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where fountains are ever playing; and the marble tombs to which streams of pious Mussulmans are ever going on pilgrimage to scatter a few flowers upon the sacred shrines, and to offer up prayers to the prophet of Islam. But there is no space here to dwell longer upon the scenes which our Hindoo traveller has described so well; and with this brief Introduction of himself and his Travels, we leave him to tell his own story, assuring the European reader that, notwithstanding the novelty of the names and scenes, it will well repay a careful perusal.

Calcutta, 9th September, 1868.

J. TALBOYS WHEELER.

TRAVELS OF A HINDOO.

CHAPTER I.

If any man would keep a faithful account of what he had seen and heard himself, it must, in whatever hands, prove an interesting thing.-Horace Walpole.

FROM the diary kept of our several journeys, the date of our first and earliest trip up the Hooghly appears to be the 11th of February, 1845. This is now so far back as to seem quite in the 'olden time '—in the days of the budgerow and bholio, of tow-ropes and punt-poles, all now things of the past, and irrevocably gone to obsoletism. It being the order of the day to get over the greatest possible amount of ground in the smallest possible amount of time,' the reader, perhaps, trembles at the mention of by-gones, but let him take courage, and we promise not to be a bore, but let him off easily.

In the times to which we allude, one was not so independent of the elements as now. The hour, therefore, of our embarkation was as propitious as could be wished. Both Neptune and Æolus seemed to look

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down with complacency upon our undertaking;-the one, favouring us with the tide just set in; and the other, with a fresh full breeze blowing from the south. Thanks to their kind old godships! But, unhappily, we have not to relate here the adventures of an Ulysses or a Sinbad. Ours is a lowly tale of matter-of-fact, drawn from the scenes of every-day life, and from the sights of everybody's familiarity. It is undertaken with no other motive than to give a little work to our humble 'grey goose quill,' and is presented to the public with the parting exclamation of the poet, Would it were worthier.'

It was, then, about the middle of February, 1845, that we set out upon our excursion. Under the auspices of a favourable wind and tide, our boat sharply and merrily cut along its way, while we stood upon its deck to descry the fading forms of the Mint and Metcalfe Hall, that gradually receded from the view. In less than twenty minutes we cleared the canal, and passed by Chitpore, so called from the Kali Chitraswari of that village. She is one of those old images to whom many a human sacrifice has been offered under the régime of the Brahmins. It is said of her, that a party of boatmen was rowing up the river to the sound of a melodious strain. Heightened by the stillness of the night, the plaintive carol came in a rich harmony to the ears of the goddess. She then sat facing the east, but, turning to hear the song of the boatmen as they passed by her ghât, she had her face turned towards the river ever

since.

Cossipore.-Burranagur.-Duckinasore.—Balli.

3

Next we came to Cossipore-the enamelled village of the native rose and the exiled daisy, and the classic spot over which the muse has flung many a soft and sacred enchantment.* The gay villas with which it is studded, and the bloom and beauty of its parterres, reflect a picture in the calm mirror of the waters, that reminds us of the lines,

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'I saw from out the wave her structures rise,
As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand.'

From Cossipore to Burranagur. Nearly two hundred years ago this was an important mart of traffic belonging to the Dutch. But it was then also so much the resort of bad women from different parts of the country, that it was appellatized by the early English travellers as the Paphos of Calcutta.' Now-a-days, it forms the retreat of the mercantile élite from the cares and vexations of the Ditch, and the merry scene of native holiday pic-nics. The next place is Duckinasore-said, in days gone by, to have been the seat of a Mussulman prince. It is now covered by extensive gardens, gay with brilliant and variegated flowers, and emerald lawns sloping to the water's edge.

Opposite to Duckinasore stands the village of Balli. This is a very old and orthodox place, mentioned in the Kobi Kunkun. It is doubtful, however, how Sreemunto could have sailed by this place, if the Ganges formerly held its course below Satgong-unless, in the age of the poet, the stream had flowed as it does in our day. Long had the ragged appearance of Balli, and its mud-built

* In allusion to the late author of the 'Literary Leaves,' who resided here for many years.

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