pice jingle as they change hands; the haggling and chaffering are without parallel in any market at home.  Here is a man apparently in the last madness of intense passion, in fierce altercation with another, who tries his utmost to outbluster his furious declamation.  In a moment they are smiling and to all appearance the best friends in the world.  The bargain has been concluded; it was all about whether the one could give three brinjals or four for one pice.  It is a scene of indescribable bustle, noise, and confusion.  By evening however, all will have been packed up again, and only the faint outlines of yet floating clouds of dust, and the hopping, cheeky crows, picking up the scattered litter and remnants of the market, will remain to tell that it has been bazaar day in our village.

Generally, about the centre of it, there is a more pretentious structure, with verandahs supported on wooden pillars.  High walls surround a rather commodious courtyard.  There are mysterious little doors, through which you can get a peep of crooked little stairs leading to the upper rooms or to the roof, from dusky inside verandahs.  Half-naked, listless, indolent figures lie about, or walk slowly to and from the yard with seemingly purposeless indecision.  In the outer verandah is an old palkee, with evidences in the tarnished gilding and frayed and tattered hangings, that it once had some pretensions to fashionable elegance.

The walls of the buildings however are sadly cracked, and numerous young peepul trees grow in the crevices, their insidious roots creeping farther and farther into the fissures, and expediting the work of decay, which is everywhere apparent.  It is the residence of the Zemindar, the lord of the village, the owner of the lands adjoining.  Probably he is descended from some noble house of ancient lineage.  His forefathers, possibly, led armed retainers against some rival in yonder far off village, where the dim outlines of a mud fort yet tell of the insecurity of the days of old.  Now he is old, and fat, and lazy.  Possibly he has been too often to the money-lender.  His lands are mortgaged to their full value.  Though they respect and look up to their old Zemindar, the villagers are getting independent; they are not so humble, and pay less and less of feudal tribute than in the old days, when the golden palanquin was new, when the elephant had splendid housings, when mace, and javelin, and matchlock-men followed in his train.  Alas! the elephant was sold long ago, and is now the property of a wealthy Bunniah who has amassed money in the buying and selling of grain and oil.  The Zemindar may be a man of progress and intelligence, but many are of this broken down and helpless type.