Calcutta takes its name from Kali, the goddess of vengeance. Situated on the river Hooghly, ninety miles from the sea, its heat is more oppressive than that of Bombay, and in no respect is the city as attractive. A day at Serampore, an early morning visit to the Kalighat, an excursion to Darjeeling, from which point we had a view of the snowy range of the Himalayas, a morning in the botanical gardens, where we linger under the great banyan tree, which covers a space of ground eight hundred feet in circumference, and whose far-reaching branches are supported by nearly two hundred trunks, some of them a hundred feet in height, drives on the Maidan at sunset, and many visits to mission schools and zenanas, under the auspices of American ladies, fill with delightful experiences our two weeks in this city. Four days by steamer across the Bay of Bengal and we are beyond the break-water in the harbor of Madras. As soon as our ship drops anchor we are surrounded by masulah boats and catamarans. The former are curious constructions, sewed together to outride safely the furious dashing of the Madras surf, while the latter are fishing boats, formed of three logs scooped out a little into the canoe shape, and manned by a single naked native. Nothing but British pluck and enterprise, or American daring, would have attempted to build a city on a site so utterly unpropitious as Madras. On an inhospitable coast, exposed to the northeast monsoon and to the unsheltered glare of a scorching sun, stands a thriving city of four hundred thousand inhabitants. Although warned against venturing into Southern India after the first of March, we find the heat less intolerable here than in Calcutta. Scotch hospitality makes our week in Madras altogether enjoyable, and then we are off to Bangalore, a hill station and the chief military post of Southern India. After a pause of two days, we proceed to Trichinopoly, where Bishop Heber met death from apoplexy, in his forty-fifth year.