Had they become familiar with, or indifferent to, the condition of these poor, deluded worshippers? or, was there nothing that they could do individually to assist the laborious efforts of the few missionaries who had been sent out to proclaim Christ crucified, in this land of pagan darkness? or, was it indeed true, that many had rather retarded than advanced that righteous cause in India, by their own bad example and lax morality? Let us hope, that it was not altogether thus; yet it is true, that we have made but slow progress in the great work of evangelizing India, during the nearly two hundred years that have elapsed since the British flag first floated over the battlements of Surat. Were it not for the massive tower of the Cathedral, and the tapering spire of the Scotch Church, a stranger would at times almost doubt whether Christianity had ever been introduced at Bombay; where thousands yet fall down to worship their graven images. How is it, we may ask, that we can always find money to protect the country with our armies, to raise magnificent palaces for our governors, to fortify our possessions, to sustain an Indian navy, to construct public roads and canals, to unite our towns and cities by projected railways, to contribute £6000 a year to support the brutal rites and atrocious barbarities connected with the bloodthirsty temple of Juggernaut, and yet say, that we cannot afford to send out a few more missionaries, in return for the enormous sums drawn from our Indian possessions?

"Can these things be,

And overcome us, like a summer's dream,
Without our special wonder?"

Four more bishops are at length to be sent out, in order to lighten the onerous duties of those already appointed. This is a gratifying movement in the right direction. Conscience is beginning to accuse us of our guilty neglect of India. But we want more field-labourers; men who will go out into her highways and byways-into her jungle-villages and her mountain-fastnesses-into those wild and secluded districts, where the feet of him who bringeth good tidings of great joy have never yet brushed away the dews of the morning.

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It is nearly thirty-six years since Dr. Middleton was appointed first Bishop of Calcutta, with episcopal authority over the whole of British India. He was a man of great piety and learning, and founded Bishop's College." He was succeeded by the accomplished Reginald Heber, who carried out many of his predecessor's good designs, but who was removed by an early death from the sphere of his usefulness. It has been observed, that these two first appointments were most happily made, and that lawn has seldom been worn by better men. Since then, Bombay, Madras, and Agra, have been made separate bishoprics; but even with this addition to the ecclesiastical staff, it was found quite impossible to keep pace with the growing wants of so large a country. The Presidency of Bombay alone contains a large extent of Aurung

abad, Candeish, and Guzerat; and the number of souls under the British government in India has been computed at 80,000,000. The establishment of public schools in many of our large towns, where all the useful branches of a religious and sound English education are taught to the native scholars, has already worked wonders at the presidencies. A writer in the Quarterly Review, in dwelling upon this allimportant subject, has remarked that "a general knowledge of history or geography will at once disperse that cloud of more than Egyptian darkness, which for so many ages had confined their view. When they cease to consider Mount Meru as twenty thousand miles high, and the world as a flower, of which India is the cup, and other countries the leaves, their minds may become more open to rational views on the subject of religion."

CHAPTER VIII.

"The moon, refulgent lamp of night,

O'er heaven's clear azure spreads her sacred light,
When not a breath disturbs the deep serene,
And not a cloud o'ercasts the solemn scene.
Around her throne the vivid planets roll,
And stars unnumbered gild the glowing pole;
O'er the dark trees a yellower verdure shed,
And tip with silver every mountain's head."

Departure of day. Rapid advance of night. Indian nights peculiar. Deserted roads. Sepoy guards and flight of the begging crowds. Mosques The cunning snake charmer. Mohammedan devotee. A poor Sudra. Large edible bat and beetles. The music of Nature. Elater Noctilucus. Infinity of living creatures. Funeral pyres. Back bay. Vultures. Covering a body. Burning it. Friends of departed. Children's indifference to the dead. Shore strewed with human bones. Hindoos on death. Government proclamations. Nizam of Hyderabad. Do the Brahmins encourage self-immolation? Dangers of the coast. Fate of the Donna Pascoa. Romantic story

of Colabah. English residences. Parsee property. The nest of the tailor warbler. Barracks and soldiers. Predisposing causes to cholera. Contagion. Sick bungalows. English chapel and old tombs. Seashells and cowries. Land-crabs, their habits and haunts, &c., &c.

THE great orb of day has rolled down into the far west, but its lingering glory is still reflected everywhere around us. We can trace it gilding the tops

of the mosques and spires, and burnishing the green leaves of the cocoa-nut palms, as they move gently in the evening breeze. We can track it over the wide expanse of waters, as it brings out in fine relief a lone sail, homeward bound; we can see it in the rich purple haze that floats over all things. If we turn our eyes towards the east, we are surprised to see how rapidly night is advancing upon us, and how speedily the lofty mountains and the towering peak, known as the "Queen of Mahratta's needle," are becoming veiled from our view. Lights begin to glimmer here and there upon the coast, and the darkened sky over the horizon is illumined for hours after sunset, by flashes from clouds charged with the electric fluid. The transition from day to night, in those parts of India that are situated between the tropics, being very sudden, we, here, know very little of that lingering of the sun's reflected rays, which constitutes the twilight of northern climes. The heavens are for a brief space tinged with the hues of all glorious things, unutterably, indescribably beautiful, and then the brilliant picture fades away.

We must now again turn our attention to earth, and take, during these quiet hours, a passing glance at the scenes around us; for an Indian night has a character of its own. The noise and bustle of the busy day are over; the crowded esplanade is all but deserted; the prayerful Parsee has quitted the sea-shore; the last carriage, with its pale and languid occupants, has passed through the gateway that leads into the Fort;