ABSTRACT
WHAT a joy to reach at last—after a tiresome journey—that delightful land of roses and love—that paradise of Bengal—the haunt of our beneficent Olympians. Yes! it was a weary, anguishing journey. Not until midnight, and then, in pouring rain, did we reach Darjeeling. Oh! the memory of that dismal journey—with hill-train, rushing and rattling and puffing through the gloom of night, amid wailing streams and rustling winds, overwhelming the soul with a sense of the merciless vastness of the universe of matter and the pitiless severity of fate.
