ABSTRACT
But today! e Ganges once more is low. Its two miles of river-bed is, in the main, a sandy shore. Close to the steps of the Suttee Chowra Ghaut, or landing-place — for ever herea er known as Massacre Ghaut — ows dreamily the sacred stream of the Hindus. Upon the banks three dhobies are chanting as they lash their clothes upon large stones and wring them dry; three donkeys sleep under the shadow of the tall pear trees that fringe the river’s bank. Two boats — they make that awful day in July live again — lie half beached beneath the ghaut; some children’s voices ring out from the adjoining village; the birds twitter in the overhanging branches, and a cicala croaks and croaks. But this is a river of peace, of holiness, the sacred Ganges. It has never borne upon its gentle breast the bodies of martyred Christians. So still, re ecting the very colours of the sky! Not a ripple; hardly, at this moment, a ray of sun. It is far too peaceful to be cruel. It is — but look! e sun bursts forth, and the whole vast land and “seascape” is lit into a thousand colours. e chanting of the washermen again oats to my ears. Now the noises are confused, wailing is mingled with the hum of an angry
