1838, Sept. 8th.—I made arrangements with my relative to march across the mountains to Simla, a journey of fifteen days from Landowr, and was looking forward with delight to all the adventures we should meet with, and the crossing the river in a basket suspended on a rope fastened across the stream; but he, an old mountaineer, would not permit me to begin the journey until the khuds—which are unwholesome during the rains, and full of fever—should be fit to pass through. A friend had given me the use of a house for some months beyond Simla, and I was anxious to visit that part of the country. In the interval we formed a party to see the mountains at the back of Landowr, and I sent out my hill tents to the interior.

In the evening I was riding alone at Mussoorī, when I met Captain L—; there was an embarrassment and distress in his manner that surprised me: he quitted his party, and led my pony away from the walk, where the people were in crowds, and when we were alone informed me of the death of my beloved father. I had received no letters from home: this melancholy event had been known some days at Mussoorī, but no one had had the courage to tell his child. With what pain I reflected on having so long postponed my return home! Letters from Allahabad confirmed the melancholy news, and my kind husband urged my return to England instantly, to see my remaining and widowed parent.

I recalled my tents and people from the interior; and from that moment the thoughts of home, and of what time it would take from the Himalaya to Devonshire, alone filled my thoughts. It was decided I should sail from Calcutta the next cold season.

The weather had become most beautiful; the rains had passed away, and the most bracing air was over the Hills. I spent my time chiefly in solitude, roaming in the Hills at the back of Landowr; and where is the grief that is not soothed and tranquillized by the enjoyment of such scenery? The rains had passed away, and had left the air clear and transparent; the beauty of the Snowy Ranges, whose majestic heads at intervals flushed brightly with the rose-tints that summer twilight leaves upon their lofty brows,—or rising with their snowy peaks of glittering whiteness high above the clouds, was far greater than I ever beheld before the departure of the rains.

Look at the outline of the highest range of the Himalaya, and picture to yourself its grandeur and its beauty, which are not to be fully enjoyed in the society of others, in the midst of the gaiety of a party. Seek the highest point of the lone mountains, and the shade of the deep forests, whose beautiful foliage is varied by majestic pines, ever-green oaks, and brilliant rhododendrons. In solitude gaze on the magnificence of such a scene:

“Commune with thine own heart, and be still.” Let none be near to break the reverie: look on those mountains of eternal snow,—the rose-tints linger on them, the white clouds roll below, and their peaks are sharply set upon a sky of the brightest, clearest, and deepest blue. The rushing wing of the black eagle—that “winged and cloud-cleaving minister, whose happy flight is highest into heaven,”—may be heard above. The golden eagle may be seen below, poised on his wing of might, or swooping over a precipice, while his keen eye pierces downward, seeking his prey, into the depths of the narrow valley between the mountains. The sweet notes of the Hill birds are around you; and the gay butterflies, enamoured of the wild flowers, hover over their blossoms.

Who may describe the solitary loveliness, the speaking quietude, that wraps these forest scenes? Who may tell how beautiful they are? Who that loves solitude does not enjoy the

Who can look unmoved on the coronets of snow that crown the eternal Himalaya? Who can gaze without delight on the aërial mountains that pour down the Ganga and Yamuna from their snow-formed caves?

There, indulge in solemn vision and bright silver dream, while “every sight and sound from the vast earth and ambient air” sends to your heart its choicest impulses: gaze on those rocks and pinnacles of snow, where never foot of common mortal trod, which the departing rose-tints leave in colder grandeur, and enjoy those solemn feelings of natural piety with which the spirit of solitude imbues the soul.

“On accuse l’enthousiasme d’être passager; l’existence serait trop heureuse si l’on pouvait retenir des émotions si belles; mais c’est parce qu’elles se dissipent aisément qu’il faut s’occuper de les conserver.”

Gazing on the Snowy Ranges, Mont Blanc sinks into insignificance in comparison with the elevation of the eternal Himalaya.

12th.—Anxious to attain a stock of health, to enable me to bear my homeward journey, I commenced early rising, and was daily on my gūnth at 5 A.M.; it was very cold in the early morning, so much so that I often preferred walking. Captain Sturt, who is an excellent draughtsman, promised me a sketch of the Hills ere my departure; this pleased me greatly, as, perhaps, there is no country of which it is more difficult to give a correct idea than that around Landowr. Two fine eagles were brought to me, a golden and a black one; these I added to my collection,—rather large birds to carry, but I shall have so much luggage, it matters but little, a few chests more or less; every thing belonging to the mountains is so interesting. These birds are continually seen, especially at the back of Landowr. A pair of the Loonjee, the red, or Argus pheasants of the Himalaya, have been given me: the bird has a black top-knot, and the neck below has a most peculiar skin over it; beyond which are crimson feathers, bright as gold; the breast is covered with feathers, half red, half black, and in the centre of the black, which is at the end of the feather, is a white eye. The feathers on the back are of a game brown, tipped with black, in which is also the white spot: these birds are very rare and very valuable. I also received a fine hawk, and some small birds of brilliant feather: also the heads and horns of four gooral, the small wild deer of the Hills.

20th.—First met Colonel Arnold, of the 16th Lancers; we talked of the old regiment. Nothing pleases me so much as the kindness and affection with which my relatives, who were in this gallant corps, are spoken of by the old 16th.

22nd.—Not having forgotten the Hill woman I saw on our return from the waterfall, I rode alone to Būttah, hoping to catch sight of her, but was disappointed: en route, my dog Sancho put up a nide of Kallinge pheasants; they rose with a phurr,—as the natives call the noise of a bird,—as of a partridge or quail suddenly taking wing.

23rd.—Colonel Everest has a fine estate near Bhadráj, called “The Park;” I rode over with a most agreeable party to breakfast there this morning, and to arrange respecting some boundaries, which, after all, we left as unsettled as ever; it put me in mind of the child’s play:—

Boundaries in the Hills are determined, not by landmarks, but by the fall of the rain; in the division of a mountain, all that land is yours down which the rain water runs on your side, and on the opposite side, all the land is your neighbour’s over which the water makes its way downwards.

Colonel Everest is making a road—a most scientific affair; the obstacles to be conquered are great,—levelling rocks, and filling up khuds. The Park is the finest estate in the Hills.

25th.—I was fortunate in being able to procure camels, and sent off my baggage from Rajpūr in time to allow the animals to return to Meerut to be in readiness to march with the army there collecting for Afghānistan.

26th.—A sā’īs cooking his dinner by accident set fire to my stables, in which were five gūnths: the privates of the Lancers and Buffs, whose barracks are a little higher up the Hill, were with us in a moment; they saved the ponies, but the stable, which was formed of bamboo, mats, and straw, was reduced to ashes. A few days afterwards our house was set on fire; the men, who were always on the alert, put it out immediately.

29th.—Having ascertained that the water in the Keeree Pass had subsided, and that it had been open for three days, we determined to quit Landowr for Meerut: accordingly a dāk and horses having been laid for us, our party went down this morning to Rajpūr. It was a beautiful ride, but when we reached the foot of the Hill the heat became most unpleasant: such a sudden change from fires and cold breezes, to the hot winds—for such it felt to us at Rajpūr—when we took refuge at Mrs. Theodore’s hotel. She has stuffed birds for sale; her Moonāl pheasants are very dear, sixteen rupees a pair; but they are not reckoned as well prepared as those of Mr. Morrow, the steward at the hospital. Our party being too large to proceed dāk in a body, it was agreed I should lead the way, with Captain L— as my escort. At 4 P.M. we got into our palanquins, and commenced the journey: crossing the Deyra Dhoon it was hot, very hot, and the sides of the palanquin felt quite burning. As the sun sank we entered the Keeree Pass, where I found the air very cold; and it struck so chillily upon me that I got out of the palanquin, intending to walk some distance. The Pass is the dry bed of a mountain torrent, passing through high cliffs, covered with fine trees and climbers; a stream here and there crosses the road. During a part of the year it is impassable, but the water having subsided, the road had been open three days.

It was a beautiful night, and a beautiful scene; I enjoyed it extremely, and walked some distance, aided by my long paharī pole. Wishing my escort to partake in the pleasure to be derived from such romantic and picturesque scenery, I asked him if he would walk. He partially opened the doors of his palanquin, and looking out, expressed his astonishment at the madness of my walking in the Pass; said the malaria was so great he had shut the doors of the palkī, and lighted a cigar to secure himself from its influence, begged I would get into my palanquin, and keep the doors closed as long as I was in the Pass. I followed his advice, but the moonlight night often tempted me to open the doors, and I became completely ill at times from the chill that fell upon my chest, like the deadly chill of a vault, in spite of having wrapped myself up in a blanket. At first I was unwilling to attribute it to the effect of the air of the Keeree Pass, but having arrived at the end of it, these uncomfortable feelings instantly disappeared.

An instance of the danger of the Pass is, that Mrs. T— was detained for two hours at the entrance of it, for want of bearers,—she took a fever and died. The wife of the behishti, who was with our servants, was detained at the same place,—she took the fever, and it killed her. To sleep in the Pass one night is to run the pretty certain chance of fever, perhaps death: there is something in the air that almost compels one to sleep. With the very greatest difficulty I kept my eyes open, even when in pain from a chilly sickness that had crept over me: I thought of Corinne and the Pontine Marshes, in passing which she could scarcely resist the spell that induced her to long for sleep, even when she knew that sleep would be the sleep of death. Quitting the Pass, we entered on the plains, where the sun was burningly hot—how fierce it was! We did not arrive at Dēobund, where we were to take shelter, until noon the next day; I felt sick and faint from the excessive heat, and was very glad to gain the shelter of a roof.

30th.—At 4 P.M. our palanquins were ready; getting into them was like going into an oven. We had taken the precaution of having no dinner during the heat of the day; in the cool of the evening refreshment was welcome, in the shade of the jangal by the road-side. The bearers were good, and at 2 A.M. we arrived at the spot, to which a buggy had been sent, and horses laid on the road: how gladly I left the hot palanquin for the cool air in the buggy! The roads were so bad, they were absolutely dangerous, and the moonlight so puzzling, we could not see the holes into which the buggy was continually going bump bump, to the infinite hazard of breaking the springs; nevertheless, we arrived in safety at Meerut.

Oct. 2nd.—The first thing necessary was to enjoy a good canter in the plains after having been obliged to ride a gūnth so many months in the Hills. On the well-watered course, of an evening, the band of the Lancers was an attraction; they played well, and the instruments were good. The band came out with us in the “Marchioness of Ely,” and I recognised some faces amongst them. Fearing to encounter the intense heat in a boat at this season of the year, and hearing that cholera was at some of the stations on the river, I determined to prolong my stay at Meerut.

8th.—Accompanied Colonel Arnold and Sir Willoughby Cotton to a review of the 16th Lancers; I was much pleased with the review, and the fine appearance of the men.

10th.—Revisited the tomb of Jaffir Sāhib,—one I particularly admire, because the dome is open at the top, that the dews of heaven and the sunshine may fall upon the marble sarcophagus, wherein repose the ashes of the saint. A tomb like this is preferable to weeping flowers, or votive cypress wreath; and such an one, canopied by the vault of heaven alone, would the pilgrim desire, as the lone couch of her everlasting rest. It is a ruin, but must formerly have been a beautiful building.

Returning home we saw two chiri-mārs (bird-catchers). Their game is snared in a novel fashion: they carry a sort of shield, made of light split bamboo, entwined with green boughs; they crouch to the ground, bearing this verdant shield before them, like a stalking horse, at the same time putting through it a very long thin bamboo, the end of which is covered with bird-lime; with this they touch a small bird, and then carefully drawing the bamboo back to the boughs, put a hand through the shield, and secure the game. This style of bird-catching is simple and ingenious; I never saw it before.

What vicious brutes the native horses are!—In the evening I was riding on the course with two gentlemen: Captain A—’s horse, a vicious, intemperate, great black animal, attacked mine, and lashed out most furiously. I threw my feet on my horse’s mane: luckily for me they were out of the way in time, for the horse’s heels cut through my habit, and would have broken my limbs had I not been sitting monkey fashion.

My companions were alarmed:—“My God, he has broken her legs!” was the first exclamation, followed by a laugh on seeing my position, and “at least if he has not kicked your habit, he has a habit of kicking.” The escape pleased me, and I refused to ride again in company with so dangerous a horse. He was a fine strong animal, and carried his gallant master nobly through all the hardships of the ensuing Afghānistan campaign. The country horses are horribly savage, and a frightful accident occurred at Allahabad. Serjeant Percival, who was riding with Serjeant Cunningham, dismounted to drink at a well, giving his horse to a cooly to hold; the horse broke from the cooly and attacked Serjeant Cunningham; tore his hand severely, broke his leg in several places, pulled him off his horse, shook him as a dog does a rat, knelt upon him, and tore him with his teeth: at length the horse was driven off, and the serjeant was carried to a hospital, where he died a few hours afterwards. When the 16th Lancers first arrived at Cawnpore, the privates as Waterloo men considered themselves superior to the 11th Dragoons, and when a man of the latter ventured to differ in opinion with the former, he was cut short by “When were you at Waterloo?” The enmity occasioned by this was done away with one day on parade. A Lancer, who was riding a vicious country horse, was thrown; the beast knelt upon the man and bit him fiercely. The Lancers looked on with astonishment; the 11th Dragoons, accustomed to such little accidents, had recourse to bamboos; they drove the horse away, and as one of them picked up the mangled Lancer, “Did you ever see the like of that at Waterloo?” said the Dragoon.—Thus was harmony established between the privates of the two regiments. The Lancers have a very good theatre: the plays are encouraged by the officers, and the privates have the whole management of it: the scenes, which are painted by the men, are very well done; their acting is good, and the band a great addition. The privates performed the “Iron Chest,” and “The Middy Ashore:” the delight of the men, and the enthusiastic manner in which they applauded their comrades, when any thing pleased them, was quite amusing. After the play, the performers came forward, and sang “God save the Queen.” By way of adding to the effect, on either side the stage was placed a Lancer in full uniform, leaning on his sword, with his lance in one hand. This was a fancy of the privates. The two men might have stood for pictures of manly beauty; their attitudes were excellent, the effect was good, and their comrades were so much delighted, they gave them a round of applause. The management of a theatre is an excellent occupation for soldiers in a hot climate.

13th.—Crossing a nālā this morning during an excursion in search of the picturesque, my horse got into a hole, and we were very nearly thrown over, both together, into the stream. I gave him his head, and let him extricate himself, waiting patiently the result of his sagacity. He carried me out completely soaked, and strained his hind leg in gaining the bank.

17th.—Colonel Arnold gave a farewell ball to his friends at Meerut. The Lancers are to march for Afghānistan on the 30th. His house is built after his own fancy: from without it has the appearance of Hindoo temples that have been added to a bungalow; nevertheless, the effect is good. The interior is very unique. The shape of the rooms is singular; the trellis work of white marble between them, and the stained glass in the windows and over the doors give it an Eastern air of beauty and novelty. Fire-balloons were sent up, fireworks displayed; the band was good, and the ball went off with great spirit.

18th.—The evening after this fête, during the time Colonel Arnold was at dinner, and in the act of taking wine with Sir Willoughby Cotton, he burst a blood-vessel on his lungs, and was nearly choked. Medical aid was instantly called in; he was in extreme danger during the night, and was bled three times. A hope of his recovery was scarcely entertained: never was more interest or more anxiety felt by any people than by those at Meerut for Colonel Arnold. He had just attained the object of his ambition, the command during the war of that gallant regiment the 16th Lancers; and he was beloved both by the officers and the men. At 3 A.M. he parted with the guests in his ball-room in high health and spirits: at seven that evening he lay exhausted and apparently dying. When at Waterloo he was shot through the lungs, and recovered. It was one of those remarkable instances of recovery from a severe gun-shot wound, and as that had gone through the lungs, the breaking of the blood-vessel was a fearful occurrence.

21st.—Colonel Arnold is still in great danger, but his friends indulge in hopes of his recovery. Two field-officers called to take leave of me. I asked, “What is this war about, the fear that the Russians and Persians will drive us into the sea?” Colonel Dennie answered, “The Government must have most powerful reasons, of which we are ignorant; it is absurd to suppose that can be the reason of the war; why send us there? let them fag themselves out by coming to us; we shall get there easily enough, but how shall we return? We may be cut up to a man.” His companion agreed with him, and this was the general opinion of the military men of my acquaintance. The old 16th marched from Meerut on the 30th October. Never was there a finer body of men under the sun. Their route is marked out across a desert, where all the water they will get for man or beast for three days they must carry with them in skins. Why they have been ordered on such a route the secret and political department alone can tell—the men ask if it be to take the shine out of them: there is another road, said to be good, therefore it is difficult to understand the motive of taking them across the desert to Shikarpore.

My boats being ready at Ghurmuktesur Ghāt, I started dāk to join them; on my arrival a fine breeze was blowing, a number of vessels of every description were at anchor; the scene was picturesque, and my people were all ready and willing to start. Messrs. Gibson and Co. of Meerut have furnished me with two large flat-bottomed country boats, on each of which a house is built of bamboo and mats, which is well thatched; the interior of the one in which I live is divided into two large rooms, and has two bathing-rooms; the floor is of planks, covered with a gaily-coloured sutrāengī, a cotton carpet; and the inside is fitted up with white cloth—sometimes the rooms are fitted up with the coloured chintz used for tents. The other large boat contains the servants, the horses, and the dogs. The sort of boat generally used for this purpose is called a surrī, which is a patelī that draws very little water, and is generally rowed from the top of the platform above the roof, on which the dāndīs live.

23rd.—Started from Ghurmuktesur Ghāt the moment it became possible to see the way down the river, and to avoid the sandbanks. At 3 P.M. the thermometer was 82°,—a most oppressive heat for one just arrived from the Hills. Lugāoed on a sandbank, and walked with the dogs until ten at night, when I went to rest and dreamed of thieves, because this part of the Ganges is dangerous, and I have no guard on board the boats. From a fisherman on the bank I have purchased fish enough for myself and all the crew, a feast for us all, and a piece of good luck.

Taking a walk with the dogs puts me in mind of the kennel I had in the Hills, and of Khobarah, the magnificent dog of the Himalaya, of whom his former master told me this anecdote:—“Sitting one night in my tent, the dog at my feet, a bearer, in a state of intoxication, entered and spoke to me; the voice of the drunken man was loud and angry: the dog seized him instantly by the throat, bore him to the ground, and held him there. He did not injure the man: it being night, I suppose the creature thought me menaced with danger. He quitted him the instant I bade him do so.”

I gave this dog on quitting the Hills to a relative, desiring him to chain him up until he had made his acquaintance and ensured his friendship. My relative came to me a week afterwards highly amused, and said,—“The moment your dog was unchained he took possession of the verandah of my house. He is walking up and down lashing himself into fury; he keeps us all at bay, and I cannot enter the house; perhaps when he sees you he will become more composed, and allow me to go in to breakfast.”

In 1844, Khobarah, the Hill dog, was still in prime health, taking care of the cows at night at Cloud End, near Landowr. The fate of my dog Sancho was pitiable: he was in the Hills with a small spaniel I had given my relative,—a sharp cry from the dog brought the gentleman to the door; a short distance from the house he saw the spaniel in the mouth of a leopard, who carried him down the khud. Sancho was on the ground, having had his side cut open by a blow from the paw of the wild beast; the poor dog crawled to the feet of my friend, he took him up, and tried in vain to save his life—poor Sancho died.

A fine litter of spaniel pups once placed me in a dilemma: a friend thus settled the point. “It is as much a duty to cut a dog’s tail according to his caste, as it is to have drawn the superfluous teeth of a young Christian. This answer to the question respecting the tails of the young pups must be sent at once, lest time and the habit of wearing a whole tail should attach them, the pups, too strongly to the final three-quarters of an inch, which I think they should lose: the object with a spaniel is not so much to reduce the length as to obviate the thin and fish-hooky appearance of the natural tail. There is no cause to mourn such severe kindness to these pups; grieve not for them! theirs is an age when pain passes with the moment of infliction, and if, as some crying philosopher has observed, ‘We know no pleasure equal to a sudden relief from pain,’ the cutting and firing will be all for the good of the little dogs.” The price of a gūnth is from sixty to a hundred rupees: a good Almorah gūnth will fetch a hundred and sixty, or a fancy price of three hundred rupees. The common gūnths are used for fetching water from the khuds, but such is the dangerous nature of the mountain paths they descend, they are often killed by a fall over a precipice. The only animals fit for such work are mules, which may be bought at the Hurdwar fair, at a reasonable price. The beautiful gūnth Motī, whom I have before mentioned, was sent on an emergency to bring water from the khud: he fell over in returning with the heavy water bags and was smashed in the khud below—smashed! that is not my word, but picked up in intercourse with men, and is as shocking as a phrase I once made use of, “knocked over by a buffalo!”

This is too technical and gentlemanlike an expression; in such cases one should sacrifice brevity in favour of the “I hope you may obtain it style,” (i.e. the feminine of “I wish you may get it,”) and say, you will be thrown down or hurt by a buffalo’s running against you. The rules of female education, both of the governess and of after life, prevent a lady’s knowing whether such an out-of-door animal as a buffalo attacks people with his head or tail, and a lady should betray no nearer acquaintance with the horrible creature than that implied in the form of speech above appointed for adoption. Our language affords a table-land of communication between lady and gentleman, where the technical difficulties on either side the hill are out of sight. If the lady is to speak of a fashion she will leave out scientific terms, as will the gentleman if he is talking of a race; and I see no objection to the language of the man and woman being exactly similar. Any affectation, such as extreme delicacy and timidity, is vulgar, and suited to novel-reading ladies’ maids and milliners’ apprentices. Every term or word turned from its common and general meaning to a particular meaning, is what I consider technical. Such are not only words employed in any art or science in a sense differing from their common acceptation, but, also, such words used in an uncommon sense by a particular set of people, schoolboys, or fashionables. To “cut over with a stone” is a school expression, which of course cannot be referred to the general meaning of the words. Any thing being in good or bad taste is a technicality of good society. Some expressions of this nature, when original, are rather to be considered as bon-mots. Such as Sydney Smith’s saying that a clergyman next him at dinner had a ten-parson power of boring. To make use of French words, unless cleverly selected, comes under my ban, but the practice of good society is against me, I believe, in this. A schoolboy’s word like that of “being knocked over,” can be used with very good effect in fun. A lady may talk to a man of having a lark, or use any such word,—but it must not be used as her own word, but as if she were to say, “as you would call it.” I will give the rest of this essay another time, for fear of knocking over the patience of the dear ones around the hearth of my childhood’s home.

25th.—A fine breeze—the horse boat has just passed alongside—one of the horses looked out of the window and neighed loudly. I like to hear a horse neigh: poor boy, he would sooner be galloping with me on his back over the green sward of the race-course, than be cabined, cribbed, confined, in the boat; nevertheless, both the horses eat, drink, and lie down to sleep like old soldiers.

Another burning day. How good my health must be to stand such heat without much inconvenience! The constant confinement to a boat is very irksome and disagreeable; and this life of quietude after so much exercise is enough to make me ill. Would that I were once more enjoying the morning breeze, cantering against it! The early breeze on the river is damp and unwholesome, therefore I remain idly on my charpāī until half-past 7 A.M. The banks are low and ugly, the river broad and shallow, and full of great sandbanks, between which we glide.

There is little on this part of the river to afford amusement; here and there a flock of wild birds rises from the sands, and alligators basking in the sun have the appearance of logs of wood.

26th.—To-day we have reached the district in charge of Mr. H— S—, and the head man of the village off which we have moored, has come on board to offer his services in procuring watchmen for the night, food for the horses, &c. All the way down we have lugāoed on sandbanks in wild out-of-the-way spots: how pleasant it is to have quitted the jangal! In this district I feel at home, and chaukidars have come to guard the boats.

27th.—Arrived at Fathīgarh, and drove to the house of my relative; the grounds were just as beautiful, as full of flowers and flowering trees, and just as fresh as ever; the house cool and pleasant. On my return to my boat in the evening, I found the heat excessive, which, added to the bites of the musquitoes, kept me awake until 4 A.M., at which time the washermen came down to the river-side and made a great noise; their method of washing is to dip a garment into the water, then to lay it on a piece of flat board and soap it, after which they whirl the garment above their heads, and down it comes on the flat board with a loud sound, to which is added a most peculiar noise, like a pavior’s grunt, given by the dhobīs, when the garment strikes the board, as if the exertion exhausted them; this whirling and beating is continued for a short time, when the clothes are taken to the man’s house, put over a most simple steam apparatus, which completely cleans them, after which they are rinsed, dryed, and ironed.

29th.—Quitted the Fort Ghāt; after a good run of forty miles anchored at Kanauj, where the people cooked and ate their dinners; after which we cast the boats off into the middle of the stream, allowing them to float down just at the pleasure of the current, whilst the people slept; but their slumbers were occasionally disturbed by the boat running aground on a sandbank or on shore, when they were roused up to get her off again.

31st.—Reached Bitoor at breakfast time; a large fair was being held on the banks of the river. Here we nearly lost the horse-boat; a strong wind carried the boats against a high bank, which was falling in every second; just as the horse-boat ran foul of it the bank fell in; the chaprasī on deck cut the towing-line with his sword, and the boat swerved off from the bank; she was filled with earth, and all but swamped. The horses, feeling the violent rocking of the vessel, neighed loudly several times, as if conscious of danger, and willing to remind us of their existence. The boat righted, and was got off with some difficulty.

On our arrival at Cawnpore we were detained by the bridge of boats, which was closed, and would not be opened until noon the next day.

Nov. 1st.—Rose early, and went on shore to buy two toon-wood trees, and one of sāl. It is nearly noon; I wish the bridge of boats would open, and let us pass through; waiting on this hot sandbank is very tiresome, and the wind is favourable. I have had much plague with the mānjhī of the horse-boat; n’importe,—a lonely pilgrim must expect a little annoyance on the road at times. At noon the bridge opened, and we passed through; anchored on the other side, to get the timber trees off the bank into the river. The sāl tree, very heavy wood, twenty-two cubits in length, and two feet six inches in diameter, was lying on a high pile of trees; with the greatest difficulty it was moved, it was so wedged in amongst the rest; about twenty men were in the river below the tree, pulling at a rope fixed to a beam as a lever; all of a sudden the tree got loose, and down it thundered, rolling over on its side into the river below. I am not a coward, but when I saw what appeared inevitable death to five or six of my own men, I covered my eyes with my hands, expecting to see them crushed to death, and lying under the tree in the water; however, the cry of “By the blessing of God and the mem Sāhiba’s good luck they have escaped,” was indeed welcome: they had all sprung aside quick as lightning, and not a man was hurt. We then proceeded down the river, taking our sāl tree, lashed to the side of my boat, which made her all on one side; therefore I purchased two toon-wood trees at another timber-yard, and lashed them on the other side, which righted the boat, the toon being lighter wood than the sāl: by the time this was over it was 8 P.M. I paid the men well who had worked so hard, and gave the crews of both boats sweetmeats enough to last for four days; all were in good humour, and I sought my couch completely fagged. But sleep was driven away by the musquitoes; I killed hundreds of the vile tormentors. Every night we drift down with the stream after the people have had their food on shore.

4th.—On the top of the thatch of the house which is built on my boat, is a platform on which the people sit; when the wind is in a particular direction all that is said above is plainly heard in the cabin below. A most theological discourse has amused me for the last hour carried on between my khidmatgār, one of the Faithful, and a staunch Hindū, one of my chaprasīs. The question under consideration was, whether God made Hindūs or Musalmāns first; and whether you ought to say “By the blessing of Allah,” or “By the blessing of Vishnŭ.” These points the Musalmān undertook to explain. The questions of the Hindū were simple, but most puzzling; nor could the man refrain from a laugh now and then, when some curious point of faith was explained to him by the follower of the prophet. It ended by the khidmatgār saying, “If you do not believe in Allah and the kurān, they will take you by that Hindū top-knot of yours, hold you by it whilst they fill your mouth with fire, and pitch you to Jahannam.” I laughed,—the people heard me, and being aware that their conversation was overheard, dropped the subject. The follower of Muhammad worked so hard and so earnestly to gain a convert, it was unfortunate his opponent should have been so utterly incapable of understanding what he considered the true faith.

The Musalmāns are anxious for converts; the Hindūs will neither make proselytes, nor be converted themselves. Deism is the religion of well-educated Hindūs, they leave idolatry to the lower orders. When conversing with a lady one evening, the priest’s bell was heard; she said, “I must attend,—will you come with me?” Accordingly we entered the small room which contained the idols; they were lighted up, and the Brahmāns in attendance. The worship proceeded: I said to the lady, “Is it possible that you can believe in the power of brazen images, the work of men’s hands?” She answered, “I believe in one great and eternal God; as for these images, it is the custom of the country to worship them; the lower orders believe in their power.” “Why do you attend such pooja?” said I. She looked at the Brahmāns as if she feared our conversation might be overheard, and answered, “Their power is great; if I were not to appear it would soon be over; they—” she ceased speaking, and drew her forefinger across her throat with a significant gesture. The conversation dropped; and I observed the Brahmāns “cast camel’s glances[35]” both on her and me.

The clergyman at Allahabad converted a Hindū to the Christian faith; consequently, the man became an outcast,—he could neither eat, drink, nor smoke with his own family; he complained to the clergyman, and was taken into service. His attendance at church was constant. His patron died: the man was never seen afterwards at Divine Service. The newly appointed clergyman inquired the reason, and this answer was returned:—“I received eight rupees a month from your predecessor; if you will give me the same I will go to church every Sunday!”—So little did the man comprehend his adopted religion, or the kindness that induced the Clergyman to support him!

Passed Manucpūr with a fine breeze and a powerful stream in our favour; lugāoed below Kurrah, where the people cooked on shore, and as soon as the moon was high we turned the boat into the current, and allowed her to drift; the helmsman ties the rudder up in the centre, and usually lies down to sleep by its side; if the vessel run ashore, he starts up, and marvels at the occurrence. We drifted the whole night by moonlight; at one time I told them to anchor, but the bank kept falling in in so fearful a manner we were obliged to put off again.

Just as we came to the bank to lugāo the men suddenly shoved the boat back into the stream, saying, “Some one has sneezed, we cannot anchor here at present.” A few moments afterwards they anchored. They are superstitious respecting a sneeze, and by waiting for a short time fancy the evil influence passes away. “After sneezing you may eat or bathe, but not go into any one’s house[36]:” because it is considered an omen of ill luck.

A fair breeze is springing up; we are near home, and they will be looking for the return of the wanderer. We are off Papamhow; the river is very shallow and very broad. We passed the ghāt, and moored while the people ate their dinners. I would have proceeded by moonlight, but was deterred from doing so by the advice of the fishermen on the banks, who said it would be very dangerous then to go on, as the stream was very fierce and shallow below.

6th.—Arrived at Raj-ghāt, at which place the carriage was waiting for me; but I found it impossible to reach the ghāt, the force of the current drove us off; therefore, taking the crew of the horse-boat to aid our own, we dropped down into the Jumna below the Fort; in doing this, we ran against another vessel, and did our own some damage. At this moment we are making our way slowly and with difficulty up the stream against the current of the Jumna, just below the Fort; the view is interesting, and the pilgrim will reach the landing-place, below her own old peepul-tree, within an hour. I have at this moment but little energy left wherewith to pursue my homeward voyage, but my promise is yours, my beloved mother, and your child would not disappoint you for all the wealth of Ormus or of Ind. She who ventures on the waters must take patience, and await the good pleasure of the wind and tides; but there is the Fort and the great Masjid, and the old peepul-tree, and the mem sāhiba’s home, and the chabūtara[37] on the bank of the river, which is crowded with friends on the look out for the pilgrim, and ready to hail her return with the greatest pleasure.