whose fort rose black and rugged in the
distance. The boatmen, as they rowed, set up
a chant, in which I detected notice of a
coming storm, and of the backsheesh they
would all deserve for bringing me safely
through it. The storm came suddenly upon
us; we crossed safely, not without some risk;
and backsheesh followed. At Allahabad an
agent kept us waiting in the rain, I fretted
myself to sleep, and awoke next morning
fourteen miles nearer my journey's end. In
the evening I reached Futtehpore, where
there were friends ready to cheer the traveller
with a boisterous welcome. Greatly
refreshed both in flesh and spirit, and most
lavishly provisioned, I set off again after a
day's delay, and early the next morning at
Cawnpore I for the first time saw an agent.
He, being an old Calcutta acquaintance, gave
me a cup of tea and ten minutes of cheerful
talk. That helped me on again. The horses
too had latterly improved, though there
were still some who required the combined
powers of cajolery and cudgelry to set them
going.

The next day troubled us with heavy rains
and roads under repair. We frequently stuck
fast in the moist kunkur, when the syce and
coachman impressed all passers by into the
service necessary for our extrication. I was
sorry to find that the poor people whom I
paid for such services, generally seemed
astonished at my liberality—or honesty; I
gave never more than what was just. The
traffic all the way from Allahabad had been
immense. The road was in some places
almost blocked up with trains of waggons,
strings of camels, carriages, and cattle of all
kinds.

As the day ended the roads improved,
and I turned in that evening for the last time
at a stage-bungalow. I was only fifty miles
from Delhi. In the night I was conscious
of a sharp turn in the road, and of crossing
a very long suspension bridge, which I
endeavoured drowsily to examine by the light
of a lucifer match. It was that of the
Hindum. At five o'clock next morning I was
afoot with my best hat on, and my carriage
jolting by my side, upon the bridge of boats
over the Jumna. We were making our
triumphal entry into Delhi. Not reckoning
the stoppages at Benares and Futtehpore,
we had traversed the nine hundred miles in
about eight days and a half; excellent work
for India and the rains. The rains, however,
had, luckily for me, been less troublesome
than usual.

Although "the Company" have had
possession of British India for centuries the Grand
Trunk Road, of which I have here attempted
to give an idea, is no more than about fifteen
years old; Dawk travelling, however, is a thing
of yesterday. The vehicle has been brought
into existence by the ingenuity of the
competing transit companies, and is, in its way,
now almost perfect. If it were watertight,
I think it would be absolutely perfect.
The road, which is really second in importance
to the vehicle, is equal to the best
Macadamised roads in England, barring some
very bad bits here and there and the extensive
repairs always going on in sundry places,
always performed with the utmost deliberation.
There is a want of bridges too, that
will in time be remedied. Five streams have
to be ferried or forded between the Hooghly
and the Soane, to say nothing of the passage
by ferry of those two very formidable rivers;
and of the Ganges in two places—at Benares
and Allahabad. I think that the road, when
it is good, is of better quality in Bengal than
in the Upper Provinces, either because the
material is harder, the shape more convex,
or the traffic less. The whole line extends,
I should observe, to Peshawur, but of the
upper part I know nothing from experience,
and am told that it is not yet worthy of
praise.

THE LADY OF THE FEN.

Glorious and grand is this our time;
   A great prose epic, rich with food
For many an after poet's rhyme
   When matter shall be soul-subdued:
Yet often, when the heart grows faint
   With glare of gas, and clang of steam,
It freshens at the aspect quaint
   Of some beloved old-world dream;
Some fable where we see the earth
   Bloom roughly-sweet with wild wood-flowers,
And marvels of continual birth
   Show Heaven more manifestly ours.
And, as such tales are cherish'd most
   When Winter comes with rainy flaw,
And Night, dilating like a ghost,
   Touches familiar things with awe—
The story which I tell shall be
   Of old enchantment, dark and drear,
Yet still preserving, like the sea,
   Some reflex of the skyey sphere.

   Why rides Sir Cradock mournfully
From morn to eve with downcast eye?
Why droops Sir Cradock day by day?
Why turns his hair from black to grey?
He is a Knight of whom report
Speaks nobly—one of Arthur's court—
And in the freshness of his age;
Yet grief, which nothing can assuage,
Has driven him to the bearded woods
And mountainous dumb solitudes;
Where, like an iron statue, still
He holds on with an iron will.

   A twelvemonth since, Sir Cradock's pleasure
Knew neither bounds, nor change, nor measure;
A newly-married man, and blest
With one in whom his soul found rest.
In azure calm the Future lay,
Like hills in heaven. But, on a day,
As home he wended from the chase,
A servant with a pallid face
Met him, and told how armed men
Had forced his castle gates, and then
From out his lady's bower had dragg'd
Her barbarously, tied and gagg'd,
And bound her on a wild black horse,
And swiftly over heath and gorse
Into the forest fled like wind.