comfortable. It was one of those beautiful mild evenings which can be
found only in the Bay of Monterey; the gentle and perfumed breeze softly
agitated the foliage around and above us, and as night came on, with its
myriads of stars and its silvery moon, the missionary having, for some
time, raised his eyes above in silent contemplation, reverted to scenes
of the past, and of other climes.

He spoke of Hurdwar, a far distant mission in the north of India, close
to the Himalayas. The Hindoos call It the "City of a Thousand Palaces;"
they say it was built by the genii on the very spot where Vishnu had
reposed himself for a few weeks, after one of his mystic transmutations,
in which he had conquered Siva, or Sahavedra, the spirit of evil. Though
not so well known, Hurdwar is a place still more sacred than Benares;
people assemble there once a year from all parts, and consecrate several
days to their ablutions in the purifying waters of the Ganges. In this
noble city is also held one of the greatest fairs of India, indeed of
all the world; and as its time is fixed upon the same month as that in
which the Hindoo devotees arrive at the city, numerous caravans from
Persia, Arabia, Cashmere, and Lahore, repair to the spot, and erect
their bazaars along the banks of the river, forming a street of many
miles. The concourse collected at these times has been ascertained to
number more than one million of souls.

There the Padre Marini had remained as a missionary for some years, all
alone. His flock of converts was but a small one; he had little to do,
and yet his mind could not be arrested by the study of all the wonders
around him; his heart was sad; for years he had had a sorrow which
weighed heavily upon him, and he was wretched. Before he had embraced
the solitude of a monastic life, he had with him a younger brother, of
whom he was very fond. The young man was a student in medicine, with