Simla, Sunday, Sept 1, 1839.

I THINK I will begin again soon this time—first, because to-morrow is your birthday, so, as there is a difference of half the world in our reckoning, I begin keeping it in time for fear of accidents. Then I am moved to write, because I was looking over, for the 180th time, Swift’s Journal, and he says, in September 1710, just 129 years ago, ‘Have I not brought myself into a fine premunire to begin writing letters on whole sheets? I cannot tell whether you like these Journal-letters. I believe they would be dull to me to read them over; but perhaps little M. D. is pleased to know how Presto passes his time.’ Now, you are clearly M. D., so I look upon that as a prophecy, and think that I am fulfilling it. Then I have an extra hour to-day. It began to pour just after we went out riding, and we all had to rush home and got wet through.

W. O. writes from Loodheeana that the thermometer is 104°, and only two degrees lower at night.

Friday, Sept 6.

I had some tents sent down to the waterfall yesterday, and Mrs. A. and G. and I went down there to breakfast. The valleys are rather hot, but we found a shady place near the great waterfall, where it was much cooler than in the tents, and she and I talked there very comfortably, while G. went out ‘exploring,’ and Chance had a vague idea that by running up and down the bank he might succeed in stopping the waterfall, but though he tried for four hours the experiment was a decided failure. Those immense purple and green butterflies called ‘Purple Emperors’ were flying about in quantities—such beautiful creatures! Mrs. A. would not bring her children, and was delighted with the noise of the waterfall, because otherwise she would have missed the noise of the children so much more.

Mrs. N. and X. came down to luncheon, and then we all went to a second waterfall, which is slightly inaccessible, but by dint of ladders and chairs and being carried by jonpaunees here and there, we arrived at it, and a very pretty sight it was—the cave so dark and the water so bright. It looked so nice that we settled to pursue the bed of the river in search of a third waterfall, which everybody talks of and nobody has seen, so we were carried and the gentlemen splashed along through the water, and Chance slipped into a deep place and was carried down and nearly drowned; but Jimmund jumped in and ‘plucked up his drowned honour by the locks,’ and after a little rubbing he soon came to. We found the third fall, but could only see it from the top, as there was, no path down the sides, and then we went back to Mrs. A. at the second fall. F. came late, and was persuaded to scramble down to the second fall, and then we all came home to dinner. That sort of day in the open air and the shade is very pleasant, and though it seems like a long excursion from the steepness of the roads, it is only three miles.

W. O. writes word that their camp has been attacked by regular thieves and twenty camels carried off, and the sentries had killed two of the thieves.

A box of books arrived yesterday, rather the worse for having travelled through the rains, and unluckily the Annuals are those that have suffered the most.

Sunday, Sept. 8.

Simla is much moved just now by the arrival of a Mrs. J.,[D] who has been talked of as a great beauty all the year, and that drives every other woman, with any pretensions in that line, quite distracted, with the exception of Mrs. N., who, I must say, makes no fuss about her own beauty, nor objects to it in other people. Mrs. J. is the daughter of a Mrs. C., who is still very handsome herself, and whose husband is deputy-adjutant-general, or some military authority of that kind. She sent this only child to be educated at home, and went home herself two years ago to see her. In the same ship was Mr. J., a poor ensign, going home on sick leave. Mrs. C. nursed him and took care of him, and took him to see her daughter, who was a girl of fifteen at school. He told her he was engaged to be married, consulted her about his prospects, and in the meantime privately married this child at school. It was enough to provoke any mother, but as it now cannot be helped, we have all been trying to persuade her for the last year to make it up, as she frets dreadfully about her only child. She has withstood it till now, but at last consented to ask them for a month, and they arrived three days ago. The rush on the road was remarkable, and one or two of the ladies were looking absolutely nervous. But nothing could be more unsatisfactory than the result, for Mrs. J. looked lovely, and Mrs. C. had set up for her a very grand jonpaun, with bearers in fine orange and brown liveries, and the same for herself; and J. is a sort of smart-looking man, with bright waistcoats and bright teeth, with a showy horse, and he rode along in an attitude of respectful attention to ‘ma belle mÈre.’ Altogether it was an imposing sight, and I cannot see any way out of it but magnanimous admiration. They all called yesterday when I was at the waterfalls, and F. thought her very pretty.

Tuesday, Sept. 10.

We had a dinner yesterday. Mrs. J. is undoubtedly very pretty, and such a merry unaffected girl. She is only seventeen now, and does not look so old, and when one thinks that she is married to a junior lieutenant in the Indian army, fifteen years older than herself, and that they have 160 rupees a month, and are to pass their whole lives in India, I do not wonder at Mrs. C.’s resentment at her having run away from school.

There are seventeen more officers come up to Simla on leave for a month, partly in the hope of a little gaiety at the end of the rains; and then the fancy fair has had a great reputation since last year, and as they will all spend money, they are particularly welcome; but we had got through all our formal dinners, and now we must begin again.

Wednesday, Sept. 11.

W. says the heat is terrific at Lahore, 104° at night and 109° in the day; and Captain M. says none of them have closed their eyes for three nights. We had a large party last night, the largest I have seen in Simla, and it would have been a pretty ball anywhere, there were so many pretty people. The retired wives, now that their husbands are on the march back from Cabul, ventured out and got through one evening without any prejudice to their characters.

Thursday, Sept. 12.

W. is very much bored at Lahore, and Mr. C. has given him leave to come back, and he will be here in two or three days. Little PertÂb is as nice a child as ever, W. says, and remembers all the English words we taught him. They all cried and salaamed to the picture of Runjeet Singh, which W. had copied from my sketch, and he was obliged to give it to the old fakeer.

Monday, Sept. 16.

W. O. got home this morning, having ridden from Lahore in three days; about sixty miles a day, and the thermometer at 110°—enough to kill him, but he does not seem the worse for it, though he looks very thin. He says he missed one of his relays of horses and lay down under a tree to sleep while the guide rode on for a conveyance, and when he awoke, he found one of the Akalees (those wild bigots of whom even Runjeet was afraid) sitting by him and fanning him with a large fan. Touching!

We are going to a ball to-night, which the married gentlemen give us; and instead of being at the only public room, which is a broken, tumble-down place, it is to be at the C.s, who very good-naturedly give up their house for it.

Wednesday, Sept. 18.

The ball went off with the greatest success; transparencies of the taking of Ghuznee, ‘Auckland’ in all directions, arches and verandahs made up of flowers; a whist table for his lordship, which is always a great relief at these balls; and every individual at Simla was there. There was a supper-room for us, made up of velvet and gold hangings belonging to the durbar, and a standing supper all night for the company in general, at which one very fat lady was detected in eating five suppers. We came away at one, but it was kept up till five, and altogether succeeded. W., after all that journey, sat up till five.

Thursday, Sept. 19.

The July overland came in yesterday, and I have got your nice fat letter from Newsalls, and the Journal of your last month in London. I remember the pain of leaving London at the end of the second season. It was ‘such dreadful hagony,’ as the boy says, in ‘Oliver Twist,’ that I quite enter into T.’s feelings. E. is pretty well for the first year, and I expect will show stronger symptoms of the disease next year. The third year I shall be at home, to hear all about it, which will be amazingly good fun; and in the meantime you cannot imagine the treasures these Journals are. Only think how pleasant! An old Colonel Skinner, a native as black as this ink, whose life you can see in Miss Roberts’ book, writes to W. that ‘If the Miss Edens do not wish to mortify an old soldier, and bring down his grey hairs with sorrow to the grave, they will accept a pair of shawls he has ordered for them in Cashmere, and which have just arrived. If they return them, he shall imagine they look upon him as a native, and not as an old British soldier.’ Nothing evidently could be more palpably indelicate than to refuse them. I am the last woman in the world to hurt anybody’s feelings by returning any shawl, to say nothing of a white one, made on purpose in Cashmere; and if he had thrown in a scarf, I should have thought his appearance and complexion only too fair for a British soldier. Do you think they will be long shawls, or square?