people bathe in the Ganges at
once; formerly many were drowned in the great crush to obtain the
peculiar blessings of bathing during an eclipse, but now a large force of
police is employed to regulate the movements of the people on such
occasions. Formerly, also, fights were very frequent between the
Mohammedans and Hindoos, owing to the clashing of their religious
beliefs, but under the tolerant and conciliatory system of the British
Government they now get along very well together.

A rest of two days and a few doses of quinine subdue the fever and put me
in condition to resume my journey. Twelve miles from Benares, on the East
Indian Kail way, is Mogul Serai, to which I deem it advisable to wheel in
the evening, by way of getting started without over-exertion at first.
Two English railroad engineers are stationed at Mogul Serai, and each of
them is a wheelman. They, of course, are delighted to offer me the
hospitality of their quarters for the night, and, moreover, put forth
various inducements for a longer stay; but being anxious to reach
Calcutta, I decide to pull out again next morning.

My entertainers accompany me for a few miles out. Mogul Serai is four
hundred and twelve miles from Calcutta, and at the four hundred and
fourth milestone my companions bid me hearty bon voyage and return.
Splendid as are the roads round about Mogul Serai, this eight-mile stone
is farther down the road than they have ever ridden before.

Twenty-five miles farther, and a sub-inspector of police begs my
acceptance of curried chicken and rice. He is a five-named Mohammedan,
and tells me a long story about his grandfather having been a reminder of
a hundred and fifty villages, and an officer in the East India Company's
army. On the pinions of his grandparents' virtues, his Oriental soul
soars ambitiously after present promotion; on the strength of sundry
eulogistic remarks contained in certificates already in his possession,
he wants one from myself recommending him to the powers that be for their
favorable consideration. He is the worst "certificate fiend" that I have
met.

Near Sassaram I meet a most picturesque subject for my camera, a Kajput
hill-man in all the glory of shield, spear, and gayly feathered helmet.
He is leading a pack-pony laden with his travelling kit, and mechanically
obeys when I motion for him to halt. He remains stationary, and regards
my movements with much curiosity while I arrange the camera. When the
t