Chapter 2

THE PLEASURES OF THE PLAINS.

May 21, 1860.—Being fairly under weigh, our first attention was directed towards the machine which was to be, in a great measure, our home for many days to come. Not overburdened with springs, and not much to look at, though decidedly an extraordinary one to go, our conveyance was by no means uncomfortable; and, stretched upon a mattress extending its entire length, F. and I chatted over our plans and projects, and star-gazed, and soon fell asleep, in spite of the ruts on the road and the wild discordant bugling of our ragged coachman, who seemed to consider that, however inferior in other respects, in a matter of music we were not to be outdone, not even by Her Majesty’s own royal mail. At first sight, the necessity of trying to clear such lonely roads as we were travelling was not altogether apparent; but a slight acquaintance with the general principles and laws of progression of the national Indian institution called a bullock-cart, or “beil-garee,” soon clears up the difficulty. Built entirely of wood, and held together by scraps of ropes and cord, a more hopeless-looking machine cannot exist; and drivers and bullocks alike share in the general woodenness and impassibility of the structure. The animals, too, having probably lost all the better feelings of their nature in such a service, are appealed to entirely through the medium of their tails, and the operation occasionally results in the whole creaking mass being safely deposited in some capacious rut, there to remain until “the Fates”—assuming, perhaps, the appearance of three additional bullocks—arrive to draw it out again. Occasionally, too, the institution comes to a halt for the night, comfortably drawn up in the centre of the line of traffic, with a delightful disregard for aught but the present, and an air of supreme contempt for the most eloquent music of all the ragged coachmen on the Grand Trunk Road.

Every five miles we stopped to change our horse, and miserable indeed was the raw-boned little animal that made his appearance on every occasion. Still the pace was kept up in spite of appearances, and at seven A.M. we reached “Ghoorsahagunge”—more generally known as Gooseygunge—sixty miles from Cawnpore, and 197 from Delhi.

Here we slept in peace until eleven o’clock, and awoke from dreams of Cashmere to the unpleasant realities of a violent dust-storm. The usual “Khus-khus tatties,” or screens of fragrant grass, which are kept in a continual state of moisture at door and window, and convert the dust-charged scorching blast into a comparative coolness, were not forthcoming, and our halt was not a pleasant one by any means: still our faces were towards the mountains, and the pleasures of hope enabled us to take our misfortunes with entire philosophy. We started again about five P.M., when the power of the sun was somewhat abated, and encountered the usual difficulties with refractory horses at every change. A start was in no case effected without much management and exertion. A half-naked black generally attaches himself to each wheel; the driver, from a post of vantage, belabours the miserable horse with all his might and main; the Q.M.G. takes a firm hold of the rails on the roof; and all shouting, grunting, and using bad language together, away we go at full gallop, if we are in unusual luck, for about 300 yards. Then comes a dead stop: the same operation commences again, and so on, until the animal is sufficiently far from his last stable to be able to look forward with some confidence to the one ahead, and resigns himself to circumstances accordingly. One peculiarity in this peculiar country we found to be, that in putting our steed-to, the English custom is reversed. The cart is “put-to,” not the horse; and the latter being left standing anywhere on the road, the lumbering “garee” is dragged up to his tail, and fastened up with a combination of straps and ropes, marvellous to behold.

May 23.—To-day we arrived at “Etawah,” where we found a very comfortable little staging bungalow, but no supplies of either beer or butter procurable. On the road in the early morning there were herds of deer and antelope in sight, but time being precious we left them unmolested.

As yet very little change makes its appearance in the character of the country. Level plains, with patches of trees, mango and palm, as far as the eye can reach, and everywhere dust, dust, dust! The palm-trees, however, with toddy parties scattered about among them, serve to make the scene look cheerful, and, for an eastern one, comparatively lively. In the evening we again took the road, with a hot wind blowing strongly and steadily, and before long we were overtaken by a dust-storm, which completely enveloped us in its murky folds, and interfered with our happiness a good deal. Got through the night much as usual, with the addition of a midnight vocal entertainment, which some hundreds of wolves and jackals treated us to, while the “authorities” were looking to our welfare, by taking off and greasing our wheels. Of travellers we meet but few, generally bullock-train parties, with soldiers, &c., return dâks, and an occasional old Mussulman, or other native, taking advantage of the early morning for his journey, and wrapped and swaddled up as if afraid of being congealed by the coolness of the morning air.

Every day’s journey leaves one more and more at a loss to discover the sources of the wealth of this enormous country. The soil, for miles and miles a dead flat, is now barren as a desert, and we meet hardly a sign of active traffic. During the night we certainly did encounter a long train of heavily-laden bullock-waggons; but the merchandize was gunpowder, and its destination was up, instead of down the road.

May 24.—Arrived at “Kurga,” where we found neither bread nor butter forthcoming—nothing but—“plenty fowl, Sahib!” In the evening we again encountered a heavy dust-storm, the worst of the season; the whole night it continued to blow in our teeth; and between the fierce dryness of the wind and the searching particles of dust, which visited us without ceremony, we spent anything but an agreeable night. At three A.M. we reached the “Hingus Nuddee,” or river; and changing our solitary horse for two fat bullocks, we crossed its sandy bed, and over a bridge of boats—not so genteelly, perhaps, but much more securely, than we could have otherwise done. There were the remains here of a handsome suspension bridge; but the chains had been cut by the rebel Sepoys, and nothing but the pillars now remained.

May 25.—At four A.M. we crossed the bridge of boats over the Jumna, and found ourselves under the gloomy battlements of the Fort of Delhi.

Entering by the Calcutta Gate, we drove through large suburbs, lighted up with rows of oil lamps, reminding one, in the dim light, a good deal of Cairo. Arriving at the dâk bungalow, we found it such a dirty looking deserted building, and the interior so much of a piece with the exterior, that we mounted again, and set off to try the Hotel, or “Pahunch Ghur,”—a name originally intended to convey the meaning “An arriving house,” but neatly and appropriately corrupted into the term “Punch Gur,” which speaks for itself, and troubles no one much about its derivation. We were rather disappointed with the general appearance of the city: dirt and grandeur were closely combined, and the combination gave the usual impression of shabby genteelness in general, not at first sight prepossessing. After driving through what might have been an Eastern Sebastopol, from the amount of ruin about, we reached a cut-throat-looking archway; and the coachman, here pointing to a dirty board, above his head, triumphantly announced the “Punch Gur!” Hot and thirsty, we got out, with visions of rest and cooling sherbets, too soon to be dispelled. Passing through long dirty halls, and up unsavoury steps, we at last reached a sort of court, with beds of sickly flowers, never known to bloom, and from thence issued to a suite of musty hot Moorish-looking rooms, with gold-inlaid dust-covered tables, and a heavily-draped four-post bedstead, the very sight of which, in such a climate, was almost enough to deprive one of sleep for ever. Our speech forsook us, and without waiting to remark whether the lady of the house was an ogress, or possessed of a “rose-coloured body” and face like the full moon, we fairly turned tail, and drove in all haste to our despised dâk bungalow, where, meekly and with softened feelings towards that edifice, we were glad to deposit ourselves on a couple of charpoys, or “four-legs,” as the bedstead of India is called, and endeavour to sleep the best way we could. “Delhi,” we found, quite kept up its reputation of being the hottest place in India. All idea of sight-seeing was out of the question, and the whole of our energies we were obliged to expend in endeavouring to keep moderately cool.

After enjoying the two first of blessings in a hot climate—viz. a plentiful supply of cold water and a change of raiment, we felt ourselves able to undergo the exertion of meeting the traditional grilled fowl at breakfast, and of inspecting the curiosities from the bazaars. At the first wish on the latter subject, we were invaded by a crowd of bundle-carrying, yellow-turbaned, rascally merchants, who, in half a minute, had the whole of their goods on the floor—rings, brooches, ivory ornaments, and inutilities of all sorts and kinds, all of them exorbitantly dear, and none of any real value.

We left Delhi again at about six P.M., after loitering about the city for a short time, among the teeming bazaars, some parts of which were picturesque and “Eastern” enough. Outside the city walls, the country was ruined and dilapidated in the extreme; demolished houses and wasted gardens telling their tale of the loss of Delhi, and our struggle for its recapture.

May 26.—During the night, we got over seventy-three miles, and reached “Kurnaul” at seven A.M. The bungalow we found unusually comfortable, being a remnant of the old régime, and one of the few which escaped from the hands of the rebels during the mutiny.

The country here begins to improve in appearance—more trees and cultivation on all sides; and the natives appear finer specimens than their more southern relations. The irrigation, too, seems to be carried on with more systematic appliances than further south—the water being raised by the Persian wheel, and bullock-power introduced in aid of manual labour.

May 27.—Arrived at Umballa at three A.M., and found the staging bungalow full. The only available accommodation being a spare charpoy in the verandah, F. took a lease of it, while I revelled in the unaccustomed roominess of the entire carriage, and slept till six, when we got into our lodgings. Although so near the foot of the Himalayas, the weather was so oppressive here that exploring was out of the question; and at six P.M., changing our carriage for palankeens, or doolies, we commenced a tedious and dusty journey to the village of “Kalka,” the veritable “foot of the hills,” where we were met by a string of deputies from the different “dry-lodgings” in the neighbourhood, soliciting custom. The first house we came to was guarded by an unmistakeable English hotel-keeper, of some eighteen stone; and so terrible was the appearance she presented, with her arms akimbo, rejoicing in her mountain air, that in our down-country and dilapidated condition, we felt quite unequal to the exertion of stepping into her little parlour; and passing her establishment—something in the small bathingplace-style of architecture—we went on to the next, very much of the same order, and called the “Brahminee Bull.” Here, to my dismay however, standing in the selfsame position, weighing the same number of stone, and equally confident in the purity of her air as her neighbour, stood another female “Briton,” with the come-into-my-parlour expression of countenance, regarding us as prey. Under the circumstances, exhausted nature gave in; though saved from Scylla, our destiny was Charybdis, and we accordingly surrendered ourselves to a wash, breakfast, and the Brahminee Bull. During the day, we had a visit from a friend and ex-brother officer, whom we had promised to stay with, at “Kussowlie,” on our road up. Kalka was not hot, but grilling, so that a speedy ascent to the station was soon agreed upon. Not caring to risk a sun-stroke, I resigned myself to the traditional conveyance of the country, a “jhampan,” while the other two rode up; but here, for the second time, it was “out of the fryingpan into the fire.” Such an infernal machine as my new conveyance turned out never could have existed in the palmiest days of the Inquisition. It was a sort of child’s cradle, long enough for a creature of some five or six summers, made like a tray, and hung after the fashion of a miniature four-post bedstead, with goat’s-hair curtains. The structure is suspended, something in the fashion of a sedan-chair which has been stunted in its growth, between two poles; between the projections of these again, before and behind, connected by a stout strap, are two shorter bars, each supported, when in travelling order, on the shoulders of two bearers. When the machine is in motion, therefore, there are four men in line between the shafts.

The pace is always rather fast, and down a declivity the torturers go at a run; the result is, that prominent parts of one’s body are continually in collision with the seat or sides of the machine, coming down from various altitudes, according to the nature of the ground and the humour of the inquisitors. After getting over about six miles in this graceful and pleasing manner, we reached the first of the fir-trees, and as we rose still higher a delicious breeze came over the hills, as precious to the parched and travel-stained pilgrim from the plains as a drop of water to the thirstiest wanderer in the desert. Kussowlie appeared a picturesque little station, perched at the summit of one of the first of the hilly ranges, and here I found my two companions, burnt and red in the face as if they, too, had had their sufferings on the road, occupied in looking over the goods of a strolling Cashmere merchant; luckily for themselves, however, it was under the protecting superintendence of our hostess. Our friends were living on a miniature estate commanding a magnificent view of the mountain ranges on one side, and, on the other, the plains of the Punjab, the scorching country from which we had just made our escape lying stretched out before us like an enormous map in relief. Towards the mountains were the military stations of “Dugshai” and “Subathoo,” and the boys’ asylum of “Senore,” the latter rather marring the face of nature by the workhouse order of its architecture. “Simla” we could just distinguish, nestled among the blue mountains in the far distance.

Here we spent a couple of days very pleasantly with our hospitable entertainers, and satisfactorily pulled up all arrears of sleep—a luxury none can really appreciate who have not travelled for six days and nights in the different local conveniences I have mentioned.

Before leaving we had an opportunity of seeing how England in the Himalayas makes its morning calls. Walking, which amounts almost to an impossibility in “the plains,” seems to be voted infra dig. in “the hills,” and Mrs. Kussowlie according made her appearance seated in state in a jhampan, and borne on the shoulders of four of her slaves.

These were active, wiry-looking natives, dressed in long green coats, bound with broad, red, tight-fitting pantaloons, and with small turbans of red and green on their heads. Altogether, a more startling-looking apparition to the uninitiated than this Himalayan morning visitor could hardly be imagined, even in a tour through the remotest regions of the earth.

May 29.—About six o’clock in the evening we remounted our instruments of torture and took the road to Simla. For about seven miles the path was down hill, and the bearers being fresh, they huddled us along at a pace calculated to outrage our feelings most considerably, and, at the same time, with no more consideration for our welfare than if we were so many sacks of coal. In spite of the sufferings of the principal performers, the procession was most amusing; and as we jolted, bumped, and bundled along, it was impossible to keep from laughing, although crying, perhaps, would, under the circumstances, have been more appropriate. My machine led the way, four of the inquisition being in the shafts, and four in waiting, running along at the side with pipes, bundles, sticks, &c. Then came F. similarly attended, and finally the Q.M.G., hubble bubble in hand, and attired in a gold embroidered cap, surrounded by a lilac turban: seated in a sort of tray, and reclining at his case in full enjoyment of his high position, he looked the priest of the procession, and managed to retain his dignity in spite of the rapid and unceremonious way in which he was being whirled along. As the moon went down we had the additional effect of torchlight to the scene, three bearers having the special duty of running along to show the pathway to the rest. This seemed a service of some danger, and our torch-bearers at times verged upon places where a stumble would have apparently extinguished both themselves and their torches for ever. About half way we stopped for about an hour for the bearers to partake of a light entertainment of “ghee and chupatties”—otherwise, rancid butter and cakes of flour and water. This was their only rest and only meal, from the time they left Kussowlie at six P.M. until they reached Simla at eight A.M. The same set of bearers took us the entire distance, about thirty-five miles; and the four men who were not actually in the shafts used to rest themselves by running, ahead and up precipitous short cuts, so as to insure a few minutes’ pull at the pipe of consolation before their turn arrived again. To us, supposed to be the otium cum dig. part of the procession, the road seemed perfectly endless. No sooner were we up one ascent than we were down again on the other side; and when we thought Simla must be in sight round the next turn, it seemed suddenly to become more hid than ever. In one of these ups and downs of life my machine, during a heavy lurch, fairly gave way to its feelings, and with a loud crash the pole broke, and down we both came, much to my temporary satisfaction and relief. A supply of ropes and lashings, however, formed part of the inquisitors’ stores, and we were soon under weigh again to fulfil the remainder of our destiny.

The entrance to Simla led us through a fine forest of oaks, firs, cedars, and other large trees; and winding along through these we could, every now and then, discern, towering over the backs of endless ranges of blue and hazy mountains, ridge upon ridge of glittering snow, which cast its icy breath upon us even where we were, helping us to forget the horrors of the night, and giving us a renewal of our lease of existence. Simla itself soon opened on our view, a scattered and picturesque settlement of houses of the most varied patterns perched about over the mountain top, just as an eligible spot presented itself for building purposes. It is situated 8,000 feet above the level of the sea and 7,000 over the average level of “the plains,” Umballa, which is near the foot of the range, being 1,000 above the sea-level. From our halting-place we could discern the scene of our night’s journey, with Kussowlie looking like a mere speck in the distance, and we felt a proud sort of consciousness of having accomplished a desperate undertaking in very good style. Passive endurance was, under the circumstances quite as worthy of praise as the more active virtues displayed by those who were the cause of our sufferings. After the first good breakfast I had eaten for three months, we pulled up arrears of sleep till four P.M. and found, on awaking, that our much expected letters had arrived from the post, and among them the necessary permission from the Punjab Government to travel in Cashmere, and instructions for our guidance while in the territory. From among the routes laid down in the latter we chose No. 1. [2] The direct line across the mountains from Simla would have entailed additional delay and permission, and as time was precious we decided upon descending again to the plains and making our way through Lahore, not, however, without a severe pang at leaving so soon the terrestrial paradise of which we had got a glimpse. After arranging our movements with the “authorities,” we sallied out to see fashionable Simla airing itself, which, as far as dress is concerned, it appeared to do very much in the fashionable watering-place style at home. The jhampans, palkies, dandies, [3] &c. which took up the entire road, however, loudly proclaimed India, Simla being much too dainty to touch the ground with its pretty feet, and too lazy to use its own legs for purposes of out-door locomotion. The station seems a curious combination of many styles and places; the scenery and houses, Swiss; the people Anglo Indians, Affghans, Cashmeeries, &c.; the conveyances, Inquisito-Spanish; and the bazaars, in their native dirt, pure Indian.

May 31.—After making our leave secure, we made up our minds for a plunge into the plains again and a forced march to Lahore, being rather expedited in the determination by hearing that several travellers had been recalled from leave in consequence of there being a scarcity of officers with their regiments.

With a fine moonlight night in our favour we again took the road; and practice slightly assuaging our sufferings, we got on smoothly enough till within a few hours from Hureepore Bungalow, when my machine again broke with a crash, and the nature of the fracture being compound, I walked on and left the executioners to repair the instrument at their leisure.

June 1.—Reached Hureepore at four A.M., and found the place in possession of a crowd of monkeys of all sorts and sizes, taking an early breakfast. Here, chicken and eggs being again written in our destiny, we halted for an hour or two, and at eleven again took the road with our cast-iron bearers, and hurried along in the noonday sun, up hill and down dale, through Kussowlie, and on and on till we were once more fairly deposited at the feet of “Mrs. Charybdis.” A slight dinner here, and at 8.30 P.M. we were again in train, shuffling along through several feet of dust, which the bearers, and torch-carriers, and the rest of our numerous train, kicked up about us, in clouds nearly dense enough to cause suffocation.

June 2.—At 8.30 A.M. we arrived again at Umballa, and with nothing to comfort us in our dusty and worried condition but the reflection that our start from Simla was a magnificent triumph of stern determination over present enjoyment and unwonted luxury, we again resumed our forced march. At six P.M. we took our departure, in a very magnificent coach, but in an “unpropitious moment,” for the horse was unusually averse to an advance of any sort, and when we did get clear of the station his opinions were borne out by a terrific storm of dust, with a thunder, lightning, and rain accompaniment, which effectually put a stop to all further progress. The horse for once had his wish, and was brought to a regular stand. The wind howled about us, and the dusty atmosphere assumed a dull red appearance, such as I had only once before seen at Cawnpore, and the like of which might possibly have prevailed during the last days of Pompeii. After getting through the worst of the storm, we pushed along, and had reached the twentieth mile-stone, when, catching a flavour of burning wood, I looked out and found the wheel at an angle of some 30 degrees, and rubbing against the side preparatory to taking its leave altogether. Here was another effect of starting in an unpropitious moment. The interruption in the great forced march preyed heavily upon our minds, but, on the principle of doing as “Rome does,” we took a lesson from the religion of “Islam,” and concurring in the views expressed by our attendant blacks, viz. that “whatever is written in a man’s destiny that will be accomplished,” we ejaculated “Kismut” with the rest, and resignedly adapted ourselves to the writings in our own particular page of fate. Having sent back to Umballa the news of our distress, a new conveyance in a few hours made its appearance; and hauling it alongside the wreck, we unshipped the stores, reloaded, and eventually reached “Thikanmajura” at eight A.M.

June 3.—Starting at about three o’clock P.M., we found the unpropitious moment still hanging over us: first a violent dust-storm, and then a refractory horse, which bolted completely off the road, and nearly upset us down a steep bank, proved to demonstration that our star was still obscured.

About midnight we reached the river “Sutlej,” and exchanged our horse for four fat and humpy bullocks, who managed, with very great labour and difficulty, to drag us through the heavy sands of the river-bed down to the edge of the water. Here we were shipped on board a flat-bottomed boat, with a high peaked bow; and, after an immensity of hauling and grunting, we were fairly launched into the stream, and poled across to the opposite shore. The water appeared quite shallow, and the coolies were most of the time in the water; but its width, including the sands forming its bed, could not have been less than two miles and a half. It was altogether a wild and dreary-looking scene, as we paddled along—the wild ducks and jackals, &c. keeping up a concert on their own account, and the patient old bullocks ruminating quietly on their prospects at our feet.

On arriving at what appeared to be the opposite bank, we were taken out, and again pulled and hauled through the deep sand, only to be reshipped again on what seemed a respectable river in its own right; and here, getting out of patience with a stream that had no opposite bank, I fell asleep, and left the bullocks to their sorrows and their destiny.

June 4.—Arrived at Jullundur, where we had to share the bungalow with another traveller and a rising family, who kept us alive by howling vigorously all day. The road from this being “Kucha,” literally uncooked, but here meant to express “unmetalled,” we had yet another form of conveyance to make acquaintance with. It was a palkee, rudely strapped upon the body of a worn-out “Dâk garee;” and although a more unpromising-looking locomotive perhaps never was placed upon wheels, the actual reality proved even worse than the appearance foreboded.

Anybody who has happened to have been run away with in a dust-cart through Fenchurch Street, or some other London pavement, the gas pipes being up at the time, might form some idea of our sensations as we pounded along, at full gallop, over some thirty miles of uneven, uncooked road; but to anybody who has not had this advantage, description would be impossible. About half way, it appeared that it was written in my miserable destiny that the off fore-wheel of my shay was to come off, and off it came accordingly; so that once more I became an involuntary disciple of Islam, and went to sleep among the ruins, with rather a feeling of gratitude for the respite than otherwise. On awaking, I found myself again under way; and effecting a junction with my companion, we had a light supper off half a water-melon; and, after crossing the River Beas by a bridge of boats, and being lugged through another waste of sand by bullocks, we once again reached a “cooked” road, and arrived at “Umritsur” at six A.M.

June 5.—Found the heat so great here that we were unable to stir out.

As a consolation, we received a visit from four “Sikh Padres,” who rushed in and squatted themselves down without ceremony, previously placing a small ball of candied sugar on the table as a votive and suggestive offering. The spokesman, a lively little rascal, with a black beard tied up under his red turban, immediately opened fire, by hurling at us all the names of all the officers he had ever met or read of. The volley was in this style: First, the number of the regiment, then Brown Sahib, Jones Sahib, Robinson Sahib, Smith Sahib, Tomkins Sahib, Green Sahib, and so on, regiment after regiment and name after name, his brother Padres occasionally chiming in in corroboration of their friend’s veracity and in admiration of his vast stock of military information. After much trouble, we got rid of the pack, at the price of one rupee, which was cheap for the amount of relief afforded by their departure.

June 6.—Reached Lahore at ten P.M. and had a night in bed, for the third time only since leaving Cawnpore. The Q.M.G. being at once set to work to make the necessary arrangements for our final start for Cashmere, we paid a hurried visit to the Tomb of Runjeet Singh and the Fort and City of Lahore. These were worth seeing, but they abounded in sights and perfumes, which rendered the operation rather a trying one, considering the very high temperature of the weather.

June 7.—Drove out in a dilapidated buggy, and with an incorrigible horse, to Mean Meer, the cantonments of Lahore. The place looked burnt up and glaring like its fellows, and a fierce hot wind swept over it, which made us glad enough to turn our backs on it and hurry home again as fast as our obstinate animal would take us. The Q.M.G., we found, had collected our staff of servants together, and was otherwise pushing on our preparations as fast as the dignity and importance of the undertaking would admit.

The staff consisted of khidmutgar, bawurchie, bhistie, dhobie, and mihtar; or, in plain English, butler, cook, water-carrier, washerman, and sweeper.

Of these, the washing department only brought with it its insignia and badge of office. This was an enormous smoothing-iron, highly ornamented with brass, decorated with Gothic apertures, and made to contain an amount of charcoal that would have kept an entire family warm in the coldest depths of winter. Being of great weight, we rather objected to such an addition to our stores—the more so as our linen was not likely to require much getting-up. The dhobie, however, declared himself unable to get on without it, and it accordingly had to be engaged with its master.

June 8.—To-day Rajoo is still hard at work laying in stores from the bazaars and arranging means of transport for them; the weather hot beyond measure; and as neither our food nor quarters are very good, we begin to forget our lessons of resignation, more especially as the mosquitoes begin to form a very aggravating item in our destiny.

June 9.—About four P.M. the Q.M.G. came in triumphantly with about sixteen tall baskets covered with leather, which he called “khiltas;” and having ranged them about the room like the oil-jars of “Ali Baba,” he proceeded to cram them with potatoes, tea, clothes, brandy, and the whole stock of our earthly goods, in a marvellous and miscellaneous manner, very trying to contemplate, and suggestive of their entire separation from us and our heirs for ever.

Coolies not being procurable in sufficient numbers to carry away all our stores together, F. and I agreed to start in the morning, leaving the head of affairs with the rearguard to follow at his leisure. Got away at last in two “palkees,” with four “banghy wallahs,” or baggage-bearers, carrying our immediate possessions, guns, &c. Spent the night wretchedly enough, the roads being of the worst, and covered nearly a foot deep everywhere with fine dust, which our bearers very soon stirred up into an impenetrable cloud, enveloping us in its folds to the verge of suffocation.

The sensation is strange enough, travelling in this way along a lonely road at dead of night, closely shut up in an oblong box, and surrounded by some twenty or more dusky savages, who could quietly tap one on the head at any time, and appropriate the bag of rupees—inseparable from Indian travelling—without the slightest difficulty. That they do not do so is probably from the knowledge they possess that with the bag of rupees there is generally to be found a revolver, and that an English traveller is of so generous a disposition that he seldom parts from his money without giving a little lead in with the silver.

June 10.—After a dusty jolt of forty miles, we reached “Gugerwalla” at eight A.M., and felt the change from Lahore most refreshing. The village seemed a quiet little settlement, very little visited by Englishmen, and the inhabitants, probably on that account, appeared of a different stamp from those we had hitherto met. The women, in particular, were more gaily dressed, and not so frightened at a white face as more south. The rearguard not having come up at six P.M. we started off without it. Crossed the Chenab during the night. The fords, by torchlight, were most picturesque, and rather exciting, in consequence of the water at times taking it into its head to see what was inside the “palkee.” The Chenab makes the fourth out of the “five waters” from which the “Punjab” takes its name. The Jhelum only remains—the ancient Hydaspes of Alexandrian notoriety.

June 11.—Reached “Goojerat” at five A.M. and enjoyed a few hours of quiet sleep in a very comfortable bungalow. The “khiltas” not making their appearance, we halt here for the night. In the evening we explored the city—a straggling rabbit-barrow settlement, inclosed by a mud wall, and boasting the narrowest streets I had ever seen. In an open space we came upon a marvellously-ornamented “mundir,” or Hindoo temple, painted in the most florid style, with effigies of dark gentlemen in coloured pants riding on peacocks, antelopes, and other beasts of burden common in the country. It seemed the centre of attraction to a numerous concourse of strangers from the north; among others, a bevy of young ladies with loose trousers and fair complexions, evidently “Cashmeeries,” who seemed to regard the “heathen temple” as one of the wonders of the world. In the middle of the night the rearguard came in with the supplies, and we at once turned it into an advanced-guard, and packed it off to make preparations for our arrival at “Bimber.”

June 12.—Spent a very hot day at Goojerat, and amused ourselves by inspecting the gold-inlaid work for which the place is famous. At 5.30 P.M. we started for our last night’s journey in British territory; and thus terminated, for the present, our experiences of all the hot and dusty “pleasure of the Plains.”