sionally entering by open windows and taking pot luck, are thousands of monkeys sacred from stick or stone. These are not monkeys such as occasionally lend added terror to the London organ-grinder, but creatures running to the length of three feet from head to haunch, and of aspect preternaturally sagacious. Flocks of goats meander through the streets, big, well-formed, handsome beasts.

Bullocks are used as beasts of burden, but the cow, like the Pope, "leads a merry life." I suppose the cows belong to somebody, but they walk about the streets as if they were ground landlords. They are small cattle, plump and well-favoured, forming a strong contrast with the thin and careworn human population amongst whom they indolently pick their way. They stroll down the centre of the narrow thoroughfares through the bazaars, frequently stopping the traffic, types of the idolatry which bars the growth of civilization. I met one one morning strolling through the bazaar, shouldering everybody out of the way. Suddenly she caught sight of a basket of greens which a woman was peddling on the roadway. Without saying "By your leave," the cow stopped, and, critically turning over the greens, selected a young and toothsome cauliflower. The poor woman feebly battled with the

marauder, but the cow took no notice, and did not budge till it had its cauliflower, when it resumed its morning stroll through the bazaar. The cow, it is well known, is one of the idols of Hindoo worship, and if the woman's god wanted a cauliflower, it would have been sacrilegious too strenuously to resist the desire.

Close by where this uncommercial transaction in green market stuffs took place there is a temple where, under the portico, half a dozen bulls are kept, literally in clover. The place is much dirtier and smells more vilely than an English farmer would like to have his cowshed. But the beasts seemed placidly happy, reflectively munched their grass, wondering what they did there, and in their slumbers "babbling o' green fields." The cow in bronze figures in various sizes is in most of the temples. On the pavement near one of extra size and super sanctity I saw two men playing dice.

As for the temples themselves, they are, more especially to the traveller fresh from the gorgeous fanes of Japan, in all ways despicable. At best, they are so crowded in among other buildings that any architectural beauty they might possess is lost to view. In order to see the far-famed Golden Temple one has to

ascend the first story of a shop on the opposite side of the narrow way before he can behold the domes which, for the peace of his soul, the Maharajah Runjeet Singh had freshly crowned with plate of gold. For the most part the sacred places do not merit the name of temple, being rather shrines a few feet high. Many of them are like deserted toy-shops in which business has gradually dwindled down to the vanishing point, and the broken-hearted proprietor has gone away, not caring to take with him the small model of a cow, the grotesque doll, or the strings of faded marigolds which garland the tawdry shrine.

At all the temples Brahmins abound in pursuit of their various functions, the principal one seeming to be that of begging. There are many things in Buddhism incredible to the Western mind, but not least is the possibility of paying any kind of reverence to the lazy fellows who skulk about the temples, bleed the pilgrims of their uttermost farthing, and pester foreigners for the smallest copper coin. Buddha has many votaries in crowded India; but the Brahmins are numerically an appreciable portion of the numberless congregation. They toil not, neither do they spin, and since they must live they unblushingly beg. their ministrations, from the solemnest to the

All

most immaterial, end with outstretched hand, palm uppermost.

We stood at Manikarnikâ, the sacred well of Hindoo mythology, towards which, from hill and dale, teeming city and silent field, the eyes of the pious Hindoo are strained. Hither, as the first duty on entering the holy city, the steps of the wayworn pilgrim are bent. Vishnu dug this well and filled it with the perspiration from his sainted body, and into it Mahadeva later dropped his earring. So holy is the place and so powerful the grace with which it is endowed, that its waters will wash away the worst of sins. Even murder is not too black a crime to resist its cleansing properties.

Looked at with eyes lacking faith, the Holy Well is a pit of filthy water, the odour of which, wafted upwards as its depths are stirred by successive pilgrims, induces desire to get the inspection over as quickly as possible. Access is gained to the level of the water by a flight of seventeen roughly hewn steps. Two Brahmins were officiating, dressed in dirty white calico trousers, chalis of faded finery, and black headgear, half cap, half turban. Business was comparatively slack. One pilgrim, whose dusty feet betokened a long journey, and whose villainous face suggested a special necessity for absolution,

walked down the steps, and was received at the bottom by a Brahmin, who promptly sold him a handful of marigolds, and took the money before proceeding further with the scheme of salvation. The pilgrim, holding the flowers in the palms of his joined hands, dipped them in the water, and then threw one half upon its surface, where already floated hundreds of buds sickening in the fetid tank. Taking up another handful of water, he stood with it dripping through his fingers, whilst the Brahmin rapidly recited a formula. Finally, the pilgrim walked into the well, and thrice dipped his head beneath its yellow, evilsmelling water; after which came again the inevitable coppers, and he lightly ran up the steps whiter than snow, though his sins had been as scarlet. Immediately after came two women, who went through the same process on their own account, and finally ducked a child, who vigorously protested against the impurity.

Seated by the well was another Brahmin, who, if physiognomy be a true guide, ought to have spent his nights and days in the well. He had the most evil-looking countenance I have seen since I left San Francisco. There was about him, withal, a grotesqueness suggestive of the low-born villain of the stage,

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