had a proper remedy administered in time. One has to fight against the climate and the servants until one is weary of life.
23rd.—Such a disaster in the quail-house! Through the negligence, or rather stupidity, of the khānsāmān, 160 fat quail have been killed.
June 1st.—The Muharram is over; I am glad of it, it unsettles all the servants so much, and nothing is ever well done whilst they are thinking of the Taziya.
4th.—Last night we drove to the churchyard, to visit the tomb of one of the most charming girls I ever met with, who had departed in her youth and beauty's prime: it was a melancholy visit.
One of the Fitzclarences died at Allahabad, and was buried here, without any name or inscription on the tomb; within the last six months an inscription has been put upon it, by order of Lord William Bentinck.
In the churchyard was a great number of plants of the mādār or ark, (asclepias gigantea,) gigantic swallow-wort. Upon them we found the most beautifully spotted creatures, like enamelled grasshoppers; they appear partial to this plant, the ark; when alive, their spots are most beautiful, in dying, all their brilliancy vanishes. I gathered a quantity of the fine down from the pods of the mādār, and gave it to a gentleman fond of experiments, who says he will weave it as a shawl is woven, and see if it will answer.
19th.—The air is so oppressive, it appears full of dust, so white, so hot! the atmosphere is thick and dull,—no rain! This day last year a fine storm refreshed the earth. The leaves are all falling off the trees, dried up by the sun; numerous trees are dead, burnt up; not a blade of grass! every thing so dusty! I wish the rains would come; this easterly wind, with a thermometer at 91° at noon, is terrible! The pummelo-tree presents a curious appearance; the whole of the leaves are parched, and have fallen from the tree, leaving sixty fine green pummeloes hanging on the naked branches!
The pummelo, called by the natives batavi-nemoo, is the citrus decumana, orange pampelmouse, or shaddock; it was
