August 1, 1839.

THIS will be more a letter than a Journal, as I have skipped more than a fortnight, partly because I have been obliged to give all my little leisure to drawing for the fancy fair, and then, that I have had ten days of the same ague I had in the plains, from the same reason—constant rain and fog. It is a tiresome complaint while it lasts, from the violence of the headache and pains in the bones, but I do not think it does one much real harm, at least not up here. It stopped only four days ago, and I feel quite well again. We are very quiet just now. Rains and fogs the whole day, till towards five o’clock, when it kindly holds up to allow us to go out for an hour and a half, and then it kindly rains again so as to prevent anybody coming to dinner. G. and I went yesterday to show F. a beautiful new walk we had discovered; that is, we call it a walk, though there is nothing to walk upon but a goat-path, but it leads to a beautiful hill which stands bolt upright by itself, looking down on various little villages in the valleys. The first time we went, the jonpaunees contrived to carry me most part of the way, but this time what little path there had been was washed away, and we had to walk with sticks in one hand and to cling to the rocks with the other, and the jonpaunees crept along just under the path to catch us if we slipped. I never saw anything so beautiful as it was, the ground so green with all sorts of ferns, and covered with iris and mountain geraniums, and such an amphitheatre of mountains all round, with great white clouds in the valleys, just as if the mountains had let their gowns slip off their shoulders. Our Bengalee servants, who turn out in great numbers when we walk, evidently thought it a service of great danger, particularly when one of my boys slipped down a little waterfall, and looked, as G. said, in his red and gold, like a large goldfish floundering about in the pool below. My old jemadar came and gave me a regular scolding this morning, which he had evidently got up with great care in his choicest English. ‘Soobratta tell me, my lord and my two ladies take very dangerous walk, so I just ask of ladyship’s favour to ask my lord not to order any more such walk. Ladyship not strong constitution’ (that is a long word they have picked up from the native doctor, who always tells me so), ‘and what for she walk when she can be carried, and why go on bad road? I see our bheestie’s (water-carrier) cow last week tumble down hill, and she roll over and over till she come kill at the bottom, and if ladyship see that, she never go dangerous walk again.’ He walked off quite satisfied with himself and his oratory, and I own, I think the roll and ‘come kill’ of the bheestie’s cow is pathetic and conclusive.

Tuesday, August 6.

I have had such a piece of shawl luck; everybody’s mind gets a shawl twist in India, you must understand; and moreover we are all making up our packets for England now.

This place is full of Cashmerees, and they never come further south than Delhi, so this is our last shawl opportunity. Q. came into my room with a magnificent black one, a regular fifty-guinea shawl, and said the owner had told him to show it to me. I said it was very beautiful, but I could not afford any more expensive shawls, and he said if I really fancied it, he would try and beat the price down. I said no, but at the same time asked, in a fatal fit of curiosity, what the price was, and he said, ‘Perhaps I can get it cheaper, but the man says you may have it for 240 rupees.’ (24l.) Upon which I said with infinite promptitude—‘Oh, then, run for your life and pay him directly, before anybody else sees him!’ and Q. thought it advisable himself, for he said some of the other Cashmerees were offering him more for it. The shawl has been compared with three bought by Mrs. R. and Mrs. A. for fifty guineas, and there is not a shade of difference; in fact, it is a perfect beauty, quite a catch.

August 18.

I am uncommonly unhappy in my mind. My dear little flying squirrel, that I had brought up to “man’s estate” from three days old, died yesterday of cholera. I never mean to witness the death of a pet again. To be sure, Chance has lasted so many years that I have not had much practice, but I am quite wretched about this poor little animal. He was so coaxing, and though my doors and windows are never shut, and he had no cage, he never thought of stirring out of my rooms. When I came home, he used to stick his little head out from under the pillow and hold out his paw for my hand and bite it all over; and when I was dressing, he always sat on the glass, or on Wright’s shoulder, with great black eyes like Pamela’s fixed on my hair, which he helped to arrange occasionally. When G. came in the evening, he climbed up the arm-chair and sat on his shoulder, apparently whispering to him; and though G. said the squirrel was only pulling his ear, I am convinced he had more to do with public affairs than people generally supposed. I never saw such a good little thing or such a clean pet. He never ate anything but two or three spoonfuls of tea, but yesterday he got hold of a pear the servants were taking away from luncheon, and it killed him in a very few hours. My own belief is that as people in India are uncommonly dull, the surplus share of sense is “served out” to the beasts, who are therefore uncommonly clever, and their talents are developed by their owners leading such solitary lives that they are able to devote more time to the education of their animals.