forms. You reach a favourable spot, and take your stand on some slight elevation–a housestep, a plank, or a block of wood or stone. The passing throng stops to hear what the padré has to say. Some rude fellows try to make sport; but the respectable old gentleman with the big turban and white robe bids them be silent, or go about their business. The cooly, with a load on his head and the drops of perspiration standing on his brow, and the scholar with his books under his arm, the shop-keeper, the mechanic, and even a Brahmin or two, stop to listen to your discourse. Your theme is the folly of idolatry; you expose its absurdity and impiety, you deride the senseless block in the temple just before you, and ask them why immortal, soul-possessing men should bow down to a soulless, senseless, tongueless idol. The cooly grins; the carpenter nods approbation. “Why, indeed!" says the bazaar-man; “this is the iron age.” “It is our folly,” exclaims the scholar.
“But,” asks the stout, oily Brahmin at your right, “do you not believe that God is everywhere?”
“Certainly."
“ Then, if he is everywhere, is he not in the
