Early in 1875 a military friend of mine was engaged in inspecting the boundary pillars near my factory, between our territory and that of Nepaul.  Some of the pillars had been cut away by the river, and the survey map required a little alteration in consequence.  Our district magistrate was in attendance, and sent me an invitation to go up and spend a week with them in camp.  I had no need to send on tents, as they had every requisite for comfort.  I sent off my bed and bedding on Geerdharee Jha’s old elephant, a timid, useless brute, fit neither far beating jungle nor for carrying a howdah.  My horse I sent on to the ghat or crossing, some ten miles up the river, and after lunch I started.  It was a fine cool afternoon, and it was not long ere I reached the neighbouring factory of Im[=a]mnugger.  Here I had a little refreshment with Old Tom, and after exchanging greetings, I resumed my way over a part of the country with which I was totally unacquainted.

I rode on, past villages nestling in the mango groves, past huge tanks, excavated by the busy labour of generations long since departed; past decaying temples, overshadowed by mighty tamarind trees, with the peepul and pakur insinuating their twining roots amid the shattered and crumbling masonry.  In one large village I passed through the bustling bazaar, where the din, and dust, and mingled odours, were almost overpowering.  The country was now assuming quite an undulating character.  The banks of the creeks were steep and rugged, and in some cases the water actually tumbled from rock to rock, with a purling pleasant ripple and plash, a welcome sound to a Scotch ear, and a pleasant surprise after the dull, dead, leaden, noiseless flow of the streams further down on the plains.

Far in front lay the gloomy belt of Terai, or border forest, here called the morung, where the British territories had their extreme limit in that direction.  Behind this belt, tier on tier, rose the mighty ranges of the majestic Himalayas, towering up in solemn grandeur from the bushy masses of forest-clad hills till their snow-capped summits seemed to pierce the sky.  The country was covered by green crops, with here and there patches of dingy rice-stubble, and an occasional stretch of dense grass jungle.  Quail, partridge, and plover rose from the ground in coveys, as my horse cantered through; and an occasional peafowl or florican scudded across the track as I ambled onward.  I asked at a wretched little accumulation of weavers’ huts where the ghat was, and if my elephant had gone on.  To both my queries I received satisfactory replies, and as the day was now drawing in, I pushed my nag into a sharp canter and hurried forward.