I would speak of my daily idol worship. After washing myself, either in the river Ganges or in some tank (in the latter case the Hindoos sprinkle a few drops of the sacred water on the head), I would go into the room where the image was kept on a small wooden throne, elegantly furnished with cushions, pillows, curtains, etc. On the floor there was a carpet-seat for me, some copper and brazen vessels, a hand-bell, a large plate, with a good display of flowers, perfumatory powder, and some edibles. Bringing down the idol from its throne, I would put it into a vessel and pour water on its head by the right hand and ring the bell by the other, uttering some words at the same time. Wiping it with small towels, I would put it on a seat and scatter flowers, powder, etc., on its head with much ceremony, offering prayer and praise to it, ask its glance at the edibles, etc., and finally prostrate myself on the ground in humiliation, and partake of the “food offered to the idol.” By and by, when the dinner had been cooked and set in order, I would carry the idol into the dining-room and offer the food to it the second time. While I was thus worshipping the idol, and forming plans for a higher grade of devotion, my father was removed from this to the world above. I was then fourteen years old, I think. He suffered a fortnight from a fever, which finally brought an end to his existence. He retained his consciousness, yea, even his literary priestly sensibilities, unto the very last. It is customary in our country to read, from Hindoo sacred books, to the sick. A priest was called upon to do this service to my father. When he had finished his reading, my father remarked: “Friend, to sell needles to a blacksmith is not an easy matter; what you read to me has been _particularly_ meant for a case different from mine.” I was not at home when he died, having gone to Calcutta to a Brahmun woman who had taken much interest in my father. While I was returning home in the afternoon a neighbor inquired of me “if I knew how my father was,” and receiving a negative answer said, “Go home and you will see.” Drawing myself nearer home the cries from my friends told me my dear father was dead. His body was then on the funeral pile on the bank of the Ganges, but I could not see it. They would not let me go there. He did not leave any fortune for us. While breathing his last, he said to my mother that the richest thing he left for her was Ish-ur, or God; and, next to him, the “three diamonds,” his three sons. “These three,” he said, “duly and rightly used, will meet all your wants.” My uncle, the younger brother of my father, stretched forth his kind hands over us. Not being a religious man himself, and inclined to follow the fashion of the community, he desired me to study English part of the time, and requested a fine Hindoo young man, a student of the “Hindoo College,” to give me instruction. Accordingly I began