1839, March 19th.—A fine and favourable breeze bore the “Madagascar” from St. Helena, and gave us hopes of making the remainder of the voyage in as short a space of time as that in which the first part had been accomplished. The only really good fruit we got at James’s Town was the plantain. Some mackerel was baked and pickled on board, but we were recommended not to eat it after the first day, as the St. Helena mackerel, if kept, is reckoned dangerous.

April 11th.—How glad I was to see the polar star, visible the first time this evening! I thought of my dear mother, and how often we had watched it together; and the uncertainty of what might have occurred during my voyage to the dear ones at home rendered me nervous and very unhappy. The southern hemisphere does not please me as much as the northern; the stars appear more brilliant and larger in the north.

18th.—The ship was passing through quantities of sea-weed, supposed to be drifted from the Gulf of Mexico; it is always found in this latitude. The children amused themselves with writing letters to their mother, and sending them overboard, corked up in empty bottles.

May 7th.—Polidorus, the great pet parrot, died; the pitching of the vessel and the cramp killed the bird, in spite of the warmth of flannel: of our four birds one only now survived; and very few remained of twenty-four paroquets brought on board by the crew. A flight of paroquets in India, with their bright green wings and rose-coloured necks, is a beautiful sight.

The education of a paroquet is a long and a serious affair; a native will take his bird on his finger daily, and repeat to it incessantly, for an hour or two at a time, the name of the deity he worships, or some short sentence, until the bird—hearing the same sounds every day for weeks or months together—remembers and imitates them. If in a cage, it is covered over with a cloth, that the attention of the birds may not be diverted from the sounds: sometimes a native will let the bird down a well for an hour or two, that it may be in darkness, while, lying on the top of the well, he repeats the daily lesson.

Many birds are worshipped by the Hindūs, of which the principal is Gŭroorŭ, whose feathers are of gold, with the head and wings of a bird, and the rest of his body like a man, the vahan of Vishnŭ, who rides on his back; and at times, the bird god, in the shape of a flag, sits on the top of Vishnŭ’s car,—the lord of the feathered tribe, the devourer of serpents. When the Hindūs lie down to sleep they repeat the name of Gŭroorŭ three times, to obtain protection from snakes.

The bird Jŭtayoo is the friend of Rama, and is worshipped at the same festival with him.

The Shŭnkŭrŭ Chillŭ, the eagle of Coromandel, the white-headed kite, commonly called the Brahmanī kite, is considered an incarnation of Dūrga, and is reverenced by the Hindūs, who bow to it whenever it passes them.

Khŭnjŭnŭ, the wagtail, is a form of Vishnŭ, on account of the mark on its throat, supposed to resemble the Shalgrama. The Hindūs honour it in the same way they do the eagle of Coromandel.

The peacock, the goose, and the owl, are worshipped at the festivals of Kartikŭ, Brŭmha, and Lukshmēē. If, however, the owl, the vulture, or any other unclean bird, perch upon the house of an Hindū, it is an unlucky omen, and the effect must be removed by the performance of an expiatory ceremony.

8th.—A heavy gale with squalls,—it continued three days; we were under storm-sails, the sea washing over the guns. It was a beautiful sight, the waves were like a wall on one side of the ship, the wind was contrary, and the wearing round the vessel in a heavy sea was extremely interesting to me, from not having been at sea so long. While the storm was blowing I thought of all the idols in the hold,—of Ganesh, and Ram, and Krishnjee, and felt a little alarm lest the “Madagascar” in a fit of iconoclastic fury, should destroy all my curiosities. In such a gale, to appear on deck in the attire usually worn by an English lady was impossible—delicacy forbad it; therefore I put on my Pahārī dress, and went out to enjoy the gale. As I passed on to the poop I overheard the following remarks: “I say, Jack, is that ere a man or a woman?” to which the sailor replied, “No, you fool, it’s a foreigner.” On another man’s asking “Who is it?” he received for answer, “That ere lancer in the aft-cabin.” The black velvet cap, somewhat in appearance like a college or lancer cap, perhaps inspired the bright idea, as the dress itself is particularly feminine and picturesque, and only remarkable on account of its singularity.

11th.—The gale abated, leaving a strong contrary wind and a heavy sea. We passed a small vessel,—merely a large boat battened down; she was from Lisbon, bound to London; the men wore high leather boots reaching above their knees; every wave broke over her, and ran out on the other side,—it was a fearful sea for such a little vessel. Four men were on board; they hailed us to know the latitude and longitude, and found their calculations erroneous. The captain invited the master on board; they threw overboard a cockle-shell of a boat, in which the master and one of the men came alongside: it was beautiful and fearful to see that little boat on the waves,—they were still so tempestuous. The two men came on deck; the master was the finest specimen of the veteran sailor I ever beheld,—a strong, fine man, weather-beaten until his face looked like leather, frank and good-humoured,—he pleased us all very much. They had been beating about where they then were for the last fortnight, and had had hard work of it. We exchanged spirits and tobacco for delicious Lisbon oranges, and all parties were pleased. The old sailor returned in the cockle-shell to the larger boat, and we all watched his progress with interest; they pulled her in, and we soon bade adieu to the orange vessel.

13th.—For some time we had been busy arranging for going on shore, which I determined to do if possible at Plymouth; therefore my packages of curiosities were got up,—at least as many as I thought I could take with me, being nine chests; and all the buffalo and stags’ horns were in readiness. About thirty-five miles from Plymouth a pilot vessel came alongside, and we calculated on landing in her in four hours. At 5 P.M., having taken leave of the captain, who had shown us the greatest attention during the voyage, we went—a large party—on board the pilot vessel: no sooner did we enter her than the wind changed, the rain fell, it was very cold; we were forced to go below into a smoky cabin, the children squalled, and we all passed a most wretched night.

14th.—We arrived at 6 A.M. May-flowers and sunshine were in my thoughts. It was bitterly cold walking up from the boat,—rain, wind and sleet, mingled together, beat on my face. I thought of the answer of the French ambassador to one of the attachés, who asked why the Tower guns were firing,—“Mon ami, c’est peut-être qu’on voit le soleil.”

Every thing on landing looked so wretchedly mean, especially the houses, which are built of slate stone, and also slated down the sides; it was cold and gloomy;—no wonder on first landing I felt a little disgusted. I took a post-chaise, and drove to the house of that beloved parent for whose sake I had quitted the Hills, and had come so far. The happiness of those moments must be passed over in silence: she laid back the hair from my forehead, and looking earnestly at me, said,—“My child, I should never have known you,—you look so anxious, so careworn!” No wonder,—for years and anxiety had done their work.

The procession from the Custom House was rather amusing; the natural curiosities passed free, and as the buffalo and stag-horns were carried through the streets, the people stopped to gaze and wonder at their size. Having left my young friends in the “Madagascar,” it was necessary to go to town to receive them. I went up in the mail from Devonport; its fine horses pleased me very much, and at every change I was on the look out for the fresh ones. We went on an average ten miles an hour. One gentleman was in the mail. I was delighted with the sides of the hedges covered with primroses, heatherbells, and wild hyacinths in full bloom; nor could I repress my admiration; “Oh! what a beautiful lane!” “A lane!” said the man with frowning astonishment, “this is the Queen’s highway.” I saw the error I had committed; but who could suppose so narrow a road between two high banks covered with primroses, was the Queen’s highway? Every thing looked on so small a scale; but every thing brought with it delight. When the gruff gentleman quitted the mail, he gathered and gave me a bunch of primroses; with them and a bouquet of lilies of the valley I was quite happy, flying along at the rate of a mile in five minutes. In the cold of the raw dark morning they took me out of the mail thirty miles from London, and placed me in a large coach, divided into six stalls, somewhat like those of a cathedral: a lamp was burning above, and in a few minutes we were going through a long, dark, dreary tunnel. It was very cold, and I felt much disgusted with the great fearful-looking monster of a thing called a train: in a short time we were at the end of the thirty miles, and I found myself once again in London. On my arrival I was exceedingly fatigued; all the way from Landowr I had met with nothing so overcoming as that day and night journey from Devonport to town. To every person on a return from India, all must appear small by comparison. Devonshire, that I had always heard was so hilly, appeared but little so; and although I was charmed with a part of the drive from Devonport to Exeter, with the richness of the verdure, and the fine cows half hidden in rich high grass, and the fat sheep, still I was disappointed—Devon was not as hilly a country as I had fancied. Oh the beauty of those grass fields, filled as they were with buttercups and daisies! During seventeen years I had seen but one solitary buttercup! and that was presented to me by Colonel Everest in the Hills. The wild flowers were delightful, and the commonest objects were sources of the greatest gratification. I believe people at times thought me half mad, being unable to understand my delight.

At the time I quitted England it was the fashion for ladies to wear red cloaks in the winter,—and a charming fashion it was: the red or scarlet seen at a distance lighted up and warmed the scenery;—it took from a winter’s day half its dulness. The poor people, who always imitate the dress of those above them, wore red, which to the last retained a gay and warm appearance, however old or threadbare. On my return all the women were wearing grey, or more commonly very dark blue cloaks. How ugly, dull, dingy, and dirty, the country people generally looked in them! even when perfectly new they had not the pleasant and picturesque effect of the red garment.

In Wales I was pleased to see the women in black hats, such as men usually wear, with a white frilled cap underneath them: it was national, but not a red cloak was to be seen.

What can be more ugly than the dress of the English? I have not seen a graceful girl in the kingdom: girls who would otherwise be graceful are so pinched and lashed up in corsets, they have all and every one the same stiff dollish appearance; and that dollish form and gait is what is considered beautiful! Look at the outline of a figure; the corset is ever before you. In former days the devil on two sticks was a favourite pastime. The figure of the European fair one is not unlike that toy. Then the bustle,—what an invention to deform the shape! It is a pity there is no costume in England as on the Continent for the different grades in society. Look at the eyes of the women in church,—are they not generally turned to some titled fair one, or to some beautiful girl, anxious to catch the mode of dressing the hair, or the tye of a ribbon, that they may all and each imitate the reigning fashion, according to the wealth they may happen to possess? This paltry and wretched mimickry would be done away with if every grade had a fixed costume.

I went to Mr. Greville’s, Bond Street, to look at some birds, and took a list of his prices, which I have annexed, with those of Mr. Drew, a bird-stuffer at Plymouth[39]. My scientific friends preferred the birds in the state in which they came from India, therefore they remain in statu quo.

Of all the novelties I have beheld since my return, the railroads are the most surprising, and have given me the best idea of the science of the present century. The rate at which a long, black, smoking train moves is wonderful; and the passing another train is absolutely startling. The people at the stations are particularly civil; there is no annoyance, all is pleasant and well conducted. From the velocity with which you move, all near objects on the side of the railroad look like any thing turned quickly on a lathe,—all long stripes; you cannot distinguish the stones from the ground, or see the leaves separately, all run in lines from the velocity with which at full speed you pass near objects. The New Police, now so well regulated, also attracted notice; their neat uniform renders them conspicuous; a wonderful improvement on the watchmen of former days. The beautiful flowers, the moss-roses, and the fine vegetables in town were most pleasing to the eye. The height of the carriage horses in the Park attracted my attention; they are fine, powerful animals, but their necks are flat, and their heads generally appeared very coarse. They wanted the arched neck and the fire of the horses of India.

Visited the British Museum; the new rooms that have been added are handsome, and well filled with Egyptian curiosities; mummies in crowds, and very fine ones. The Elgin marbles, in a handsome hall, are also shown to great advantage. My collection of Hindoo idols is far superior to any in the Museum; and as for Gunesh, they never beheld such an one as mine, even in a dream! Nor have they any horns that will compare with those of my buffalo, or birds to vie with my eagles, which are superb. I was in town when a fog came on at 10 A.M. in the month of October, which rendered candles, or gas-lights necessary; it was as deep as the yellow haze that precedes a tūfan in the East.

At the horticultural show at Plymouth, I was glad to see the kulga (amaranthus tricolor), which not only ornamented my garden in the East, but was used as spinach, sāg. How often have we shot off the head of this plant with a pellet ball, not only for amusement, but to improve it, as all the lower heads then increased in size, became variegated, and the plant improved in beauty. The kala datura, and the datura metel, were also there; and my old friends, the oleanders, looking slender and sickly. I went to the place alone, and the people expressed their surprise at my having done so—how absurd! as if I were to be a prisoner unless some lady could accompany me—wah! wah! I shall never be tamed, I trust, to the ideas of propriety of civilized Lady Log.

Oct. 26th.—Visited Umberslade; this ancient seat of the Archer family is about fifteen miles from Leamington in Warwickshire. The view of the house and grounds is good from the obelisk; the latter leans fearfully, and totters to its fall. The mansion is a fine old handsome square building, cased in stone, and balustraded around the flat roof with the same material. We proceeded to the church of Tanworth, and inspected the monuments of the family. Thence we visited “The Butts;” a farm-house is now called by that name, of course; the place was formerly the archery ground.

My love of beautiful scenery, the faint remembrance I retained of the mountains of Wales, and the wandering propensities inherent in my nature, added to a desire to revisit Conway, because the pilgrim was born within the walls, induced me to go into Wales.

Dec. 4th.—The entrance to Conway from a distance is very beautiful; it has finer hills around it than you would be led to suppose, judging by the views generally taken of the castle; the suspension-bridge is handsome, and in keeping with the ancient building. I visited the old ruin, which afforded me the greatest pleasure, and went over the ancient walls that encompass the town; there are fifty picturesque points of view in Conway.

Darkness coming on, I took refuge at the Castle Inn, a good, comfortable, and very clean house: my dinner consisted of a leg of the most delicious Welsh mutton, for which Conway is especially famed, and which is more like our gram fed mutton in the East, than any I have tasted: the English sheep are generally large, fat, and very coarse; and the mutton is decidedly inferior to that of India. A troutlet fresh from the river was excellent; the Welsh ale good, and the cheerful fire was most agreeable.

5th.—I discovered William Thomas, an old servant, who formerly lived with my grandmother; he keeps a small inn: the man was very glad to see one of the family, and he became my escort to the house in which I was born, which having been sold by my father, is now the property of the Castle Inn. I went over it: in the room formerly my nursery were a couple of twins, and the landlady wished me to take lodgings there, saying they would be very cheap in the winter. I could not find a harper in Conway; it being the winter season, the only one they appear to have had quitted the place; he is there during the summer, when visitors are plentiful. Nor could I even see a Welsh harp, which they tell me differs from all other instruments of the same kind. With great pleasure I revisited the old castle, admired the great hall, and the donjon keep; the pilgrim was not born in the latter, but in “the flanking walls that round it sweep,” that is, within the walls of Conway. The ivy which covers the castle walls in the richest profusion is remarkably fine, the wall-flowers most fragrant. Irish ivy is however larger and finer. The well-known lines—

present to the imagination an idea of a grandeur of rock and waterfall that you do not find near the castle. Old Conway’s “foaming flood” is a small river flowing close to the rocky site on which the castle is built; the rock is of slate stone, and in digging for slate some hundred years ago the foundation of one of the old towers was undermined, and a part fell in; the work was stopped, and the old castle is still in fine preservation. The oriel window in the Queen’s tower is to be admired, and the banquet-hall must have been very handsome. Quitting the castle I went to the church,—a very handsome old one, if viewed from within, and very old and curious if viewed externally. It contains some ancient and curious monuments: on a flat stone in the chancel the name of Archer attracted my attention; on it is this inscription:—

Here lyeth yᵉ body of
Richᵈ Hookes of Conway
Gent—who was the 41ˢᵗ child
of his father Wᵐ Hookes
Esqʳᵉ by Alice his wife
and yᵉ father of 27 children
who died yᵉ 20 day of march
1631
N.B. This stone was revived
in the year 1720

att yᵉ charge of john
Hookes Esqʳᵉ
and since by Thoˢ
Bradley and Wᵐ Archer Esqʳᵉˢ

I find this Richard Hookes was a relation of the Archers, which accounts for their care in reviving this curious account of the number of his family. In the street, a little above the Hotel, is a large and handsome house, called the Plas nwyd, or new palace; the arms of the family to whom it belongs are carved on the chimney-pieces, and on the ceilings. On going down to the quay I found it was high tide; several small vessels were there. The walls of Conway, and the castle, and the suspension bridge, look well from this point. Next to the gateway is a large house, the property of the Erskines: the library is in the tower of the gateway; it is now deserted, and falling to decay, but must have been a pleasant residence.

Quitted Conway on my road to Ireland. Aber Conway, as I passed it, appeared to me very beautiful; the bridge with its single arch, the mountains in front, the church to the left, the stream and the trees, would form a lovely subject for a sketch.

The high road is fine—excellent, it is cut through, and winds round a high rock close to the sea-shore, towards which a good stone wall forms a rampart, and prevents any one feeling nervous. The views in North Wales pleased me very much; the mountains are low, but the heaviness of the atmosphere causes clouds to hang upon their summits, to which their height appears scarcely to entitle them. Penrith Castle is handsome, and the stone quarries appear large and valuable. I passed over and admired the Menai Bridge, and crossed Anglesea in darkness. They tell me the pretty and small black cattle, so common in Wales, come from Anglesea,—the breed of the island. There are no wild goats in Wales, and I only saw two or three tame ones.

6th.—Arrived in Dublin, and proceeded to Knapton. The country around Dublin is hilly, pretty, and has some trees; further inland it is flat, very flat and uninteresting. The towns swarm with beggars, who look very cold, and of an unhealthy white, as if much illness were added to their poverty: the Irish cabins appear abodes of wretchedness, some of them being without a chimney, the smoke making its exit through the door; the pigs and the naked-legged children rolling together; and the roof looking as if its original thatching of straw was turned into mud, so covered is it with green moss, and the black hue of dampness. The potatoes are piled in ridges in the fields, covered over with a few inches of earth neatly beaten down,—the only specimen of neatness that I saw was in these potato ridges; they are left unguarded in the field, and the Irish say, the last thing they would think of stealing would be the potatoes. The hay-ricks are on the same small scale as the Welsh, but not put together nor thatched with Welsh neatness; but the stacks of turf looked very Irish, and they were tolerably neat. The police, who are dressed in a dark-coloured uniform, are armed, which they are not in England. The sight of a turf-fire has an odd appearance at first; the smell is oppressive, and it does not appear to send out the heat of a coal-fire. The park of Abbeyleix, with its fine trees, is a pleasing object, surrounded as it is by a flat country of bog and swamp, and the walks within it are delightful. I wish I had had some of the young rhododendron trees from Landowr to plant there; I might have brought some home in glass cases, impervious to the sea air; a great many cases of that sort, containing rare plants, came to England on the poop of the “Madagascar;” several of the plants were in bloom on board, and they were all healthy on their arrival. The hall at Abbeyleix is decorated with the skull and horns of an enormous elk, found in one of the bogs,—a great curiosity; there is also a woodcock, with a young one and an egg, which were found in the grounds, and are considered a rarity.

We passed a woman who appeared to be very poor from the scantiness of her clothing; she wore her cloak over her head instead of over her shoulders,—a fashion purely Irish; but she did not ask for charity. My companion gave her some money; she threw herself on her knees to thank him, and on our asking her history, she said, “My husband is a Roman, sure it’s myself’s the bad Protestant:” she added that she had eight children, four of whom were dead, and the Lord be thanked; and she wished the Lord would take the others, for they were starving. I gave her a little money, which I made her promise to spend in potatoes and buttermilk, because she said she would lay it out in tea for the children. This new love of tea, to the abolition of potatoes and buttermilk, adds much to the starving state of the Irish poor; if you give them money, it is said, their priests take one-third of it; besides which, O’Connell levies a tribute on the poor creatures.

28th.—This morning, a fine frost being on the ground, which from its peculiar whiteness and brilliancy the Irish denominate a black frost, the party at Abbeyleix and Knapton sallied forth to shoot the woods: the keepers beat the woods for woodcocks much in our Indian fashion of beating the jangal. During the day I walked to the enclosed garden in Lord de Vesci’s grounds, to see the tomb of Malichus O’More, the son of Roderick O’More; the strong ice that was upon it rendered the inscription difficult to decipher: it stood formerly within a few yards of its present situation; Lord de Vesci built a hot-house on the spot, and at the same time he removed the coffin, which is of stone, and contains bones of gigantic size.

1840, Jan. 10th.—To-day the penny postage commenced: a great crowd collected at the post-office, putting in letters,—which were in vast number, as people had refrained from writing, awaiting the opening of the penny post. The band was playing in front of the office.

13th.—Quitted Liverpool in the train: you commence your journey through an immense tunnel, and when a train is going through notice is given at the other end by a whistle. The engines puff and blow in such an angry fashion, one can scarcely fancy they are not animated; and when they want water, by a very simple contrivance, they whistle of themselves to get it. Their names delight me: the “Oberon” or the “Camilla” puff by you—puff, puff, like enraged animals. The

—road ought to be added, were it not for the rhyme, but must be understood.

23rd.—Rode with a friend to Clumber, the seat of the Duke of Newcastle; the grounds are fine and extensive; the house appeared an immense mass of heavy building: the interior may be handsome, but the exterior is heavy and dreary-looking. I admired the lake very much, and the canter we took in the park was delightful.

29th.—Visited Mr. Waljambe’s museum of British birds; it is most excellent; and I was charmed with the silver firs in the grounds at Osburton,—they are most beautiful and magnificent trees.

Feb. 3rd.—The following speech made by a gentleman at tiffin amused me:—“Lord Brougham says, ‘Mankind are divided into two classes, those who have seen my house in Italy, and those who have not:’—now, I divide mankind into those who have seen my Moonāl pheasants, and those who have not. Lady William Bentinck gave them to me, and they are the most beautiful birds I ever saw.”

11th.—A steamer ran against a merchant vessel that was at anchor in the river; down she went headlong, all her crew with her, down in a moment. At low tide four barges were brought and fixed to her with strong chains and cables. She was then left until the tide rose, at which time the pressure on the ropes increased. Hundreds of people assembled to see her drawn up—the tide rose higher and higher—the struggle was great—“Now mud,”—“Now barges,” was the cry: the mud held her tenaciously, the barges pulled more and more—the anxiety was great: at last, like a cork drawn from a bottle, she rose from the suction, came up to the surface, and was immediately taken to the shore: some of her crew, who were asleep when she went down, were found dead in their beds.

1841, April 20th.—At the little chapel of Pennycross in Devon, my beloved father was buried. It is situated on a hill covered with fine trees, and commands a beautiful view,—just such a quiet, holy, retired spot as one would select for a last resting place. I could not summon courage to go there before, but now I feel an anxiety to revisit it again and again.

May 1st.—Revisited the chapel of Pennycross, and took a drawing of the tomb of my father.

12th.—Went on board the “Wilberforce” steamer, which is going with the “Albert” and “Santon” on the Niger expedition. She has two engines, each of thirty-five horse power. The “Santon” has only one engine: the “Wilberforce” is flat-bottomed, but has a double keel, they tell me, that may be drawn up at pleasure. She is ventilated, but will be horribly hot in a warm climate—like an iron furnace. The life-buoy appeared a good invention. One of the officers showed me an absurd affair,—a small lantern to strap upon the chest of a man, to purify the air he breathes when he is exposed to a pestilential atmosphere. They showed me a number of bibles and testaments, which they said were in the Arabic character: judging from the slight glimpse I caught, it appeared to me to be beautifully printed Persian. The two Ashantee princes came on board with their tutor: they are intelligent, good-humoured, ugly Africanders, with large blubber lips and up-turned flat noses, and dressed like young Englishmen: how soon they will discard their tight trowsers and small sleeves when they get back to their own country! The crockery on board is shown to the lady visitors, who are expected to weep on beholding the appropriate design printed upon it:—a negro dancing with broken chains in his hands! It made me laugh, because there is much humbug in the whole affair—but it is the fashion. I was rather inclined to weep when I thought what would be the probable fate of the men then around, who were going out on the expedition to such a dreadful climate.

July 21st.—Having been recommended to visit the baths of Schwalbach in Germany, on account of my health, I started per steamer for Rotterdam and proceeded up the Rhine: after a most agreeable stay at Schwalbach, and my health having received benefit from its chalybeate waters, I returned to England.

Dec. 8th.—This day is over—I am once more alone—and what a day of agony it has been to me—my birthday! On this day I first beheld my beloved mother; on this day I have placed her in her grave!—have parted with her in this world for ever. My beloved mother has been placed in my father’s vault in the churchyard of that quiet and beautiful little chapel at Pennycross,—a tranquil and holy spot. O my mother! let me turn from your grave to the duties that are before me, and strive to act in a manner worthy of your child.

INDIAN NEWS.

Overland letters brought me the following intelligence:—

“1839, March 25th.—Her Highness the Bāiza Bā’ī sent a kharita to give me the glad tidings of the safety of the Gaja Rajā Sāhib, and the birth of a daughter; they are both very weak and thin, and her Highness is most anxious about her grand-daughter, as she can scarcely take any nourishment. They have named the child the Chimna Rajā, after the wife of Appa Sāhib.”

Holding rank by courtesy, as “Aunt of my grand-daughter the Gaja Rajā,” this newly-arrived young princess must be my great grand-niece, for which reason perhaps she honoured me by coming into the world on the anniversary of my wedding-day. It is remarkable the ladies of that family are oddly enough styled Rajā, and Rajā Sāhib.

Dec. 15th.—My relative at Landowr wrote to me, saying, “I had a very interesting letter lately from our friend Sturt, of the engineers, from Cabul: he has been appointed engineer to Shah Sūjah, and gets 1000 rupees a month: he had not heard of your being in England; but he begged to be kindly remembered to you. Here is an extract: ‘Give my best salām; I promised her a sketch of the Hills, which I have not forgotten, but never did one to my fancy; but she shall have one of Candahar, Ghuznee, and Cabul, and any thing else this place affords: would she like a lady’s dress? if so, I shall be obliged by her accepting it from me.’ I told Sturt you were at home, but would, I was sure, be delighted to get the sketches.”

How often after the death of Captain Sturt, who distinguished himself so highly, did I regret never having received the promised sketches, and concluded they were lost during the disastrous retreat from Cabul! In 1848, Mr. Hullmandel showed me the work published by General Sale, and told me the lithographs were from sketches by Captain Sturt; that the portfolio was lost during the retreat of the army, but was afterwards discovered and given to Lady Sale. With how much interest I looked over the drawings!—in all probability they were from the very sketches he had taken for me.

“1840, Feb. 15th.—We have just received the news of Lord Auckland’s having been created an Earl and Sir John Keane a Baron: what an unlucky wight Sir Henry Fane has been, to have missed prize-money and a peerage, and having nearly been killed by the only thing he got in the country,—a pukka fever!

“There is no doubt as to the expedition to China, and ‘Teas is riz.’ It will be a short affair of a year, perhaps less; the whole will fall on the shoulders of poor Governor Lin, who may lose his head in addition to his two buttons.”

“July 1st.—The Bombay Government have consented to the Bāiza Bā’ī’s residing at a place called Nassuk, on the banks of the Godavery, not far removed from the Poona district, her own country. Four lākh a year are to be granted her; she is to live there on the same terms as people of her station reside at Benares, or other places in the British territories; but it is clearly understood that her followers are to be subject to the rules and regulations of the country.

“2nd.—We have heard of Sir Henry Fane’s death, for which we were sincerely sorry—poor fellow, his youthful good fortune did not attend his last career. In the Peninsular war he was styled ‘Main de fer.’

“August.—The Bā’ī has been unfortunate, having had a fire in her camp which destroyed her house, shawls, &c., and property to the amount of four or five lākh: it was occasioned by a Mahratta girl’s setting fire accidentally to the parda.”

“Dec.—The Gaja Rajā has recovered from a very severe illness, and the little princess, the Chimna Rajā, is well.

“A subscription was circulated in 1835 at Allahabad for building a church. Mr. Blunt, the Lieutenant-Governor, subscribed 1000 rupees. The building was to be done, provided the funds were sufficient, by Colonel Edward Smith, of the engineers. In February, 1841, the church was consecrated by the Bishop: it does honour to the architect, being a handsome building, and well adapted to the climate. The erection of so expensive a church by so small a society shows great zeal in the cause of religion in the inhabitants of Allahabad.

“We have just received the news of the renewal of hostilities with China, at which I am glad. The celestials will be forced to learn the power of the enemy they have drawn upon them. The new Commissioner, Lin’s successor, is to be made over to the Board of Punishment, and the admiral has been deprived of his button. There is nothing new under the sun; our expression of having ‘a soul above buttons’ must be derived from the Chinese. A great man, for instance, like Admiral Kwang, bearing bravely up against loss of dignity (button) and honour.”

“1841, Feb. 15th.—The Bāiza Bā’ī has crossed over to the opposite side of the Jumna, where she remains until after the eclipse of to-morrow. Appa Sāhib is in Sultan Khusrū’s garden, and will not move, it is said, until some arrangement is first made for him by the Bā’ī or the Government, if not, he says, he will turn fakīr.”

“May.—Captain Fitzgerald, who has charge of the Bāiza Bā’ī, and her Highness, were heard of at Nagpore; she gave no trouble, but was dilatory on the march, the weather being frightfully hot.”

“1842.—A kharita was received from Nassuk, some forty or fifty kos from Bombay. The Brija Bā’ī, one of her Highness’s ladies, was very magrā, i.e. discontented with the hawā pāni, ‘the air and water’ of the place, and complained that she saw no sāhib log (gentlemen), as when at Allahabad.

“How little a man can estimate his real value! The last accounts from Cabul informed us our friend Captain B— was a prisoner, and to be sold for 200 rupees! The price having been paid, he was released from captivity.”

Let me record the death of a faithful servant: on quitting Calcutta, a lame shepherd applied to be taken into employ; the old man had been a sipahī, was wounded in action, and ever after remained lame. When he offered himself as bherī-wālā (shepherd) an objection arose on account of his lameness, it being imagined he could never take the goats five hundred miles up the country. “I am so lame I shall never overdrive them,” said the man;—the reason was unanswerable, he was taken into service.

The old male goat of the flock very often upsets the shepherd; though they are always at war they are great friends.

Poor old Bulwan, our lame shepherd, was bitten by a mad dog, which attacked him when he was driving it off from one of the goats—my favourite black Bengalī, which I had commended to his especial care; he died four days afterwards: he was sent to the hospital, but it was too late. There seems to be no cure but that of cutting out the bitten part, and cauterizing the wound. We gave his son eight rupees to bury him, and shall keep him in his father’s place if he is steady. We regret the old man very much; we used to give him a rupee occasionally to cheer him. Every shepherd knows his own sheep;—and my old man not only knew his own sheep, but had a name for each of his goats, forty-five in number. Like Dandy Dinmont’s terriers, Pepper and Mustard, and Mustard and Pepper, the old man derived the name of all his goats from one, his prime favourite, a beautifully spotted Delhi goat, by name Jūmnī,—“Jūmnī’s daughter,” “Jūmnī’s grandson’s grand-daughter’s son,” “Jūmnī’s nephew’s grandchild,”—every kid in the flock was traced by some means or other to the invaluable Jūmnī: the pedigree of a race-horse was nothing in comparison to the pedigree of the kids!