MARK TWAIN

thick with mud villages in all stages of crumbling decay,
It is a sorrowful land—a land of unimaginable poverty
and hardship.

Thought this would all become commonplace in a week;
three weeks of it have only enhanced its fascinations. I
think I should always like to wait an hour for my train
in India.

If we had got to the Mele this morning we might have
seen a man who hasn't sat down for years; another who
has held his hands above his head for years and never
trims his nails or hair, both very long; another who sits
with his bare foot resting upon a lot of sharp spikes—and
all for the glory of God. Human beings seem to be a
poor invention. If they are the noblest work of God where
is the ignoblest?

Four cramped little palanquins at the railroad station,
said to contain Hindu ladies—-dirty cotton, or duck, boxes,
shut up tight all around so nobody can see in—the person
must sit up in there, she can't lie down. There they stood
in the sun, waiting, the bearers standing by.

Feb. 8. Today and yesterday lay abed and starved a
cold. This evening went to Belvidere and dined with the
Lieut. Governor of Bengal—Sir Alexander MacKenzie
and a dozen—private dinner party.

Calcutta, Feb. 12. Packed theater.

Calcutta, Feb. 13. Packed house—jammed.
Bought a silver mug for my niche as one of the founders
of the Players, New York.

No bells in the room. The servant lies by your door
nights, on the stone floor.

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