1834, June.—This morning I was on the sofa, fancying myself not quite well, when Ram Din came in with a Brahmanical thread; as soon as I had any thing to amuse me, all my illness vanished; the history thereof is as follows:—The name in common use for what we call the sacred thread is janao; it is not confined merely to Brahmans, for in the Veda called Bhagavat, which relates to Krishnŭ, it is allowed to be worn by three out of the four great tribes into which the Hindoos are divided. The three privileged tribes are the Brahmans, the Chuttri or Rajpūt, and the Khuttri or Vaisya. However, many others now wear the sacred thread who by the Vedas have no right to do so. The janao must be made by the hands of a Brahman; it is worn one month, and then either thrown into the Ganges, or hung upon the sacred peepul-tree, when a fresh one is made. After six years old, a boy may receive the janao, from which time he must observe all the rules respecting eating and drinking, according to the custom of his tribe.

The janao is composed of three threads, each measuring, as the Hindoos say, four less than one hundred—that is, ninety-six—hāt: one hāt is the length measured twice round the breadth of the hand, or one cubit. These three threads are twisted together, and folded into three, then twisted again, making it to consist of nine threads; these are again folded into three, without twisting, and each end fastened with a knot.

It is put over the left shoulder next the skin, and hangs down the right thigh as far as the fingers can reach; two of these threads are worn by a Brahman. After a certain age, if a boy be not invested with the janao, he becomes an outcast.

There are four great tribes amongst the Hindoos, which are subdivided into innumerable classes; in the second tribe there are, they say, upwards of five hundred subdivisions!

1st tribe, Brahmans or priests; however, many Brahmans are not priests.

2nd tribe, Chuttri,—Rajpūts, Rajahs, and warriors.

3rd tribe, Vaisya or merchants,—artizans, cultivators, &c.

4th tribe, called Soodra,—mechanics, artizans, and labourers: the natural duty of the Soodra is servitude.

Ram Din tells me he more especially worships Krishnŭ: he also makes pooja to Radha, also to Rām; the former the love, the second the warrior god and brother of Krishnŭ. On his forehead, as the mark of his worship, he paints three perpendicular lines, the centre of white, the two others of red clay. Ram Din is of the second tribe, a Rajpūt.

It is scarcely possible to write, the natives are making such a noise overhead, repairing the flat roof of the house, which is made of flag-stones, supported by large beams of wood; over that brick-dust and lime, mixed with water, is laid a foot in depth, which they are now beating down with little wooden mallets, holding one in each hand.

“The sight of a beggar is a request personified[115].” On the plain near the fort, just before you come to the Mahratta Bund, a fakīr had taken up his abode, where abode there was none. Ascetics of the orthodox sect, in the last stage of exaltation, put aside clothing altogether. This man’s only garment was a chatr (an umbrella made of basket-work), his long hair, matted with cow-dung and ashes, hung in stiff, straight locks nearly to his waist; his body was smeared all over with ashes; he was always on the same spot, sitting doubled up on the ground, and when suffering from illness, a bit of tattered blanket was thrown over his shoulders.

Night and day the fakīr was to be seen, a solitary wretched being, scarcely human in appearance. The passers-by threw cowries and grains of boiled rice to him; sometimes a woman would come and kindle a few bits of charcoal, and then quit him; the hot winds, the rains, the bitter frosty nights of the cold weather, were unheeded; nothing appeared to disturb the devotee. Was his frame insensible to the power of the elements? When I first saw him he had occupied that spot for twelve years, and I know he never quitted it for five years afterwards, until he was consigned to the Ganges on his decease. One night, some thieves demanded rupees of the holy man; he pleaded poverty. “I have killed such a poor man as you, and have got nine mŭns of fat out of him[116],” said one of the fellows. They beat and tortured the poor wretch until he revealed his secret hoards: he showed them a spot on the plain; they dug up some ghāras (coarse earthen vessels), which contained two thousand rupees! Content with their plunder, they quitted the holy man. The next morning he went to the General Commandant of the garrison, and told his tale, ending by producing seven hundred rupees, which the thieves had not discovered, and requesting the General to place it in security for him! His request having been granted, the fakīr returned to the plain, where he and his chatr remained until his spirit was summoned to the presence of Yamu, the judge of the dead. The police did not molest him in the out-of-the-way spot he had chosen for his retreat; they would not have allowed him to roam about the station.

Speaking of this fakīr reminds me I forgot to mention, that, when I visited the fair early in February last, I rode there before sunrise, and was greatly amused. Hundreds of Hindoos were undergoing penance, not for their sins, but for copper coins; some were lying on their backs upon thorns, each with a child upon his breast, asking charity; one man was standing upon one leg, in meditation; he began his penance at sunrise, and ended it at sunset.

We rode down to the water’s edge, and saw the Hindoos doing pooja to living cows. One man, the shawl over whose shoulders was tied to the end of the chādar, worn over the head by a woman, came to a cow, the woman following him; he took hold of the cow’s tail in his hand, holding in it at the same time the sacred cusa-grass; the woman did the same; the Brahman muttered a prayer, which the man repeated; he then, followed by the woman, walked round the cow many times turning to the left, which having done a certain number of times, he whispered into the cow’s right ear; the woman came to the same ear, and also whispered to the cow; which ceremony being accomplished, they were sent into the river to bathe at the junction. The rites I witnessed, are, I believe, a portion of the marriage ceremonies of the Hindūs. The cusa-grass is the poa cynosurides; almost every poem in Sanscrit contains allusions to the holiness of this grass. Some of the leaves taper to a most acute point; it is an Hindoo saying, speaking of a very sharp-minded man, “his intellects are as acute as the point of a cusa leaf.”

Some of the marble images at the fair were very fine ones; the price demanded was three hundred rupees, or £30 a-piece.

I received a present this morning of a flying fox, an enormous bat with leathern wings; I had previously thought such creatures were mere fables; the one presented to me is a prepared specimen. The next day, I sent some sipahīs to shoot flying foxes; they found a number in a large tree, and killed two of them; they are such savage, but intelligent-looking animals, curious and wonderful, but disgusting creatures.

During the cold weather I gathered a handful of a very sweet-smelling air-plant on the Mahratta Bund; taking it home, I threw it on the top of a biar-tree (zizyphus jujuba) to see if it would really grow in the air; it died away, as I thought, and I forgot it; the other day, by chance, glancing at the biar-tree, I saw my air-plant in high beauty, covering about two yards of the top of the tree, and hanging in long light green strings, like sea-weed, down towards the ground. The natives call it amur bel, the undying climber, and ākās bel, air creeper; the flowers are white, small, bell-shaped, and five-cleft; the plant leafless; the running stalks greenish yellow, shining, and spreading over the top of a tree like a sheet thrown over it; the scent very fragrant. The ākās nīm is a parasite, growing on nīm-trees: the ākās pussun is the cuscuta reflexa, dodder, or air-plant.

Last month we were unlucky in the farm-yard; forty-seven fat sheep and well-fatted lambs died of small-pox; a very great loss, as to fatten sheep on gram for two or three years makes them very expensive; it is remarkable that none of the goats, although living in the same house, were attacked.

This morning three musk-deer, prepared and stuffed, were shown to me; they are a present for Runjeet Singh, and are now en route from Nepal. The men had also a number of musk-bags for the Lion of the Punjab. The hair of the musk-deer is curious stuff, like hog’s bristles; and their two tusks are like those of the walrus. Buffon gives an admirable description of this animal. Some time ago a musk-bag was given me as a curiosity; the scent is extremely powerful. The musk-deer is rare and very valuable.

Aug. 9th.—This is a holiday, the nāg-panchamī, on which day the Hindūs worship a snake, to procure blessings on their children; of course, none of the carpenters or the other workmen have made their appearance. The other day, a gentleman, who is staying with us, went into his bathing-room to take a bath; the evening was very dark, and, as he lifted a ghāra (an earthen vessel), to pour the water over his head, he heard a hissing sound among the waterpots, and, calling for a light, saw a great cobra de capello. “Look at that snake!” said he to his bearer, in a tone of surprise. “Yes, sāhib,” replied the Hindoo, with the utmost apathy, “he has been there a great many days, and gives us much trouble!”

Sept. 11th.—We purchased a very fine pinnace, that an officer had brought up the river, and named her the Seagull. She is as large as a very good yacht; it will be pleasant to visit those ghāts on the Ganges and Jumna, during the cold weather, that are under the sāhib’s control. The vessel is a fine one, and the natives say, “She goes before the wind like an arrow from a bow.”

The city of Allahabad, considered as a native one, is handsome: there are but few pukka houses. The rich merchants in the East make no display, and generally live under bamboo and straw. The roads through the city are very good, with rows of fine trees on each side; the drives around are numerous and excellent. There is also a very handsome sarā’e (caravansary), and a bā’olī, a large well, worthy a visit. The tomb and garden of Sultan Khusrau are fine; a description of them will be given hereafter. The fort was built by Akbar in 1581, at the junction of the Ganges and Jumna. Within the fort, near the principal gateway, an enormous pillar is prostrate; the unknown characters inscribed upon it are a marvel and a mystery to the learned, who as yet have been unable to translate them. The bazār at Allahabad is famous for old coins.

Having been requested to contribute to a fancy fair for charitable purposes, I had some sealing-wax made in the verandah, under my own eye; the lākh was brought to me in little cakes from the bazār, enclosed in leaves of the palās or dhāk (butea frondosa), fastened together with wooden pins like long thorns. Many articles are wrapped up in this way in lieu of using paper; and packets of the leaves freshly gathered are to be seen in the shops ready for use. The lākh is the produce of an insect (chermes lacca), in which its eggs are deposited; it is found on the dhāk, the peepul, the banyan, and the biar, as well as on several other trees. The wood and leaves of the dhāk are used in religious ceremonies; the bark is given with ginger in snake bites, and the calyx of the fruit is made into jelly, which has a pleasant acid taste. When the bark is wounded a red juice issues, which soon hardens into a ruby-coloured, brittle, astringent gum; a solution of it in water is of a deep red colour; the addition of a little sal martis changes it into a good durable ink. An infusion of the flowers dyes cotton, which has been steeped previously in a solution of alum, a beautiful bright yellow; a little alkali added changes it to a deep reddish orange. The flowers are papilionaceous, of a deep red, shaded orange and silver, and very numerous. Another species, a large twining shrub, is the butea superba. The leaves are large and fine, and give beautiful impressions when taken off with the preparation of lamp-black and oil. The Chupra lākh is the best for sealing-wax, to which we merely added the colouring. It is very hard and brittle, and will not melt with the heat of the climate. The seal of a letter, stamped on English wax, in which there is always a large portion of resin, often arrives merely one lump of wax, the crest, or whatever impression may have been on the seal, totally obliterated; and the adhering of one seal to another en route is often the cause that letters are torn open ere they reach their destination.

Ainslie mentions, “Scarlet was, till of late years, produced exclusively with the colouring matter of the cochineal insect; but it would appear that a more beautiful and lasting colour can be obtained by using the lākh insect.”

Oct. 7th.—Yesterday being the Hindoo festival of the Dewalī, a great illumination was made for my amusement; our house, the gardens, the well, the pinnace on the river below the bank of the garden, the old peepul-tree, and my bower, were lighted up with hundreds of little lamps. My bower on the banks of the Jumna-jee, which is quite as beautiful as the “bower of roses by Bendameer’s stream,” must be described.

It was canopied by the most luxuriant creepers and climbers of all sorts. The ishk-pechā, the “Twinings of Love[117],” overspread it in profusion; as the slender stems catch upon each other, and twine over an arbour, the leaves, falling back, lie over one another en masse, spreading over a broad surface in the manner in which the feathers of the tail of a peacock spread over one another, and trail upon the ground; the ruby red and starlike flowers start from amidst the rich green of its delicate leaves as bright as sunshine. This climber, the most beautiful and luxuriant imaginable, bears also the name of kamalāta, “Love’s Creeper.” Some have flowers of snowy hue, with a delicate fragrance; and one, breathing after sunset, the odour of cloves!

The doodēya[118], so called because it gives forth a milky juice, also denominated chābuk churree, from the resemblance of its long slender shoots to a whip, displayed over the bower its beautiful and bell-shaped flowers; it also bears the name of swallow-wort, from the fancied resemblance of its seed-vessels to a swallow flying.

In wondrous profusion, the gāo-pāt, the elephant climber, spread its enormous leaves over the bower; the under part of the leaf is white, and soft as velvet; the natives say it is like the tongue of a cow, whence it derives its name gāo-pāt[119]. In the early morning, or at sunset, it was delightful to watch the humming-birds as they fluttered over and dived into its bell-shaped flowers, seeking nectar; or to see them glancing over the crimson stars of the ishk-pechā. The bower was the favourite resort of the most beautiful butterflies,—those insect queens of Eastern Spring,—not only for the sake of the climbers, but for the blossoms of the Lucerne grass that grew around the spot. Observing one day there were but few butterflies, I asked the reason of the jāmadār? he replied, “The want of rain has killed the flowers, and the death of the flowers has killed the butterflies.”

From the topmost branches of the surrounding trees, the moon-flower[120] hung its chaste and delicate blossoms, drooping and apparently withered; but as the night came on they raised their languid heads, and bloomed in beauty.

“The Nymphæa[121] dwells in the water, and the moon in the sky, but he that resides in the heart of another is always present with him[122].” The Nymphæa expands its flowers in the night, and thence is feigned to be in love with the moon. The water-lily as it floats on the stream, luxuriating in the warmth of the moonbeams, has a powerful rival in the burā luta, the beautiful moon-flower, whose luxuriant blossoms of snowy whiteness expand during the night.

The sorrowful nyctanthes, the harsingahar, is it not also a lover of the moon, its flowers expanding, and pouring forth fragrance only in the night? Gay and beautiful climber, whence your name of arbor tristis? Is it because you blossom but to die? With the first beams of the rising sun your night flowers are shed upon the earth to wither and decay.

The flowers of the harsingahar, which are luxuriously abundant, are collected by perfumers and dyers; the orange-coloured stem of the white corolla is the part used by the latter. The flowers are sold in the bazār, at one and a half or two rupees the sēr. It is one of the most beautiful climbers I have seen.

My humming-birds were sacred; no one dared molest them, not even a rover with a pellet-bow was allowed a shot at my favourites.

Speaking of a pellet-bow, I have seen small birds and butterflies shot with it. One day a gentleman, seeing a pigeon flying across the garden, just above my spaniel’s head, brought it down with a pellet. The dog looked up, opened his mouth, and caught the stunned bird as it fell upon him. Ever afterwards, he was constantly in the garden watching the pigeons with his mouth wide open, expecting they also would fall into it!

The bower, which was supported on bamboo posts, was constantly falling in from the havoc occasioned by the white ants. I sent for a hackery (cart) load of the flower-stems of the aloe, and substituted the stems for the bamboos: in consequence, the white ants gave up the work of destruction, having an antipathy to the bitterness of the aloe. It is said the aloe flowers only once in a century; what may be its vagaries in a colder climate I know not; the hedges here are full of the plant, which flowers annually.

I wish I had tried the teeth of the white ants by putting up pillars of stone. An orthodox method of killing these little underminers is by strewing sugar on the places frequented by them: the large black ants, the sworn enemies of the white ants, being attracted by the sugar, quickly appear, and destroy the white ones. The white ants are sappers and miners; they will come up through the floor into the foot of a wardrobe, make their way through the centre of it into the drawers, and feast on the contents. I once opened a wardrobe which had been filled with tablecloths and napkins: no outward sign of mischief was there; but the linen was one mass of dirt, and utterly destroyed. The most remarkable thing is, the little beasts always move under cover, and form for themselves a hollow way, through which they move unseen, and do their work of destruction at leisure. The hollow way they form is not unlike pipe maccaroni in size, and its colour is that of mud. I never saw them in Calcutta; up the country they are a perfect nuisance. The queen ant is a curious creature; one was shown me that had been dug out of an ants’ nest: it was nearly four inches long by two in width, and looked something like a bit of blubber. The white ants are the vilest little animals on the face of the earth; they eat their way through walls, through beams of wood, and are most marvellously troublesome. They attack the roots of trees and plants, and kill them in a day or two. To drive them away it is advisable to have the plants watered with hing (assafœtida) steeped in water. If a box be allowed to stand a week upon the floor without being moved, it is likely at the end of that time, when you take it up, the bottom may fall out, destroyed by the white ants. Carpets, mats, chintz, such as we put on the floors, all share, more or less, the same fate. I never saw a white ant until I came to India. They resemble the little white maggots in a cheese, with a black dot for a head, and a pair of pincers fixed upon it.

The Calcutta matting is little used for rooms in the Upper Provinces, as it is soon destroyed by the ants; in lieu thereof, gaily-coloured chintz, manufactured by the natives after the patterns of Brussels carpets, is put down in the rooms, and gives them a handsome appearance, but it is not so cool as the matting. A cloth (called sallam), dyed with indigo, ought to be put down under the chintz to keep off the white ants, which dislike the smell of the indigo.

The following passage, showing the ideas of the Muhammadans respecting ants, is remarkable:—

“An ant bit a prophet, and he ordered the ant-hill to be burnt, which was done. Then God sent a voice to the prophet, saying, ‘Have you burnt, on account of one biting you, a whole multitude of those that remembered God, and repeated his name?’”

By the side of the bower are two trees, the roots of which, dug up and scraped, have exactly the appearance and taste of horseradish, and are used on table for the same purpose. The tree grows very quickly; the flowers are elegant, but the wood is only useful for dying a blue colour: the sahjana, hyperanthera moringa, horseradish-tree.

The ichneumons, mungūs, or newalā, were numerous in the garden, lurking in the water-courses; they committed much havoc occasionally in the poultry-yard. A mungūs and a snake will often have a battle royal; if the mungūs be bitten, he will run off, eat a particular plant, and return to the charge. He is generally the conqueror. Never having seen this, I will not vouch for the fact; the natives declare it to be true. The name of the plant has escaped my memory. The newalā may be easily tamed if caught young: I never attempted to keep one in the house, on account of the dogs. The moon-flower is supposed to have virtue in snake bites. I know of no remedy but eau-de-luce applied internally and externally.

I must not quit the garden without mentioning my favourite plants. The kulga, amaranthus tricolor, a most beautiful species of sāg, bearing at the top a head or cluster of leaves of three colours, red, yellow, and green, which have the appearance of the flower: it is very ornamental, and used as spinach (sāg). If the head be broken off, similar clusters form below.

There is another plant, amaranthus gangeticus (lal sāg), or red spinach, which is most excellent; when on table its ruby colour is beautiful, and its agreeable acidity renders it preferable to any other kind of spinach.

The koonch, or goonja (abrus precatorius), is an elegant little plant, of which there is only one species; the seeds, which are smooth, hard, and of a glowing scarlet colour, form the retti weight of the Hindostanī bazārs. The seeds are strung and worn as beads for ornament, and also as rosaries, hence the specific name precatorius.

The rāmturáī, or binda (hibiscus longifolius), adorned the kitchen garden; its corolla is of a beautiful sulphur colour, the interior purple. The pods, when plain boiled, and eaten when quite hot, are excellent; the French use them in soups, and pickle them as capers.

Perhaps a touch of superstition induced me to be careful of a very fine specimen of the salvia Bengalensis, which grew near the bower; or perhaps the well-known verse,

showing the estimation in which it was held in former days, contributed to the care with which it was preserved. The gardener calls it sistee, perhaps a corruption of sage; and on account of the strong scent of its leaves, it is also called (velāitie kāfūr-ke-pāt), the leaf of the English camphor.

I had a curious plant, which I was told was an air-plant; the natives called it pēr-pāt, or rus-putta: if a leaf dropped on the ground, a little root would strike out on each side of it, and thus a fresh plant would be formed. I buried several leaves, and they took root in that manner. The botanical name of the plant is unknown to me.

The hibiscus mutabilis flourished in great perfection: the flowers of this rose hibiscus change their hue in the course of a few hours.

The lajwantee, the sensitive plant, grew in profusion, covered with its tuft-like blossoms, and shrinking from the touch. Near it were some very fine specimens of Bourbon cotton, which flourished admirably; this gossypium differs from the herbaceum, because the down which lines the capsules which contain the seeds is of a brown colour, whereas the down of the common cotton plant, grown in the fields in India, is beautifully white.

A small quantity of the bhuta (zea mays) was in the garden: when the corn had formed, just before it hardened, whilst it was soft, and green, and milky, it was brought to table fried until brown, and eaten with pepper and salt; a most excellent vegetable. It is called common Indian corn; but it appears to me it was very little used for making bread in the Up Country, as I never saw any thing generally used but wheat for the unleavened cakes, which constitute the bread of the natives.

We have the burā shim (dolichus), horse-eye bean; the pods are cut and dressed like French beans, but are inferior; the bean itself is large.

The rut aloe (dioscorea sativa) was not only a most useful vegetable when potatoes were losing their excellence, but the beautiful leaves of this climber were in themselves an ornament. The roots grow to a great size; those the most valued for culinary purposes are a much smaller sort, which, when broken, are perfectly white and milk-like in appearance.

Perhaps one of the best things in the garden was the patūā, the Indian hibiscus; the corolla is sulphur-coloured and reddish purple; the fruit, of a bright red colour, is excellent in tarts; and when made into a jelly, has something of the appearance and taste of fresh damson cheese; but the patūā jelly is transparent, and its hue brilliant. In the West Indies it is called red sorrel. The bark of the hibiscus cannabinus (hemp-leaved hibiscus), as well as that of the sabdariffa is made into cordage.

Tambācu, Virginian tobacco (nicotiana tabacum), also flourished with us; but that for the hooqŭ was usually procured from Chunar, a place celebrated for the excellence of its tobacco.

Every morning it is the custom of the Mālee (gardener) to appear at breakfast time to present a dālī (a basket of vegetables) and a bouquet of flowers. Amongst the latter many were novelties to an European.

The āgāst (æschynomene grandiflora) was remarkable; the corolla of a most brilliant rose colour; but on some of the trees the flowers were white.

The amultas (cassia fistula) was there, with its long, beautiful, pendant, yellow, and fragrant flowers. The tree is sometimes fifty feet in height, and remarkable for the fruit, which is a brownish-coloured pod, about the thickness of a thumb, and some two feet or more in length; it is divided into numerous cells, upwards of forty, each containing one smooth, oval, shining seed. This pod is called by the natives “Bunda-ke-lāt,” the monkey’s staff; the seeds are used medicinally, and the pods are for sale in every bazār.

One of the most beautiful of shrubs is the gooltura or gooliturah (Poinciana pulcherrima), fleur de Paradis; from the extreme beauty of this flower Burmann gave it the appellation of “crista pavonis flore elegantissimo variegato.”

The pomegranate-tree, anār (punica granatum), was abundant; the following description gives a perfect idea of it:—

“The finest fruit is brought from Persia and Cabul: there are two sorts, the sweet and acid pomegranate. Sherbet is made with the fruit; the tree is singularly beautiful, and much cultivated in India. The leaves are of a rich dark green, very glossy, and the tree is adorned at the same time with every variety of bud, bloom, and fruit, in the several stages of vegetation, from the first bud to the ripe fruit in rich luxuriance, and this in succession nearly throughout the year. The bright scarlet colour of the buds and blossoms, which seldom varies in its shade, contrasts beautifully with the glossy dark green of the foliage. There is a medicinal benefit to be derived from every part of this tree, from the root upwards, even to the falling blossoms, which are carefully collected. The rind of the fruit is dried and sold as a medicine, and each part of this tree possesses a distinct medicinal property. The pomegranate was introduced into India from Persia.” As a medicine, a decoction of the roots, or of the rind, was of great use in the farm-yard and in the kennel.

Sometimes a small specimen of the kȳá-pootie-tree was brought to me (melaleuca kȳá-pootie). I regarded it with interest on account of its fragrant oil. There are three varieties of this tree: from the leaf of the smaller, by distillation, the fragrant essential oil is obtained, called by the ignorant cajeput. Mr. Crawford observes in his History of the Indian Archipelago: “The kȳá’-pootie-trees are gigantic myrtles; the largest sort is a mountain tree, and grows in extensive continuous forests. The smaller, which yields the oil, thrives near the sea-coast, and has got its name from its colour, kāyu-puti, which signifies white wood, and hence its appellation arbor alba.” The oil is distilled from leaves which have been previously infused in water and left to ferment for a night. The oil I procured in India was limpid, transparent, and of a brilliant emerald green, extremely powerful, and the scent delicious; the bruised leaves also emit a powerful odour.

“The mistress of the night,” the polyanthes tuberosa, was in profusion in the garden. It is used in pooja: the natives call it gōl-shub-boo, from shub, night; and boo, scent; because it gives forth its odours during the night.

The kudum (nauclea orientalis) is one of the holiest trees in the opinion of the Hindoos. The flowers have an odour very agreeable in the open air, which the ancient Indians compared to the scent of new wine; and hence they call the plant Halyprya, or beloved of Halim; that is, by the third Ráma, who was the Bacchus of India. The corolla of the kudum-tree is of a pale yellow, and very fragrant; the flowers are borne in round heads, perfectly globular, and covered uniformly with gold-coloured florets. One species, nauclea gambir, is said to yield the gamboge gum of the bazār.

Of all the flowers brought to me, the perfume of the ketgi, keura, or keora (pandanus odoratissimus), was the most overpowering. From the flower of this green-spined screw-tree, arrak and atr are made: the tough fibres of the roots are used by basket-makers, and the roots themselves are used by the Malays as cords. The flowers of the male plant yield the most overpowering fragrance, which is esteemed very highly by the natives.

An atr is also prepared from the mulsari or múlasrí (mimosops elengi). Children eat the fruit of this tree: the flowers are agreeably fragrant in the open air, but the perfume is too strong for an apartment. In the Puranas this tree is called bacula, and placed amongst the flowers of the Hindoo Paradise.

Another remarkable plant was the martynia proboscidea, horn-capsuled martynia, called by the natives the insect seed, from the resemblance of the capsule to a horned beetle, if there be a beetle with two curled horns.

Oct.—I have just returned from taking a sketch of the Circuit bungalow; it reminds me of very many pleasant mornings, although to an English ear it may not give an idea of pleasure to rise at three A.M., to take coffee by candlelight, or by the light of the mist in the verandah!—The buggy waiting, the lamps lighted, and the horse covered with a blanket, to keep him from taking a chill.—A drab coat with many capes, a shawl beneath, and another round the neck, a drive of two or three miles by lamp-light. Just as you come up to the dogs, a gentleman comes forward to assist the mem sāhiba from the buggy, saying, “Very cold! very cold! one could not be more delightfully cold in England—half-frozen!” Those fine dogs, Jānpeter, Racer, Merrylass, and the rest of them emerge from the palanquin carriage in which they have been brought to Papamhow, much tamāshā! many jackals! Then the canter through the plantations of Urrah, wet with dew—dew so heavy that the sā’īs wrings out the skirt of the mem sāhiba’s habit; nevertheless, the lady and the black pony are very happy. Master General carries his rider in most jemmy style; a gallant grey by his side takes beautiful leaps, and the mem sāhiba and her black horse scramble up and down ravines, over which the others leap, and by little détours and knowledge of the country, find much amusement in the course of the morning.

All natives, from the highest to the lowest, sport the moustache, and pride themselves upon its blackness. My old khānsāmān, Suddu Khan, whose hair, beard, and moustache were perfectly white, came before me one morning, and making sālām, requested me to allow him some hours’ leave of absence to dye his hair. In the evening he was in attendance at table; his hair, beard, and moustache in the most perfect order, and jet black! The 16th Lancers, on their arrival in India, wore no moustache; after the lapse of many years, the order that allowed them the decoration arrived in India, and was hailed with delight by the whole corps. The natives regarded them with much greater respect in consequence, and the young dandies of Delhi could no longer twirl their moustachoes, and think themselves finer fellows than the Lancers. As a warlike appendage it was absolutely necessary; a man without moustachoes being reckoned nā-mard, unmanly. Having been often consulted on the important subject of the best dye, I subjoin a recipe which was given me in the Zenāna[123]. A dandified native generally travels with a handkerchief bound under his chin, and tied on the top of his turban, that the beauty and precision of his beard may not be disarranged on the journey.