poor, and give them enough to buy a sheep! It is of no use to try to satisfy them. Yesterday, when coming back, a new set bore me, and waited an hour on the veranda in hope of more pay. Every time I looked out, I could see them with their hands to their foreheads.

JULY 10.

I see some new sights nearly every morning as I take my walk. A few days since, I was wandering about among native streets, when I came across a mosque. There are many Mohammedans throughout Southern India, and many are very rich. They were the rulers of the country before the English, and ill brook the English supremacy. This mosque was a broad, white building, with two tall minarets, one at each end. A large yard was all about it, and I only ventured to look in. I could see on the pavement before the mosque men bowing and prostrating, first one way and then another. I made my way about, and through a noisy bazaar, stopping to look and laugh at two boys who were lugging off another brat bodily, and at last turned into what seemed a burial-ground. The people stopped to look at me, and I to look at a man dressed in gay colors, who was seated on a slab, with an old manuscript before him. There he sat, swaying his body, and chanting through his nose some religious sayings, perhaps the Korân. It was a picture of desolation- that Mohammedan poring over his books in the midst of decaying tombstones and tumbleddown sepulchres.

JULY 11.

As I was riding alone to-day I passed a man in the road, who was, I suppose, performing some vow.

He

had in his hands a little basket, adorned with flowers. Keeping it in his hand, he rolled over and over on the ground, muttering something to himself, looking the very picture of deluded superstition. Poor fellow ! And oh, these beggars! that ah! ah! at you from the corners of the streets, and the horrid cripples and lepers that hold out stumps of arms and awful deformities for you to see — they haunt one!

[TO REV. EVARTS SCUDDER.]

... . Madras is a city of magnificent distances; one can go ten miles in most any direction. Royapuram is a suburb where Mr. Hunt lives. It is a beautiful place, full of nice green gardens and cocoa-nut forests. Walk half a mile from his house, and you are in a wood that reminds you at once of pictures of South American forests. Magnificent cocoa-nut palms wave their spreading heads, tamarind-trees cast their thick shadows about, bamboos bend and bow so easily, and occasionally you see the long, pendent shoots of the banian, all giving an air of gloom. In the trees you can see men climbing about, getting the sap, and at short distances are native villages, with mud-walled, thatch-roof houses. Did I write about a visit here on Sunday? I will now, at any rate. About four in the afternoon Mr. Hunt and I rode out, sending the catechist before us. We stopped on the border of this forest, and walked a little way to the preaching-place. This is a mud house, whitewashed, only one bare room. The windows are grated with thick iron bars. One door forms a sure protection, as once found

to his comfort when set on by an excited mob. We went in and sat down on a bench. Two young men

then sang a Tamil hymn, and people began to come and look in. Before long we had quite an audience, marks on their foreheads showing them to be heathen. The catechist preached; the men listened well, often nodding their heads in approval. Two boys making some noise in play, a queer-looking man got up, caught them by the little knot of hair on their heads, and hauled them out-doors. Outside, close by the preacher, were crowded a dozen people, men, women, and babies, standing off, or pressing their faces against the iron bars, seemingly eager to catch every word, and caring nothing for the strangers. A capital audience; and how know we but that a seed dropped into good soil?

In about half an hour we walked out, and pursued our way to the Tinnevelly Settlement in the Forest, boys and men pressing eagerly about, asking for tracts. The catechist came with us, and pointed out a good place to preach in. So we stopped, and the catechist, standing at the root of a tree, began to read a "proclamation." Several people were about and stopped to listen. Others passing turned aside, — men with big burdens on their backs, women carrying water. Before long a large audience, perhaps thirty, were standing in quiet attention, when a man bearing a brass pot came up, elbowed his way through the people, put down his pot, and stood looking at the catechist with folded arms. Pretty soon he began to look excited, and in a few moments broke out into a perfect storm of passionate words, fierce gesticulation, and scowling looks. I never in my life saw such a picture of satanic rage and fury. He fumed and fretted as if actually possessed of the devil; his face was most

fiendish. I could hardly understand a word, but could easily guess the purport of what he said. He declaimed for a long while, without paying the slightest heed to the catechist. At last he lost his breath, and gave others a chance to speak. Who should oppose him and defend the truth? Not a single Christian was present save us three. Who should step forward, right in front of the man, and take up the gauntlet, but a bright boy, about fifteen years old! Manly fellow, he was not a member of any church, but in some of the mission schools he had learned enough of Christ. and Christianity to know that this man was an ignorant defamer, and he meant to defend the truth against him. So he did; and, I tell you, I got as excited as could be, fairly trembling as I stood and looked on. Then a man with a huge bundle loosed his load and put in a word, well, too, for he got the laugh on the man from the whole crowd. It was soon clear that the man met with no favor from those present, who knew him to be a pestilent intermeddler. The catechist himself was known in the village, and respected even by the heathen. Mr. Hunt closed the dispute by stepping up to the man and handing him a tract on repentance, when the company, now fifty or more, dispersed. The whole scene was very impressive. So the gospel fares.

[It will be remembered that my brother had engaged to correspond with such schools as should contribute to the support of native schools in the Madura Mission. The following is the first of a series of letters written under this plan; and while of later date, it relates to scenes in Madras, so that it properly belongs in this

chapter. I give it entire, although there is sometimes repetition of what has appeared in the journal. With this letter closes the account of the stay in Madras.]

DINDIGAL, INDIA, Aug. 6, 1861. MY DEAR YOUNG FRIENDS, Here I am at last, on the opposite side of the globe from ent sky, and among strange faces.

you, under a differBefore I left home

I promised you that I would try to write you a letter about my voyage to India, and the things I first saw there. I am spared to reach India, but how, what shall I write? Did you ever try to pour water out of a small narrow-necked bottle? what a rattling and gurgling it makes! Just such a bottle am I, - full enough of things to say, but so very full that they roll ever one another in great confusion if I try to pour them out. So this time you must let me gurgle a

little.

I have so much to say about India that I shall have to leave out all about the oceans that we crossed, the ships we met and bowed to, the big whales we saw, the birds we caught with fish-hooks, the stormy winds, when the great waves rushed in over the ship, and the hot, still days, when the great ocean was as smooth as a mill-pond. Read the 107th Psalm, and you will have a good picture of life at sea. Through all God kept us. For more than one hundred days we sailed along without once seeing green grass, or even barren sand, until, one fine morning, the cry came down to us from the mast-head, Land ho! How we did cheer and rush to get a sight! We strained our eyes, and there, away off over the water, was a dim blue line - land at last, hills in India. The wind was blowing us quickly