on nose, is so absorbed in the study of one
of his own books, that he notices us not as we
approach and linger for a moment at his stall.
It contains an endless assortment of paper and
cloth-covered publications. The leaves of some
are open, so as to exhibit the pictures; some
bear illustrations on their covers; representations
of Hindu gods, and of events in the
Hindu mythology.

The charpoy is an article of as frequent use
by day as it is by night. Its offices are various,
while its shape is beautifully simple. A bed by
night, it is a couch by day. It is the common
settee of the family. When an Englishman
would offer his visitor a chair, a Hindu would
offer him a seat on his charpoy. At this time
of day the diurnal use of the charpoy is very
visible. In one verandah, a naked little urchin,
who grins at us as we pass, is making it his
play-ground. In another, a woman is seated
on it, nursing a child. In a third, a gentleman,
who apparently "lives at home at ease," and
has no business, stretched at his full length on
the homely couch, is enjoying his midday
siesta.

The creaking we hear in many of the huts
proceeds, as we may learn by peeping in through
any open door, from an oil or corn mill, which
a miserable lean cow is working, dragging the
heavy groaning machine round and round after
her, in a ceaseless circle; while instances of
housewives grinding corn in the ordinary and
well-known method, between two flat stones,
are seen in many a verandah and court-yard.

Our village enjoys but a short twilight.
About forty minutes of day remain after the sun
sinks beneath the horizon. So, about an hour
or two before that time our village again puts
on a bustling air. Trade grows active again;
ploughmen throng the streets, driving their
cattle home; women go to fill their pitchers
at the river or the tanks; people take their
evening stroll. Troops of children, shouting
and laughing, just let loose from the village
school, chase one another up and down the
streets; or, forming in procession, march about
the village to the music of their own voices.
Others, in some open space, get up a game not
unlike that known to English schoolboys as
"rounders." Scholars from the government
academy, embryo bankers' clerks, or
merchants' clerks, salute us on their way home
with "Good morning, sir!" Thereby supposing
that they have done as England does, and that
the only thing required to complete their
metamorphosis into a thoroughbred sahib is
an English suit of clothes. Now, the
magistrate's and the police superintendent's cut-
cherries close, and send forth, to swell the
evening crowd, numbers of loud-talking clamorous
suitors, who, whether successful or
unsuccessful, seem equally elated in being in some
way brought under the notice of government.
Now, the good housewife, broom in hand, sets
her house in order against her husband's
return from plough or desk. The ghat, which
was in the morning the most fashionable spot,
is, in the evening, not honoured with so good
an attendance. Not many women are about
at this hour.

Our walk through the village to-day has
been but little noticed. The apathetic character
of the native, and his absorption in his own
business, cause him, except on occasions of
idleness or of great interest—when he can be
offensively curious—to be entirely indifferent
to the actions of any other persons, although
that other person's skin be of a different colour
to his own. So we have neither been hooted,
nor pelted, nor followed by gazing crowds;
indeed, with the exception of some bashful
maidens, who, more from affectation and a
desire to be noticed, as evinced by their slyly
peeping at and smiling on us, than from any
real feeling of modesty, covered their heads
while we passed them, no one has given us
more attention than that contained in the
casual glance which is bestowed on every
passer-by.

By degrees, as night draws on, signs of the
approach of that time of rest which the whole
world alike acknowledges and enjoys are seen
in the extended forms which appear in the
verandahs of the various huts. The Hindu's
chief meal is now eaten, and the vast dish of
rice which composes it, is so disproportionate
to the capacity of his stomach, that he becomes
the victim of his own prosperity, and a prey to
all the pangs of dyspepsia. So, to ease his
burdened frame, he reclines his limbs, and in
ruminative quiet and under the influence of
his soothing hubble-bubble, gets rid of the
unpleasant effect of his evening meal.

Dim oil lamps are but poor assistants to
trade, and after struggling for a dull hour or
so, the shops are one by one shut up, and the
streets become dark and quiet. Quiet, but for
the cries of the nightly watchman, answered
from all quarters by his companions, and echoed
by the howling of the village dogs and the
distant jackals.

SECOND-CLASS VIRTUES.

WE are not, as a rule, perfect, but most of
us regret our shortcomings. When we do
what is wrong we are usually sorry afterwards
that we cannot undo it, or, at any rate, we
respect those who are better, firmer, and more
moral than ourselves. I believe this preference
of good to evil to be innate, natural, not the
artificial product of civilisation, or based upon
selfish expediency; for we find it amongst the
most thoughtless savages. Even Sir Samuel
Baker, who takes quite a pessimist view of the
wild African, and seems inclined, in one chapter,
to deny him the bare power of comprehending
gratitude, honesty, or truth, with that frankness
which adds so much both to the interest
and value of his writings, tells, in the next, of
traits in the characters of individual "natives"
which seem to upset his theory.

But though we all admire virtue as a whole,
we have by no means an equal respect for all
the virtues. Now, there is generosity; everyone