Simla, Friday, Sept. 27, 1839.

IT appears that our last letters will again be too late for the steamer. G. always keeps the express till it is a day too late for the steamer. In fact, if he has a fault (I don’t think he has, but if he has), it is a slight disposition to trifle with the English letters, just on the same principle as he always used to arrive half an hour too late for dinner at Longleat and Bowood. He never will allow for the chance of being too late, and now, for two months running, his despatches have been left at Bombay.

We had our fancy fair on Wednesday, which went off with great Éclat, and was really a very amusing day, and moreover produced 6,500 rupees, which, for a very small society, is an immense sum. When we arrived at the ‘Auckland Gate,’ which was the same as last year, we were stopped by a gang of gipseys, who had their little tent and their donkey, and the pot boiling on three sticks, and a boy plucking a fowl and another with a hare, &c. X. and L. and a Captain C. were disguised as gipseys, and the most villanous-looking set possible; and they told our fortunes, and then came on to the fair and sang an excellent song about our poor old Colonel —— and a little hill fort that he has been taking; but after the siege was over, he found no enemy in it, otherwise it was a gallant action. X. showed me the song some days ago, and I thought it might affront the old man if it came upon him unawares, so they showed it to him first, and he adopted it as his own joke.

Then the selling at the stalls began, and everything was bought up very quickly; then there was a raffle for my two pictures, and we reduced the tickets to 3 rupees each, and would not let anybody take more than three, and yet, with that they produced 75l. Rather a shame! but I could not help it—a little single figure, which I had done in two mornings, and promised to W. O., was put up to auction when he was away, and fetched 15l., so I must do another for him. F. sent a great collection of toys she had made in the bazaar, which produced 20l. Mr. C. was an excellent auctioneer for the four things that were to be sold by auction—that small drawing of mine and three beautiful little oil paintings, sent to me for the fair by a regular artist, a Mr. Gwatkin, whose Christian names are Joshua Reynolds (he is a great-nephew of Sir Joshua), so Mr. C. began with the picture of an old, bald man:—‘Will anybody allow me to say 100 rupees for this splendid composition of the famous Sir Joshua Reynolds?—an absolute gem, a real Joshua Reynolds. I beg your pardon; I have just distinguished the surname of Gwatkin, but I was misled by the similarity of style. The original Sir Joshua would not, however, have been affronted; those flesh tints on the bald head are magnificent! Eighty rupees I think you said. But you have not noticed the mountain in the background—an exact representation of any one of the Alps, I may say of all the Alps, and valuable to any of us who are not likely to see the Alps in a hurry. Mr. ——, allow me to say 100 rupees for this beautiful delineation of a calm old age, unconscious of decay; it is worth your notice.’ Mr. —— looks about sixty, and still tries (without the least success) to be a young man. G. bought the picture for me. I went as far as eight guineas for the second myself, but was outbid by Mr. A.; and the third, which was a very inferior article, of a nun, hung on hand, so at last C. turned to the Baboo belonging to his office, who was grinning at his master’s jokes, and said, ‘I see, Baboo, you are determined to outbid everybody for this valuable specimen of English art—Seetannauth Baboo has bid thirty-five rupees for this remarkable portrait of a nun “in maiden meditation, fancy free,” and I have great pleasure in knock-it down to him. Seetannauth Baboo, you are most fortunate.’ The Baboo clearly did not know why, but he is very rich, and the Hindus have a great idea of the saving merits of charity; so he paid his money, and I saw him all the rest of the day walking about, with his servant carrying his little nun’s picture after him.

We had provided luncheon at a large booth with the sign of the ‘Marquess of Granby.’ L. E. was Old Weller, and so disguised I could not guess him. X. was Sam Weller; R., Jingle; and Captain C., Mrs. Weller; Captain Z. merely a waiter, with one or two other gentlemen; but they all acted very well up to their characters, and the luncheon was very good fun, and was kept up through three relays of company, fifty at a time; and as we found all the food, the proceeds for the charity were very good. Then G. gave some prizes for the Ghoorkas to shoot for, and the afternoon ended with races; a regular racing stand, and a very tolerable course for the hills, all the gentlemen in satin jackets and jockey caps, and a weighing stand—in short, everything got up regularly. I never can care about races, but this was a popular bit of the day with most of the people, who had vague recollections of Epsom in their young days. Half the stakes went to the charity. Altogether there is money enough to keep up the hospital for four years, by which time another Governor-General will be here; but I’m afraid when Dr. D. goes, it will not be the useful establishment it has been. Everybody likes these out-of-door amusements at this time of year, and it is a marvel to me how well X. and R. and L. E. contrive to make all their plots and disguises go on. I suppose in a very small society it is easier than it would be in England, and they have all the assistance of servants to any amount, who do all they are told, and merely think the ‘Sahib Logue’ are mad.

Friday, Oct. 4.

This has had a week’s interruption, for I was taken on Saturday with spasms, and then fever, and so on; and have been quite laid up.

The August overland arrived yesterday. Letters of August 12th here on October 3rd. Quicker than ever! By-the-bye, I beg to remind you that we left Portsmouth this day four years. There is something in that; I do not exactly know what, but something—the waste of four good years, if nothing else. Your letters from Newsalls, and all the letters, had a quiet, pleasant family way with them, but very few events. It is rather shocking to see you regretting your London season so much. I am afraid, my dear M., that after ‘a youth of folly’ you will be reduced to solace yourself with ‘an old age of cards.’

With the Bombay dÂk came that shawl of Colonel Skinner’s I told you we were expecting, but we were so occupied with the letters, we could not at first attend to the shawl; but now, upon investigation, we are all of opinion there never was so handsome an article seen. The dÂk was, I suppose, overloaded, so that only one shawl is come. F. and I are in such a horrid fright, lest the other should be lost. We have not the nerve to draw lots for this one; it would be almost less unpleasant to cut it in two.

One of our servants dropped down dead in the verandah three days ago. He was talking and laughing with some of the others, squatting on the ground in their usual fashion, and he just laid his head back and died. He was a young man—one we always called Shylock, from his sharp, Jewish look. There are several of his relations in the establishment, and their screams were horrible: but twelve hours after they buried him. Yesterday they gave a great feast to all the Mussulmauns, and when that is over, they always seem very comfortable again.

Think of T. putting in a letter to F. yesterday, ‘This happy result of the war will of course ensure Lord A.’s elevation to the peerage; there cannot be two opinions about that.’

Curious ignorance, combined with considerable vulgarity! ‘Yet Nature might have made us such as these,’ as Autolycus says; though really I do not see how she could, with any conscience, or without a great deal of trouble. T. is anxious we should stop a few days at —— on our way down, that we may make acquaintance with ‘my dear wife and daughter,’ as he fears it will not suit his finances to go to Calcutta at present. I think I see the whole camp of 12,000 precious souls stopping a few days at a station where there are three Europeans, just to make acquaintance with Mrs. and Miss T.! But all J.’s letters are ‘du Collins tout pur.’

Tuesday, Oct. 8.

The second shawl is come to hand safe. Capt. P. writes from Cashmere that he has seen those that are in the loom there for us, and that they will not be finished for some months, but he says he never saw anything the least like them. He gives such a horrid account of the tyranny of the Sikhs over the Cashmerees, and in their own jaghires, through which he has been passing; their cruelty is dreadful. He has been through the territories belonging to the Jumnoo family, to which Dhian Singh, the prime minister, our friend Heera Singh, and an uncle of his, GholÂb Singh, belong.

The number of persons without noses, or ears, are incredible, and GholÂb Singh, who is the worst of all, actually flayed alive the other day 300 men who had offended him.

It is the practice of that family never to allow a female infant of their race to live; they marry wives from other very high Rajpoot families, but they will not give their daughters to inferior princes nor let them live unmarried, so they are all put away as soon as they are born. I wonder the wives do not get up a little rebellion of their own.

Wednesday, October 9.

Sir E. Ryan, the chief justice, has come up from Calcutta on a hurried tour to see India, and has seen more in five weeks than we have by lumbering about in a camp for two years; and, moreover, we are all aghast and rather affronted at his looks. We meant him to come up with a parboiled Calcutta appearance, instead of which he looks younger and better than when we first saw him; he has a very good colour, and walks everybody to death. He came straight here after his journey up the hills, and met G. and me on the road, took one of our longest walks with us, and never would listen to our offer of the assistance of a pony. He is a pleasant man, a good Whig, and keeps up his English politics, and English books, and English laugh, and enjoys seeing everything, and wants a little cricket in the afternoon. He is staying with Mr. ——, but as the visit is by way of being to us, they dine here most days.

Sunday, Oct. 13.

We have the deputation from Kurruck Singh up here now, and had a very pretty durbar yesterday, to which they brought their presents. We asked a few ladies who had never seen a durbar, to come, and put them behind the crowd, and they thought it a beautiful sight. While the durbar was going on, there came an express to Mr. A., saying that Noor Mahal Singh, the heir-apparent, and Dhian Singh had gone into Kurruck’s durbar and shot at a favourite of his, Cheyt Singh, who was sitting so close to his master that some of the shot went into Kurruck’s foot; he begged them to kill him and spare his favourite, but they finished Cheyt with their sabres. We give the soldiers a ball to-morrow, and on Tuesday begin to pack up. I keep thinking it is the first step towards going home to you, dear M., but I wish you lived more handy like.

My journey will be shorter than the others’. I leave the camp at Agra; as G. and the rest of the party leave the camp at Gwalior, and will not be at Calcutta till the beginning of April. I shall be housed at the end of February.