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In Hiouen Thsang's time buildings and monuments were crowded together, almost touching for a mile and a half, all round the Sacred Tree. There remain only what one sees in the single glance at the sunken area; save as archæologists, digging here and there, have found the remnants of palace and temple and monastery walls, of cloisters and tanks and towers. Where we stood had been the great entrance of the monastery, where three thousand priests once lived, and treasures incalculable accumulated around an inner arcanum, whose solid gold statue was covered from foot to crown with jewel offerings. Instead of the great tower-capped walls stretching a thousand feet either way, and the throngs of yellow-robed priests, there is a very modern little galvanized iron pavilion sheltering a collection of broken images, sculptured and inscribed stones, salved from the pits and rubbish-heaps around, wreckage gathered after centuries of abandonment and final Mohammedan vandalism. The most valuable and interesting stones have been sent to the Calcutta Museum, and some few to London. The guides, of course, knew next to nothing about these relics. "General Cunningham put them there"—"General Cunningham vary high essteemed them," etc. The Brahman knew nothing of the history of the temple, the tree, or the place, and was perhaps the most aggravatingly disappointing of all his vampire tribe that fasten upon one in the show-places of India. Our gloomy and monosyllabic Mohammedan—may all travelers in India beware of that professional traveling servant, Fog-