t as in the
modern American cemetery. An hour spent on the Ganges bank supplies
sufficient food to the mind for weeks of serious reflection.

One of the greatest spectacles of India is that of pilgrims bathing in
the Ganges. From several ghats devoted to sacred ablutions numerous
wooden piers extend into the worshiped stream, and these teem with
pilgrims from every section of Hindustan, in every variety of costume,
every stage of dress and undress, there to purge themselves of unclean
thoughts and wicked deeds, and to wash away bodily impurities.
Preaching canopies, shrines for rich and powerful rajahs, and stone
recesses for those demanding solitary meditation, make of the river
front a place literally teeming with humanity. Devotees are everywhere.
Here a pundit is reading the holy law to a half hundred approving
Hindus; there a stately chieftain from remote Kashmir ceaselessly
mutters prayers beneath a huge spreading umbrella of thatched straw,
hired from a Brahmin for an hour; and ten feet away a holy ascetic,
naked in the scorching sun, smears his skin with the gray ashes of
penitence.

Below this grotesque medley is the multitude of men, women and children,
breast deep in the sanctifying Ganges. Thousands have come on foot from
far-away villages of this boundless land of paganism; and from all goes
up a continuous murmur of prayer and adoration, like a moaning wind
emerging from a distant forest. Eye and ear alike are flooded with an
indescribable rush of sensations, and the heart is oppressed with the
august meanings which lie behind the awe-inspiring sight. All the
Hindu-cults are here--the Ganges welds them in her holy embrace. But
conspicuous above all others is the Brahmin priest, attracting annas and
rupees in devious ways from enthusiasts dazed by the realization that
they have bathed in Mother Ganga--some want a certificate of purity,
others want seals placed on vessels of water to be carried to loved ones
suffering from infirmities. The Brahmin gives certificate, places seals,
and performs other acts enabling him to garner a harvest of silver and
gold.

Now and again a moribund believer, whose friends seek for him something
that may be construed as a last blessing, is hurried to the river's
edge. It is a sacrament that cannot be delayed many minutes--and the
Brahmin fortunate enough to be appealed to charges at emergency rates.
When business slackens this harpy composes his nearly-naked body on a
plan