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without the shadow of a doubt, to the facts which meet us on every side in this benighted land. Are not tears, and shrieks, and heart-breaking moanings the heritage of these poor people, as well as of ns who are civilized? Do not sorrows press heavily upon their spirits, and woful agonies eat into their hearts? Does not grief furrow their brows, and the cancer eat away their soul? Are there not miseries so brimful and multitudinous that the spirit ofttimes gives way, and the poor victim seeks willingly the sod, saying to corruption, "Thou art my father; and to the worm, thou art my mother and my sister?" Are they not bruised, and wounded, and lacerated, all their life long, by all the divers thrusts of deadly sin? And does not death come here to them, with all its doubt, and desolation, and agony? The groans of infants, the shrieks of convulsed children, the despair of men and women, passing, in darkness, from time into eternity, come wafted on the breeze from these crowded towns, at times, every morn and eve. And then, when death has done its doleful work, and carried grief and wretchedness into their sad homes, do we not see the deeper traces of his mischief and malignity in the wretched rites and the miserable ceremonies which attend the passage of the dead from the hut to the grave? A whole populace carried away in a frenzy by the absurd notions of the after-life which they cherish among them; the exhibition of debasing superstitions over the dead bodies and the open graves of the departed; the abject subjection of these poor creatures to the power of the devil, to whom they crinage and degrade themselves lower than the beasts