1844, Dec. 18th.—The whole day was employed in receiving visits from our old acquaintances at the station, the mūnshī, the ’amala of the office, and the natives whom we formerly employed. The pleasure they testified at our return was very gratifying; and the delight of Lutchman, my old Barha’ī mistree (carpenter), was so genuine, it brought tears from my eyes, as well as from his own. We have moored the boats just below an old būrj (bastion) of the ancient city of Prāg; there is a gateway below,—the water-gate, perhaps, of the old Fort: the Sibylline temple crowns it. The old gossein who lives in the temple came this evening to make salām; he reminded me of my having given him a present of sixteen rupees for having aided in recovering two hundred, that had been stolen from me; he was young, and good-looking then, now he is old and wily: he brought his son, a fine young Brahmān, to introduce to me. Many are the strange stories related respecting this old Brahmān and his solitary temple; and I have before mentioned its curious resemblance to that of the Sibyl. Having defended the truth and faithfulness of my pencil in England, I was glad of an opportunity of again particularly observing the Ionic style of architecture of this little building; and while pondering on its singular appearance, Colonel Edward Smith came on board, and solved the mystery by mentioning that General Ouchterlony, finding the Jama Masjid seldom used as a place of worship, took possession of it as his dwelling-place, and formed magnificent rooms between the arches. He built the temple of the Sibyl on the top of the ancient water-gate of the old city. The Muhammadans, some years afterwards, petitioned Government not to allow the mosque to be used as a dwelling-place; it was therefore restored to them, and is now used as a masjid.

A pretty little modern building,—a small temple, dedicated to Mahadēo, is near the ancient well of the water-gate.

I am quite fatigued with seeing old faces, and saying kind words to the poor people. To my surprise an old woman, with a basket full of worsted balls, came to make salām; she was fat and well,—I had left her a poor wretched creature; she used to make worsted balls for my dog Nero to fetch and carry. How many ānās a month the poor old woman got from Nero; she used to throw her ball to the dog, and then come to ask for payment; she was in fact a pensioner. The beautiful dog is dead; and the wretched old hag is fat and well, and makes worsted balls as usual. She got her little present, and went off quite happy.

The ghāt off which we are moored has been recently made by the Steam Agency; and just above is an hotel, which has been established for the convenience of the passengers from the steamers, and is well conducted by Mr. Berrill. This little hotel on the banks of the Jumna-jee is well described in the following curious lines, which were written in four languages on the window of an inn in Russia.

23rd.—We quitted the boats, and went up to stay with our friends, Mr. and Mrs. M—; they received us with all that kindness and hospitality for which India is renowned; their bungalow, a very fine one, is well situated at the other end of the station. We met a barouche drawn by two camels, harnessed like horses; they went along at a fine pace, and I envied the possessor that pair of well broken-in carriage camels: in double harness they look well; in single harness,—especially in a Stanhope, or any other sort of buggy,—the animal appears too large for the carriage.

1845, Jan. 11th.—Saw a small comet, the nucleus of which was more distinct than that of the immense comet I saw when at sea, although the tail was so small, that it looked not unlike the thin switch tail of a horse.

18th.—Finding it necessary to remain up the country for a time, we dug a tank and made a house for the wild ducks, and turned sixty-five birds into it. It was amusing to see the delight with which the murghabīs splashed into the water when freed from the baskets in which they had been brought from the jangal, and such a confabulation as there was amongst them!

I omitted to mention that during my former residence at this station, the jamadar came to tell me that a murdār-khor (an eater of carrion), who had lately arrived, was anxious to perform before us. The man did not ask for money, but requested to have a sheep given him; he said he would eat the whole at one meal, body and entrails, leaving only the horns and the skin, which he wished to carry away; the wretch said that he would kill the sheep by tearing open its throat with his teeth, and would drink the blood. This feat they told me he had performed before in the bazār. I saw the man at a distance, and was so much disgusted that I ordered him to be turned out of the compound (the grounds around the house). In Colonel Tod’s “Travels in Western India” there is a most interesting account of the murdi-khor, or man-eaters; he made an attempt to visit the shrine of Kalka, the dread mother, whose rites are performed by the hideous Aghori, whose patroness she is, as Aghoriswara Mata. At one time they existed in those regions, but were only found in the wildest retreats, in the mountain-cave, or the dark recesses of the forest. Colonel Tod saw a man perform pūja at the shrine of Goraknāth, whom he had every reason to believe was one of these wretched people,—but whether he was a murdi-khor he could not determine; although, as he went off direct to the Aghori peak, said to be frequented only by his sect, it is probable that he belonged to the fraternity. It appears that the murdār-khor (the carrion-eater) is almost the same as the ādam-khor or cannibal.

24th.—This life is very monotonous, and the only variety I have is a nervous fever now and then.

March 1st.—During a visit at the house of a friend I received a kharīta from her Highness the Bāiza Bā’ī, and was greatly pleased to see the signature of the dear old lady, and also felt much flattered by her remembrance. After I quitted Allahabad for England her Highness remained there some time; at last, on her positive refusal to live at Bunarus, it was agreed that she should reside at Nassuk, a holy place, about one hundred miles from Bombay. She quitted the Upper Provinces, marched across the country, and established herself at Nassuk. Having heard from some of her people of my return to India, and arrival at Prāg, her Highness did me the honour to write to me, and after the usual compliments with which a native letter always commences, the Bāiza Bā’ī added, “I received your letter in which you acknowledged the receipt of mine; but I have not since heard from you, and therefore beg you will write and tell me how you and the sāhib are; do not be so long again without writing, because it makes me anxious.”

I sent in answer a letter of thanks to her Highness for her kindness in having borne me in remembrance; it was written by a mūnshī in the Persian character, and enclosed in a kharīta. At the same time I sent a bunch of the most beautiful artificial flowers to the Gaja Raja, to testify my respect; it would have been incorrect to have sent the flowers to the Bā’ī. They were Parisian, and remarkably well made; the Gaja Raja, being fond of flowers, will be pleased. I gave the letter and bouquet to one of her attendants, Bulwunt Rāo, who promised to send them across the country to Nassuk. The title of Gaja, i.e. elephant, is curiously applied to the young Princess, her form being fragile, delicate, and fairy-like.

In 1848 I received a letter from a friend at Gwalior, mentioning that the Chimna Raja, the daughter of the Gaja Raja Sāhib, who was born at Allahabad, and who was then about eight years of age, had been betrothed by her great grandmother, the Bāiza Bā’ī, to Jhankī Rāo, the Maharaj of Gwalior; after which ceremony the young bride returned to Oojein with the ex-Queen. This intelligence pleased me greatly, because the marriage of the great grand-daughter of Dāolut Rāo Scindia with the reigning sovereign of the Mahrattas will give great satisfaction to her Highness; and the wandering Hājī rejoices that her great grand-niece (by courtesy) will share the throne of her ancestors with the Maharaj of Gwalior.

5th.—This evening, while cantering at a sharp pace round the Mahratta Bandh, my horse fell, and my companion thus described the accident in a letter to his brother. “Kābul came down upon his nose and knees; nineteen women out of twenty would have been spilt. The Mem Sāhiba sat her horse splendidly, and pulled him up like a flash of lightning. The infernal brute must have put his foot in a hole. The evening passed hearing music, and talking philosophy.”

9th.—I was invited to spend the day at Sultan Khusrū’s garden, to which place a tent had been sent, which was pitched under the fine tamarind trees in a most picturesque place. The garden is a large space of ground, enclosed by a high wall, containing tombs and some very fine trees: the entrance is through a lofty gateway. There are three tombs, and a Baithak-khāna or pavilion. The first and largest monument is that of Sultan Khusrū, in which he is buried; it is a handsome building, and within it is deposited a beautifully illuminated kurān, which the dārogha showed us with great pride. Sultan Khusrū married a daughter of the Wuzeer Azim Khan; he was the son of Jahāngīr, and his mother was the daughter of the Rajpūt Prince Bagwandas of Amber. The next monument is that of the Jodh Bā’ī, but in honour of which lady of that name I know not. Akbar married a Jodh Bā’ī, the daughter of Oodi Singh, of Jodpoor; she was the mother of Jahāngīr, and was buried on the Chand-maree, near Fathīpūr Sicri. Jahāngīr married a Jodh Bā’ī, the daughter of Rae Singh, of Bickaner; she was the mother of Shāhjahān, and her tomb is at Secundra. I forget to whose memory the tomb in Sultan Khusrū’s bāghīcha (garden) was erected.

There is also a third mausoleum, which is not so handsome as the two before mentioned; and the fourth building is a pavilion, in which visitors are allowed to live for a short time during a visit to the garden. Around the tombs are some of the largest tamarind trees I ever beheld: the imlī, as the natives call the tamarind tree, is one of the finest and most beautiful in the world; and they are generally found around or sheltering the tombs of revered or sacred characters. The sherbet prepared from the fruit is excellent; the leaves and fruit are used medicinally. The natives are impressed with a notion that it is dangerous to sleep under the tamarind tree, especially during the night; grass or vegetation of any kind is seldom seen growing in such situations, and never with luxuriance. In times of scarcity the seeds are eaten by the poor; they resemble a common field bean.

Part of Sultan Khusrū’s garden has been cultivated English fashion, that is, for vegetables; seeds are given to the mālīs, (gardeners), and rewards for the first, second, third, and fourth best dālī—that is, basket of vegetables: this is good; the highest prize is fifty rupees, which will be to natives worth the contest. The mālī in charge, kneeling on one knee, presented me with a bouquet of flowers; it was not ungracefully done,—nevertheless, it was bad taste to teach a man an European style of reverence, which in gracefulness is far inferior to the salām of the native.

The sarā’e (caravansary), with its gateways, and the handsome one through which you pass to the garden, are well worth visiting; on the doors of the latter a number of horse-shoes are nailed for good luck, and the variety in shape and size is so great it is absolutely curious.

Just beyond the gates of the sarā’e is a bāolī, a magnificent well, with underground apartments; it is a most remarkable and curious place, and the well is a noble one. The top of the bāolī is level with the ground, from which place water can be drawn up, as also from the underground apartments, which open on the well. You descend by a long broad flight of stone steps to the water’s edge, where there is an arch, ornamented with two large fish, the arms of Oude. Half way down is a pathway of stone that juts out from the wall, and communicates with the third apartment, from which you ascend by small circular staircases to the top. A nervous person might object to the walk along the pathway, it being very narrow, and having no defence—no parapet on the inner side. Parties of natives resort here during the hot winds, and spend the hours in the coolness of the bāolī.

March 15th.—Hired a large bungalow of a very respectable native for eighty rupees a month, garden included, and removed into it.

20th.—My husband received permission from Government to visit England on furlough. A friend quitted us for the up-country in a palanquin placed on a truck, and drawn by a tattoo (a pony), with relays on the road. In former times a palanquin was always carried by bearers,—by the present method a dāk trip is performed much more quickly than it was formerly by relays of natives.

26th.—The other day a native was brought before Mr. R. M—, the magistrate of Allahabad, charged with the murder of his wife and daughter. The man confessed to having cut their heads off with his sword; he said he had reason to believe his wife unfaithful, therefore he killed her; and as he supposed the magistrate would murder him for the act, and, as in that case, his young daughter would have no one to marry her, and would be obliged to beg her bread, he killed her also. “But,” said he to Mr. M—, “beware how you murder me for having killed my wife. If the women find their husbands are hung for killing them should they be unfaithful, what man will be safe?” I know not the name of the frail fair one who fell a sacrifice to jealousy; doubtless it was soft and pleasing, for although her husband did not attend to the words of the Hindū sage, who says, “Strike not even with a blossom a wife guilty of a hundred faults!” still, in all probability, her parents bestowed an harmonious name upon her, in obedience to the directions of Menu, who suggests that “the names of women should be agreeable, soft, clear, captivating the fancy, auspicious, ending in long vowels, resembling words of benediction.” He also says, “Let mutual fidelity continue to death: this, in few words, may be considered as the supreme law between husband and wife.” The conjugal duties of the Rajpūts are comprehended in that single text.

30th.—When I was formerly at Allahabad the Bāiza Bā’ī was anxious to have leave from Government to erect a most remarkable pillar of stone, that was prostrate in the Fort, near the gateway. This lāt, as before mentioned, is covered with inscriptions in unknown characters, that puzzle the learned. The design of her Highness was not carried into execution, and the lāt was afterwards erected in the Fort at the expense of the Asiatic Society, by Colonel Edward Smith, C.B. We drove to see it in the evening, admired it very much, and thought it erected with great judgment: it is highly ornamental to the Fort. Whilst we were examining the pillar, the buggy horse took fright, became very violent, upset five of the small stone pillars that support the chains that surround the lāt, and broke his harness in divers places. The scene was good.

April 1st.—I fell by accident on the stones in the verandah with considerable force, and fainted away; the blow which I received on my left shoulder was severe; painful and useless my arm hangs by my side,—I have no power to move a finger.

The oriental proverb, that “A sharp sword will not cut raw silk[54],” does not apply to silk when manufactured; as I this morning saw a gentleman place a silk handkerchief upon his sword, and, with one skilful drawing cut, divide it exactly and diagonally.

27th.—Divine service was performed in the new church, that has been erected at Allahabad at the expense of the inhabitants; it formerly took place in the Circuit Bungalow, or in the Fort. The church is a very handsome one, and the internal arrangements are good.

29th.—About 3 P.M. a tufān came on,—rain in torrents, with heavy hail,—dust in whirlwinds; in the course of a quarter of an hour the thermometer fell ten degrees, from 88° to 78°. It was fine to witness such a commotion. The roof of our house was under repair,—streams of water came pouring into every room from all parts of the roof, until the house was full of it; much damage was done to the pictures; and we were obliged to quit the place, and take refuge at the house of a friend.

May 11th.—The ice-pits opened, the allowance to each subscriber eight seer per diem,—about sixteen pounds’ weight daily. The thermometer is 89°. There being no wind, the tattīs are useless, and in spite of the thermantidote the heat is overpowering; we begin to long for the fresh breezes of England; I shall rejoice when we are on board a good vessel and out at sea again.

21st.—About half-past 9 P.M. the moon was almost completely eclipsed, and the night was so dark I could not see the way as I was driving home. The natives were making offerings of rice, fruit, vegetables, &c., to restore the light quickly, and to ward off impending calamities.

22nd.—A tufān or a storm of dust blew furiously at night, succeeded the next morning by heavy rain, thunder, and lightning; the day after it was oppressively hot,—another storm cleared the atmosphere, and the thermantidote became quite delicious, it poured in such a volume of cold air.

31st.—Went to the Bandh in the evening, but soon returned; the air was so hot, it was like breathing liquid fire.

June 1st.—The heat in church was so oppressive, I will not venture there again; pankhas and thermantidotes are in full play during the time of Divine service,—but even with their aid in cooling the air, the heat is intolerable.

26th.—The rains appear to have set in, accompanied with thunder and lightning. The darkness was so great to-day at 4 P.M. that we were obliged to dine by lamp-light; the evening is dull and heavy, the rain is falling in torrents, and the darkness is relieved at intervals by forked lightning; the thunder is distant.

30th.—Very hot during the day, and very oppressive; this damp heat is worse for the health than the dry heat of the hot winds. Heard with regret of the death of Mr. James Gardner, at Khāsgunge.

July 8th.—Engaged a fourteen-oared pinnace, a woolāk of 900 mŭns, a pataila of 600, and a small cook-boat, to take us down to Calcutta.

20th.—We quitted dear old Prāg at 6 A.M. under heavy rain and a contrary wind. I bade adieu to a place in which I had spent so many happy days with much sorrow, and without any prospect of ever revisiting the spot.

22nd.—Anchored at Rāj ghāt, Benares: the ghāts have lost much of their picturesque beauty from the height of the river, the water having covered the steps. The Hindū temples that have partially fallen merely show their spiral domes above the waters; and the Ganges is as full of mud as a river may well be; the water is quite thick, of a muddy colour, and a small quantity in a tumbler gives a most marvellous sediment.

24th.—A heavy wind against us; the waves were so high on the Ganga, and the boats rolled so violently, that the natives on deck were quite overcome by sea-sickness, and I was also suffering from mal de mer.

31st.—Picked up a large heavy chest afloat from some wreck. It contained fifty boxes of G. Davis’ Chinsurah cheroots, and was marked Jan Mahomed Shah, in the Persian character: the cheroots were all destroyed from having been in the water. Soon afterwards we picked up another chest of the same size and description, with the bottom stove in; also a box of cigars that was floating by the side of it, evidently from the same wreck. Lugāoed off the bāstī of Tipperiah, in the midst of an expanse of water. About 8 P.M. the strong easterly wind, which had been blowing all day, veered and sunk; a deep silence fell around—the whole canopy of heaven was covered with a pall of black clouds: there was not a gleam of light excepting on the horizon in one part, where there was one low gleam of whitish pale light, in form like a bow. The muddy colour of the interminable river assumed an inky blackness, and united with the horizon all around: a few minutes afterwards the light on the horizon disappeared, and all was intense darkness,—a rushing sound then arose, and the rain fell in torrents, the drops were of great size, it more resembled the fall of sheets of water; soon afterwards the lightning blazed over the river, and some peals of thunder like the roar of cannon and the sharp discharge of fire-arms, added to the stormy scene. During this time the wind rose, and suddenly changed to the opposite quarter of the heavens. I made the dandīs look well to their moorings, as we were fastened on a wet field, covered by the river, so that there was a fear the bamboos would be torn out of the wet earth by the force of the wind acting on the vessel, and that she would be carried down the fierce stream; however, she stood it well, being in rather slack water, therefore I went to bed and slept quietly through the gale, after I had sufficiently enjoyed the first part of it.

August 1st.—The rock of Dolepaharry, with its temple and beautiful trees standing far distant inland and of very great height, was a beautiful object—it is near Janghīra—the latter rock sank into insignificance and appeared very low, in consequence of the height to which the Ganges had risen. The whole country is overflowed—the river appears like one vast sea with a number of fine trees in it—their trunks rising out of the water, and the earth completely hidden.

Passed Sultangunge and anchored on a wet bank, just on the entrance of that branch of the river that leads to Bhagulpūr. The Hindūs must go without their dinners to-night; they will not cook on board, and in the wet swamp they cannot make a fire: this is a wretched anchorage, and here comes the rain in torrents again. Stolen goods cannot be digested, or never thrive, and so it proved with a boy employed to pull the pankha. He stole a great quantity of Indian corn; it was not ripe, but of full size; abounding in milk, sweet, and tempting to eat when raw; but when fried in butter, with pepper and salt, it is delicious. In spite of the caution given by an old havildār, to whom the field belonged, the boy ate a great quantity—his body swelled, he became in great pain, and is now ill with fever.

3rd.—Last night the distant roar of the waters as they rushed past the rocks of Colgong lulled me to sleep. This morning, about 7 A.M., we came up to the rocks, the stream was rushing past at a fearful rate, and forming very large and powerful whirlpools. Two large patailas were on before us; the first was twirled round by the eddy and carried back against the other; they became entangled, and both were carried back with great velocity for about three hundred yards. Our pinnace was flying along aided by the cars on board, and also by the towing of her little boat; but the powerful eddy turned the vessel straight across the stream, and there she was stopped, the eddy pulling one way and the men the other—just at this moment an immense pataila of about two thousand mŭns, heavily laden with gram, was coming down upon us with full force, borne on by the violent stream; it was a disagreeable sight, it appeared as if the shock must sink the pinnace: fortunately a woolāk was between us and the monster vessel; she came with great force first upon the woolāk, and drove her against the pinnace in front of herself; the pinnace reeled with the shock, but it saved us greatly, and the large vessel, disengaging herself from us, went on shoving our stern right round in her impetuous course. I ran on deck, having a dislike to be drowned in a cabin, but escaped with only a fright. The dandīs recommenced their exertions, and in a short time we were out of the eddies and whirlpools around the rocks, and in calm water. Colgong is very beautiful, both during the rains and the cold weather, and this is perhaps the most beautiful part of the Ganges. At 11 A.M. passed the Terīyāgalī Hills. The dandīs say there are fine ruins in the jangal on the largest hill, but no road to them; and they speak of the immense doorways—entrances; I should like to explore the place.

8th.—At 1 P.M. passed Nuddea, eighty-two and a half miles from Calcutta; at this spot the Jellingee unites with the Bhagirathī, and they flow forward under the name of the Hoogly: the tide is perceptible at Nuddea, it just comes so far.

9th.—Anchored at Nyaserai to prepare anchors for the tide, which detained us one hour and a half. Nyaserai is on the entrance of the old Damooda river, over which there is a light iron suspension bridge. An Up-country boy who was pulling the pankha told me it made his blood run cold to see the people crossing on such a slight bridge; that his father had never visited Calcutta, nor he himself, but that his grandfather had made the voyage. He was charmed with some Ooria singers on the bank, and thought they would make their fortunes if they were to visit Prāg:—what a budget of wonders the boy will have to unfold on his return to the Up-country! Moored off the residence of a friend at the powder-works at Eeshapūr.

10th.—Arrived in Calcutta—anchored off Prinsep ghāt, from which place you have a fine view of the river and of the shipping, all the large vessels lie just off the ghāt. Visited the “Madagascar” and the “Essex” in the evening.

19th.—Took our passage to England in the “Essex;” the price of the larboard stern cabin on the poop was 2500 rupees, for ourselves, an ayha, and my curiosities.

28th.—Having settled all our affairs we came on board; fortunately the ship will not sail until to-morrow—I am killed with fatigue.