Seated under a _pipal_ tree, hoary with age, was an ash-smeared Priest, at his feet a heap of yellow marigolds. No woman passed him without some offering, and sometimes he spoke, but most often kept silence, noting all things through the matted hair that veiled his slits of eyes. Of such begging Priests there was a great collection--the ascetics sat still, but were gifted for fear of curses; others ran after the women, teasing, traducing each other; and these were gifted for their importunity. One, half-mad, I think, had a few words of English and followed me cursing the Priest-guide I had chosen for a “stupid-’umbug-flatterer”--said all as one long word, which sounded a potent curse indeed. The Image is in a small brick and stone building behind closed doors, which are opened at fixed times. In the ante-room sit the faithful, reading sacred books or preparing their offerings for the Goddess. There seemed a separate Priest for each devotee. One man only did I see whom my heart convicted of holiness: and looking on his face I knew that it was possible even here to forget all the grossness to which the ignorant had degraded the Kali-legend.... The place of Sacrifice ran red, and already the Priests had sold the flesh of Kali’s tale of goats to eager bidders. The poorer applicants sat in a circle, a gory head on each lap.... It was a gruesome sight. By the Bathing Ghat was a great crowd. Here were two young women in charge of a chaperone. They had come far ways measuring their length along the ground. It was in the rains, and they were all mud and slush from the exercise. The woman stood by, policing them, seeing that they abated no jot or tittle of their vows, where the head had been the feet should lie--there, and not an inch further. “What was the vow?” I asked. A prayer for one--that the child then on its way might live.... Oh! the pathos of it. The other woman was giving thanks for the recovery of her reason.... “The dance of Death,” “The dance of Death”--a minuet.... “If I were God, I should pity the heart of man ...” They were travelling at the moment towards the drain behind the Image of the Goddess. Oh! the water, oh! the water!--it was black with impurities. It had washed the feet of the Goddess, and the flowers of her Temple, and the refuse of the Sacrifice; but they drank eagerly--at full length still--content. It was a parable on the power of Faith.... And truly, the Temple of Kali opens many doors to reflection. Evil, we notice, is conquered by Time in the end. Of Love, which conquered Time, there is no Gospel in Hinduism. Inherent strength is the last vanquisher, the Great Gods themselves helping in the conquest, even parting with their own strength to the fighter. And that which God inspires may be as God. Yet, in spite of the Hindu doctrine of works, there would seem to be a caution against too great activity. Kali drunk with activity was shamed by Gods and men.... * * * * *