It is a yearly festival in honour of the sanguinary goddess known in Madras as Mari-Ammen, the sender of cholera and smallpox, and the dreaded slayer of thousands. It was each year celebrated in sight of our residence at Royapooram.
On a certain Sunday in July, the top of a lofty pole would be seen above the roofs of the houses lying between us and the beach, with a long and strong cross-beam fixed upon it, like the cross-beam of a well-sweep. About noon, the crowd began to flow by our house towards the beach. Men and boys, women and children, some on foot, some in rude native carriages, poured in a constantly-increasing stream towards the centre of attraction. By three o'clock, the crowd on the sea-shore around the swinging-pole became immense, and the ceremonies began. The person about to perform the pujah, now advanced with a cloth wound about his middle, but otherwise naked, and with his body daubed over with yellow paint and holy ashes. In the lap of his cloth, which is tucked into his waist, he has limes, flowers, margosa-leaves, and other trifles. Advancing to the temple, he worshipped the idol, and, throwing himself on his face, awaits the inser-
