ing in, I saw a poor-looking woman, with a baby in her arms, climbing over a high wall and taking a seat outside the house on the ground. What do you suppose she was climbing over the wall for, when there was a wide door and plenty of room inside? It so happened that there were three or four men, not richer perhaps, but of a higher "caste" than herself, and she was afraid that if she passed near them they would be angry, and scold at her, or beat her. In this heathen land all men are not equal, as we say they are in America; but there are a great many different classes or castes. It is thought a sin for any two people of two different castes to eat together.

After preaching in this place we went to visit some of the people in their houses. While we were in one of them, we heard a dull, heavy, drum-like sound. "There," said Mr. Burnell, "there is a Kodangki; shall we go and see him?" A Kodangki; what is that? He is a soothsayer, or magician, or prophet who tells fortunes and professes to tell where anything is which has been lost, to be able to cure sick people, to drive the devil out of them, to make it rain, and to do many other things for a little money. The poor heathen believe he can do all these things, and many are the pennies that they place before him. As I had never seen one I was glad to go. We found the wise man sitting by the door of a devil-temple next to his own house. He was a young man and fine looking. He had white ashes rubbed on his forehead. In his hand was a drum, shaped like an hour-glass, and from this little drum hung a belt, and on this belt dangled lots of glass beads and sweet-smelling seeds of fruit. It has not rained here enough to make the rice grow,

and he was singing to the god to bring the water. He stopped a little while after we came in; and then Mr. Burnell, after talking to him, took out a dollar from his pocket and said, "I will give you this if you can tell me what I write on this paper." He wrote my name in Tamil and put the paper away. The man looked rather ashamed, but began to call on his gods. He thumped on the drum, and sucking in his breath till he grew red in the face, sang in a loud voice, crying out to the gods to tell him the secret. After puffing and singing about a quarter of an hour, he gave the answer: "You have written," he said, "about a man that people in America are disputing about." When he found how wrong he was, he did n't seem to care much, for he knew that the people, who were around him, would believe him, even if he did guess wrong. And sure enough, we had only just left the house when we heard him thumping his drum again, as some one had come to get him to bring the rain down.

The next day was the Sabbath, and it was my first birthday in this heathen land. In the cool of the morning I went away from the noise of the village, and lay down on the grass, with the sky above, which looks the same all over the earth, and in full view of the mountains, which made me think of the mountains I knew at home. Then I thought of my far-off friends, my father and mother and brothers and sisters, and I knew that they would think of me too this day. I tried to pray that God would make me a faithful servant of His, in this land to which I had come to preach His word. Will any of you ever spend a birthday in a heathen land?

That day we preached and talked to the people, as

all missionaries do every Sabbath-day. I must not forget to tell you that a poor woman, who had no money, brought in, as her weekly contribution, a wooden bowl of grain. So the next morning we had a little auction and sold it. It brought just one cent, a small sum, but large, I doubt not, in the eyes of the Saviour.

Monday morning we rose before daybreak, so as to go to a famous temple. After riding about an hour we came to it. We were not sorry to see that many of the buildings around it were tumbling down. Do you remember hearing how the little banian-seed, lodging between the stones of a temple, takes root and grows, till it splits the rocks and one by one they fall to the ground? Just so it was here; great temples had crumbled into ruins, looking far more pleasing to us than when they were all whole with a greasy idol. within. But there was one temple still in use, and it is a famous one. We were walking in to see what was inside, when a man, and then three or four others, rushed to us, saying, “Go back; go back; you can't come here." "Why not?" "Oh, this is a holy place!" So we went back. We then went into another place, swinging open two enormous doors, over thirty feet high and a foot thick. A man tried to keep us from going in, but we pushed ahead. What do you suppose his reason was? 66 Why," said he, "you are white people, and can do anything; but if a black man should go in there without leave, he would never come out alive." It is a sacred place. There the people go who want to make vows. They take an oath, and throw sandal-wood up against the doors, and then never dare to tell a lie.

We went up into a high tower of the temple, where we could see a long way off. Mr. Burnell shouted out to the people below, "Christ's kingdom shall come; and all the idols he shall destroy." So it shall come, we believe, if we do what our Saviour commands us to do. But we must work hard. "I would rather have my throat cut than be a Christian," said a man a few days ago.

Pray much, children of the Sabbath-school; and if God permit you, come out to this or to some other heathen land, to tell the people yourself of Christ. Now when people write letters they expect answers. Won't you answer this and cheer up your friend?

DAVID C. SCUDDER.

MASS.]

[TO D. T. FISK, D. D., NEWBURYPORT, Mass.]

MADURA, Nov. 5, 1861.

I am indeed in India, and somewhat better acquainted with it than when my ship-letter started off in search of you. And I am in Madura, the metropolis of this missionary kingdom. It is already a home to me. I thread the narrow passages of this Oriental city with as much familiarity and nearly as much indifference as you would Boston. The queer capers of naked urchins kicking up the dust, lines of men, women, and children, all bearing the mark of the devil emblazoned on their foreheads, idols, shops, temples, have all lost their novelty, while if you could be set down here directly from Newburyport, without stirring a step you would find food enough for a long day's wonderment. I was thinking to-day of a commonly accepted idea among missionary circles at home, and which I once often broached, viz: that it was well that new

comers could not open their mouths for a while, since thus they were not in danger of hurting people's feelings unintentionally. Now this may be true of other countries, but nobody need fear, on the first day of his arrival, speaking boldly of Christ if he is able to. Common sense is enough; a few weeks' stay gives one a reasonable acquaintance with native character.

There are some phases of native character which I think one does not anticipate. Such, for instance, is their utter deadness of spirit, and sensuousness. Go out and meet any company of heathen, urge upon them the duty of worshipping God. "Who has seen him? Will he fill our belly? We do as our fathers did," are the three stock answers, always at hand, satisfactory to them, unblushingly presented. What special part of our theologic training has fitted us to meet such objections? They are so utterly low that it is hard to get down low enough to meet them on their own ground. The country has been suffering much from lack of rain. I don't know how many times I have been met by the question, "Will he give us rain?" while the processions that pass our door with sheaves of grain to be offered to the river-goddess show where the heart of this people is.

I wish you could mount your pony and ride out with me some morning about sunrise, to see whom we might meet, drop a tract and attempt a little advice. It is a motley group that gathers around you when you stop, all respectful, but none sympathizing. They meet your words with an incredulous smile and always have some reply at hand. You may talk on and they will listen ; they hear as if they listened to a story or talk about crops; rarely can you feel that one is moved a whit by