The military station of Goalparah is situated on the left bank of the Burrampooter, on the summit of an oblong hill three hundred feet high, commanding one of the most magnificent views of the Bootan and Himalaya Mountains, partially covered with snow, that can well be imagined. There are (or were at the time of which I write) three bungalows (ground floor cottages) on the small space of table land on the hill, occupied by the officers attached to the district. From its elevation, many are disposed to claim for the hill the enviable title of "the Sanitarium of Assam," but however just its pretension to salubrity may be, the same degree of credit cannot be extended beyond this isolated spot. Many parts of the division are so inimical to life, that the mortality both of Europeans and natives, equals, if it does not exceed, that in any district in Assam. The noxious exhalations from the Garrow hills and woods seem more deadly than the climate of the Northern Dooars, of which few persons resident there can long resist the depressing effects. Unless endowed with great stamina, life is here frequently extinguished by jungle fever in the course of a few days. The town of Goalparah, consisting of about seven thousand inhabitants, is built wholly of mats, grass, bamboos, and reeds, at the foot of the hills, and as the adjoining country is a low, swampy level, interspersed with slight elevations, it is subject to annual inundations. The chief traders are Kyahs, merchants from the western parts of India; and at no place in Assam is there a more extensive and lucrative trade carried on in cloths of English and Indian manufacture; rice, mustard-seed, cotton from the Garrow hills, manjeet, and other articles. A three months' residence at the station of Goalparah in 1837, rendered a prolonged stay unnecessary on the present visit. An absence of three years had produced few changes in the condition of the people or the appearance of the buildings, excepting in the house I formerly occupied, which had been suffered to become a heap of ruins. One vestige of the débris, however, gratified my self-love. A little glass window-frame, made with my own hands, still survived the destruction of time and the elements, and vividly recalled to memory the difficulty I had overcome in endeavouring to admit light into my little dwelling. Such a luxury as window glass being unknown at the remote station, I had purchased some of the small looking-glasses which always abound in the Indian bazaars, and, removing the quicksilver, converted them into window panes.