There was something to do and to see every moment of the time. I was taken to all the show-places of the city. The first sight shown to me was the famous Black Hole, where John Z. Holwell and one hundred and forty-six men were incarcerated in a dungeon twelve feet square. One can not escape being told the horrible story, if he visits Calcutta, and I suppose that every one hears the narrative with added adornment, after the true Hindu style. The special point of the story that was thrust at me was the orgy and heavy sleep of the rajah, while his servitors were trying to arouse him to answer the screams of the dying men in the Hole. In the morning, after the rajah had had his beauty sleep, he was told of the little difficulty the English had in breathing in the foul and heavy air of the dungeon, and he ordered them released; but death, lingering, and as heavy-handed and heavy-hearted as the brutal prince, had already released most of them. One is glad to be told for the ten thousandth time, after hearing this ghastly tale, of the clerk Clive leaving his ledgers and pens and leading an army to crush the wretches at Plassy. But, like most things of the kind, the horrors of the Black Hole have been exaggerated, until sympathy, palled, refuses longer to be torn and bled over imaginary as well as real terrors. There have been many worse catastrophes, and of a nature that should appeal more strongly to the heart. Men, women, and children have gone down in flood and pestilence, free from any stain of wrong, which can not be said of the victims of the Black Hole. We can not forget altogether that they were in India not of right, but as conquerors, and that they were originally, at least, in the wrong. But the sufferers in the Johnstown flood, the thousands who died in the Lisbon, Krakatoa, and Martinique disasters, and other thousands that go down in ships at sea--these innocent victims demand sympathy much more. It seemed that most of my sight-seeing in Calcutta was to be limited to horrible things. Indeed, the visitor is often hurried from horror to horror, as if he were in some "chamber of horrors" in a museum. I was taken to the burning ghaut, where dead bodies are cremated. I saw some five hundred little fires, which were so many pyres for the dead. I had heard much of the burning of live women in order that they should accompany their dead masters, and out of sheer curiosity asked the guard if there were men only in the fires. For answer, he took a long hook, thrust it into one of the fires, pulled it back and on its prongs brought the charred leg of a man. Immediately birds of prey (adjutants) pounced down upon the smoking flesh and bore it away. These birds are the scavengers of Calcutta, and the special guardians of the ghaut. Cremation is a great economy in India. It costs only half a cent to burn a body.