these whether Dr. Bastian has satisfied himself who built these temples, what their age is, or to what worship they are dedicated. If he does know anything about these matters, he has carefully concealed it from the uninitiated, under a confused mass of undigested learning that it is impossible to fathom.

His visit to these ruins was followed by that of Mr. J. Thomson, a professional photographer at Singapore, who, at considerable expense and risk, carried his photographic apparatus to the spot, and brought away a plan of the great temple of Nakhon Wat, with some thirty photographs of it, besides views of other places in the neighbourhood.

Since that time the French have sent two thoroughly well equipped expeditions to the place: the first under a Captain Doudart de la Grée in 1866, the second in 1873. As the main object of the first was the exploration of the Mekong river, they were able to devote only a portion of their time to antiquarian researches, and the unfortunate death of their chief on the frontiers of China prevented his ever working out his results to the extent he no doubt would have done had he lived to return home. They were, however, published as he left them, by Lieutenant J. Garnier, the second in command of the expedition, with notes and additions of his own.[635]

As they, however, could not complete the investigation, a second expedition was fitted out, under Captain Delaporte, who had taken part in the previous expedition.

They returned to France in 1874, bringing with them not only detailed plans of most of the temples, but copies of nearly all the inscriptions they could find, and a large collection of antiquities and casts. The latter are now arranged in the Château of Compiègne, and accessible to the public. The drawings and inscriptions are in course of publication, and, when available, they will supply materials from which we may reason with confidence, not only as to the arts but as to the history of this wonderful people.[636] At present we are hardly in a position to do so. What has hitherto been collected has been got together in too fragmentary a manner, and it has not yet gone through the sifting process which is indispensable before it is possible to separate the wheat from the chaff.

In addition to these sources of information there is a most interesting account, written by a Chinese traveller, who spent two years in the country when the kingdom was in its most flourishing state, between the years 1295-97. He was a Buddhist, and, like his predecessors in India, Fa Hian and Hiouen Thsang, sees things a little too much through Buddhist spectacles; but, with this slight defect, nothing can be more graphic than his account of the country and the people.[637]

There are also two papers, by Col. James Low, in the ‘Journal of the Asiatic Society of Bengal’ (Vol. xvii.), which are replete with traditional information extracted from Siamese books.

The first assertion in the traditions of the Cambodians, as gathered by Dr. Bastian, is sufficiently startling. “In the country of Rome or Romaveisei, not far from Takkhasinla (Taxila), reigned a great and wise king. His son, the Vice King—Phra Thong by name—having done wrong, was banished, and, after many adventures, settled in Cambodia,” &c.[638] The time is not indicated, but we gather from the context that it must have been about the 4th century. It may, at first sight, look like catching at a nominal similarity, but the troubles which took place in Kashmir in the reign of Tungina, and generally in western India about the year 319, look so like what is recorded further east, that, at present, that seems the most probable date for the migration, assuming it to have taken place. Many would be inclined to doubt the possibility of any communication between the two countries; but it must be borne in mind, that the country around Taxila in ancient times was called Camboja; that it was the head-quarters of Serpent-worship; that the architecture of Kashmir bears very considerable resemblance to that of Cambodia; while there is a general consent that the Cambodians came from India. If this were so, it seems certain that it was not from the east coast that they migrated. As pointed out above, the Indians who introduced Buddhism and Buddhist architecture into Java went there from Gujerat or the countries on the west coast. This hardly seems doubtful, and there is no greater improbability of a migration from the Indus to Cambodia than of one from Gujerat to Java.

Ceylon was always addicted to Snake-worship, and may have formed a half-way house. On the other hand, it is by no means improbable that the communication may have taken place behind the Himalayas; in fact, that the religion of the two countries was derived from some common centre in Northern Asia.

All this will require careful elaboration hereafter, in some place where it can be more fully treated than is possible here. All that is wanted now is to insist on the fact that there must have been a connexion between the two countries, and that the traditions of Cambodia point to Taxila as their parent seat.

For six centuries from this time we have nothing but stories of dragon-kings and their beautiful but troublesome daughters; of the treasures and relics they guarded; and of the spells and enchantments which were had recourse to to vanquish and rob them. All this is common to all the nations between Cambodia and the North Cape of Norway, but does not concern us here.

At last we come to a fact. “In the year 957 Inthapathapuri was founded by King Pathummasurivong.”[639] In the same manner as the name of the old capital of Siam was the mispronunciation of Ayodhya, so this is only the Cambodian way of spelling Indraprastha, or the old Delhi of the ‘Mahabharata.’

Leaping over the intermediate space from this initial date we have a final one in the conquest of the country by the Siamese (A.D. 1351-1374), after which time the old capital was deserted, and no more temples were erected there. Our architectural history is thus confined to the four centuries which elapsed between 951 and 1357. For the first three of these, at least, Nakhon[640] Thom—the Great City—was the capital. About the middle, however, of the 13th century, the king was afflicted with leprosy “because he had forsaken the Snake-worship of his forefathers,” and taken to the Brahmanical or Buddhist heresy, it is not quite clear which; and the capital was then transferred to a site some fifteen miles further east, and a city built, known as Paten ta Phrohm (the City of Brahma?).

Meanwhile we have at least three centuries during which Naga-worship prevailed—giving rise to the erection of a series of temples as large and as richly ornamented as any to be found in any other part of the world. The last of these—that known as Nakhon Wat—was, if not the greatest, at least the best from an architectural point of view, and is the only one of which we have at present sufficient information to speak with confidence.

From the little we know of the others it does not seem that there would be any difficulty in arranging them all in a chronological series, from the gradations of style they exhibit; nor of ascertaining their dates, since they are covered with inscriptions in a character that could be read without serious trouble; and these probably contain the names of the kings, which would enable this to be done, approximatively at least, even if there should be no dates.

The buildings of Paten ta Phrohm (the Brahmanical) are of a much more varied but less perfect style. They seem, from the descriptions of M. Mouhot and Dr. Bastian, to be Buddhist, Jaina, or Hindu, or all these styles mixed up together as in Java. In fact, they seem very much to resemble the buildings in that island, and their date is about the same, omitting only the Buddhist series, which does not seem to occur here; but, as no detailed drawings or good photographs of them have yet been published, there is very little to be said about them now. For the present our attention must be principally confined to the city of Ongcor—or Ongon, as it is popularly named, but more correctly known as Nakhon Thom—the great city—and especially to the suburban monastery of Nakhon Wat.

It is now not difficult to point out the situation of this city, as the lake near which it is situated and the hills that approach it have generally now found their way into most atlases. Generally it may be said that about half-way between the great rivers of Siam and Cambodia is a lake, the Tali Sab, about 120 miles long, and varying in width from 30 to 60. In the dry weather its average depth is only 4 ft., but in the rains it is fed by the Mekong, of which it is a backwater, and rises 30 ft. or 40 ft. more, so that it is easily navigable for large boats. At a little distance from the northern shore of this lake, in 103° 50´ East longitude and 13° 30´ North latitude, the ruins are to be found, situated in a great plain extending some fifty miles in width between the lake and the hills on its northern boundary.[641]

Temple of Nakhon Wat.

The temple of Nakhon Wat, literally “the temple of the city,” or “of the capital,” as it is now called by the Siamese, is situated in a sandy plain, about four miles to the southward of the city of Ongcor itself, and between it and the lake Tali Sab. As will be seen from the small plan (figure 2, Woodcut No. 370) it is almost an exact square, and measures nearly an English mile each way. The walled