On the 28th, we went on to Dholpur, the capital of the Jat chiefs of Gohad,[3] on the left bank of the Chambal, over a plain with a variety of crops, but not one that requires two seasons to reach maturity.  The soil excellent in quality and deep, but not a tree anywhere to be seen, nor any such thing as a work of ornament or general utility of any kind.  We saw the fort of Dholpur at a distance of six miles, rising apparently from the surface of the level plain, but in reality situated on the summit of the opposite and high bank of a large river, its foundation at least one hundred feet above the level of the water.  The immense pandemonia of ravines that separated us from this fort were not visible till we began to descend into them some two or three miles from the bed of the river.  Like all the ravines that border the rivers in these parts, they are naked, gloomy, and ghastly, and the knowledge that no solitary traveller is ever safe in them does not tend to improve the impression they make upon us.  The river is a beautiful clear stream, here flowing over a bed of fine sand with a motion so gentle, that one can hardly conceive it is she who has played such fantastic tricks along the borders, and made such ‘frightful gashes’ in them.  As we passed over this noble reach of the river Chambal in a ferry-boat, the boatman told us of the magnificent bridge formed here by the Baiza Bai for Lord William Bentinck in 1832, from boats brought down from Agra for the purpose.  ‘Little’, said they, ’did it avail her with the Governor-General in her hour of need.[4]

The town of Dholpur lies some short way in from the north bank of the Chambal, at the extremity of a range of sandstone hills which runs diagonally across that of Gwalior.  This range was once capped with basalt, and some boulders are still found upon it in a state of rapid decomposition.  It was quite refreshing to see the beautiful mango groves on the Dholpur side of the river, after passing through a large tract of country in which no tree of any kind was to be seen.  On returning from a long ride over the range of sandstone hills the morning after we reached Dholpur, I passed through an encampment of camels taking rude iron from some mines in the hills to the south towards Agra.  They waited here within the frontier of a native state for a pass from the Agra custom house,[5] lest any one should, after they enter our frontier, pretend that they were going to smuggle it, and thus get them into trouble.  ‘Are you not’, said I, ’afraid to remain here so near the ravines of the Chambal, when thieves are said to be so numerous?’ ‘Not at all,’ replied they.  ’I suppose thieves do not think it worth while to steal rude iron?’ ’Thieves, sir, think it worth while to steal anything they can get, but we do not fear them much here.’  ‘Where, then, do you fear them much?’ ’We fear them when we get into the Company’s territories.’  ’And how is this, when we have good police establishments,