The fire used is sacred, of course—­for there is money in it.  Ordinary fire is forbidden; there is no money in it.  I was told that this sacred fire is all furnished by one person, and that he has a monopoly of it and charges a good price for it.  Sometimes a rich mourner pays a thousand rupees for it.  To get to paradise from India is an expensive thing.  Every detail connected with the matter costs something, and helps to fatten a priest.  I suppose it is quite safe to conclude that that fire-bug is in holy orders.

Close to the cremation-ground stand a few time-worn stones which are remembrances of the suttee.  Each has a rough carving upon it, representing a man and a woman standing or walking hand in hand, and marks the spot where a widow went to her death by fire in the days when the suttee flourished.  Mr. Parker said that widows would burn themselves now if the government would allow it.  The family that can point to one of these little memorials and say:  “She who burned herself there was an ancestress of ours,” is envied.

It is a curious people.  With them, all life seems to be sacred except human life.  Even the life of vermin is sacred, and must not be taken.  The good Jain wipes off a seat before using it, lest he cause the death of-some valueless insect by sitting down on it.  It grieves him to have to drink water, because the provisions in his stomach may not agree with the microbes.  Yet India invented Thuggery and the Suttee.  India is a hard country to understand.  We went to the temple of the Thug goddess, Bhowanee, or Kali, or Durga.  She has these names and others.  She is the only god to whom living sacrifices are made.  Goats are sacrificed to her.  Monkeys would be cheaper.  There are plenty of them about the place.  Being sacred, they make themselves very free, and scramble around wherever they please.  The temple and its porch are beautifully carved, but this is not the case with the idol.  Bhowanee is not pleasant to look at.  She has a silver face, and a projecting swollen tongue painted a deep red.  She wears a necklace of skulls.

In fact, none of the idols in Benares are handsome or attractive.  And what a swarm of them there is!  The town is a vast museum of idols—­and all of them crude, misshapen, and ugly.  They flock through one’s dreams at night, a wild mob of nightmares.  When you get tired of them in the temples and take a trip on the river, you find idol giants, flashily painted, stretched out side by side on the shore.  And apparently wherever there is room for one more lingam, a lingam is there.  If Vishnu had foreseen what his town was going to be, he would have called it Idolville or Lingamburg.