mountainous centre of India, the geography of which is scarcely better known at this day, than when it was laid down as an unexplored' terra-incognita upon Arrowsmith's old maps.

The dawk stages occur at every fifth or sixth mile. The different companies have differently-coloured carriages, to enable their men along the road to make them out from a distance. The coachee also sounds his bugle from a mile off, to keep the men on the alert, and the traveller finds everything ready pending his arrival. Before long, however, the truth breaks in upon him, and he has to exclaim a horse, a horse, a kingdom for a horse!' Never had an equine animal such a high bid. But even King Richard is outbidden by a horsedawk traveller in India. They furnished us with fair samples to begin from Raneegunge. But on arrival at the fourth stage, two animals were led out—the one, a wretched tat, diminutive as a donkey-the other, a tall ricketty Rosinante. The donkey fell to our lot. In vain did the poor creature struggle to move the gharry. These were not the days of old Jupiter to pity and relieve animals in distress. Not unless some half a dozen men had come to his assistance, could the brute be enabled to make a start. Luckily, the road had a slight descent, and the impetus once given, the weight of the carriage pressing upon the animal, away he went sweating, foaming, and breathing thick and quick, like an asthmatic patient. The other fellow was a cunning chap. He understood the portentous meaning of the bugle sound, and was loath to quit the

Route by Nyamutpore.

175

compound. His repugnance had to be overcome by a taste of the cudgel. But the shafts no sooner touched his sides than he began to play fresh pranks. The animal's obstinacy was proof against alternate coaxing and cudgelling for several minutes, till at last he chose to dart at a speed full of risk to limb and life. The manner in which these horses are kept and worked out of their lives, is cruelty reduced to a science. They are as ill-fed as ill-housed. Mere withered shrubs, and a few old boughs made up into a shed, form all their protection from the sun and rain.

Passing Nyamutpore, the route lies across a plateau, which affords the vision a sweep over an extensive tract. No more the Beharinath-it has receded and hid its diminished head. There rose now loftier peaks to attract our notice. The ravine below stretched for many a league. It frowned with one dense and dark mass of foliage. Coming events are said to cast their shadows before. The dismal prospect looming in the distance, was but the precursor of those inhospitable regions, and 'deserts idle,' the rock-bound barriers of which have been burst asunder by the Grand Trunk Road. In a little time the jungles gave us a sample of their hideous character. To pass through them, it is to pass as it were through the penalty of an ordeal, unless you choose to be in a mood to muse over the scene, and to make it the theme for a Byronic rhapsody. But instead of the poetic fever, we were well nigh catching a jungle fever. The view was closed on all sides by trees standing behind trees in a graduated succession. No

sight or sound, no trace of a human abode, no 'wooing breeze,' not a leaf moved, and the stewing heat roasted us to the very bones.

As sunshine is after dark, as liberty is after a dungeon, so is the charming spot that succeeds the wild and woody tract-the 'leafy labyrinth' from which we have emerged. The valley of the Barakur is a region of exceeding loveliness,-a 'weird land' of mountains, rocks, meadows, villages, and rivulets, all combining to form a most diversified and most romantic prospect. The wild mountain scenery, the towering majesty of the rocks, the solemn forests, and the headlong torrents, are contemplated with an interest which can never be derived through the spectacles of books.'

From the country of flat plains, of alluvial soil, of slimy rivers, of miry roads, of inundated fields, and of bogs, fens, and morasses, we are now in an alpine district-in the land of the hill and dale, of the sandstone and gneiss, of the saul and mahua. On all sides and in all quarters, does the eye meet only mountain, rock, precipice, waterfall, and forest, in all their wild and fantastic forms. Yonder are three independent hillocks -looking like little urchins of the mountains. Farther north is a wavy ridge resembling a faint blue line of low descending clouds. To the south are the Pachete Hills, that present the hazy outlines of a colossal mass towering to the height of 2000 feet. The rich valley has the beauty of a smiling Eden. On one of the hillocks is the shrine of a female divinity—the guardian Devi of the Santhals. Her image has a turned face awry.

The River Barakur.

177

The Barakur is a hill-stream, which fills and flows only during the rains. In this season it is a shallow channel, scarcely fit for the meanest craft to navigate. The water at the ford is not even two feet deep, and our gharries had to be dragged by coolies across the bed of the stream. A bridge is being constructed to dispense with the necessity of a ferry. But it is not an easy job to sink a shaft, where the real bed lies several feet below the sands on the surface. Close by the ford are two sandstone temples, in the style of an old mut, or pagoda of Southern India. These temples are dedicated to Shiva, whose lingas have been put up by a devotee of the Hindoo faith, to denote the presence of his religion in the heart of these wild-fastnesses.

The Barakur possesses no history-no antecedents --no name in the annals of mankind. It has a far different destiny from that of the Ganges, the Jumna, and the Godavery. Its banks have never witnessed a human event, have never echoed to the song of a poet, or to the sound of a warrior's arms. The stream has no past-nor shall it have any future. It can never be utilized into a highway for commerce. It has flowed on for ages, and shall flow on for all its days, a desert river through desert solitudes. Banks without inhabitants look upon waters without vessels. The lonely stream is a blank to the civilized world-a dead letter in the creation.

A little serai, however, owes its name to the Barakur. Though not a bona-fide Santhal village, it abounds with many men, women, and children of that race,

who are seen to work at the causeway. The dealers and grocers here are all Bengalees from the lowlands. The place is important enough to have a police chowkey. To the local worthy of the Darogah are we indebted for the modicum of statistics appertaining to his jurisdiction. Thirty years ago, the country hereabouts was an unknown tract, abandoned to the wild beasts and the savage aborigines. The Grand Trunk Road has acted the part of Open Sesame to these regions. Formerly tigers prowled here in numbers. Now, they are seen once or twice in a twelvemonth,-though they lurk not far off in the neighbouring woods. The Santhal is an expert archer. He is very brave when confronted with wild animals. His bow is an enormous concern, which he lies on his back to draw, setting his feet against the centre of the bow, and drawing the string with both his hands. The bear falls an easy prey to his wellplanted arrow. A hare is knocked over when at full speed. Birds on the wing are no sooner marked, than off flies the peacock-feathered arrow to bring them down. A short time ago, there had come a leopard which had so concealed itself in the bush, that only a part of its hind leg could be seen. This was enough, and the brute was cleverly shot through the brains. The causeway over the river is building slowly through the last half a dozen years. It has to be suspended. during the rains, when the stream gets several feet deep, and nothing can withstand the prodigious force of its current. Great alarm prevailed here during the Santhal insurrection. Watchmen had been set round