The Parsees claim that their method of disposing of the dead is an effective protection of the living; that it disseminates no corruption, no impurities of any sort, no disease-germs; that no wrap, no garment which has touched the dead is allowed to touch the living afterward; that from the Towers of Silence nothing proceeds which can carry harm to the outside world.  These are just claims, I think.  As a sanitary measure, their system seems to be about the equivalent of cremation, and as sure.  We are drifting slowly—­but hopefully—­toward cremation in these days.  It could not be expected that this progress should be swift, but if it be steady and continuous, even if slow, that will suffice.  When cremation becomes the rule we shall cease to shudder at it; we should shudder at burial if we allowed ourselves to think what goes on in the grave.

The dog was an impressive figure to me, representing as he did a mystery whose key is lost.  He was humble, and apparently depressed; and he let his head droop pensively, and looked as if he might be trying to call back to his mind what it was that he had used to symbolize ages ago when he began his function.  There was another impressive thing close at hand, but I was not privileged to see it.  That was the sacred fire—­a fire which is supposed to have been burning without interruption for more than two centuries; and so, living by the same heat that was imparted to it so long ago.

The Parsees are a remarkable community.  There are only about 60,000 in Bombay, and only about half as many as that in the rest of India; but they make up in importance what they lack in numbers.  They are highly educated, energetic, enterprising, progressive, rich, and the Jew himself is not more lavish or catholic in his charities and benevolences.  The Parsees build and endow hospitals, for both men and animals; and they and their womenkind keep an open purse for all great and good objects.  They are a political force, and a valued support to the government.  They have a pure and lofty religion, and they preserve it in its integrity and order their lives by it.

We took a final sweep of the wonderful view of plain and city and ocean, and so ended our visit to the garden and the Towers of Silence; and the last thing I noticed was another symbol—­a voluntary symbol this one; it was a vulture standing on the sawed-off top of a tall and slender and branchless palm in an open space in the ground; he was perfectly motionless, and looked like a piece of sculpture on a pillar.  And he had a mortuary look, too, which was in keeping with the place.

CHAPTER XLI.

There is an old-time toast which is golden for its beauty. 
“When you ascend the hill of prosperity may you not meet a friend.” 
                                  —­Pudd’nhead Wilson’s New Calendar.