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?