himself, as far as is in his power, in just such a position as shall insure the best possible use of his faculties. We need comforts for the flesh in India more than you at home; that is, we take from the list of luxuries, as you deem them, and label them necessaries. Missionaries here are not extravagant at all; indeed, they cannot well be on their salaries. At first sight, one fancies that money goes farther in India than in America, since labor is so much cheaper and food simpler; but in truth many things unite to raise living to about the same notch in expense that one reaches at home. Wages of one man are low, but a man here is not worth one fifth as much as a man at home, as respects the amount of work you can get from him. The people are not exactly lazy, but work is not in them. Then it is impossible wholly to ignore the customs of the country; in India we must do as the Hindûs do.

[JOURNAL LETTER.]

JUNE 13.

I begin my journal on the Hills, the evening before moving down. Our boxes are pretty much all packed, ready for the heads of Coolies to carry them. Pony is to go half-way, early in the forenoon, and a little afterward we shall follow: H. in the dhooly, as she came up, and I on foot, till I catch up with pony. I am bound not to put up with tats, the wretched beasts that I rode up. Well, we have done with the Hills for one year. We certainly have been bettered physically by our stay. I feel much less of the lassitude and reluctance to work that had crept upon me on the Plains, and go down with spirits a little more alive for work. There will be plenty to do, I assure you. A

catechists' meeting comes in a few days. Then I must put the whole station into better working order, visit the congregations at once, and prepare for an early tour of exploration through my whole field. . . . . The southwest monsoon has set in. It blows most furiously, and brings clouds of dust, but it generally cools the atmosphere. It has been intensely hot below for a few days past, thermometer over 90° at 5 P. M.; but I hope the winds have moderated the temperature, so that it may be a little more endurable for us. But we must put a bold face upon it. At the best it will be hot.

[THE vacation of eight weeks over, the missionaries returned to their work on the hot plains. The rest had refreshed David; he had also gained, I think, new and more quiet resolution. He saw before him a year of toil, the character of which had been made known by his short experience, and he looked fully in the face the discouragements that awaited him. He retained his old buoyancy, but he was growing more constantly thoughtful: not care-worn, but care-sobered. I cannot forbear reminding the reader how, in the midst of his sorrowful self-reproach at opportunities of good lost or thrown away, we see him turning again to work with unceasing energy, confirmed in his habits of devout confidence in God, and inquiring diligently the will of his Master. 66 Nothing," writes an associate, Mr. Washburn, "could deter him, whether he was at home or on journeys, as I have often seen him, from protracted philological and devotional study of the Bible in the morning, and in the evening from private meditation. and prayer. I have been astonished at the jealousy with which he regarded these habits. It was his wont to walk on the veranda in the dusk of eve and review the day. If he was occupied with company or other disturbance, he retired to the roof, and there, beyond the reach of any who knew his habits, he communed

with himself and his God. If it could be said that no one was so enamored of philosophical and antiquarian pursuits, it could also be said that no one among us had studied the sense and language of the Bible more thoroughly or sought more devoutly its spirit."

It was in this temper of loyalty to his Master that he worked patiently, cheerfully, and with the enthusiasm which so often thrilled him. He gave himself no time for reluctant thoughts or unwise expectations; backward he did look, often, to the group of friends. whom he had left in America. Before leaving home, a stereograph had been taken of the family in the house. where he had lived; regularly each Sunday morning, when not touring, did David sit over his stereoscope, his eye riveted on this group, seizing hold by his memory of every line in the faces, every attitude and expression. But he turned away from this sad pleasure doubtless with more earnest purpose to the work at hand, looking, how wistfully his letters sometimes show, to a more perfect union in a better world. His own removal was nearer than he knew; but the faith which bade him look to that coming day, inspired him also with more ceaseless daily diligence.]

[JOURNAL LETTER.]

PERIAKULAM, June 27, 1862. Yesterday one year ago was a day to be remembered, when we first saw Madras, and first touched Indian soil, and first breathed Indian air. We shall not soon forget it. I can see the first footprint I made on the beach; I can breathe over again that first breath, the like of which I have not known since, all the impression of that first stifling evening and the next

morning. One year has gone; two years it seems to me at least. Certainly but one year in my life has been of like interest or importance to me. Now just about one year from my landing, we begin life fairly, for now we are down from the hills, and have a full year clearly in view. I cannot feel wholly despondent upon looking at my position. I certainly am better off in the language than most at a year's distance from their starting-point, which is due of course to my having studied at home; but I am equally and more sure that it is owing to culpable negligence that I am not much farther on. The coming year will, I think, witness more satisfactory progress.

[TO SAMUEL H. SCUDDER.]

PERIAKULAM, July 1, 1862. I have been wishing I were at home to-day. I do sometimes. I often think of home, you may believe, but now and then I have a crying after it. It is almost always associated with a sense of my unfitness for the place I occupy. This day sadness arose from a failure in duty yesterday morning. Early in the morning I took a handful of tracts and started off to preach in the village alone. I thought I should succeed, but when I reached the village my fancied courage fled; and after walking about, where was any amount of people ready to listen, I turned and came back, my conscience all the while hammering at me, and I virtually saying, "I know it, but I won't." That it is a severe cross to me is true, but no excuse for actual dereliction. It is very hard for me to go into a crowd whose language I can't understand to a tenth part, and stammer out facts that they don't want to hear, and I