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300 men of the Sikhs bewail that their people are backsliding and drifting into Hinduism, a stranger sees that they are as anti-Hindu as anti-Mohammedan; that they pray to the east, refuse tobacco, indulge in spirits, eat pork, and button their coats to the right—if only because their opponents do otherwise. While they venerate the cow, they loathe the saffron color of the Hindu fakir and love the blue the Hindu hates. The Sikh never shaves or trims his hair or beard, parting the latter and twisting and tucking it behind his ears and under the turban. He always wears a sword, if only the miniature tulwar in his turban, and he terrorizes the timid babu, the limp Bengali, and the cowardly Kashmiri as he does the Chinese, and in general is the first man one meets in India.

The heart of the Sikh city and the soul of its people is the in the center of the sacred tank, the Pool of Immortality, and for beauty and impressiveness this Amritsar shrine is second only to the Taj Mahal. Marble terraces and balustrades surround the tank, and a marble causeway leads across the water to a graceful marble temple whose gilded walls, roof, dome, and cupolas, with vivid touches of red curtains, are reflected in the still pool. One gets the first view from a high terrace by the modern Gothic clock-tower, where the Sikh guards halt one until he has removed his shoes. A bearded giant exchanged our shoes for huge felt slippers that were damp and even wet, and led us around the white terrace. The palaces and gardens of Sikh nobles surround the tank, and the path is bordered