sight of the multitude standing waist-deep in the sacred stream or crouching on platforms built out over the water. From twenty-five to fifty thousand people regularly—on special occasions one hundred thousand bathers and worshipers, Brahmans and believers of every caste—perform their daily rites in the Ganges, They are so rapt, ecstatic, bent on and absorbed in the mechanical formula, the endless minutiæ of their worship, that they are unconscious of the few curious strangers who may drift up and down the river-front in the brief tourist season. A Brahman cannot let eye or mind wander for one moment lest, omitting something, or changing the order of invocation, prayers, and movements, he should have to begin the long ritual afresh. The daily religious observances should occupy nearly twelve hours, so that a repetition is something of a penance.
The lowlands across the river were veiled in haze as, seated in our comfortable arm-chairs on the boat's deck, we floated off into the stream. Just as the sun's disk rose above the hazy, blue plain, a louder murmur arose, a general chant, the measured responses of a great congregation. Each one standing in the stream lifted up an offering of water, tossed a handful three times in the air, dipped the body beneath the surface, repeating the while the sacred mantras, the ancient Vedic hymns, the names of the gods, and the sacred syllable "Om." They sipped handfuls of the holy water, rinsed their mouths, lifted the water and let it stream through their fingers or pour back down the arm,
