1835, Jan. 10th.—Ours is the slowest possible progress; the wind seems engaged to meet us at every turn of our route. At 3 P.M. we lugāoed at Etaweh; while I was admiring the ghāts, to my great delight, a handful of letters and parcels of many kinds were brought to me. In the evening, the chaprāsī in charge of my riding horses, with the sā’īses and grass-cutters who had marched from Allahabad to meet me, arrived at the ghāt. The grey neighed furiously, as if in welcome; how glad I was to see them!

In a minute I was on the little black horse; away we went, the black so glad to have a canter, the mem sāhiba so happy to give him one: through deep ravines, over a road through the dry bed of a torrent, up steep cliffs; away we went like creatures possessed; the horse and rider were a happy pair. After a canter of about four miles it became dark, or rather moonlight, and I turned my horse towards the river, guided by the sight of a great cliff, some 150 or 200 feet high, beneath which we had anchored. I lost my way, but turned down a bridle road in the bed of a ravine, which of course led somewhere to the river. I rode under a cliff so high and overhanging, I felt afraid to speak; at last we got out of the cold and dark ravine, and came directly upon the pinnace. I had met, during my ride, two gentlemen in a buggy; one of them, after having arrived at his own house, returned to look for me, thinking I might turn down by mistake the very road I had gone, which at night was very unsafe, on account of the wolves; but he did not overtake me.

The next morning he called on me, and brought me a letter from a relative; therefore we were soon acquainted, and agreed to have a canter, when the sun should go down. He told me, on his way down, the police had brought him a basket, containing half the mangled body of a child; the wolves had seized the poor child, and had devoured the other half the night before, in the ravines. It was fortunate I did not encounter a gang of them under the dark cliff, where the black horse could scarcely pick his way over the stones.

11th.—I rode with Mr. G— through the ravines and the Civil Station, and saw many beautiful and picturesque spots. We returned to the pinnace; he came on board, and we had a long conference. It was not to be marvelled at that the mem sāhiba talked a great deal, when it is considered she had not spoken one word of English for thirty-three days; then she did talk!—ye gods! how she did talk! Mr. G— offered to send armed men with me if I felt afraid, but I declined taking them; and he promised to forward my letters by horsemen every day, to meet the pinnace. Nothing can be greater than the kindness one meets with from utter strangers in India. He gave my husband and me an invitation to pay him a visit on our way back, which I accepted for the absent sāhib.

I was amused by an officer’s coming down to the river, which he crossed; he then mounted a camel, and his servant another; he carried nothing with him but some bedding, that served as a saddle, and a violin! In this fashion he had come down from Sabbatoo, and was going, viâ Jubbulpore, across to Bombay! thence to sail for England. How charmingly independent! It is unusual for a gentleman to ride a camel; those who understand the motion, a long swinging trot, say it is pleasant; others complain it makes the back ache, and brings on a pain in the liver. At Etaweh every thing was to be had that I wished for; peacocks, partridges, fowls, pigeons, beef, were brought for sale; atr of roses, peacocks’ feathers, milk, bread, green tea, sauces; in short, food of every sort. I read and answered my letters, and retired to rest perfectly fagged.

12th.—At daybreak the pinnace started once more for Agra,—once more resumed her pilgrimage; it is seventy-two miles by the road from Etaweh; how far it may be by this twisting and winding river remains to be proved. For some days two bird-catchers (chirī-mārs) have followed the pinnace, and have supplied me with peacocks; to-day they brought a hen and three young ones; they also brought their nets and the snares with them, which I had seen them use on shore. The springes are beautifully made of buffalo-horn and catgut. I bought one hundred and six springes for catching peacocks, cyrus, wild ducks, &c., for four rupees, and shall set them in the first jungle we meet. I set them immediately in the cabin, and caught my own two dogs: it was laughable to see the dismay of the dogs, nor could I help laughing at my own folly in being such a child. My head began to throb bitterly, and I spent the rest of the day ill in bed.

15th.—At 8 A.M. the thermometer was 46°, at 1 P.M. 66°, a great difference in five hours. The peacocks, in the evening, were calling from the cliffs, and came down to feed by the river-side, looking beautiful; there were four male birds on one spot, quite fearless, not taking any notice of the men on the goon. Anchored at Purrier.

16th.—A good day’s tracking; no obstacles; good water, i.e. deep water; anchored late at Dedowlee ke Nuggra.

17th.—Found a bar of sand directly across the river; about fourteen enormous boats all aground; numbers of vessels arriving hourly; every one going aground, as close as they could lie together; in the midst of the bar was one vessel which had been there four days. The sarang of the pinnace came to me and said, “Until that salt-boat gets off we cannot move; in all probability, we shall be utterly unable to cross the bar.” The whole day, in the dinghee, did the men sound the river; in the evening I went with them, to see and satisfy myself of the impossibility of crossing; even the dinghee grounded; where, then, could the pinnace find water?

I determined to send on the servants, the baggage, and food in the flat-bottomed cook-boat, to Agra; to write for a dāk for myself, and to remain quietly in the pinnace, until its arrival; went to bed, out of spirits at the unlucky accident of the bar across the river. In the morning, hearing a great noise, I went on deck; the salt-boat was gone, all the vessels but one were off, and the crew were preparing to pull the pinnace by main force through the bar of sand; remembering the leak, I viewed these preparations with anxiety; that leak being only stopped with mud and towels. They pulled her into the place from which the salt-boat had at last extricated herself; a little more exertion, and the pretty Seagull slipped and slid out of the sandbank into deep water. Such a shout as arose from the crew! “We shall see the Tāj beebee ke Rauza: it is our destiny; the mem sāhiba’s kismat (fate) is good: to be sure, what a number of rupees has not the mem sāhiba spent on the pinnace! Her luck is good; this her pilgrimage will be accomplished; and the sāhib will be pleased also!”

And the mem sāhiba was pleased; for we had got over a bar in half an hour, that, the night before, we calculated might take two or three days to cross, with great risk to the vessel. I had determined to give up attempting to take the Seagull further, not liking the chance of straining the timbers so severely, the vessel not being a newly-built one. “Once more upon the waters!” Thank God, we are not upon the sand!

An acquaintance, the Hon. Mrs. R—, has just arrived at Allahabad from England; nothing could exceed her astonishment when she heard I had gone up the Jumna alone, on a pilgrimage of perhaps two months or more to see the Tāj, not forced to make the voyage from necessity. I have books, and employments of various sorts, to beguile the loneliness; and the adventures I meet with, give variety and interest to the monotony of life on the river. Could I follow my own inclinations, I would proceed to Delhi, thence to the Hills, and on to the source of the Jumna; this would really be a good undertaking. “Capt. Skinner’s Travels,” which I have just read, have given me the most ardent desire to go to the source of the Jumna.

18th.—Stags, of the chicara sort, with small straight horns, come down to drink by the river-side; wild geese and cyrus are in flocks on the sandbanks. A slight but favourable breeze has sprung up, we are going gently and pleasantly before it. Nārāngee ghāt,—what a beautiful scene! The river was turned from its channel by the Rajah Buddun Sing, and directed through a pass, cut straight through a very high cliff: the cut is sharp and steep; the cliffs abrupt and bold; some trees; native huts; a temple in the distance; numbers of boats floating down the stream, through the pass; the pinnace and patelī, in full sail, going up it; ferry-boats and passengers; cows and buffaloes swimming the ferry; a little beyond, before the white temple, on a sandbank, are six great crocodiles, basking in the sun. Am I not pleased? One of the fairest views I have seen: what a contrast to yesterday, when my eyes only encountered the sandbank, and the fixture of a salt-boat, our particular enemy! Anchored at Hurrier; fagged and ill from over-exertion.

19th.—We arrived at the city of Betaizor, which is built across the bed where the Jumna formerly flowed. The Rajah Buddun Sing built this ghāt, and very beautiful it is; a perfect crowd of beautiful Hindoo temples clustered together, each a picture in itself, and the whole reflected in the bright pure waters of the Jumna. I stopped there for an hour, to sketch the ghāt, and walked on the sands opposite, charmed with the scene,—the high cliffs, the trees; no Europeans are there,—a place is spoiled by European residence. In the evening we anchored off the little village of Kheil: rambling on the river’s bank, I saw five peacocks in the shimoul (the silk-cotton tree), and called Jinghoo Bearer, who ran off to fetch a matchlock, which he loaded with two bullets; the birds were so unmolested, they showed no fear when I went under the tree with the dogs, and only flew away when Jinghoo fired at them; the report aroused two more peacocks from the next tree; a flock of wild geese, and another of wild ducks, sprang up from the sands; and the solitary chakwā screamed āw! āw! The shimoul is a fine high-spreading tree, the flower a brilliant one; and the pod contains a sort of silky down, with which mattresses and pillows are often stuffed. The natives object to pillows stuffed with silk-cotton, saying it makes the head ache. The large silk-cotton tree (bombax ceiba) is the seat of the gods who superintend districts and villages; these gods, although minor deities, are greatly feared. Punchaits, or native courts of justice, are held beneath the shimoul, under the eye of the deity in the branches. There are fields of kāpās, the common white cotton plant, (gossypium herbaceum,) on the side of the river; the cotton has just been gathered; a few pods, bursting with snowy down, are hanging here and there, the leavings of the cotton harvest: the plant is an annual. In my garden at Prāg are numerous specimens of the Bourbon cotton, remarkably fine, the down of which is of a brown colour.

I have met hundreds of enormous boats, laden with cotton, going down to Calcutta, and other parts of the country; they are most remarkably picturesque. I said the report startled the solitary chakwā. The chakwā is a large sort of reddish-brown wild duck (anas cæsarca), very remarkable in its habits. You never see more than two of these birds together; during the day they are never separate,—models of constancy; during the night they are invariably apart, always divided by the stream; the female bird flies to the other side of the river at night, remains there all solitary, and in the morning returns to her mate, who during the livelong night has been sitting alone and crying āw! āw! The male calls āw! some ten or twelve times successively; at length the female gives a single response, “nā’īch!” Leaving the people, some cooking and some eating their dinners, I rambled on alone, as was my custom, to some distance from the boats, listening to and thinking of the chakwā. The first man who finished his meal was the dhobee, a Hindoo, and he started forth to find me. I questioned him respecting the birds, and he spake as follows: “When the beautiful Seeta was stolen away from the god Rām, he wandered all over the world seeking his love. He asked of the chakwā and his mate, ‘Where is Seeta, where is my love, have you seen her?’ The chakwā made answer, ‘I am eating, and attending to my own concerns; trouble me not, what do I know of Seeta?’ Rām, angry at these words, replied, ‘Every night henceforth your love shall be taken from you and divided by a stream; you shall bemoan her loss the livelong night; during the day she shall be restored.’

“He asked of the stars, ‘Where is Seeta?’ the silent stars hid their beams. He asked of the forest, ‘Where is my beloved?’ the forest moaned and sighed, and could give him no intelligence. He asked of the antelope, ‘Where is she whom I seek, the lost, the beloved?’ The antelope replied, ‘My mate is gone, my heart is bowed with grief, my own cares oppress me. Her whom you seek mine eyes have not beheld.’”

It is true the birds invariably live after this fashion: they are great favourites of mine, the chakwās; and I never hear their cry but I think of Seeta Rām.

21st.—The wind westerly and bitterly cold. Loon or noon, from which salt is made, is in large quantities on the river-side. We lugāoed at Aladīnpoor, the village of Ullah-o-deen, or Aladdin, as you call it; and I can think of nothing but his wonderful lamp. I walked through the village; the moment the people caught sight of me and the chaprāsīs, away they ran and hid themselves. In the middle of the village we found some young men sitting on the ground round a fire, warming their hands over the blaze: they did not show any fear, like the rest of the villagers, and I talked to them for some time. They pointed out their fields of the castor-oil plant, all nipped by the frost. I requested them to let me buy a couple of kids to give to the dāndees, a kid feast would warm them such a cold evening. This morning I saw men brushing what is called noon off the clayey banks of the river: they steep it in water, then boil it, when a very good salt is produced. We sometimes use it at table. A poor man in this way brushes up a little noon, and makes enough for his own consumption, which is of great advantage to him. The natives consume salt in large quantities.

All day long I sit absorbed in modelling little temples, or ghāts, or some folly or another, in khuree, a sort of soap-stone. I can scarcely put it aside, it fascinates me so much. I cannot quit my soap-stone. Any thing I see, I try to imitate; and am now at work on a model of the bā’olī (great well) at Allahabad. Captain K— gave me a tomb he had modelled in soap-stone, and some tools. I copied it, and have since modelled a temple on a ghāt and the bā’olī aforesaid; the stone is easily cut with a saw, or with a knife, and may be delicately carved. That bought in the bazār at Allahabad, weighing two or three sēr, is generally of a darkish colour, because the men who bring it from the Up Country often use it to form their chūlees (cooking places) on the road; it becomes discoloured by the heat. A relative sent me some khuree (soap-stone) from a copper mine hill, near Baghesur on the road to Melun Himalaya, which is remarkably pure and white.

A great deal of the clayey ground on the river’s edge that we have passed to-day looks like a badly frosted cake, white from the loon or noon. A little more work at the soap-stone, and then to rest.

23rd.—I could scarcely close my eyes during the night for the cold, and yet my covering consisted of four Indian shawls, a rezaī of quilted cotton, and a French blanket. A little pan of water having been put on deck, at 8 A.M. the ayha brought it to me filled with ice. What fine strong ice they must be making at the pits, where every method to produce evaporation is adopted! I am sitting by the fire for the first time. At 8 A.M. the thermometer was 46°; at 10 A.M. 54°. The dāndees complain bitterly of the cold. Thirteen men on the goon are fagging, up to their knees in water, against the stream and this cold wind; this twist in the river will, however, allow of half an hour’s sail, and the poor creatures may then warm themselves. I will send each man a red Lascar’s cap and a black blanket, their Indian bodies feel the cold so bitterly. When the sails are up my spirits rise; this tracking day by day against wind and stream so many hundred miles is tiresome work. My solitude is agreeable, but the tracking detestable. I must go on deck, there is a breeze, and enjoy the variety of having a sail. At Pukkaghur eight peacocks were by the river-side, where they had come for water; on our approach they moved gently away. They roost on the largest trees they can find at night. I have just desired three pints of oil to be given to the dāndees, that they may rub their limbs. The cold wind, and being constantly in and out of the water, makes their skin split, although it is like the hide of the rhinoceros; they do not suffer so much when their legs have been well rubbed with oil. What a noise the men are making! they are all sitting on the deck, whilst a bearer, with a great jar of oil, is doling out a chhattak to each shivering dāndee.

24th.—Another trouble! The river is very broad, with three great sandbanks in the centre, and there is scarcely any water among the divided channels. Two great cotton boats are aground in the deepest part. They must be off ere there will be room for the Seagull. Whilst the cook-boat anchors, the washermen will set to work to wash the clothes on the river’s edge, and will dry them in the rigging; and the crews of both vessels will unite to cut the pinnace through the sand. Noon: the cotton boats are off; the dinghee is moving about, sounding the passage.

I have had a ramble on the sands, and have found a shell, the shape of the most curious of the fossils we used to find in the cliffs at Christ Church in Hampshire. I have only found three small ones, and must look for more; they are rarely on the sands. Whilst we were waiting for the cotton boats to get off, I sketched them. The boat called an ulāk is beautiful, like a bird upon the waters—graceful and airy—with bamboos in all directions, which add to the picturesque effect. The natives say there is a soul in every vessel: the spirit of an ulāk must be a fairy, flitting and fanciful. An ulāk will spread her high and graceful sails; her slender mast, a bamboo, will bend to the wind; and she will be out of sight almost ere you have gazed upon her—hidden from you by some steep cliff, crowned with a peepul-tree overshadowing some old Hindoo temple; below may be a ghāt, jutting into the river, with a sandbank before it, on which the crocodiles are basking and the wild ducks feeding, while the sentinel bird keeps a sharp look out, and gives warning to the flock if danger approach them. How many boats I have counted of divers shapes and sizes! there is the pinnace, the pinnace budjerow, the budjerow, the bauleah,—these are all pleasure-boats; the kutcher or kutchuā, the kuttree, the ghurdowl, the ulāk, the pulwar, the burra patailā, the surree or soorree, the ferry-boat, and the dinghee; the beautiful vessels used by the Nawab during the festivals at Moorshedabad, and the snake-boats—nor must I forget the boats hollowed out of a single tree, with their shapeless sterns and bows. One of their methods of painting and ornamenting a ulāk is simple and original. They paint the vessel black; and then, dipping one hand into white paint, lay the palm flat on the vessel; this they repeat, until they have produced a border of white outspread hands. A golden eye is placed at the head, to enable the spirit of the vessel to see her way through the waters.

I walked to a small village, where there was a plantation of castor-oil plants, and of cotton plants. The people were working the finest well I have seen, with the exception of the Persian wheel wells: this employed ten bullocks, and the water came up in five very large skins, which are used as buckets.

25th.—Was there ever any thing so provoking! we are fast in the centre of a sandbank, cutting through it on a chain-cable; it will take the whole day to get through it,—perhaps a day or two. There is a fine favourable wind, the first we have had for ages, and we should be at Agra by sunset, could we cross this vile sandbank. I go on deck every now and then to see the progress: we advance about one yard in an hour! then we leave off work, the stream loosens the sand, and the work begins again, until another yard is accomplished, and then we wait for the stream. It is sadly tiresome work: however, the wind is a warm one, and we have only to contend with the stream and the sandbank.

From 7 A.M. to 3 P.M. we worked away on the bank; at last we cut through into deep water. I was delighted to see a chaprāsī from Agra, with a packet of letters for me. How little did the dear ones in England imagine their letters would find me all alone in my beautiful pinnace, fast stuck in a sandbank in the middle of the Jumna!

26th.—This morning from the cliff the white marble dome of the Tāj could just be discerned, and we made salām to it with great pleasure. The pinnace anchored below Kutoobpoor, unable to proceed in consequence of another great sandbank, a quarter of a mile broad. The sarang says, “To attempt to cut through this on a chain-cable would draw every bolt and nail out of her frame.” The Ghāt Mānjhī is of the same opinion. I have been out in the dinghee sounding, and, fearless as I am, I dare not attempt cutting through such a bank; it would injure the vessel. There are two more sandbanks besides this ahead. It is folly to injure the pinnace, and I have made up my mind to quit her. Is it not provoking, only sixteen miles from Agra, and to be detained here? I have written to the Hon. H. D— to request him to send down my horses; they must have arrived long ago, and a palanquin: his answer, I must await with due patience. What a pity I am not a shot! I saw three deer yesterday whilst I was amusing myself in an original fashion, digging porcupines out of their holes, or rather trying to do so, for the dogs found the holes; but the men could not get the animals out of them. Picked up a chilamchī full of river-shells. Before us are thirteen large boats aground on this sandbank. In the evening I took a long walk to see the state of another shallow ahead, which they say is worse than the one we are off. Six of the great cotton boats have cut through the sand; perhaps they will deepen the channel, and we shall be able to pass on to-morrow. There are peacocks in the fields: what a pity my husband is not here, or that I am not a shot!

27th.—Not being satisfied to quit the pinnace without having inspected the river myself, I went up to Bissowna in the patelī this morning, and found it would be utter folly to think of taking the Seagull further; besides which, it is impossible. I might upset her, but to get her across a bank half a mile in length is out of the question. The water in the deepest parts is only as high as a man’s knee, and she requires it up to the hip-bone. It is very provoking—I am tired of this vile jungle—nothing to look at but the vessels aground; besides which, the noise is eternal, night and day, from the shouts of the men trying to force their boats off the sand into deeper water.

28th.—My riding horses having arrived, I quitted the pinnace, desiring the sarang to return to Dharu-ke-Nuggeria, and await further orders.

I sent off the cook-boat and attendants to Agra, and taking my little pet terrier in my arms cantered off on the black horse to meet the palanquin a friend had sent for me. Late at night I arrived at Agra, found a tent that had been pitched for me within the enclosure of the Tāj, in front of the Kālūn Darwāza or great gateway, and congratulated myself on having at length accomplished the pilgrimage in a voyage up the Jumna of fifty-one days! Over-exertion brought on illness, and severe pains in my head laid me up for several days.