MAY 25. -- At four A.M. we crossed the bridge of boats over the Jumna,
and found ourselves under the gloomy battlements of the Fort of Delhi.

Entering by the Calcutta Gate, we drove through large suburbs, lighted
up with rows of oil lamps, reminding one, in the dim light, a good
deal of Cairo. Arriving at the dak bungalow, we found it such a dirty
looking deserted building, and the interior so much of a piece with
the exterior, that we mounted again, and set off to try the Hotel, or
"Pahunch Ghur," -- a name originally intended to convey the meaning
"An arriving house," but neatly and appropriately corrupted into the
term "Punch Gur," which speaks for itself, and troubles no one much
about its derivation. We were rather disappointed with the general
appearance of the city: dirt and grandeur were closely combined,
and the combination gave the usual impression of shabby genteelness
in general, not at first sight prepossessing. After driving through
what might have been an Eastern Sebastopol, from the amount of ruin
about, we reached a cut-throat-looking archway; and the coachman, here
pointing to a dirty board, above his head, triumphantly announced the
"Punch Gur!" Hot and thirsty, we got out, with visions of rest and
cooling sherbets, too soon to be dispelled. Passing through long dirty
halls, and up unsavoury steps, we at last reached a sort of court,
with beds of sickly flowers, never known to bloom, and from thence
issued to a suite of musty hot Moorish-looking rooms, with gold-inlaid
dust-covered tables, and a heavily-draped four-post bedstead, the
very sight of which, in such a climate, was almost enough to deprive
one of sleep for ever. Our speech forsook us, and without waiting to
remark whether the lady of the house was an ogress, or possessed of a
"rose-coloured body" and face like the full moon, we fairly turned
tail, and drove in all haste to our despised dak bungalow, where,