its way through the seething mass of humans who like billows surround it in one capacity and another—the great god Matsyendra in his car, with strain and cry makes his annual journey. On a staging somewhat resembling a deck the officiating priests take their stand, and, like sailors, cling valiantly to the oscillating structure. A procession naturally accompanies the car, elephants gaily painted and caparisoned move ponderously along, bearing in their gold and silver howdahs the royalties of the State. Bands make joyful, if somewhat barbaric, music on tambourines, cymbals, trumpets, conches, and drums, while bevies of girls carrying garlands of flowers enliven the proceedings with song and dance. Other attendants bear great bells on poles, golden umbrellas, incense burners, fly-whisks, banners, and all the insignia of the great deity to whom they are doing honour. And so for four days and often longer, moving from place to place, this unique ceremonial is maintained with shout and song, religious enthusiasm, feasting and rejoicing, until the final portion of the complete and complicated
