The next day we went to the Hindús' _Smáshán_, or burning-ground, in the Sonápur quarter. The corpse was covered with flowers, the forehead reddened with sandal-wood, and the mouth blackened. The bier was carried by several men; one bore sacred fire in an earthenware pot. The burial-ground men made four holes in the ground with a crowbar, into which they drove four stout stakes; then they piled up logs of wood cross-barred of the same length and breadth, six or eight layers high; it is teakwood. Then they lay the body on it. Everybody walked up and put a little water in her mouth--first the husband, then the father, father-in-law, relatives and friends, just as we throw dust on the coffin. They pile more layers of wood on the body, leaving it in the middle; then the husband comes out, and walks backwards to the fire, and takes, with his hands behind him, a burning brand, and sets the first light to the wood. The whole party in similar order (as before named with the water) do the same, but _they_ face the pile, and apply the fire to the four quarters, one at each cardinal point. The rich burn with wood and ghee. The ashes and bones are thrown into the sea. The ordinary ceremony costs sixteen rupees, and three hours consumes a corpse. The burning of the Hindú is thus explained: He has three births; the first physical, from his parents; the second his religious ceremony, which makes him a _Dwija_, or twice-born man; the third is the heavenly birth, attained by passing through the purifying fire. All present at this funeral were Hindú except ourselves. They throw sugar down to feed the ants. The clothes caught fire first, and then the feet, and then you only see a great blaze and smell roasted flesh. The burning-ground is a long, large, enclosed yard with a long shed, or covered verandah, and seats for mourners. The yard is dotted with these burning-places; a sacred cow is stalled at one end. Outside is a little burial-ground for Hindú babies, as they are not burnt. [Sidenote: _The Pinjrapole_.] Another very curious place is the Pinjrapole, in the heart of the native quarter called Bhuleshpsar--a hospital for sick, maimed, and incurable animals, which covers two thousand square yards. There were old bullocks that had been tortured, orphan goats and calves, starved kittens and dogs, and blind and lame and wounded beasts. It was founded fifty-seven years ago by Sir Jamsetji Jijibhoy, supported by his money and piety, and that of the well-known banker, Mr. Khamchund Motichand, and by Hindú contributions to the amount of eight lakhs a year. I admire immensely a religion that believes in animals having a kind of soul and a future. To me this, is the missing link between Nature and Grace. Perhaps I had better not say what I do think about it.