throughout India you can purchase what is known as a razai, or cotton-wadded quilt, of any thickness. You will want two of these, to which you will add a pillow and a couple of calico sheets. You'll give the whole outfit to the guide when you are through, anyway, so you don't have to go to any great expense. But don't forget your waterproof cover for your bedding. Coolies are a bit careless and sometimes it rains in India. The best trains carry diners, but you can get good meals at the station dining-rooms. Hotels catering for tourist traffic take good care of their guests. It's only on the railway and in out-of-the-way places that you'll need your bedding. Lots of times your razai comes in very handy for day use. The upholstery of an Indian railway train has its limitations. In many ticket offices meal tickets are sold with the transportation, and you're supposed to notify the guard to wire ahead for restaurant reservations. Oh, there are lots of things that will be sprung on you in the nature of surprises, but none of them will be at all onerous. In fact, if you'll just enter into the spirit of the adventure, you'll have the time of your life, and you won't miss the industrious African who belabors you over the back with a whisk-broom just as your train is pulling into Grand Central Station when you haven't time to tell him what an utterly useless piece of furniture he is.

CHAPTER XIV

INDIA ANCIENT OF DAYS

What matter all the creeds that come and go-
The many gods of men?

My blood outcasts them from its joyous flow,
And it is now as then:

The Pearl of Morning and the Sapphire Sea,
The Diamond of Noon,

The Ruby of the Sunset

My creed, my Deity.

these shall be

And I will take some old, forgotten tune

And rhythm frolic-free,

And sing in little words thy wondrous boon,

O Sunlight and O Sea.

JOHN RUNCIE

IN commencing this chapter on India, I would like to venture a prophecy. After you have spent a day wandering around Calcutta, taken a look-in at the slums, smelt the native quarter, gazed with open-eyed horror at the frightful physical wrecks and malformations that are dragged around the city as 'holy men'—you'll say it's a mighty good thing for India that she has a white man's government. And you won't envy England her job. Here we have a duplicate of the Philippine situation: an aggregation of practically helpless people who cannot possibly govern themselves and yet are unwilling that anybody else should govern them. The great difference between the two lies in the fact that it's thirty times worse in India, with her excess of 300,000,000 population as compared with the 11,000,000 in the Philippines. Whatever your preconceived opinions be, therefore, you'll reach the conclusion. regardless of Britain's faults, that India is far better off with her than without her.

You will probably see all you want of Calcutta in two days or even less. Calcutta is not India by any manner of means. It's a big, widely spread-out city with a population of over 1,200,000 which has been aptly described by Kipling in his story 'The City of Dreadful Night.' By reason of that inborn love of sensation characteristic of the human race, Calcutta probably figures in more people's minds on account of the 'Black Hole' than anything else. And, as might be expected, it's the least important spot in the city. In fact, that's all it is a spot, marked by a tablet, at the northern end the present post-office. The incident was not a nice one because it reflected on both the British and the Hindus and was more the result of stupidity than anything else. As a result of a quarrel between the British Governor Drake and Surajah Dowlah, a dissipated and arrogant Bengal prince, the latter marched on Calcutta with an army in June, 1756. Governor Drake abandoned the city without notice, being joined by the garrison commander with his troops, who deserted two hundred and fifty Europeans, including women and children. Of this number one hundred and forty-six were forced into the soldiers' lockup in the fort for safe-keeping overnight. This room was twenty-two by fourteen feet in size with but two small barred windows. It was a hot June night, and when morning came only twenty-three remained alive. That's the 'Black Hole.' Though thoroughly characteristic of Hindu duplicity and cruelty, the centuries have woven a morbid sort of interest about the place and invested it with an importance it does not deserve. All that remains of it is a tablet.

After you have driven up the Chowringhee Road Calcutta's principal boulevard - once or twice, taken a look at Government House from the car, given the modern Jain Temple a casual glance, visited the Zoological Gar

dens, which are tremendously interesting, driven out to the Botanical Gardens for a look at the big banyan tree, one thousand feet in circumference, called at the post-office and listened to a babu or native clerk display his pigheaded ignorance for your especial benefit, there will be one thing left for you to do which is worth the time: a visit to the Imperial Museum - the point being that India's past is a mighty sight more interesting than her present.

On the outskirts of the city it is quite possible you may come across a holy man making a pilgrimage from some distant point and acquiring merit by measuring his length along the road in performance of a vow. He probably will have worn his nose off from burying his face in the sand at every 'step,' said step being the length of his body. Then you may also find another gentleman rolling over and over in the road with the same object in view. They all have attendants who do their begging for them, by which they — the attendants - also acquire merit.

The most entertaining one of these traveling gentry that I saw was a fellow who had managed to coax one leg up the side of his body in such a fashion that he bent his knee across the back of his neck, the foot hanging over the opposite shoulder. Not being able to walk on account of this deep affliction, he was dragged about the town on a low wagon with small wheels so as to facilitate his getting on and off. I have often wondered since why he didn't have the other leg similarly treated. Another joyous brother had held his fist doubled up so long that his finger nails had grown through the back of his hand. Still another had looked at the sun so steadily that he had grown blind and the muscles of his neck had become fixed with his face upturned. And just as if that wasn't holy enough, he had held one arm in a vertical position so long that it had also become permanently fixed. These scenes are not necessa

rily confined to Calcutta, although it's a great town for alms-giving; hence the presence of these holy men who are treated with marked respect by all natives.

And now for a trip up to Darjiling and a look-off at Kinchen-janga and the Himalayan Range. Also, if you're keen enough to rise at 4 A.M. and drive out to Tiger Hill a little run of six miles you may have a glimpse of the tip end of Everest at sunrise. Don't minimize the importance of this trip. Don't say you care little or nothing for mountain scenery or you'll compel me to say that you have never seen any that will compare in the slightest degree with what awaits your wondering eyes in that spot. So let us leave the major part of our baggage at either the Grand or the Continental Hotel (preferably the former) here in Calcutta, and take the sleeper for Siliguri. This is the junction point with the narrow-gauge railroad that takes you for an eight hours' climb over seven thousand feet up the foothills of the Himalayas, covering a distance of fifty miles, to a little town which you will learn to love in the brief one or two days you may remain there. I recall that I made a halting sort of an attempt at a description of a sunset over Mount Marivéles in the Philippines. There was some little excuse for that - it was within the limits of human effort. To essay a similar thing on Kinchen-janga's lofty height of twenty-eight thousand feet, with the valleys below in darkness, would simply be to court an anti-climax. That's something to see for yourself and to remember to your dying day. Darjiling is probably the only place in the world. within your reach where such an unearthly glory may be seen, and it would be an unpardonable lapse for you to miss it. We reach Siliguri at five in the morning, tumble out for chota hazri (little breakfast of coffee and rolls) at the station, and then into the open cars of this most wonderful narrow-gauge line in the world. At Kurseong station,