calling my mother, by a new language, not by the use of the organs of speech, but by striking the floor with my left hand. Nobody understood my singular language, and reflecting awhile on the result of the new discipline and the advantage of talkativeness, carelessly, I sung out “Ma.” This sound reached her with the velocity of lightning. She rushed in, saying, “What is the matter?” “A little more milk, mother,” said I. “Poor child; to-morrow by this time you shall have plenty.” So saying, she took the plate away, with everything in it, charging me, if I wished for water, not to drink any until I had washed my mouth. I gazed around in vain. The yoke of superstition is really too heavy to bear. In desiring to have something more, I lost even what I had already! The privileges of a Brahmun are great. His person is sacred. It would be a sin if any one should dare to touch him by the foot, for the foot is a profane part of the body, as they believe. The caste Soodras, rising from the foot of Brohmo, became the lowest. When one priest accidentally touches another by the foot, he asks his pardon, saying, “_Bishtŏ-bă_ nōmō.” It would be considered a real favor if a Brahmun should tread on a physician or barber, or other low caste. The religious Hindoos daily drink “_pathuck joll_,” before the first meal of the day. Pathuck joll is a little water, which they take on the palm of their hand, in which the Brahmun dips the end of his right toe. Especially do sick persons drink this water, hoping to be cured from the disease that troubles them. I have heard a great many people say that they have been entirely restored to health simply by drinking “_pathuck joll_,” or eating a little dust from a Brahmun’s foot. After a little acquaintance with the Christian doctrines, knowing what I owe to God and man,--that I am as sinful as others,--I abdicated the supremacy I had, and would not give the dust of my foot to any. As the consecrated thread which hangs round our neck distinguishes us from the other castes, and draws the sick and mistaken folks towards us, I used to hide it somewhere, under my clothes, in the streets of Calcutta or elsewhere in foreign places. Unfortunately at one time I had forgotten to hide it, and an old woman of nearly sixty came along and stretched forth her right hand towards me. Of course I understood what she meant by that, and in a loving tone said: “Mother, I cannot put my foot on your hand.” “Why not, child?” she replied. “I am not a Brahmun, according to your idea. I am no better than you. We shall both stand on the same level before God.” The old woman was ignorant and besotted, could not understand my meaning, and, in vain looking at me for the blessing, cried aloud in an angry tone, “If not a Brahmun, what are you then? A shoemaker, I guess.” Though I noticed her dim old eyes flashing fire and a color of indignation visible on her wrinkled cheek, yet I ventured a few words more. “There is no disgrace