to its sanctity, which entitles every one, who resides there only as long as it takes to milk a cow, to especial beatitude—­the object of veneration being a lingam of black stone enshrined in a temple, the guardianship of which is jointly vested in five resident families of Bramins.  “At this time,” says the colonel, “the place is not worth keeping, the country being so thoroughly impoverished and desolate;” and he accordingly, after viewing the marvels of the locality, pursued his way to Banda, and thence laid a dak (or travelled by palanquin with relays of bearers) to Calpee, “there to sit from nine to four, writing filthy accounts of bricks and mortar, square feet, cubic feet, and running feet, rupees, annas, and pie; squabbling with wrinkled unromantic villains, whose cool-tempered and overwhelming patience amply deserve their unlawful gains—­I mean as labourers in the vineyard of villany.”

“A sporting excursion in Oude,” in the spring of 1836, comes next in order of time; and in regular order we accordingly take it, though it has pleased either Mr Colburn or the colonel to place it after the voyage down the Ganges.  The colonel left Lucknow, March 2; and three days later the whole party rendezvoused at Khyrabad, consisting of “Mrs, Miss, and Brigadier Churchill, Colonel Arnold, Major Cureton, Lieut.  Waugh, Dr Ross of her Majesty’s 16th Lancers, and the writer of these amiable records;” to whom was soon after added, in the capacity of guide and hanger-on, “Sam Lall, by birth a Chuttree or Rajpoot, by profession a zemindar, and by inclination a sycophant and shikarree, (hunter.)” Indian field sports, with their concomitants of hogs, hogdeer, jungles, elephants, tigers, and nullahs, have been of late years rendered so familiar to stay-at-home travellers, that we shall but concisely notice the colonel’s exploits in this forest campaign, which present no remarkable novelty, though detailed con amore, and with the two-fold zest of a sportsman and an epicure.  With all deference, indeed, to the colonel, we have shrewd doubts whether the latter feeling was not the predominant one; for the death of a tiger, nine of which fell during the three weeks’ foray before the rifles of himself and his companions, is evidently chronicled with less of heart-felt enthusiasm than characterises his encomiums on the hogdeer soup, the delicate floricans and black partridges, (in the preparation of bread sauce, for which, with his own hands, he earned immortal renown,) and the other materials for good living poured forth from the cornucopia of an Indian game-bag.  His gastronomic fervour during this jaunt reaches at times an ecstatic pitch, which, as old Weller says, “werges on the poetical.”  “For him (the gastronomist) the dark rocks and arid plains of the dry Dekkan produce their purple grapes, and cunning but goodly bustard; for him burning Bundelcund its wonderful rock pigeon and ortolan inimitable; the Jumna, most ancient of rivers, its large rich Kala banse, and tasty crabs; for him yields the low and marshy Terace her elegant florican; the mighty Gunga its melting mahaseer; the Goomtee its exquisite mullet.  And shall he not eat and delight in her fruits? ...  Let the ass eat its thistles, and the swallow its flies au naturel; you and I, reader, know better!”