My American and English friends know very well what is to be done, i. e. what arrangements and preparations are to be made two or three months before the marriage. The Bengalee do just the same as far as the preparation is concerned. Among the former the young man secures a home, furnishes the parlor with everything to render both the short summer and long winter pleasant and comfortable, drives over to Chickering and Sons for a best, well-tuned piano-forte, and brings home all the newly-composed music that possibly could be procured in the music-stores. The friends of the young lady seem very busy in knitting, seaming, sewing, embroidering, &c. Among the latter, no separate house is required at all, for it is considered greatest of all earthly pleasures to dwell under one and the same paternal roof. If the young man should remove somewhere, even after the death of his parents, in order to live with his wife, the children in the neighborhood would ridicule him as the slave of his wife, and her as the author of discord. Hindoo parents, on their death-bed, charge their sons not to have their food cooked in a different kitchen, but to dwell peaceably in the same house, helping each other. I know a Brahmun family in my village, Bātli, which contained thirty souls at the same time. The house that sheltered them is something like a fortress, enclosing an acre of land. There is no need of separate houses from various reasons. A newly-married wife in Bengal is more fit for a primary school in Boston than for housekeeping. Again, if her husband be absent for half a day even, she would not go to the next house to ask for help if absolutely necessary. Shopping and singing are out of the question. Thus, while very young I was sick, and the physician, not finding my father at home, put a few pills on a plate, and requested my mother, who was then by the side of the door, to get some _coorchēē_, bark of a tree, and mix its juice with them. Though in the next house there were several persons, yet she could not manage to get any _coorchēē_. In the afternoon the physician came, and feeling my pulse, said, smiling: “Madam, you have not applied the medicine, nor given your boy the prescribed regimen. I know why you have not: brother Gangooly is not at home.” Going a few rods out of the house, he returned, calling my mother, saying, “Madame, here is the _coorchēē_, which grew on your lot.”