76 THE GARDENS OF THE TAJ 



sand-banks, winding slowly in and out with the 

 current, carrying from time to time little groups 

 of country people across the stream. Few other 

 craft are seen on the river. But day by day, as I 

 made up my mind to attempt the expedition and 

 looked over the low parapet of the Taj platform 

 for the ferry-boat, it always seemed hopelessly 

 stranded on some far-off bank. At last, one 

 afternoon, just as the boatman was leisurely 

 pushing off, I caught it, and, much to the astonish- 

 ment of the other passengers, demanded to be 

 taken across. The boat was a wretched old 

 affair, leaking everywhere, and the three dry 

 planks on which we all crouched seemed little 

 protection between us and an ominous dark 

 snout and trailing oily streak, that showed 

 where the ever hungry Mugger of the ford 

 haunted these waters. On the far side a red 

 sandstone tower and long ruined wall marked 

 the site of what once had been a garden — perhaps 

 originally one of the regular and elegant gardens 

 built by Yunis Ali or some other faithful 

 friend of Babar, those cheery friends of his 

 Memoirs, lightly sketched with such seemingly 

 artless skill. Hassein Beg, the good-humoured 

 man, " of plain simple manners," who " excelled 



