the Ganges, and only a few hundred miles from the city, the seat of wealth, learning, and refinement. To present this matter in its true light, I will describe this island and the sanctity attached to it. It is less settled by men than by wild beasts. It has a population of tigers, monkeys, and wolves. Very few children of Adam dare to dwell among these disagreeable inmates of the isle. There is a light-house, however, built by the British. The men who take care of the light, and a few solitary monks who live there, are considered the destined prey of the tigers, who are ready, whenever an opportunity occurs, to make their meal of them, or, to use a Hindoo expression, “if not a breakfast, a dinner, or a supper.” This place being near the confluence of the river Ganges with the sea, is regarded as sacred by the Hindoos, who resort there in the month of January to bathe, and spend three days in tents pitched on the sandy banks of the river. Its sanctity draws immense crowds only once a year, when hardly any mother carries her child with her, for the place, as well as the river, is very dreadful. The efficacy consists in the bathing in this place, not in throwing children into the river. Those who go there go for the purpose of purifying themselves with the sacred water, and not to commit so cruel a murder as throwing children into the river. So much for the Saugor island. I have sometimes looked at this matter in a different way; that a traveller had seen perhaps an insane woman throw her child into the water, which he interpreted as the institution of the “heathen.” But it seems to me an unjust inference, to name the fruit of insanity as the custom of a people, to stigmatize a whole people for the folly of one, or a few even. I read in a Boston paper, that the average number of suicides in the United States is nine per week. Will it be proper for me to report in India that suicide is the custom of the American people? No, I cannot tell such a story. When I am asked about it, I will ascribe it to insanity or drunkenness. Once more, I will say, then, as a Brahmun I never knew nor heard of the story of children thrown by their mothers into the Ganges. If a Hindoo mother hears this story she will press her babe close to her heart and say, “Sweet treasure, I have drained the ocean for you. My tender kiss is more genial to you than the sharp lips of the alligator. My loving lap is a better place for you than the unconscious bed of the Ganges!” A SKETCH OF MY LIFE AND EXPERIENCE. DEDICATION. THOMAS GAFFIELD, ESQUIRE. That you may know the personal and religious experiences of one in whom you have taken so much interest, and as a token of gratitude for all you have done for me during my stay in this country, this imperfect sketch is respectfully dedicated to you by