the tomb of a Gooroo, or Saint, and is about two hundred years old. It is enclosed in a spacious court, and appears to have been built on the site of some older edifice, as a portion of the gateway is evidently of much earlier date than the tomb. One of the buildings, now used as a habitation, has a portico of very grotesque design, covered with paintings representing events in the Saint's life, and, singularly enough, portraits of some of the Hindoo gods. The religion of the Sikhs is a compromise between Islam and Hindooism, rejecting all the minor divinities of the latter and accepting in their stead, the One God of the Moslems, without the full recognition of Mahomet as his Prophet. They abjure caste, but, probably out of regard for the feelings of their converts, abstain from eating cow's flesh. Their moral code is very similar to that of the Hindoos and Moslems. One of the pictures in the portico illustrates a miracle which happoned to the Sikh Saint, during a visit which he made to Mecca. Being directed by the Moslem priests to sleep with his feet to the Kaába, he refused, and lay down with his head towards it, but during the night it turned round in a marveilous manner, and presented itself to his feet!

A second gateway admitted us into a garden, containing the tomb of the Saint, and the tombs of his four wives. The former stands in the centre, the latter in the four corners of a paved court, and are connected with each other by narrow stone causeways. The Saint's tomb is covered with a lofty dome, and surrounded with a cloister, richly enamelled and painted, in the style of the Mogul tombs about Agra and Delhi. It has no pretensions to architectural beauty, but was a most picturesque object, with its white dome, its deep shadowy arches, and the brilliancy of its colours half touched with sunshine, half buried in the shade of two massive peepul trees. Over the corner of the platform rose the stems of the palm and Italian cypress, and beyond the garden-wall appeared the tufted tops of some clumps of bamboos. It was a picture ready for the sun-steeped pencil of Cropsey.

But after we had passed around to the front, another picture, not less beautiful, was speedily formed. A blind Sikh fakeer, who had pilgrimed his way thither from the Punjaub, lay in the sun, half-propped against one of the pillars, with a sitar, or Indian violin, in his hand. We asked him to play for us, whereupon he slowly tuned the strings, took up a short bow, and began playing one of those passionate melodies of love and languishment, which you only hear in a southern clime. The body of the violin was of wood, curved and ribbed so as to resemble a crooked gourd, or a segment of a fossil ammonite. It had a short neck, and four strings of catgut, under which were eight very slender wires, out of the reach of the bow, but tuned so as to give out a spon

taneous accord to the notes produced upon the strings. The tones were like those of an ordinary violin, but very pure, sweet, and ringing. I should think the instrument capable, in the hands of a master, of producing the most exquisite musical effects. In the Sikh's hands, it spoke truly the language of Southern love, now passionate, now imploring, but falling always into the same melting cadences, which were too beautiful to be monotonous. He sang, like the Arabs, in a succession of musical cries. Around him were Sikh priests and a knot of half-naked boys, some basking in the full glare of the sun, some seated under the arches of the tomb. They were all necessary parts of the picture.

On our return home we called at the house of the Rajah Loll Sing, a Sikh chieftain, to whom the English are indebted in a great measure for the conquest of the Punjaub. But, having been treacherous to his countrymen in the first place, he was afterwards accused of meditating treachery to the English, and had only recently been released from temporary imprisonment at Agra. He had a pension of 1,000 rupees a month from the Government, with which he rented a handsome bungalow, and was living in considerable style. He had a great passion for dogs, and was something of a shikarree, or sportsman. The guards at his residence presented arms as we rode up, and we were soon afterwards received by the Rajah himself. Loll Singh means "Red Lion," and the name well suited his stout, muscular figure, heavy beard, and ruddy face. He was richly dressed in a garment of figured silk, with a Cashmere shawl around his waist, and a turban of silk and gold. Rings of gold wire, upon which pearls were strung, hung from his ears to his shoulders. His eye was large, dark, and lustrous, and his smile gave an agreeable expression to a face that would otherwise have been stern and gloomy. As he spoke no English, my conversation with him was confined to the usual greetings, and some expressions of admiration respecting a favourite spaniel, which he called "Venus." He spent the same evening at Mr. Keene's, appearing in a very rich and elegant native costume, with an aigrette of large diamonds and emeralds attached to his throat.

I was much amused by noticing the opinions of different English residents, respecting their native servants. Some praised their honesty and fidelity in high terms; others denounced them as liars and pilferers. Some trusted them implicitly with their keys, while others kept their cupboards and closets carefully locked. Nearly all seemed to agree, however, that one can never wholly depend on their truthfulness. There are laws prohibiting the master from beating his servants, and indeed blows are of no effect. The punishment now adopted, is to fine them, which has been found very efficacious. They care little for being reproved, if in their own language, but are greatly annoyed by the use of

English terms, which they do not understand. Thus, to address a man as, "You wicked rectangle! "You specimen of comparative anatomy!" &c., would be a much greater indignity than the use of the vilest epithets, in Hindostanee.

After having enjoyed Mr. Keene's hospitality for five days, I ordered my bearers to be ready on Saturday for the return to Meerut. The day, however, brought a thunder-storm and rain in torrents, obliging me to postpone my departure until the following morning. Rajah Loll Singh offered me his elephant, for the ride through the Siwalik Hills, and as my kind host proposed to take me across the Dhoon in his buggy, I sent the palanquin and bearers on in advance, to await me at Mohun, on the other side of the pass.

CHAPTER X.

MEERUT, CAWNPORE, AND LUCKNOW.

I LEFT Mr. Keene's pleasant residence at Dehra on Sunday morning, the 6th. The thunder-storm had passed away, the sky was blue and vapourless, the verdure of the beautiful valley freshened by the rain, and the heights of the Sub-Himalayas were capped with new-fallen snow. My host and I took a hasty breekfast, and then set off for Shahpore in his buggy. The distance was nine miles, the road muddy, full of deep pools left by the rain, and ascending as we approached the hills, so that we made but slow progress. From the mouth of the pass I turned to take a last view of the lovely valley. Just within the opening is Shahpore, a native hamlet, consisting of about a dozen bamboo huts. Mr. Keene was here met by one of the native police, who engaged to send a cheprassee with me to Mohun, for the purpose of seeing that my bearers were ready.

The Rajah had kept his promise, and his big she-elephant had already arrived. She knelt at the keeper's command, and a small ladder was placed against her side, that I might climb upon the pad, as I had been unable to borrow a howdah. I had a package of bread and cold roast-beef, to serve me as a tiffin, but was careful to conceal it from the driver, otherwise himself and the elephant, with all her trappings, must have undergone purification on account of the unclean flesh. I took a reluctant leave of Mr. Keene, seated myself astride on the pad, with the driver before me, on the elephant's neck, and we moved off. The driver was a

Sikh, in a clean white and scarlet dress, and a narrow handkerchief bound around his head. His long, well-combed hair was anointed with butter, and, as his head was just under my nose, I was continually regaled with the unctuous odours. He carried a short iron spike, with which he occasionally punched the elephant's head, causing her to snort and throw up her trunk, as she quickened her pace. I found the motion very like that of a large dromedary, and by no means unpleasant or fatiguing. Though walking, she went at the rate of about five miles an hour. I noticed that the driver frequently spoke to her, in a quiet, conversational tone, making remarks about the roads, and advising her how to proceed, all of which she seemed to understand perfectly, and obeyed without hesitation.

After leaving Shahpore, the road ascended through a wild gorge of about half-a-mile, where it reached the dividing ridge, and thence descended into a winding glen, which showed traces of having been worn through the hills by the action of water. Our path followed the bed of the stream for the distance of eight miles, where the pass opens upon the great plain. The scenery is very wild and picturesque, the hills being covered to their very summits with jungle, the abode of the tiger and wild elephant. None of the peaks are more than 1,000 or 1,200 feet above the bottom of the glen, yet in their forms they have a striking similarity to the great Himalayan range. They are sharp and conical, frequently with a perpendicular front, like a bisected cone, and are divided by deep and abrupt chasms. I was quite charmed with the succession of landscapes which the windings of the pass brought to view, and nothing was wanting to complete my satis faction but the sight of a tiger. The jungle was filled with parrots, a bird with plumage blue as a turquoise, and flocks of wild peacocks. The plumage of the latter bird is much more brilliant than that of the domesticated fowl, although the body is smaller. Near the entrance of the pass, a large congregation of monkeys, each seated on a huge boulder left by the floods, gravely watched me as I passed.

At Mohun I found my palanquin standing in front of the Policeoffice, which was a bamboo hut. The cheprassees were very obsequious in their offers of service, and immediately called together my bearers. I sent back the elephant, seated myself cross-legged in the palanquin, and made a very fair tiffin out of the prohibited beef and bread. Saharunpore was twenty-nine miles distant, and it was already noon. I therefore urged on the bearers, in the hope of arriving before dark. The plain was very monotonous, swept by cold winds from the hills, and appeared like a desert, by contrast with the luxuriant Dhoon. The sun went down, and I was still stretched in the tiresome palanquin, but about dusk the mussalchee (torch-bearer) came and asked where

they should take me. I supposed there was a hotel in Saharunpore, and answered, "to the punch-ghur" (punch-house or hotel). "Which one?" he again asked. At a venture, I answered, "the burra (large) punch-ghur." Away they went, and in a quarter-ofan hour, the palanquin was set down. "Here is the punch-house," said the mussalchee. I crept out, and found myself at the door of the Station Church! There happened, however, to be some natives passing through the enclosure, who directed me to the dawk bungalow, as there was no hotel. I called on the Rev. Mr. Campbell, a missionary, in the course of the evening, and he at once quartered me in his house.

As my bearers were engaged to start for Meerut the next morning, my kind host arose before sunrise, and took me in his buggy to see something of the place. The cantonments are scattered over a wide space, and have not the comfortable air of those at Meerut. The lanes are lined with the casurena or Australian Pine, a lofty, ragged-looking tree, with very_long and slender fibres, which gives the place the air of an English or German country town. The native city has a population of about 800,000 inhabitants, and appeared to be an industrious and flourishing place.

Mr. Campbell took me to the Botanic Garden, where I had the pleasure of meeting Dr. Jameson, who has charge of the tea culture in the north-west. The Garden is one of the finest in India. It is laid out with great taste, and contains nearly all the indigenous trees and plants, besides many exotics. I there saw, for the first time, a cinnamon tree, the large glossy leaves of which were redolent of its spicy blood. The cinnamon is brother to the American sassafras. It is of so refined and dainty a nature, that there are but few parts of the world where it will grow.

I left Saharunpore at ten o'clock, congratulating myself, as I entered my palanquin, that it was the last journey I should make in such a disagreeable vehicle. It was a veiled, cool and dreary day; the plains had even a wintry look, and nothing could be more monotonous. I was heartily sick of the journey before night. The Himalayas were so obscured that nothing but a large leadencoloured mass was to be seen on the horizon. The road was crowded with people, among whom were several Englishmen in their palanquins, on their way up to the hills. Numbers of native women also passed, some in the hackree, or bullock-cart, and others borne in a dhoolie, a rude sort of palanquin made of bamboo, and covered with a cotton cloth. These are the "ferocious Dhoolies," who, according to Sheridan, in one of his Parliamentary speeches, "carried off the unfortunate wounded" from the field of battlethe orator, ignorant of Hindostanee, supposing that the "dhoolies" were a tribe of savage people.

At dusk, I reached a station where the bearers were not at