landscape all the way from Lahore;
their appearance signifies that I am approaching the Bengal Hills. From
Mogul Serai my road has been through territory not yet invaded by the
revolutionizing influence of the railway, and consequently the dak
bungalows are still kept up in form to provide travellers with
accommodation. Chowkeedar, punkah-wallah, and sweeper are in regular
attendance, and one can usually obtain curried rice, chicken, dhal, and
chuppatties. An official regulation of prices is posted conspicuously in
the bungalow: For room and charpoy, Rs 1; dinner, Rs 1-8; chota-hazari,
Rs 1, and so on through the scale. The prices are moderate enough, even
when it is considered that a dinner consists of a crow-like chicken,
curried rice, and unleavened chuppatties. The chowkeedar is usually an
old Sepoy pensioner, who obtains, in addition to his pension, a
percentage on the money charged for the rooms--a book is kept in
which travellers are required to enter their names and the amount paid.
The sweepers and punkah-wallahs are rewarded separately by the recipient
of their attentions. Sometimes, if a Mohammedan, and not prohibited by
caste obligations from performing these menial services, the old
pensioner brings water for bathing and sweeps out one's own room himself,
in which case he of course pockets the backsheesh appertaining to these
duties also.

A few miles south of Shergotti the bridge spanning a tributary of the
Sone is broken down, and no ferry is in operation. The stream, however,
is fordable, and four stalwart Bengalis carry me across on a charpoy,
hoisted on their shoulders; they stem the torrent bravely, and keep up
their strength and courage by singing a refrain. From this point the road
becomes undulating, and of indifferent surface; the macadam is badly
washed by the soaking monsoon rains, and the low, level country is
gradually merging into the jungle-covered hills of Bengal.

The character of the people has undergone a decided change since leaving
Delhi and Agra, and the Bengalis impress one decidedly unfavorably in
comparison with the more manly and warlike races of the Punjab. Abject
servility marks the demeanor of many, and utter uselessness for any
purpose whatsoever, characterizes one's intuitive opinion of a large
percentage of the population of the villages. Except for the pressing
nature of one's needs, the look of unutterable perplexity that comes over
the face of a Bengali villager, to-day