many delays found ourselves drifting down the river in a houseboat. To
lie on cushions, sheltered from the sun, looking out on the moving
shore, to the sound of the leisurely plash of oars, is elysium after a
night in the train. We had seven hours of it and I could have wished it
were more. But towards sunset we reached our destination. At the wharf a
crowd of servants were waiting to touch the feet of our hosts who had
travelled with us. They accompanied us through a tangle of palms,
bananas, mangoes, canes, past bamboo huts raised on platforms of hard,
dry mud, to the central place where a great banyan stood in front of the
temple. We took off our shoes and entered the enclosure, followed by
half the village, silent, dignified, and deferential. Over ruined
shrines of red brick, elaborately carved, clambered and twined the
sacred peepul tree. And within a more modern building were housed images
of Krishna and Rhada, and other symbols of what we call too hastily
idolatry. Outside was a circular platform of brick where these dolls
are washed in milk at the great festivals of the year. We passed on, and
watched the village weaver at his work, sitting on the ground with his
feet in a pit working the pedals of his loom; while outside, in the
garden, a youth was running up and down setting up, thread by thread,
the long strands of the warp. By the time we reached the house it was
dusk. A lamp was brought into the porch. Musicians and singers squatted
on the floor. Behind them a white-robed crowd faded into the night. And
we listened to hymns composed by the village saint, who had lately
passed away.

First there was a prayer for forgiveness. "Lord, forgive us our sins.
You _must_ forgive, for you are called the merciful. And it's so easy
for you! And, if you don't, what becomes of your reputation?" Next, a
call to the ferry. "Come and cross over with me. Krishna is the boat and
Rhada the sail. No storms can wreck us. Come, cross over with me." Then
a prayer for deliverance from the "well" of the world where we are
imprisoned by those dread foes the five senses of the mind. Then a
rhapsody on God, invisible, incomprehensible. "He speaks, but He is not
seen. He lives in the room with me, but I cannot find Him. He brings to
market His moods, but the marketer never appears. Some call Him fire,
some ether. But I ask His name in vain. I suppose I am such a fool that
they will not tell it me." Then a strange ironical address to Kri