Jan. 1829.—In the beginning of this month, having promised to meet Captain A. S— at the races at Ghazeepore, we started by land, having sent tents and provisions by water to await our arrival. A violent headache preventing me from mounting my horse, I proceeded in a pālkee, much against medical advice, and slept half-way to Benares, in our tents.

Rising late the next day, we had a hot ride before reaching the Stanhope, where we learnt that our pitaras had been stolen. My husband rode forward in pursuit of the thieves, leaving me seated by the side of the road; the sun becoming very hot, I got into the buggy, overcome from my recent illness, the sā’īs holding the horse. I was startled from a doze by the sound of the bells of a native cart passing with flags flying; the horse alarmed sprang from the sā’īs’s hands, pulling away the reins, which fell to the ground; away galloped the horse, a strong animal fifteen hands high; he looked down the steep ditch on one side the raised road, turned round, looked over the ditch on the other side, made one more sudden turn in alarm, and upset the buggy. I was thrown head foremost through the opening in the back, my limbs remaining under the buggy-hood, which was broken to pieces; the horse fairly kicked himself out of the shafts, and galloped off; I was glad when I found he was free, and knew he could not break my legs, which were still under the hood: at length I dragged them out, with my long habit-skirt, and made an attempt to go after the horse, but was obliged to sit down—blue and yellow suns, stars, and bright objects floated before my eyes—I was unable to stand: my dressing-case having been thrown out of the buggy, I drank some sal volatile, which took off the giddiness. My husband returned at this moment, and an officer from some tents near at hand came to our assistance. The Stanhope was carried forward by coolies; we had a Calcutta buggy also with us, in which we proceeded. The road was covered with the finest sand, rendering it impossible to see the deep holes in every direction. The horse, a powerful English imported creature, was going very fast, when he put both his fore feet into a deep hole, and came down; the high Calcutta buggy swung forwards with such force I was pitched out over the wheel on my head, and remained insensible for a few seconds. My husband was not thrown out. He was unable to leave the frightened horse; it was a relief when he heard a voice from the dust, saying, “I am not hurt;” a voice he feared he should never hear again. The bruises I had before received, united with this blow on my head, which cut through my riding-hat, made me very nervous; and when at the last stage we had to drive a run-away mare, laid for us by a friend, I really sat in fear and trembling. At last we arrived at Benares. I was carried up-stairs to bed, my limbs being stiff and painful. For ten days I could scarcely move, so much was my body bruised by the iron rail and hood of the buggy, and my right arm was greatly swollen.

My recovery was brought about by having four women to shampoo me for five hours daily, and by going into a vapour-bath belonging to the Rajah of Benares. In the bath the women shampooed, and twisted, and pinched my limbs, until I could walk without assistance—that vapour-bath was a great relief.

One morning the rajah sent me a bouquet of flowers, they were beautifully made of ubruk (talc, mica) and coloured wax, the first I had seen well executed.

My husband at the billiard-table, said: “I am uncertain respecting that stroke, I wish A— S— was here.” “Do you not know he is dead?” said his opponent, “he died in consequence of his fall with that Arab pony at Papamhow.” We were greatly shocked.

Jan. 29th.—We quitted our kind friends at Benares to return home: ill-luck pursued us—the first stage the horse fell lame, and we reached our tent with difficulty. During the night a heavy storm came on; the tent being old was soon saturated, and the water poured in on our chārpāīs. The horses picketed outside were drenched, they neighed and shook their chains; the sā’īses crept under the corners of the rāwtī, and we had the floorcloth put over us, to protect us from the rain and cold.

The next day we galloped to our second tent, which we found soaked through from the rain of the night. There was the tent, and nothing else. One of the camels having fallen lame, the servants had made it a pretext for not continuing their march, and we were planté in the jungle without food, bedding, or warm clothing! A camel-driver caught a chicken, and drawing out a long queer crooked blade, killed it, and dressed an excellent curry in a few minutes; having had no food all day, and much exercise, we devoured it to the last grain of rice. I thought of the saying, “If you ask a hungry man how much two and two make—he answers, ‘Four loaves[42].’” The night was miserable, the wind blowing through the wet canvass; we could not even borrow a blanket from the horses, everything was drenched. A pukka ague and fever was the consequence, which lasted seven or eight days, and returned regularly once every four weeks for three months.

Nor did our misfortunes end here. Much to the surprise of my husband, his Arab Rajah, whom he had had for seven years, threw him over his right shoulder. Rajah was particularly pleased; for having looked at him, he cocked his tail and went off at his best pace towards home. Monsieur was not hurt, and received only a few bruises for his carelessness, which, considering he now weighs fourteen stone, shows that, like Cæsar, he has much respect for his person and can fall in proper form.

Another malheur! a box from England on its way up the river was stolen at Patna; it contained letters and presents for me, amongst the rest a veritable tête montée à la Giraffe, a serious loss, qui pourrait bien faire monter la tête—but I bear the misfortune bravely.

The arrival of a friend from England has pleased us greatly. What pleasure reminiscences Etonian and Harrovian give him and the sāhib! “Economy, esperanza, and 1833,” is our motto. “In five years,” says an old Harrovian, “we may hear the bell and going up—sounds worth listening to.”

Cicer arietinum (chickweed), is called arietinum because the young seed bears a very curious resemblance to a ram’s horn. The crops being favourable this year, this chickweed (chāna or gram) was sold in the city one mŭn twenty-two ser per rupee; and in the district, one mŭn thirty-five ser for the same.

March 8th.—At this time my husband was attacked with ague and fever, the consequence of our expedition to Benares.

There is a rumour of a central government being established, the location to be hereabouts, so that Allahabad may again become a city of repute.

We have had much annoyance of late from the servants stealing all sorts of little things, as also wine. Two of the khidmatgārs were the culprits: one has been rataned, and put in irons to work on the road; we could not punish the other, but it was a pleasure to get him out of the house. In India, amongst so many servants, it is very difficult to discover the thief.

May 31st.—How I rejoice this month is over!—this vile month! It appears almost wicked to abuse the merry merry month of May, so delightful at home, but so hot in India. Mr. M— started from Calcutta to come up dāk on the 7th instant, and died in his pālkee of brain-fever only three days afterwards, in consequence of the intense heat! We spare no expense to keep the house cool, and have fourteen men whose sole business night and day is to throw water on tattīs to cool the rooms; unless the wind blows, the tattīs are useless. The heat makes you as sick as if you were to shut your head up in an oven.

A young bullock was standing in the stable to-day by the side of three horses, a snake bit the animal, and it died in a few minutes; the horses escaped,—and so did the snake, much to my sorrow.

July 19th.—The other evening Major P— was with us, when Ram Din, a favourite Hindoo servant, brought into the room a piece of cotton cloth containing 150 rupees tightly tied up in it; the man placed it on the table by my side, and retired. Major P—, who thought the cloth looked dirty, took it up, and saying, “Oh the vile rupees!” let it drop upon the ground between his chair and mine. We took tea; and I retired to rest, entirely forgetting the bag of rupees. When I looked for it the following morning, of course it had disappeared. By the advice of the jāmadār of the office we sent for a gosāin, a holy personage, who lived in a most remarkable temple on the ruins of an old well by the side of the Jumna, close to our house. The gosāin came. He collected the Hindoos together, and made pooja. Having anointed a sacred piece of wood[43] with oil and turmeric, and placed it in a hut, he closed the door; and coming forth, said: “To show you that I am able to point out the thief, I have now left a gold ring in front of the idol in that house; go in and worship, every man of you. Each man must put his hand upon the idol. Let one amongst you take the ring, I will point out the man.”

The Hindoos looked at him with reverence; they all separately entered the dwelling, and did as they were ordered. The jāmadār performed the same ceremony, although he was a Mussulmān. On their appearing before the gosāin, he desired them all to show their hands, and having examined them with much attention, he exclaimed, looking at the hands of the jāmadār, “You are the thief!” The man held up his hands to heaven, exclaiming, “God is great, and you are a wonderful man! I, a Mussulmān, did not believe in your power; your words are words of truth; I took the ring, here it is: if it be your pleasure, you can, doubtless, point out the man who stole the rupees.”

The gosāin then told the people, that unless the money were forthcoming the next day, he would come and point out the thief. That evening the jāmadār roamed around the house, calling out in the most dismal voice imaginable, “You had better put back the rupees, you had better put back the rupees.” The police came, and wished to carry off Ram Din to prison, because he was the servant who had put the money by my side. The man looked at me. “Is it your will? I am a Rajpoot, and shall lose caste; I have served you faithfully, I am present.”

“Who will be security that you will not run away?” said the barkandāz. I replied, “I will be his security: Ram Din will remain with us, and when the magistrate sends for him, I will answer for it he will be present.” The man’s eyes filled with tears: it was the greatest compliment I could pay him: he made a deep sālām, saying, “Mem sāhiba! Mem sāhiba!” in an agitated and grateful tone. The next morning the jāmadār informed me that a bag was on the top of the wardrobe in my dressing-room, and none of the servants would touch it. I went to the spot, and desired Ram Din to take it down.

“This is the cloth that contained the rupees,” said the man, “and it has never been opened; I know it by a peculiar knot that I always tie.” He opened the bag, and found the whole of the money.

We had reason to believe one of the under bearers committed the theft. The Hindoos have such faith in their gosāins, and their influence over them is so great, they dare not do otherwise than as they are ordered by the holy men. I got back the 15l., and gave 4l. to those who had exerted themselves to find it.

The Gosāin’s Temple.

Just above the Fort of Allahabad, on the banks of the Jumna, close to the Jāmma Musjid, or large mosque, amongst the ruins of the ancient city of Prāg, within a Boorj (or Bastion), is an old well, from which the bank has been washed away by the river, and which now stands within the edge of the stream.

The well in the centre of the Boorj descends into the Jumna; over it is built a most peculiar, circular, and singular temple; this and a small square outer building is the residence of the gosāin, who by his incantations, made the servants restore the 150 rupees that had been stolen.

The pillars are peculiar—Ionic—no further ornamental work is visible: perforated stone fills up the openings above: some have been blocked up: the Nagree writing in red letters at the foot of the pillar is recent: several boorj (bastions) beyond this one, which contains the water-gate, have sunk into the river: there were eight originally, seven of which are still visible. Accompanied by a gentleman, I went to sketch it, and asked the gosāin to allow us to see the interior. The holy man made some difficulty in allowing us to enter; sweet words induced him to open the door.

“By sweet words and gentleness you may draw an elephant by a hair[44].”

Within was a small room, in which was the gosāin’s bed, and a large green painted chest, iron clamped, on wheels, which, I suppose, contained his valuables: it must have been put together in the room, being too large to have come in through the door-way. In a nitch of the wall was a small brazen image of Krishna, with a smaller one of Rhada, the latter dressed in a full red and yellow petticoat, stretched out like a fan, and many times wider than the height of the idol.

This is the second time I have seen a place consecrated to these images. The worship is very impure, I am told; and, in spite of the holy character of the priest, histories are whispered about which account for the marvellous properties of the seeds of the peepul-tree. Women principally worship at this shrine.

The circular temple above the well, to which there is a grating, contains either the gosāin’s money or zenāna, or both: he would not allow us to take a view of the interior. On the outside, at the foot of the temple, is a neglected and broken image, in stone, of Varaha, the avatār of Vishnoo with the head of a boar.

Whilst sketching the temple, we remarked its strong resemblance to the temple of the Sibyl, and were greatly surprised at its Ionic style of architecture.

On my return to England, a gentleman, seeing the sketch, said, “You must have painted from imagination, no such architecture is in the East.” This remark annoyed me. I defended the truth and faithfulness of my pencil, and determined, should fate ever carry me back to the ancient city of Prāg, to pay most particular attention to the architecture, and to re-sketch the temple. The mystery of its similarity to that of the Sibyl will be explained hereafter.

I must give a specimen of the natives. I asked the man who has the charge of the rabbits, why a remarkably handsome buck was missing, and a white doe was in its place?

The man vowed that “the day being extremely hot, the sun had turned the black buck white, and had altered the sex also!” I called a chaprāsī, desired him to pay the man’s wages, deducting the value of the buck, and turn him out of my service: his penitence and recantation were in vain. “I wish you would give me a beating, and let me remain in your service,” said the man. “You may have a beating if you wish it,” said I, “but unless it changes your sex, you shall not remain in my service.”

“THE DIVER WHO THINKS ON THE JAWS OF THE CROCODILE, WILL NEVER GATHER PRECIOUS PEARLS[45].”

This saying is very applicable to Europeans in India: the climate is worse than the jaws of the crocodile; and as for the pearls—when large appointments, in the hope of attaining which men have been slaving upon small allowances, fall vacant, the shears are applied, and a reduction of one-third or more follows. It is rumoured, but upon doubtful evidence, that the Governor-general and members of Council determined to sacrifice part of their allowances to contribute to the general exigencies of the state, but found they were restricted from receiving less by the Act of Parliament, by which their salaries are fixed. The Governor-general, in common parlance, is called “the clipper.”

It is to be hoped the Half Batta measure will be abandoned; if it is insisted upon, the experiment will be somewhat perilous. Let the Board of Control look at the numbers carried off by the climate, and they must acknowledge their pay is blood-money. The sipahīs are deserting from different stations, eight and nine a day, and some regiments are almost in a state of mutiny. The men desert to Runjeet Singh; and I understand the officers of many regiments will not dine at the Government-house, and only make their appearance when obliged by order. Heaven help those poor fellows who have wives and children to starve on half batta!