Captain Belfield, who was well acquainted with the place and its history, acted as our Cicerone, pointing out the most remarkable buildings; amongst these, by far the most considerable was the palace erected by that crafty and most consummate villain Aurungzebe, of which there are some very considerable remains, halls, baths, courts, &c., also the tomb of Meerun, the assassin of Surajah Dowlah. Rajmahal was the residence and capital of the unfortunate Sultan Sujah, one of the brothers of Aurungzebe. The tragic end of this prince, amongst the wilds of Arracan, is touchingly related by the accurate historian Bernier, whose history of this family is a perfect romance. The relator has traversed the wild forests in Arracan towards Myamootie, where the hapless Mogul prince is supposed to have met his fate. There are Mahomedans naturalized in Arracan, who differ in many respects from the aborigines, though they wear a similar garb. They are supposed to be descendants of those followers of Sultan Sujah, who escaped the massacre described by Bernier, and were retained in slavery by the Mughs. When the city of Arracan was captured by the British, the head of the Mahomedan inhabitants, singularly enough, bore the name of Sujah. The writer remembers him well, and a wily fellow he was, playing, on the approach of the army, a well-managed double game, with British and Burmese, which was to benefit himself, whichever party succeeded. Poor Sultan Sujah! the howling forests of Arracan must have presented a melancholy contrast to the marble halls of the palace of Aurungzebe! Like Sebastian of Portugal (to whose fate his own bore some resemblance), he was long believed to be alive, and fondly looked for by his adherents in India, and several impostors appeared to personate him. Rajmahal has long fallen from its palmy state, and what remains of the town is ruinous, and thinly inhabited. Leaving this place, we continued our route, having the woody ranges of hills on our left, at various distances from the bank of the river. At Sicrigully, a low spur of the hills touches the Ganges, crowned at its eminence with an old mosque or tomb; beneath is a small bungalow, for travellers, and hard by, a straggling village. Here I was gratified by the sight of a brother sportsman, in the person of an Indian hunter, or shekarri. He was a little, spare, black creature, a native of the hills (a race perfectly distinct from the people of the plains), armed with a matchlock, whilst sundry bags and pouches adorned his person. He brought a fawn and a brace of jungle fowls, which he offered for a rupee, and some English powder and shot.