Close to our tents we found the people at work, irrigating their fields from several wells, whose waters were all brackish.  The crops watered from these wells were admirable—­likely to yield at least fifteen returns of the seed.  Wherever we go, we find the signs of a great government passed away—­signs that must tend to keep alive the recollections, and exalt the ideas of it in the minds of the people.  Beyond the boundary of our military and civil stations we find as yet few indications of our reign or character, to link us with the affections of the people.  There is hardly anything to indicate our existence as a people or a government in this country; and it is melancholy to think that in the wide extent of country over which I have travelled there should be so few signs of that superiority in science and arts which we boast of, and really do possess, and ought to make conducive to the welfare and happiness of the people in every part of our dominions.  The people and the face of the country are just what they might have been had they been governed by police officers and tax-gatherers from the Sandwich Islands, capable of securing life, property, and character, and levying honestly the means of maintaining the establishments requisite for the purpose.[4] Some time after the journey here described, in the early part of November, after a heavy fall of rain, I was driving alone in my buggy from Garhmuktesar on the Ganges to Meerut.  The roads were very bad, the stage a double one, and my horse became tired, and unable to go on.[5] I got out at a small village to give him a little rest and food; and sat down, under the shade of one old tree, upon the trunk of another that the storm had blown down, while my groom, the only servant I had with me, rubbed down and baited my horse.  I called for some parched gram from the same shop which supplied my horse, and got a draught of good water, drawn from the well by an old woman in a brass jug lent to me for the purpose by the shopkeeper.[6]

While I sat contentedly and happily stripping my parched gram of its shell, and eating it grain by grain, the farmer, or head landholder of the village, a sturdy old Rajput, came up and sat himself, without any ceremony, down by my side, to have a little conversation.  To one of the dignitaries of the land, in whose presence the aristocracy are alone entitled to chairs, this easy familiarity on the part of a poor farmer seems at first somewhat strange and unaccountable; he is afraid that the man intends to offer him some indignity, or, what is still worse, mistakes him for something less than the dignitary.  The following dialogue took place.

‘You are a Rajput, and a “zamindar"?’ (landholder).

‘Yes; I am the head landholder of this village.’

’Can you tell me how that village in the distance is elevated above the ground?  Is it from the debris of old villages, or from a rock underneath?’

’It is from the debris of old villages.  That is the original seat of all the Rajputs around; we all trace our descent from the founders of that village who built and peopled it many centuries ago.’