LEAVING BOMBAY--TRAVELLING IN INDIA--ALLAHABAD--THE MELA.
We had been in Bombay a week, and began to feel quite at home, when we
had to leave. A man who undertakes to go around the world, must not
stop too long in the soft places. He must be always on the march, or
ready to start at the tap of the drum. We had a long journey before
us, to the North of India, and could not linger by the way. So we set
out just at evening. Much of the travelling in India is at night, to
avoid the heat of the day. The sun was setting over the waters as we
moved slowly out of the station at Bombay, and sweeping around the
shores, caught our last glimpse of the Western sea, and then rushed
off for the mountains.
"You'll need to take beds with you," said our friends, foreseeing that
we might have to lie down in rough places. So we procured for each of
us what is called a resai, a well-stuffed coverlet, which answered the
purpose of a light mattress. There are no sleeping-cars in India; but
the first-class carriages have generally a sofa on either side, which
may be turned into a sort of couch. On these sofas, having first
secured a whole compartment, we spread our resais, with pillows on
which to rest our weary heads, and stretch ourselves "to
sleep--perchance to dream." But the imagination is so busy that sleep
comes but slowly. I often lie awake for hours, and find a great peace
in this constant wakefulness.
It was quite dark when we found ourselves climbing the Ghauts (what in
California would be called the Coast Range), a chain of mountains not
very high, but which separates the coast from the table-land of the
interior. As the train moved more slowly, we perceived that we were
drawing up a heavy incline. This slow motion soothes one to slumber,
and at length we closed our eyes, and when the morning broke, found
that we had passed the summit, and were rushing on over an open
country, not unlike our Western prairies. These were the Plains of
India--a vast plateau, broken here and there, but preserving its
general character across the whole peninsula from Bombay to Calcutta,
and North to the Himalayas.
In this month of January, these plains are without verdure to give
them beauty. The trees keep their foliage, and here and there is a
broad-spreading banyan, or a mango grove, with its deep shade. But we
miss the fresh green grass and the flowers that come only with the
Spring. Landscapes which are not diversified in surface by hills and
valleys are only relieved from monotony by varieties of color. These
are wanting now, and hence the vast plain is but "a gray and
melancholy waste" like the sea. We visit India in winter because the
summer would be too oppressive. But in choosing this season, we have
to sacrifice that full glory when nature comes forth in all the
richness of tropical vegetation. It is in the rainy season that the
earth bursts suddenly into bloom. Then the dead plain, so bleak and
bare, in a few days is covered with a carpet of green, and decked with
innumerable flowers. But there are drawbacks to that gorgeous time and
that prodigality of nature. With the bursting into light of the
vegetable world, the insect world also comes forth. All the insects
that buzz and sting, fill the summer air; and then the reptile world
creeps abroad. Out of millions of holes, where they have slept all
winter long, crawl cobras and other deadly serpents, and all slimy
things. On the whole, therefore, I am content to see India in its
sombre dress, and be spared some other attendants of this tropical
world.
Nor is there much animal life to give animation to the scene. A few
cattle are grazing here and there. Now a deer startled looks up, as we
go by, or a monkey goes leaping across the fields, but not a wild
beast of any kind is seen--not even a wild-cat or a jackal. As for
birds, storks are at home in India as much as in Holland. Red
flamingoes haunt
"The plashy brink, or marge of river wide,"
while on the broad open plain the birds most seen are crows! They are
very tame, and quite familiar with the rest of the animal creation, a
favorite perch being the backs of cows or buffaloes, where they light
without resistance, and make themselves at home. They are said to be
very useful as scavengers. That is quite possible; but however useful,
they are certainly not beautiful.
In these long stretches of course we pass hundreds of villages, but
these do not attract the eye nor form a feature in the landscape, for
the low mud hovels of which they are composed hardly rise above the
level of the plain. There is no church spire to be seen, as from a New
England village, nor even the dome or minaret of a mosque, for we are
not yet in the Mohammedan part of India.
One feature there is which relieves the monotony--the railway stations
are the prettiest I have seen out of England. Simply but tastefully
built, they are covered with vines and flowers, which with irrigation
easily grow in this climate in the open air at all seasons of the
year. The railway administration has offered prizes for the
embellishment of stations, so that the natives, who are fond of
flowers, and who are thus tempted by the hope of reward, plant roses
and trail vines everywhere, so that the eye is relieved from the
glare of the barren plain by resting on a mass of flowers and
verdure.
In their internal arrangements, too, these stations are models of
comfort, which might furnish an example to us in America. Wherever we
are to breakfast or lunch ("take tiffin") or dine, we find a table
neatly spread, with soft-footed Hindoos gliding about to serve us, and
with plenty of time to eat in peace, without that rushing which makes
travel in America such a hurry and fatigue. I am often asked about the
difficulty of travelling in India, to which I answer that there is no
difficulty, except from the climate, and that is to be guarded against
by going in the cold season. There are railroads all over the country,
and if Mr. Pullman would only introduce his sleeping-cars, made more
open to give more ventilation in this hot climate, one might travel in
India with as perfect comfort as in any part of Europe or America.
But with all these comforts, and all that there is to divert the eye,
the way seems long. It is not till one reaches India that he
comprehends how vast a country it is--not only in density of
population, but in extent of territory. In "magnificent distances" it
is almost equal to America itself: all small ideas are dispelled as
soon as one leaves the coast, and penetrates into the interior. Our
first stage from Bombay to Allahabad was 845 miles, which took us not
only the first night and the day after, but the second night also, so
that it was not till the morning of the third day that we found
ourselves crossing the long bridge over the Jumna into the city which
is the great railroad centre in India--a sort of half-way station,
both on the "trunk line" from Bombay to Calcutta, and on the line to
the North of India.
By this time we were glad of rest, and willingly exchanged our railway
carriage for a hotel, where we found the luxury of baths, which
refreshed us so that in an hour or two we were able to come forth
"clad in fine linen, white and clean," and ride about to see the
sights of the town.
Allahabad is not a city of so much historical interest as many others,
but it has grown very much within a few years. The railroads have
given such an impulse to its business, and increase to its population,
that it has now 130,000 inhabitants. It is the capital of the
Northwest Provinces, and thus has a political as well as a commercial
importance. Owing to its position, it has been chosen as a convenient
centre for missionary operations, and is the seat of one of the best
organized missions of our Presbyterian Board. Here we met some
excellent countrymen, who at once took us to their hearts and homes:
and though reluctant to accept hospitality, or to trespass on their
kindness, yet it was impossible to refuse an invitation so cordially
given, which took us from a great barrack of a hotel to a refined
American home. Our Board is fortunate in owning for its mission
premises a large "compound," an enclosure of many acres, on the banks
of the Jumna--obtained years ago at a nominal price, and which costs
now only the small tax of fifty rupees (twenty-five dollars) a year.
Here under one broad roof were Rev. Mr. Kellogg and his family--a wife
and four children--and Mr. Wynkoop, and Mr. Heyl: Dr. Brodhead had
just left for America. In the compound stands a neat chapel, in which
met three years ago the great conference of missionaries of different
denominations from all parts of India, the most memorable gathering of
the kind ever held in this country. Here there is a service in
Hindostanee every Sabbath. In another building is a school of 300
pupils, under charge of Mr. Heyl. He has also, to give sufficient
variety to his occupation, to look after an asylum for the blind, and
another for lepers. Rev. Messrs. Holcomb and Johnson live in other
parts of the city, where there is a Printing-press and a large
Depository for the sale of Bibles and Tracts in the different
languages of India. All of these missionaries, besides preaching in
churches, preach in the streets and bazaars, and spend some months of
the year in itinerating through the villages in a large circuit of
country, living in tents, and speaking to the people by the roadside,
or in groves, or in their houses, wherever they can find them--a work
which they enjoy greatly. Thus with preaching in city and country, and
keeping up their schools, and looking after printing presses, writing
and publishing books and tracts, they have their hands full.
Nor can I overlook our countrywomen in Allahabad. There is here a
"Zenana Mission," supported by the society of the good Mrs. Doremus,
and also two ladies connected with the Presbyterian Board, one of
whom, Miss Wilson, devotes herself to visiting in the Zenanas, while
the other, Miss Seward, is a physician, practising with great success
in many of the best native families, thus rendering a physical as well
as a spiritual service. She is a niece of the late Secretary of State,
William H. Seward, who when in India paid her a visit, and was so
impressed with what she was doing so quietly and yet so effectively;
with the access which her medical skill and her feminine tact gave her
to the interior life of the people; that on his return to America he
summed up the result of all his observations of missions in this brief
counsel: "Make all your missionaries women, and give them all a
medical education."
Allahabad has a proud name--the City of God; but one sees not much to
render it worthy of that exalted title. It is however, in the
estimation of the Hindoos a sacred city, as it stands at the junction
of the Jumna and the Ganges, the two sacred rivers of India, which
issuing out of the glaciers of the Himalayas, hundreds of miles to the
north, here unite, and flow on in a broader stream, and with an
increased volume of sanctity. The point of junction is of course a
very holy place--one of the most sacred in India--and draws to it more
pilgrims than Mecca. Every year hundreds of thousands of pilgrims,
come from all parts of India to bathe in these holy waters. This is
the Mela--or great religious festival--which was now in progress. The
missionaries congratulated us that we had arrived at such an opportune
moment, as we had thus an opportunity of witnessing a spectacle which
would show more of Hindooism than any other that we could see in
India, unless it might be in the holy city of Benares.
On a Saturday evening we rode down to the place of the encampment,
which we found covering a wide sandy plain at the junction of two
rivers. It was a camp-meeting of magnificent dimensions. The tents or
booths were laid out in streets, and sometimes grouped in a hollow
square, which for the time being was a compact and populous city. As
the evening was not the hour for bathing, we did not go down to the
river bank, but strolled among the camps to see the people. At every
tent fires were burning, and they were cooking their food.
Our friends led the way to the camp of the Sikhs, the famous warrior
race of the Punjaub, who form a sect by themselves, and, strange to
say, are not idolators. They follow the teachings of a prophet of
their own, and like the Mohammedans, make it a special virtue, that
they do not worship idols. But the old instinct is too strong for
them, and while they do not bow to images, they pay a reverence to
their sacred book--the writings of their teacher--which is little
short of idolatry. At several places in their camp was something like
an altar, a raised platform which was too holy for us to ascend, where
sat a priest reading from this volume, before which all knelt as at
the shrine of a saint, while they scattered flowers around it as a
kind of incense or adoration.
In other parts of the camp men were blowing horns and making all sorts
of hideous noise, as an intense way of offering devotions. This mockery
of religion moved the indignation of our friends, who opened their
mouths boldly in exposure of such folly and superstition, but they
found that those whom they addressed did not shrink from the encounter.
Some of them were very keen in argument. They have a subtle philosophy
at the bottom of their worship, which they explained with a good deal
of ingenuity, and tried to illumine by apt analogies and illustrations.
Like all Hindoos, they were most liberal in their tolerance of other
religions--much more so than the Mohammedans--generously conceding
that our religion was best _for us_, while claiming that theirs was
best _for them_. They did not try to convert us, and saw no reason why
we should try to convert them. This was the Broad Church indeed, large
enough for "all sorts and conditions of men." They even went further,
and paid us not only the respect due to men, but to gods. One of the
fakirs said to us in so many words: "You are God and I am God!" This
tells the whole story in a sentence. Their creed is the baldest
Pantheism: that God is in everything, and therefore everything is God.
As all life comes from Him, He is in everything that lives--not only
in man, but in beasts, and birds, and reptiles. All alike are
incarnations of a Divine life, and hence all alike are fit objects of
adoration. Man can adore himself. He need not carry any burden of
sorrow or guilt; he need not know repentance or shame; for how can he
mourn for impulses which are but the inspirations of the God in him,
or for acts which are but the manifestations of the Universal Soul?
This was our first close contest with Hindooism, but still we had not
seen the Mela till we had seen the bathing of the pilgrims in the
Ganges, which was still in reserve. The Festival lasts a month--like
the Ramadan of the Mohammedans--and is regulated by the changes of the
moon. The day of the new moon, which was last Wednesday, was the great
day of the feast. On that day there was a grand procession to the
river, in which there were twenty-five elephants, mounted by their
_mahants_ (a sort of chief priests), with hundreds of fakirs on foot,
and a vast crowd in all the frenzy of devotion. On Monday, as the moon
was approaching her first quarter, there was likely to be a large
concourse, though not equal to the first, and we made arrangements to
be on hand to witness a spectacle such as we had never seen before,
and should probably never see again. Rev. Mr. Holcomb came very early
in the morning with his carriage, to take us to the riverside. As we
drove along the roads, we passed thousands who were flocking to the
place of bathing. Some rode in ox-carts, which carried whole families;
now and then a mounted horseman dashed by; while a long row of camels
told of a caravan that had toiled wearily over a great distance,
perhaps from the foot of the Himalayas or the Vale of Cashmere, to
reach the sacred spot. But the greater part of those who came were on
foot, and looked like pilgrims indeed. Most of them carried on their
shoulders a couple of baskets, in one of which was their food, and in
the other the ashes of their dead, which they had brought from their
homes, sometimes hundreds of miles, to cast into the sacred waters of
the Ganges.
The carriage brought us only to the Bund, near the Fort--a huge
embankment of earth raised to keep out the waters at the time of the
annual risings, and which during the past year had saved the city from
inundation. Here our friends had provided an elephant to take us
through the crowd. The huge creature was waiting for us. The mahout
who stood at his head now mounted in an extraordinary manner. He
merely stepped in front of the elephant, and took hold of the flaps of
his ears, and put up a foot on his trunk, which the beast raised as
lightly as if the man had been a feather, and thus tossed his rider
upon his head. A word of command then brought him to his knees, when a
ladder was placed against his side, and we climbed to the top, and as
he rose up, were lifted into the air. An elephant's back is a capital
lookout for observation. It raises one on high, from which he can
look down upon what is passing below; and the mighty creature has not
much difficulty in making his way through even the densest crowd. He
moved down the embankment a little slowly at first, but once on level
ground, he strode along with rapid strides; while we, sitting aloft,
regarded with amazement the scene before us.
Indeed it was a marvellous spectacle. Here was a vast camp, extending
from river to river. Far as the eye could reach, the plain was covered
with tents and booths. We had no means of estimating the number of
people present. Mr. Kellogg made a rough calculation, as he stood in
his preaching tent, and saw the crowd pouring by. Fixing his eye on
the tent-pole, with watch in hand, he counted the number that passed
in a minute, and found it to be a hundred and fifty, which would make
nine thousand in an hour. If this steady flow were kept up for four
hours (as it began at daylight, and was continued, though with varying
volume, through the forenoon), it would make thirty-six thousand; and
reckoning those encamped on the ground at twenty thousand, the whole
number would be over fifty thousand.
This is a very small number, compared with that present at some times.
Last Wednesday it was twice as great, and some years the
multitude--which overflows the country for miles, like an inundation
of the Ganges--has been estimated at hundreds of thousands, and even
millions. Every twelve years there is a greater Mela than at other
times, and the concourse assumes extraordinary proportions. This came
six years ago, in 1870. That year it was said that there were present
75,000 fakirs alone, and on the great day of the feast it was
estimated that a million of people bathed in the Ganges. So fearful
was the crush that they had to be marshalled by the police, and
marched down to the river by ten or twenty thousand at a time, and
then across a bridge of boats to the other side, returning by another
way, so as to prevent a collision of the entering and returning mass,
that might have occasioned a fearful loss of life. That year it was
estimated that not less than two millions of pilgrims visited the
Mela. Allowing for the common exaggeration in estimating multitudes,
there is no doubt whatever that the host of pilgrims here has often
been "an exceeding great army."
I could not but look with pity at the ignorant creatures flocking by,
but the feeling of pity changed to disgust at the sight of the priests
by whom they were misled. Everywhere were fakirs sitting on the
ground, receiving the reverence of the people. More disgusting objects
I never looked upon, not even in an asylum for the insane. They were
almost naked; their hair, which they suffer to grow long, had become
tangled and knotted, and was matted like swamp grass, and often bound
round with thick ropes; and their faces smeared with filth. The
meagerness of their clothing is one of the tokens of their sanctity.
They are so holy that they do not need to observe the ordinary rules
of decency. Yet these filthy creatures are regarded not only with
reverence, but almost worshipped. Men--and women also--stoop down and
kiss their feet. On Wednesday some three hundred of these fakirs
marched in procession _absolutely naked_, while crowds of women
prostrated themselves before them, and kissed the very ground over
which they had passed. One is amazed that such a disgusting exhibition
was not prevented by the police. Yet it took place under the guns of
an English fort, and--greatest shame of all--instead of being
suppressed, was accompanied and protected by the police, which, though
composed of natives, wore the uniform, and obeyed the orders, of
Christian England! There are not many sights which make one ashamed of
the English government in India, but surely this is one of them.[1]
How such "brute beasts" can have any respect or influence, is one of
the mysteries of Hindooism. But the common people, ignorant and
superstitious, think these men have a power that is more than human,
and fear to incur their displeasure. They dread their curses: for
these holy men have a fearful power of imprecation. Wherever they
stroll through the country, no man dares to refuse them food or
shelter, lest one of their awful curses should light upon his head,
and immediately his child should die, or disaster should overtake his
house.
But let us pass on to the banks of the river, where the crowd is
already becoming very great. To go among them, we get down from our
elephant and walk about. Was there ever such a scene--men, women, and
children, by tens of thousands, in all stages of nakedness, pressing
towards the sacred river? The men are closely shaved, as for every
hair of their heads they gain a million of years in Paradise! Some had
come in boats, and were out in the middle of the stream, from which
they could bathe. But the greater part were along the shore. The water
was shallow, so that they could wade in without danger; but to afford
greater security, lines of boats were drawn around the places of
bathing, to keep them from drowning and from suicide.
It would not have been easy to make our way through such a crowd, had
not the native police, with that respect for Englishmen which is seen
everywhere in India, cleared the way for us. Thus we came down to the
water's edge, passing through hundreds that were coming up dripping
from the water, and other hundreds that were pressing in. They were of
all ages and sexes. It was hard to repress our disgust at the
voluntary debasement of men who might know better, but with these
there were some wretched objects, who could only excite our
pity--poor, haggard old women, who had dragged themselves to this
spot, and children borne on their mothers' shoulders! In former times
many infants were thrown into the Ganges. This was the most common
form of infanticide. But this practice has been stopped by the strong
hand of the government. And now they are brought here only to "wash
and be cleansed." Even the sick were carried in palanquins, to be
dipped in the healing waters; and here and there one who seemed ready
to die was brought, that he might breathe his last in sight of the
sacred river.
I observed a great number of flags flying from tall poles in different
parts of the ground, which made the place look like a military
encampment. These marked the headquarters of the men who get up these
Melas, and in so doing contrive to unite business with religion.
During the year they perambulate the country, drumming up pilgrims. A
reputation for sanctity is a stock in trade, and they are not too
modest to set forth their own peculiar gifts, and invite those who
come to the holy water to repair to their shop, where they can be "put
through" in the shortest time, and for the least money. This
money-making feature is apparent in all the arrangements of these
pious pilgrimages.
In keeping with these coarser features of the scene, was the presence
of dancing girls, who gathered a group around them close to the
bathing places, and displayed their indecent gestures on the banks of
the holy river, to those who had just engaged in what they considered
an act of moral purification.
In other parts of the camp, retired from the river, was carried on the
business of "religious instruction." Here and there pundits, or
learned Brahmins, surrounded by large companies, chiefly of women,
were reading from the Shasters, which, considering that they got over
the ground with great velocity, could hardly be very edifying to their
hearers. This mattered little, however, as these sacred books are in
Sanscrit, which to the people is an unknown tongue.
I was glad to see that these blind leaders of the blind did not have
it all their own way. Near by were the preaching-tents of several
missionaries, who also drew crowds, to whom they spoke of a better
religion. Among them was Rev. Mr. Macombie, who is a famous preacher.
He is a native of India, and is not only master of their language, but
familiar with their ideas. He knows all their arguments and their
objections, and if a hearer interrupts him, whether a Hindoo, or a
Mohammedan, he is very apt to get a shot which makes him sink back in
the crowd, glad to escape without further notice. Whether this
preaching converts many to Christianity, there can be no doubt that it
diffuses a widespread sense of the folly of these Melas, and to this
as one cause may be ascribed the falling-off in the concourse of
pilgrims, who were formerly counted by millions and are now only by
hundreds of thousands.
While "religion" thus went on vigorously, business was not forgotten.
In the remoter parts of the camp it was turned into a market-place. A
festival which brings together hundreds of thousands of people, is an
occasion not to be lost for traffic and barter. So the camp becomes a
huge bazaar (a vast fair, such as one may see in America at a cattle
show or a militia muster), with streets of shops, so that, after one
has performed his religious duties, as he comes up from the holy
waters and returns to "the world," he can gratify his pride and vanity
by purchasing any quantity of cheap jewelry.
There are shops for the sale of idols. We could have bought a lovely
little beast for a few pence. They are as "cheap as dirt;" in fact,
they are often made of dirt. As we stood in front of one of the shops,
we saw a group rolling up a little ball of mud, as children make mud
pies; who requested a lady of our party to step one side, as her
shadow, falling on this holy object, polluted it!
It is hard to believe that even the most ignorant and degraded of men
can connect such objects with any idea of sacredness or religion. And
yet the wretched-looking creatures seemed infatuated with their
idolatries. To bathe in the Ganges washes away their sins. It opens to
them the gates of paradise. Such value do they attach to it that even
death in its sacred waters is a privilege. Formerly suicides were very
frequent here, till they were stopped by the Government. Fanaticism
seems to destroy the common sympathies of life. Last Wednesday, while
the great procession was in progress, a fire broke out in one of the
booths. As they are made of the lightest material it caught like
tinder, and spread so rapidly that in a few minutes a whole camp was
in a blaze. But for the presence of mind and energy of a few English
soldiers from the Fort who were on the ground, and who seized an
engine, and played upon the burning wood and thatch, the entire
encampment might have been destroyed, involving an appalling loss of
life. As it was, some thirty perished, almost all women. Mr. Kellogg
came up in time to see their charred and blackened remains. Yet this
terrible disaster awakened no feeling of compassion for its victims.
They were accounted rather favored beings to have perished in such a
holy spot. Thus does the blindness of superstition extinguish the
ordinary feelings of humanity.
Weary and heart-sick at such exhibitions of human folly, we mounted
our elephant to leave the ground. The noble beast, who had waited
patiently for us (and was duly rewarded), now seemed as if he could
stand it no longer, and taking us on his back, strode off as if
disgusted with the whole performance, and disdaining the society of
such debased human creatures.
This Mela, with other things which I have seen, has quite destroyed
any illusions which I may have had in regard to Hindooism. In coming
to India, one chief object was to study its religion. I had read much
of "the mild Hindoo" and "the learned Brahmin," and I asked myself,
May not their religion have some elements of good? Is it not better at
least than no religion? But the more I study it the worse it seems. I
cannot understand the secret of its power. I can see a fascination in
Romanism, and even in Mohammedanism. The mythology of the Greeks had
in it many beautiful creations of the imagination. But the gods of the
Hindoos are but deified beasts, and their worship, instead of
elevating men intellectually or morally, is an unspeakable
degradation.
Hindooism is a mountain of lies. It is a vast and monstrous system of
falsehood, kept in existence mainly for the sake of keeping up the
power of the Brahmins. Their capacity for deceit is boundless, as is
that of the lower castes for being deceived. Of this I have just had a
specimen. In the fort here at Allahabad is a subterranean passage
which is held in the highest veneration, as it is believed that here a
river flows darkly underground to join the sacred waters of the Jumna
and the Ganges, and here--prodigy of nature--is a sacred tree, which
has been here (they tell us) for hundreds of years, and though buried
in the heart of the earth, still it lives. It is true it does show
some signs of sap and greenness. But the mystery is explained when the
fact comes out that the tree is changed every year. The
sergeant-major, who has been here four years, told me that he had
himself given the order three times, which admitted the party into the
Fort at midnight to take away the old stump and put in a fresh tree!
He said it was done in the month of February, so that with the first
opening of spring it was ready to bloom afresh! How English officers
can reconcile it with their honor to connive at such a deception--even
though it be to please the Brahmins--I leave them to explain. But the
fact, thus attested, is sufficient to show the unfathomable lying of
this ruling caste of India, and the immeasurable credulity of their
disciples.
A religion that is founded on imposture, and supported by falsehood,
cannot bear the fruits of righteousness. In the essence of things
truth is allied to moral purity. Its very nature is "sweetness and
light." But craft and deceit in sacred things breed a vicious habit of
defending by false reasoning what an uncorrupted conscience would
reject; and the holy name of religion, instead of being a sacrament of
good, becomes a sacrament of evil, which is used to cover and
consecrate loathsome immoralities. Thus falsehood works like poison in
the blood, and runs through every vein till the whole moral being is
spotted with leprosy.
FOOTNOTE:
[1] That we may not do injustice, we add the excuse which is given,
which is, that such attendance of the police is necessary to prevent a
general melee and bloodshed. It seems that these fakirs, holy as they
are, belong to different sects, between which there are deadly feuds,
and if left to themselves unrestrained, when brought into close
contact in a procession, they might tear each other in pieces. But
this would be no great loss to the world.