17th March, Dinapore.—I must now account to you for a wide chasm in my narrative, most truly an involuntary one. I am still so weak my hand trembles and the words I write are indistinct. Oh how miserably ill I have been! and this fever is like a serpent showing his crest among flowers; it came upon me when and where I least expected such a visitation. I believe I may date its commencement from my moonlight ramble among the ruins of Monghir, though I went about for some time, as my sensations were incomprehensible to myself, and tried to conquer the debility I felt creeping over me, as Niel watched me with looks of such extreme distress. I sat up until I hardly knew what was doing around me, then shivering fits of ague gave my illness a decided character, and Niel and the doctor began most anxiously to wish for our arrival, as the latter considered himself but imperfectly acquainted with the symptoms of the disease. All that care and kindness on his part could do, was done, and he only left our boat when obliged by duty.

Every one was so kind and attentive, I hardly knew which to be most grateful to. Captain Macdonald, who knew more of Indian fevers than any of the party, used to spend every evening in our boat, and make my drink and sit and talk by my couch when I could listen.

17th July 1827.—Bankipore (near Patna).—One year to-day since I embarked for India; surely, my dearest friend, the misery of a whole existence has been compressed into that period of time. One year! Can it be that I have suffered so much in one year, or rather in three months?

I do not ask your sympathy or attempt to describe my bereavement, well knowing that you will feel for me beyond what I could wish; in truth, if I wanted to express to you my situation or my feelings, I could not. I seem to be surrounded by dreams, shadows, recollections, like the waves of the sea beneath a midnight sky, darkness without diversity. Hopeless, my sinking heart endeavours to comprehend why the hand of God has dealt with me thus heavily! Again and again I ask myself—‘What am I? what has one day made me?’

I know and believe the dispensation is from the hand of my Heavenly Father, who has dried up my source of temporal happiness, perhaps because I loved the creature more than the Creator. I may yet be enabled to attain resignation, and perceive that even in His wrath there is mercy; but oh! the dreary present! I may have years of existence to linger through. What is to become of me? How strange seems the capability of enduring that is sometimes given us, when I look back on even the bodily suffering of the last three months.

It would be tiresome to you if I were to detail day by day my occupations, nor do I now recollect much more connected with Calcutta likely to interest, therefore I may pass on until our departure for Chinsurah, where all the officers and men proceeding to the Upper Provinces were directed to assemble in preparation for our voyage. After a good deal of confusion in collecting all things requisite, furnishing our floating house, arranging with our servants, behold us at last on board our budgerow, which, when once put in order, seemed to me the most agreeable habitation I had yet been mistress of. But how shall I describe to you the shape and fashion of a budgerow? unless you will assist me by fancying you see a small house in a boat, I know not how to do it, and yet I have seen the exact similitude on some of my grandmother's cups and saucers, jars and vases, which, along with their other embellishments of hanging bridges and flying foxes, excited my wonder and consternation; and here it is worthy of remark how exactly they depict the present costume; Atcheen Boss, who provides my shoes, exhibits precisely such a head and sleeves as you will see on the flower-pot.

From the sides being formed of Venetians, we can have as much or as little of the prospect as we like—the same of the air and sun.

16th December.—It seems but a moment of time since I first sat here and gazed with such intense delight and excitement at that dark line of forest and jungle, those fishing-boats, the land birds, all which told me I had reached my destination. I can think of nothing expressive of the present change but the shifting scene of a panorama, leaving this moment not a vestige of the last. There is not a single circumstance of feeling which has not undergone a revolution so complete that I hardly comprehend myself to be the same creature, nor in point of fact am I. This change has come from the hand of God, nor can I attribute any part of it either to my own wisdom or my own folly; still not the less I feel that change has been, and cold indeed were my heart could I feel myself again on this well-remembered spot without being wrung by ten thousand recollections of all the love, the fond, assiduous care of my dear unfortunate Campbell. The very appearance of the ship, the arrangements of my cabin brought each a pang, telling of some little alteration he had planned for my comfort. The very conversations calculated to support my spirits and lead to pleasing anticipation seemed to echo in my ear as if the wind brought them back to me.

My dear and kind Friend,—Shortly after my arrival in Calcutta I sat down to write in reply to that letter which reached me on board the Cornwall; it seemed my last link with country, home, and all the heart's affections, and many a time and oft was it read: in truth, I think I could have repeated it verbatim from the fact of having placed it in my dressing-box, to which instinctively my hand reached on every day I was able to sit up to have my hair combed. After duly announcing my arrival, I had proceeded to give you all the good reasons which prevented my compliance with the request contained in that letter—at least they were very sincere—as it seemed quite absurd to suppose that where men of genius and learning had written on the subject, anything I could say should be worth reading; even to enter on a path where so many formidable competitors had gone before seemed too nearly allied to vanity. All this I clearly expressed, and doubted not that the truth of the statement would be as visible to yourself as to me. Once more I read your letter, and made a full stop at that passage where you say, ‘No history of India, however wise and authentic, ever conveyed to me what I wished to know—a familiar picture of the everyday occurrences, manners, and habits of life of persons undistinguished either by wealth or fame. I care not whether Ram Row was poisoned or strangled, but should like to be able to realise to my own mind the actual situation and pursuits of my many friends there, and above all, whatever may more particularly concern yourself.’

12th September.—Macquarie Street.—I am again set down in a habitation of my own, to tell you somewhat about the last three weeks—it is surely that since I wrote last.

Well, our first object was to remove into a private home, and then I began to miss my Indian attendants, who never suffer you to see any thing or place until fit for your reception—something very different I had now to experience. We selected a house—one of the last in Macquarie Street, which I liked as affording immediate access to the jungle. It stands a few doors higher up than the Franklands', which locality was one of my chief inducements. So into this empty house all our baggage was conveyed, according to the taste of two or three assigned men, who had no idea of doing anything beyond the letter of their instructions. They put it inside the house and departed. I went for one or two days and looked at it in despair, but finding that neither sirdar bearers nor the more disinterested fairies, whose assistance to the housekeepers of past time has lived both in story and in song, were coming to my aid, I collected all the moral resolution and immoral physical force I could command—which latter material you must translate as referring to our convict servants—and proceeded to my unwonted and unrelished task.

2nd February.—‘Tomorrow’ has expanded into three days, but I may take up my story from it. Captain Patrick offered to drive me to Mr. Passmore's at dinner time, and leave Fenton the whole day uninterrupted. As we stepped into the boat Captain Patrick said, ‘My dear Mrs. Fenton, let me recommend you a bonnet. Although your hair and its arrangement is undeniably beautiful, it will be discomposed and you will take cold.’

‘A bonnet, my dear sir, where would I get a bonnet, unless you can lend me one? It is so long since that article has formed an item in my equipment for driving, I did not remember there was such a thing in the world.’

So finding the deficiency could not be remedied, off we went, and I felt the cool sea air blowing over me a luxury, while Captain Patrick was in distress for its consequences.

I could not help thinking Fenton's observation just, as we drove through the narrow ill-disposed streets. The houses in general low, dark, dirty and inconvenient—a medley of French, English, and Indian taste and contrivance.

Mrs. Passmore's mansion looked something like the little bungalows in the higher provinces in India, painted yellow, standing in a small compound, shaded with pretty trees.

The inside is covered with that gay French paper of figures and landscapes which in the days of my youth I thought so pretty in Guernsey; and I like it still, though here it is not considered fashionable, the most vulgar English pattern is preferred. Pictures always dispose me to reverie; I like a story on the walls.

On Board the Denmark Hill.… I have just descended from the deck where I watched the ‘lessening’ boat. They are all gone, and here I sit without one whose care I have any right to ask.

What a large party attended my embarkation! A. Frankland, Captain Lyons, Mr. Saunders, Thompson, Dr. Hart—but 'tis vain repeating names. How very kind were they all, and I shall meet them no more.

Beautiful Isle of France, farewell! How ever lovely is the receding shore, eternal in its beauty, imperishable in its poetic interest, girded in by that bluest sea, now so calm and mirror-like. How different was its aspect when I watched its billows during the hurricane, when fear had assembled us in the saloon in Government House. It sleeps now, as calm as on that morning when I saw Fenton standing on the deck of the Mary—perhaps just where I am now. May I look upon that tempest and this placid sea as encouraging and emblematic of the progress of events with myself? Are my trials past? May I innocently thus expound the future? For even with the discomfort of the wretched ship, how comparatively strong and happy do I feel, and if there is something to risk, so will there be more to look in thankfulness to Heaven for when the voyage is over.

14th August.—On the Ganges below Barr.—Again I am on the river, my dear friend, re-passing the scenes I so lately quitted. I am scarcely able to hold my pen from the motion of the boat and my own weakness, but I gladly take it up to fly from my own miseries for a little, or rather to deaden the sense of the present, by detailing the past. I can hardly see, for I have wept myself nearly blind, and did not think any sorrow could reach my heart so deeply as the parting from my friends at Bankipore.… I cannot sleep, I cannot read, everything recalls the past. The delusion of my imagination is so strong that I often fancy myself still proceeding to Dinapore, and almost turn to look for my lost Campbell.

The weather has been tremendous for the last two days; the motion of the boat so great that it requires a constant effort to keep on my couch. The violence of the rain resembles what we meet about the Line at sea. In the intervals of the showers, I am so relieved by getting the window lifted, however sad are the emotions produced by gazing again on the landscape. Then how delightful was its novelty. All was beautiful, or was it the tone of my own feeling which rendered it so? were the trees more brightly green, the bamboo huts grouped with more picturesque effect?

22nd September.—Ballygunge.—It is about two years since first I saw this place, then the residence of Jane Allan.… In the present weak state of my health and irritability of my nerves I ought not to have come here, and would give anything to be gone; everything I see recalls some painful story.

Captain Bruce goes off to Calcutta after breakfast and Fenton generally with him. Mrs. B. like all ladies of her country is never visible until evening, so I wander about listlessly for hours, hardly conscious of anything around me. There is a young English lady here, a pleasing person, but she too seems depressed and silent, and we are too much strangers to be any relief to each other; besides, the source of my unhappiness is one which will not bear communication with a stranger. She sees I am ill, and is courteous and attentive, then she goes to her dressing-room and I to mine.

As I lie on my bed I can see the windows of the room we formerly inhabited, if I look over the compound I retrace those walks that at daylight we used to tread together. Oh! with what elastic spirits, at the earliest dawn, I used to hurry on my clothes, to enjoy the splendour of an Eastern sunrise, where everything was matter of curiosity and interest … I have sung there from perfect lightness of heart, and though Niel's spirits were never high he was ever cheerful and shared the slightest excitement on my part.

11th August.—On the River Derwent, in sight of Mount Wellington and Hobarton.—Though there is but one thought absorbing my mind, I must not anticipate, but tell you that after seven weeks of most awful weather we got sight of land. You may judge my thankfulness, as three weeks we had been under water on deck, nor had the daylight entered my cabin. 'Tis vain now to waste time dwelling on all the suffering of such a period with a baby at my breast, but I may express how much valuable aid I had from my humble friend Mrs. Hughes, and kind attention from Mr. Betts, who nightly stopped to speak and cheer me, sometimes, if it was tempestuous, nursing Mora or assisting to bathe her and beguile our mutual discomfort.

After reaching the point where the pilot is taken in, we had not long to wait. A fine ship was just then in sight which he had that morning left, and after some beating about, he came up with us, at sunset.

Mr. Betts hastened with the glad tidings, and I requested him to inquire if the Mary had been heard of, forgetting she had gone to Sydney.

He did not soon return, and when he appeared, although he assured me that the Mary had been long since announced at Sydney, his manner was constrained, and unlike its usual tenor.