When any tamasha, as the natives call it, is going on upon the Esplanade, near the beach, they add very considerably to the effect of the scene, by grouping themselves upon the bales of cotton, piled near the wharf for exportation:  those often appear to be a mass of human beings, so thickly are they covered with eager gazers.  Upon the occasion of the departure of Sir Henry Fane to England, there appeared to be a general turn-out of the whole of Bombay, and the effect was impressive and striking.  The road down to the Bunder, or place of embarkation, was lined with soldiers, the bands of the different regiments playing while the cortege passed.  All the ladies made their appearance in open carriages, while the gentlemen mounted on horseback, and joined the cavalcade.  A large party of native gentlemen assembled on foot at the Bunder, for the purpose of showing a last mark of respect to a distinguished officer, about to leave the country for ever.

Sir Henry, accompanied by his staff, but all in plain clothes, drove down the road in a barouche, attended by an escort of cavalry, and seemed to be much affected by the tokens of esteem which he received on every hand.  He left the shore amidst the waving of handkerchiefs, and a salute of seventeen guns, and would have been greeted with hearty cheers, did military discipline allow of such manifestation of the feelings.

Sights and scenes like these will, of course, always attract numerous spectators, while on the evenings in which the band plays, there is a fair excuse for making the Esplanade the object of the drive; but Bombay affords so many avenues possessing much greater beauty, that I am always delighted when I can diversify the scene by a visit to places not nearly so much in request, but which are to me infinitely more interesting, as developing some charm of nature, or displaying the habits and manners of the people of the country.  With these views and feelings, I was much pleased at receiving an invitation to accompany some friends to a fair held in Mahim Wood—­that sea of palm-trees, which I had often looked down upon from Chintapootzlee Hill with so much pleasure.

The fair was held, as is usual in oriental countries, in honour of a saint, whose canonized bones rest beneath a tomb apparently of no great antiquity, but which the people, who are not the best chronologists in the world, fancy to be of very ancient date.  The name of the celebrated person thus enshrined was Mugdooree Sahib, a devotee, who added the gift of prophecy to his other high qualifications, and amongst other things has predicted that, when the town shall join the wood, Bombay shall be no more.  The accomplishment of what in his days must have appeared very unlikely ever to take place—­namely, the junction of inhabited dwellings with the trees of Mahim—­seems to be in rapid course of fulfilment; the land has been drained, many portions formerly impassable filled up, and rendered solid ground, while the houses are extending