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After the crowd were admitted, there "tottered in ancient representatives of the twelve apostles, clothed in long violet robes, bound around the waist with white bands striped with red, with violet caps on their heads: on they came, feeble, wrinkled, with white locks falling over their violet apparel, with palsied hands resting on the strong arms that supported themthe oldest a hundred and one, the youngest eighty-seven years of age. There was a deal of trouble in mounting them upon their long, snowy throne; that crimson step was a mountain for those feeble feet to climb. A man in black pulled off a black shoe and stocking from the right foot of each. And now the king, ungirding his sword, approaches the oldest apostle, receives the golden ewer, bends himself over the old foot, drops a few drops of water upon it, receives a snowy napkin from the princess, and lays it daintily over the honored foot; again he bows over the second, and so on through the whole; a priest, with a cloth round his loins, finishing the drying of the feet." (p. 259.)

Then, dinner is served to these twelve antiquities, by twelve footmen, with twelve trays, twelve rolls, and twelve bottles of wine: the principal part of which they are expected to carry home for domestic use-besides a small purse of money hung around the patient neck of each by the hand of his gracious Majesty.

Munich is the most artificial of all the cities of the world, its customs the quaintest, its realities the most unreal, and, in all its aspects it forms the strongest contrasts to what we are accustomed to in the New World. Here art is pursued as a business, but there even business is an art-life is a sort of holiday, the buildings are toys, the government a kind of make-believe, religion is a ceremony, and men and women seem to be all engaged in making tableaux rather than attending to the serious concerns of human existence. Miss Howitt, with her girlish, trusting nature, her love of art, her eager search after the romantic, the picturesque and

the quaint, was well adapted to the task she has attempted of giving the world a satisfying glimpse of this most curious city.

One passage in her pleasant volume on Woman's Rights breathes such a healthful spirit, that we cannot forbear closing our article with it:

"The longer I live," says Anna, "the less grows my sympathy with women who are always wishing themselves men. I cannot but believe, that all in life that is truly noble, truly good, God bestows upon us women in as unsparing measure as upon men. He only desires us to stretch forth our hands and gather for ourselves the rich joys of intellect, of nature, of study, of action, of love, and of usefulness which He has poured forth around us. Let us only cast aside the false, silly veils of prejudice and fashion which ignorance has bound about our eyes; let us lay bare our souls to God's sunshine of truth and love; let us exercise the intelligence which He has bestowed on worthy and noble objects, and this intelligence may become keen as that of men; and the whalebone supports of drawing-roon conventionality withering up, we shall stand in humility before God, but proudly and rejoicingly at the side of man! Different always, but not less noble, less richly endowed!

"And all this we may do without losing one jot of our womanly spirit, but rather attain to these blessed gifts through a prayerful and earnest development of those germs of peculiar purity, of tenderest delicacy and refinement, with which our Father has so specially endowed wo

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SIR

THE PALANKEEN.

IR JOHN MAUNDEVILLE is not far wrong when he says, "In the land of Prestre John ben so many mervelles that it were to combrous and to long to putten it in scripture of bokes." Romance is there mingled with reality in such delightful proportion, that it seems like a dream come true. The stories which charmed us when we were boys are reproduced in life, and we ourselves become actors in them. The rosy glow of our morning associations and recollections transmutes even common things into pleasures, and for the time we are children in our delight.

But the country needs little help from the imagination to make it interesting. There is the rich variety of its tropical nature, from the palms of Coromandel to the pines of the Himmalayas; there are the remains of an antiquity which no research has penetrated,-wrecks of a civilization that claims to date from a period when "the pyramids built up with newer might" lay unhewn in the quarry; there are the ruined palaces of forgotten kings; the old dark caves and temples of a darker and still existing superstition; there the later exquisite works of the Mussulman dominion, hiding in the beauty of their ruins the cruelty and tyranny that built them; there are the marks of former conquests cut deep in memorial institutions, and there is the great complex system, so interwoven with what is ancient as to seem almost a part of it, by which the present masters of India have linked themselves to its people. And in addition to all these sources of interest is that still greater one afforded by the native character, habits of life, and the contrasts between them and those of the Anglo-Indians. It is to be remembered, moreover, that the native races of India differ from each other not less than the different peoples of Europe. The bold, dashing, proud, Rajput of the Northwest is a different being from the subtle, pliant, and timid Bengalee. The wild tribes of the mountains on the East and the West,-the Coles and the Bheels,-are not even of the same blood and stock as the soft Mussulmen of the South, or the tough Tartar tribes of the Northern hills, All these differences of race lead to contrasts of customs and manners which open before a traveller an unbounded field of entertaining and curious inquiry.

There are many modes of travelling in

India; some of them sad Western innovations. Railroads have already been be gun. Coaches have been established on some routes, and the best conveyance of all, the most truly Indian of all, the palankeen, is being gradually driven out of use by the fast spirit of the age. But one who would see native life, and would really enjoy the East, should remember the Bengalee saying, "It is better to walk than to run, it is better to stand than to walk, it is better to sit than to stand,but to lie down is best of all." He should not hurry up the Ganges on one of the slow boats of the Ganges Steam Navigation Company, from Calcutta to Allahabad, with the steam whistle waking him out of every dream, but he should rather travel quietly, with all the repose and dignity of travel, in the slow, delightful palankeen. Then when he approaches the Ganges, and first beholds the sacred stream that flows from Paradise, and sees the banyan trees dropping their pendent branches into the waves, or a grove of dark-leaved mangoes reflected in its smooth waters, he will recall the legend of the 3,500,000 holy places on its banks, and will remember that he who only looks on Gunga will obtain all the fruit that might be gained by visiting each of these holy places.

The palankeen is the land gondola of the East. It is a light black box, about six feet long, nearly three wide, and three in height, with sliding doors on each side. to be open or shut according to one's fancy or the weather. In front are two narrow windows. It is fitted within with a leather-covered mattress, cushion and pillows, and a rack for the feet. Beneath this rack is a box for biscuit, ale, candles, and other such articles, while above the feet is a drawer, in which lie your telescope, your map, and your portfolio, and over this is a shelf on which stand your coffee pot, your travelling case, and the few books you cannot do without. On the outside, strapped upon the top, is your gun case, and perhaps a tin box containing the things that could not be packed away within. From the middle of each end projects a stout black pole, tipped with silver plates, which rests upon the shoulders of the bearers, who jog along, two before and two behind, at a steady pace of about three miles an hour. A set of bearers generally consists of twelve men. Eight to carry the palkee, four

and four by turns; two, called banghyburdars, to carry the deep tin cases with pyramidal tops which serve instead of trunks, and two mussalcher to carry the mussals or torches by which the way is lighted in the night. The men wear a cloth about their loins, and this, with a pad for their shoulders and a tight-fitting skull-cap, sometimes exchanged for a turban, is their only clothing in warm weather. When it grows cold they put on a close jacket, and short coverings for their legs, and wrap a stout cloth about their shoulders. Each set of bearers is expected to go about ten miles.

The whole system of travelling, in the English portion of India, is in the hands of the government, and is connected with the post-office department. Before setting out on a journey one must "lay a dawk," as it is called; that is, arrange with the government for a supply of bearers along the road, and you give yourself up, a kind of animated parcel, to be forwarded according to direction. For this service the charge is eight annas, or about a quarter of a dollar a mile, of which perhaps half a cent a mile goes to each of the bearers, and the rest is devoured by the rapacious post-office. At the end of each stage the bearers gather round the door of the palkee to beg for bucksheesh, and if they have gone steadily, and have not jolted you by getting out of step, you give them a four-anna piece to be divided among them, while the new bearers start off briskly with you, hoping to come in at the end of their stage for a similar reward.

But get into the palkee; put your bag of four-anna pieces under the pillow to be at hand; the bearers lift you up and jog gently along, with a low grunt at each step, the palankeen swaying slightly on their shoulders; the heat of the day is over and the sun is going down in a cloudless horizon; the long shadows fall across the way; it is too near twilight to read; it is too early to sleep; and so, leaving the doors of the palkee wide open to the evening air, you lie and watch the night come on, while fancy mingles strangely together the wonders of this new East, with the remembrances of the old West. There is no other way of travelling like this for the placid quiet of meditation, and the steady pleasant flow of thought.

As the darkness thickens, and the passing scenes fade into dimness, the mussalchee lights his cotton torch, which he keeps wet with oil poured from a hollow bamboo joint, and the broad smoky flame glares over the road. Closing the door

on the side by which he runs, you catch, through the other, uncertain glimpses of the roadside. Sometimes the light loses itself in the thick jungle, sometimes streams away over the open plain, sometimes falls on the encampment of a party of native travellers, or shows the solitary figure of a wandering mendicant. At each station the scene is picturesque. The fresh bearers are standing ready to transfer the palkee, without letting it rest on the ground, from the shoulders of the old relay to their own; or, if not quite prepared to start, are sitting under a spreading tree, upon the platform of hardened earth raised round its trunk, passing their gurgling goorgoorce from mouth to mouth. Even at a late hour of the night a party of curious villagers are assembled to watch their start. A salaaming moonshee or clerk of the post-office, with his paper and inkstand and reed pen comes, touching his forehead, to beg you to sign for him the quittance for the past stage; and a little naked boy creeps close up to the palankeen and says in his most insinuating manner, half whining half smiling, Sahib, Sahib, bucksheesh, bucksheesh,and on all the torchlight falls, deepening the shadows, and flickering with various effect over the faces and figures of the crowd.

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Again you set off, having got pretty well woke up from your midnight nap. The bearers start briskly, with a shout. The pariah dogs come running out to bark, and going through the dark line of village huts, in front of which the carts are standing, while the cattle lie at their side, you are again on the solitary road. In the quiet pauses of the night, when the voices of the bearers are still, you may hear, if you are awake, the yelp of the jackal, the lowing of the herds, or the beating of the tomtom before some distant shrine, or on occasion of some social festivity.

The first glimmer of morning has hardly shone, when the deserted road begins again to be animated by native passengers. The poor, lean husbandman, with a shred of cloth round his waist, is going to his morning's labor. As he passes you, he stoops down to take up some dust, and touch his forehead with it, in token of his humble respect. Now and then you meet parties of sepoys, soldiers of the East India Company's service, distinguishable by their air, or some piece of red cloth finery, going home on leave of absence. Some of them are mounted on

small, scraggy ponies, with their worldly. goods done up in a bundle that dangles at

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their side; others toiling along on foot, their old shoes carefully saved, and carried on a stick over their shoulders, and the rest of their property tied in one end of their turban, and hanging down their backs. They salute you as you pass, mistaking you for one of their masters. There are men going along the road, carrying loads of split bamboo, or bearing burdens on their heads; and you may chance to meet a doli, or light native palankeen, whose close-drawn curtains hide the occupant within, while two attendants, with drawn swords, running at its side, only serve to prove that the burden must be precious, to be so well guarded. Frequently, a whole family, or two or three families travelling together, will come by. The women carry the little children on their hips, or both are riding on sleek, hump-backed, slender-legged cows, who are decked with collars of dried grass, ornamented with cowrie shells; while the men, wrapped during the cool morning in a long sheet of cotton cloth, and with the ends of their white turbans tied under their chins, so that, in the gray dawn, they look like ghosts who have caught cold, walk along, driving bullocks laden with all the earthly possessions of the household. The women cover their faces all but their eyes, and the men salaam as you pass. A clanking of chains heard coming towards you, warns you of a gang of convicts chained together, and kept at labor on the roads. A blind beggar sits under a tree, and hearing the measured tread of the bearers, calls to you, Ghureeb-purwan, Protector of the poor, may peace rest on your cap.-Oh, beggar! may your salutation return to you in plenty. Near a town, you may chance to meet a gaudylooking ekka, or carriage for one, with red curtains hanging from its cone-shaped top, and little brass bells jingling from it, drawn by two fine oxen of the beautiful hump-backed breed, while within sits an oily, white-robed baboo. Under the trees is a party of travellers cooking their meal. They have made a fireplace of three stones, or bricks, and are baking their coarse cakes, while one has gone to the well, not far off, to fill his bright brass jar with water. A long train of camels, awkward, ungainly, splay-footed, evileyed creatures, comes along the road, bearing the produce of the Punjab or Cabool in their panniers. They are tied one to another by a cord fastened to their saddles, and the Northern drivers sit on their backs, or walk along in the shadow at their sides. Far more interesting than

these camels, is a huge elephant,his immense bulk almost hidden under a load of sugarcane, which he is bringing from the field. Every now and then his trunk is turned upward to pull out a cane for his private use; or should he be passing by a hut, in front of which is a little plat of cultivation, he neglects his sugar for the sake of pulling up a fine, tall, juicy stem of the castor oil plant, which he relishes as an ambrosial delicacy. Or perhaps you may meet, as it comes creaking slowly along, a clumsy, two-wheeled cart, laden with the poor coal from the Burdwan pits, or with kunker for mending the roads, and drawn by two gray buffaloes, with spreading, bent-back horns, like the buffaloes of the Roman Campagna.

But of all the passengers along the road in the autumn, as the cold season comes on, the most numerous are pilgrims. The harvest has been reaped, the seed is sown for the crop of the coming spring, and it is the season of leisure. The land owner or laborer, who has vowed to make an offering to his tutelar deity, or wishes to secure the favor of Vishnu or Siva, sets out on his journey, sometimes alone, sometimes accompanied by a part or the whole of his family. Many of the pilgrims make their way to Hurdwar, where the Ganges, fresh from the foot of Vishnu, bursts out through the rocky barrier of mountains that surround its source, and pours fresher and less polluted waters than in its course below. Hurdwar is a town of great sanctity in the eyes of all good Hindoos. Temples line the bank of the river; and happy is he, who, having bowed at the inner shrine, may bathe from off their steps, and wash away, in the sacred water, the secret stains visible to the gods alone.

Here the pilgrims obtain bottles of the water, sealed up by one of the innumerable priests, who are supported by the fees for this service; and placing these bottles in light wicker baskets, which are carried slung from each end of a pole that rests upon the shoulder, they depart for the temple, often one distant alike from Hurdwar and from their homes, at which the offering is to be made. Besides these pilgrims, who make the journey for their own sake, there are others who are hired to perform, vicariously, the duties and the vows of those whose strength or whose inclination is not equal to the effort; and still others, who go to Hurdwar to get the holy water for sale. Those making the pilgrimage to accom

plish their own vows, are, however, the

most numerous.

Having reached the temple, generally one of special repute, where the vow was to be fulfilled, the water is poured over the stone image or emblem of the god, an offering is made to his priests, and then the pilgrims return home, after an absence often of months in length, and a journey of many hundreds of miles.

There are few families of which some member has not travelled on this errand. If one of the household is sick; if a misfortune has fallen upon it; if the drought. ruins the crops, or the insects eat them; if the cattle die, or are stolen, the offering is vowed, and the pilgrimage is made. Thousands upon thousands of pilgrims are travelling every year, and the water of the sacred stream is carried all over India, from the foot of the Himmalayas to the Temple of Ramiseram, opposite the hot coast of Ceylon.

These pilgrimages are one of the chief means of spreading civilization among the people. The ignorance and prejudice, which are the inseparable companions of him who has passed all his days in one place, arc, by degrees, shaken off and got rid of, as he goes away from the mud walls that inclose his native village; and when he comes back, he is surprised to find how small a portion of the world the familiar inclosure really contains. Not a pilgrim can go to Hurdwar, without seeing there, beside the temples, and the images, and the devotees, the head works of the great canal, by which the English are about to employ five sixths of the water of the sacred stream in irrigating four million acres of land, thus securing the population of three times that extent of territory from the danger of famine, and giving to the current of the Ganges a true, in place of an imaginary sanctity. Many of them must pass along the line of the canal by Koorki, the most flourishing station in North Western India, and must see the railroad upon which the materials of construction of the works are carried, and the fifteen great solid arches of the aqueduct over the Solani River, and must behold the peace and prosperity that extend with the extending canal. Others must go over the great roads (unfortunately still too few), by which the English have linked some of the chief cities of their possessions together, and may meet travellers like themselves from other quarters of the land, and watch with them the trains of camels and bullocks bearing the produce of the interior to the

river ports, or bringing back other goods in return.

The native who has seen such sights as these, and who has talked in the roadside caravanserais with the strangers who meet there. and has gone wondering through the bazaars at Delhi or Benares, will return to his little, distant home, with his apprehensions quickened, and his faculties enlarged, and ready to say, to the envy of less travelled villagers, "Stand aside, O man, for I am more learned than thou art, and have seen more things."

But besides such pilgrims as these, there are others-the wandering and mendicant members of religious orders, like the friars of Europe. They chiefly belong to two great orders: one, formed of the worshippers of Siva, the most detestable of Hindu deities, and the other, followers of Vishnu, the most attractive of the gods. The first are called Gosains, and the latter Beiragees. These great religious orders are one of the most curious developments of Hinduism. A man of any caste may join them; the service of the god breaks down the barrier between Brahmin and Sudra. In these societies, and in these alone, they meet on equal terms. Each member of the order is attached to some special temple, and is the disciple of some high priest. Under the direction of this spiritual guide, they wander over India, from one holy place to another, visiting the temples of the god to whose service they are devoted. Every where they are received as holy men; they are entertained at the temples which they visit; the gifts of the pious and the timid, desirous of favor or of pardon, are bestowed upon them; and they often return, after wanderings that extend over years, with large accessions to the treasury of their peculiar shrine. They sometimes travel three or four together; they have strings of beads round their necks, rosaries in one hand, and a long staff in the other, and no clothing but a saffron cloth about their loins. The looseness of the regulations of the orders, sometimes affords an opportunity for dissolute and vagabond fellows to assume the profession of sanctity; but, on the other hand, Colonel Sleeman-and there are few men who know more about the people of India than he says, that many of these mendicants are "intelligent men of the world," with stores of information acquired on their long journeys.

There is still another class of religious travellers that one sometimes meets, the devotees to the most degrading and pain

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