hy brown limbs were
covered to above the calf with rings of silver and gilt, and her arms
were similarly decked. Part of her bosom was tattooed with blue and red
ink. This woman pressed a mango upon us at a trifling cost, but not
having been educated up to liking this fruit, it was bestowed upon the
first child we met. The Indian mango tastes like turpentine and musk
mixed, only more so.

The last scene witnessed at Bombay, as we were waiting on the pier for
the steam-launch which was to take us on board the P. and O. steamship
Kashgar, was the performance of some street jugglers. We had seen many
such exhibitions at Delhi, Agra, Madras, and Benares, but these fellows
seemed to be more expert in their tricks, and yet not superior or even
equal to many prestidigitateurs whom we have seen in America. The doings
of these Indian jugglers are more curious in the stories of travelers
than when witnessed upon the spot. The so-often-described trick of
making a dwarf mango-tree grow up from the seed before one's eyes to a
condition of fruit-bearing, in an incredibly short period of time, is
very common with them, but is really the merest sleight-of-hand affair,
by no means the best of their performances. A Signor Blitz or Hermann
would put the most expert of these Indian jugglers to shame in his own
art. The performers on this occasion were particularly expert in
swallowing knife blades, and thrusting swords down their throats; but it
was difficult to get up much enthusiasm among the idle crowd that
gathered upon the pier to watch them, and the few pennies which the
performers realized could hardly be remunerative.

We prepared for our departure from India with feelings of regret at not
being able longer to study its visible history, and to travel longer
within its borders. Nearly a month and a half had passed since we landed
in the country of the Hindoo and the Mohammedan, the land of palms and
palaces, of pagodas and temples. Its remarkable scenes and monuments
will never be forgotten, and with Japan will ever share our warmest
interest. There are some memories which, like wine, grow mellow and
sweet by time, no distance being able to obliterate them, nor any
after-experience to lessen their charm. India has a record running back
through thousands of years and remotest dynasties, captivating the fancy
with numberless ruins, which, while at attesting the splendor of their
prime, form also the only record of their history. The