If I am not mistaken, I have said nothing yet of the character of these poor Indians. In this respect some reserve is necessary. I hear it said that there is very little resemblance between Bengal, Maduras, the Bombay territory, the Punjaub, etc. As

for the Bengalese, all agree in regarding them as the most degraded; they are effeminate, idle, and cowardly by temperament; liars and thieves by education. They often dispute amongst themselves, but never fight. That cowardice encourages many Englishmen, who beat them at random when they have nothing else to do. My idea is that, unless miracles of grace be wrought for them, it is scarcely possible to make true Christians of these poor people. The only means of establishing Christianity amongst the race would be to buy their children, and bring them up, away from all contact with the others.

There are Christians amongst them, who are oftenest found as cooks or kansama amongst the Europeans; but they know not the first rudiments of their religion, go to church only on Good Friday and All Souls' Day, and are generally admitted to be worse than the pagan servants.

Our day is now ended. If you are fatigued, come and rest yourself on the college roof, constructed as a platform, like those of all the other houses in the country. There, evening and morning, but only then, the heat is bearable. I sometimes go and sit there to think of my friends. I look back into the past, forget the present, and, as I do everywhere else, laugh at what worldlings call the future. The future is heaven. It seems to me that I am nearer to it here than in Europe. May God grant us grace to gain it one day or another!

T. CARBONNELLE.

I.

The

CHRISTMAS EVE had come. bells of the high towers in majestic and solemn tones were reminding the faithful that the advent of the Lord was near. Here and there through the gathering darkness already glimmered a solitary taper, casting a feeble light upon the streets, where a throng of people, large and small, and old, were moving to and fro with joyful activity, impatiently awaiting the hour when the treasures and market splendor of the Christmas

young

should be opened to them. Good mothers were engaged in quietly and secretly baking the cakes and adorning the Christmas-tree for the children, and shared beforehand in the delights and surprises of the little ones, while others, who had perhaps chosen the best part, were preparing themselves in still devotion and pious meditation for the great festival.

The young student of theology, Ernest Kuhn, was sitting in his little upper chamber, watching, with eyes full of deep affection and sympathy, his dear mother, who, after a confinement to her bed of several weeks, had been refreshed for the first time by a peaceful sleep. His countenance was lighted up with an expression of great interior joy, for on this day the physician had announced to him that his mother had safely passed through a perilous crisis, and that, with care, a speedy recovery might be expected.

But he turned his eyes from his dear mother and looked upon the bare walls, which gave a speaking proof of the poverty of the inmates, then a cloud of sadness passed over his countenance, his young breast heaved

heavily, as if oppressed by a weight of sorrow. The house-rent was due, the fire-wood was reduced to a few sticks, hardly enough to last two days, his little sister needed a new dress, his mother good strengthening nourishment, the apothecary's bill was to be paid, and where were the means to be found?

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Heavily and slowly he rose from his sent, as if standing would lighten. his burdens, and cast his eyes thoughtfully around the apartment. "The tables and chairs," he said to himself in an under-tone, are gone not to come back, the pictures too are sold, and the clock also; and now it is your turn, O my books! It cannot be helped; I have spared you for a long, long time." At these words he stood before the book-case and gazed on the few but good books by which he had so often been instructed and counselled, and which had remained with him in joy and in sorrow. Each of them was dear to him, associated with some dear remembrance either of joy or sorrow. Sad and wavering, he looked at them again and again, as if he could never part from them. At last, after long hesitation, he took down from the shelf a large bound volume; it was a Bible adorned with beautiful copper-plate engravings. "I can best spare you," he said sadly, "for I have two more in Greek and in Latin; I shall meet with the most ready sale and get the most money for you. My grandfather who is in heaven will forgive me this; I have other remembrances of him; Agnes will grieve and weep greatly for the beautiful Bible, but I think I can easily quiet her, and I can also give my mother a satisfactory explanation."

He cast a sorrowful glance at the beautiful book which had afforded him so much enjoyment in his boyhood, and which was so much dearer to him as a memorial of his pious grandfather, long since dead, whom he held in great veneration. Then he thought of earlier and better times, of the present, so full of trouble, and of the blessed future, and his heart was heavy and his youthful breast heaved painfully. Then his eye fell as if by chance upon the open Bible, and he read: "Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted."

And he humbly kissed the consoling words, and a tear of sorrow but also of the firmest trust flowed down his cheek, and he turned his true and weeping eyes to heaven as if he would ask pardon of his Father for his faint-heartedness. He remembered how God had heard his earnest prayer, and restored his dear mother, how often he had helped him, and his heart became lighter, and hope once more began to dawn upon him.

II.

SUDDENLY the door opened, and his little sister Agnes, a child seven years old, ran in, joyfully holding up her little writing-book. "Look here, dear Ernest," she eagerly exclaimed, "only see how beautifully I have written to-day! That great A is very nice." "Softly, softly, you noisy little girl," said her brother, putting his hand over her mouth; "you will wake up mother!" Agnes hastened on tiptoe to her mother's bedside, softly kissed her white hand, and said beseechingly, as she watched her slumber, "Do not scold, dear brother, mother is sleeping so good!"

Ernest smiled and told her that while he attended to some necessary business she must stay with their mother, and be very quiet and silent that she might not wake her; but that if she did awake she was to give her the warm broth upon the stove, and that

the bread and butter for herself was on the window ledge. "Now be very quiet," he added, "for you know what the doctor said."

The little girl assured him that he might trust her, but, added she, coaxingly, "When you come back, may I not go with dame Margaret to the Christmas market ?" "That you shall," promised her brother. But Agnes clung to him, and full of pious simplicity, whispered in his ear: "If you meet the Christ-child in the street, tell him he must not forget me, but must look in here."

The brother embraced the little girl with a sad smile, and casting an affectionate glance upon his mother, left the room.

III.

ERNEST had only to turn the corner of the little street to find the shop of Höss, the antiquary, who had before bought many a book of him, and to whom he intended to offer the Bible. With a beating heart (for Höss was a rough, purse-proud man) Ernest entered the shop, which was crowded with books, maps, and pictures. He greeted the antiquary, who was busy writing, in a friendly manner, but there was a pretty long pause before he took any notice of him.

"Ah! it is you, Master Studious," he exclaimed, raising his cap in a stately manner, "what good thing brings you to me?"

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Something beautiful and good indeed," replied Ernest. "See here, you must buy this of me."

"Always buying," said the antiquary; "when will you begin to buy of me? I don't like to deal with you. Look at your pictures, that I bought of you three weeks ago, and for which I paid more than they were worth on account of your destitute condition: no one will buy them of me; my good nature played me a trick that time. It shall not happen again, Master Studious."

"How can you say this, Mr. Höss?”

replied Ernest, greatly disgusted; "did you not have them for a trifle, and was not I present eight days since when you refused double of what you gave for them, when it was offered you?” You heard wrong," replied the antiquary, displeased and ashamed, "let me see your articles."

With evident pleasure he turned over the leaves of the book, and looked at the beautiful and delicately executed engravings.

"Not so bad," thought he. "It is a pity that I have already more than enough of such trash, as you can see for yourself if you will look at those shelves. I will take it, however, on account of my regard for you and your mother, if you don't set your mark too high."

"Only give me," begged Ernest, the fourth part of what it first cost." "And what was that?" "Six florins, Mr. Höss." "You are sharp indeed, young master! Six florins in these hard times! Such are our young people now-adays," grumbled the old man.

Only look at the beautiful pictures, so skilfully and clearly engraved; I am sure it would bring you double and treble the price you give for it." "What do you know of all this, Master Studious? I will give you three florins and not a penny more, and this only out of pure kindness."

"If you have that, give me more," earnestly pleaded the young man; think of my mother's sickness and our poverty."

"Is it my fault that your mother is poor and sick?" sneered the miser; "why have you not made yourself rich if poverty is so disagreeable to you? Take your book, or the three florins, whichever you please, Master Studious; only be quick, for I have something else to do beside listening to your whining."

It was as if a two-edged sword had pierced the heart of the deeply distressed young man. He suddenly seized the book; then he thought of his sick mother, and their extreme

need at home, and he strongly checked the rising words of his just anger. "Take the book, then," he said, with a look and tone in which the indignation of his deeply wounded spirit spoke forth-"take it, but you have not dealt with me as a Christian should deal with a Christian; may God be more merciful to you in your dying hour than you are now to me." And with these words he hastened from the shop, and he heard a scornful laugh behind him.

IV.

HE went forth into the street with burning sorrow rankling in his wounded breast. The December air blew sharp and cold over his glowing cheeks-he felt it not. People were talking loud and merrily as they moved up and down the lighted streets, but he heard them not. Sunk in despondency, he stood motionless in the night air, leaning against the corner of a house. Never before had he been so wretched. His spirit was stirred by an indescribable feeling of bitterness, which threatened to destroy the happiness of his life.

In mild solemn tones the bells sounded anew, and awakened in his soul the remembrance of him who brought, and is ever bringing to us all, redemption, help, and consolation; he called to mind the words of Christ which he a short time before had read, and which had so wonderfully cheered him; he thought of the resolution he had this day formed, of his dear mother, of whose entire recovery he had now so lively a hope. Then he took courage, walked down the street, and went to the shop of the apothecary Kremer.

mother? Here it is; and how is the good woman?"

"Thanks be to God," replied Ernest joyfully, "she is out of danger; but dear Herr Kremer," added he in an under-tone, "I cannot pay you this time; oh! be so good as to bear with me a little longer."

"Have I ever asked anything of you? ?" said the apothecary; "do not trouble yourself. I am right glad that your mother is better; I knew she would recover. But you yourself look so pale and weak! what has happened to you?"

Then Ernest, encouraged by the kindness of the cordial-hearted man, related to him how scornfully and hardly the antiquary had dealt with

him.

"Yes, yes," said the apothecary angrily, "that is the way with this covetous man; I have known him from his youth; it was his pleasure as a schoolboy to torment us, and, whenever he could, to cheat us. But do not let this disturb you; sit down at the table out yonder near the stove," he continued kindly; "after this vexation a drop of wine will not harm you." Saying this he opened a cupboard, took down a bottle of wine and a tart, and with good-natured haste filled the glass.

Ernest hardly knew what all this meant. "Oh, sir," he exclaimed, greatly surprised, "how have I merited such great kindness?"

"You are a brave son, and have acted honorably toward your mother, and for that I esteem you highly; so drink, drink!" insisted the kind old

raan.

"I wish my mother was here in my place," said the good son; "the wine would do her good."

"Do not let that trouble you," answered the apothecary, deeply moved; "your mother shall not be forgotten, and your little sister shall not go without her share; and now eat and drink to your heart's desire."

The kindness of the cordial-hearted old man made Ernest's meal a happy

one; new life flamed through his veins with the wine, his cares began to lessen, and he felt himself wonderfully refreshed. For a long time he had not been so light-hearted.

Meanwhile the old man, whose joy was heartfelt at seeing how much the young student relished his little repast, had taken down a second bottle of wine from the cupboard, and had made up a parcel of bonbons and candy for his little sister.

"The wine," said he to Ernest, "is for your mother, and this parcel for your little sister."

"How can I repay you for all your kindness to us?" asked Ernest, overpowered with joy and gratitude.

"Oh! that is of no importance." answered the apothecary laughing; "it is Christmas eve, when the Lord visits all his children, and you have been a very good child."

"May God reward you for the love you have shown us," said Ernest with emotion; "my mother and I have nothing but thanks and prayers to return you."

"Give me the last, dear young man," answered the apothecary," and invite me to your first. Remember me to your mother, and freely ask me for whatever you need. Farewell."

With a heart full of gratitude E nest pressed the offered hand of the old man to his heart, took the presents and hastened home.

VI.

CHEERED and warmed, refreshed in body and spirit, he entirely forgot the hard-hearted antiquary. He entertained himself as he went along with the pleasing surprise he should give his mother and sister, when they saw the good things he brought them. and raising his eyes to heaven in grat itude he exclaimed, "Father, there are some good men still!" When he reached home he found his mother still asleep, his little sister trying to darn his old socks, but, as yet wholly unpractised in the art of patching, she