Kurnaul, Thursday, Feb. 28, 1839.

WE came in this morning with the usual fuss of a cantonment. I always dread coming back to the two or three regiments we have met before, because they are all so excessively astonished we do not know them all again. That would not be possible, but at the same time I feel that it is very stupid I should never know one. This time there is a hope—I always know Colonel S., because he has only one arm; and two of the other regiments went with us to the PunjÂb, so we have not had time quite to forget them. L. E. and Z. have evidently ‘had it out,’ and L. E. has conquered. He was quite as firm as his natural gentleness would allow, at luncheon-time, about all his arrangements. He had heard of a new horse that would be worth looking at. He had sold a pony, found a coachmaker, chosen a lining, rather thought we must have a new open carriage, had made arrangements for leaving here my elephant, which has got a rheumatic fever and can’t move any one of its poor dear lumps of legs without screaming.

In short, Z. was defeated with great loss. This place looks quite as ugly as it did last year; all barracks and plain, and not a tree in sight. I cannot think how people bear their cantonment life so well as they do.

We have been setting ourselves up with mourning here, for poor ——, and collected all the black goods in the place, consisting of four pairs of black gloves, with a finger or so missing, and a pair of black earrings, which I thought a great catch; and so they were, in fact—I was caught quite out. They had evidently been made for the Indian market, and had only mock hinges and clasps. Nobody could wear them; but they are nice earrings if there were any way into them.

Friday.

We had an immense party last night. There are between sixty and seventy ladies living here—most of them deserted by their husbands, who are gone to Cabul; and they generally shut themselves up, but last night they all agreed to come out. There were some very pretty people among them; that little woman who marched with us last year, and whom we called ‘the little corpse,’ came out again more corpse-like than ever. The aides-de-camp had been agreeing in the morning to draw lots which of them should dance with her, but afterwards settled it was the business of the junior aide-de-camp; so they introduced Captain Z. to her, and he is in such a rage this morning.

I am sorry to say we heard of an accident to W. O. to-day. We hope it may turn out very slight, but it is alarming to think what it might have been. He and the K.s had just arrived at Mazuffernuggur, and he was driving their carriage, when a sudden jolt threw him first on the horses and then under the wheel, which went over him just above the left hip. No bone was touched, and there was evidently no internal injury, and General K. said he had had as yet no fever, but of course he must be laid up for a time, and probably will have to give up his shooting party, which will be a sad blow, after having taken so much trouble to organise it.

It must have been a frightful accident to see. ‘Mon Dieu! ce que c’est que de nous,’ as that old housekeeper at the ChÂteau de BilhÈre used to say in her odd pÂtois. An inch more or less might have been fatal to dear W.

Saturday, March 2.

W. has had a good deal of fever in the night, but wonderfully little pain. The shooting party is, however, quite out of the question; and as the K.s must be longing to go on with their expedition, we all thought it better that F. should go to take care of W. It is about forty-five miles from here, and it takes about twenty-four hours to lay a dÂk for that short distance, and then you only average about three miles an hour. One longs for a chaise and four and an inn under these circumstances. A railroad we cannot even understand with our limited locomotive capacities. F. has sent off her tents and baggage, and will go to-morrow with Jones and P. to take care of them. I think poor W. must want some of his own family. G. and F. went to the Station ball last night. F. says there never was anything so amusing as the speeches. A long one about G., and another about F. and me—what we had done for society—added to its gaiety, and raised its tone, &c. &c. I should have thought it was all the other way—that society had lessened our gaiety, and lowered our tone; but who knows? there is a change somewhere, it appears.

Sunday, March 3.

A very good account of W. this morning; he writes a few lines himself: the next thing will be that he will go out shooting, so it is lucky F. will be there to stop him. G. had another great dinner yesterday, and then we went to a play that the privates of the artillery had got up, supposing, or rather ‘knowing that we were very fond of theatricals.’ They acted very well last year, but this was very much after the fashion of Bottom the Weaver and Snug.

I only stayed through half of it, but F. said the second farce was worse than the first.

F. and P. set off at half-past three to-day. He drove her in his buggy the first sixteen miles, which will save her part of a long dÂk journey. She will not have quite thirty miles of palanquin, and will arrive about seven to-morrow morning.

Thanesir, Tuesday, March 6.

We left Kurnaul yesterday morning rather late (at least we call half-past six very late), for there was to be a great procession. All the colonels and various others insisted on riding half-way with G., so he cantered along in the sun, looking very hot, and very much obliged to them, and casting longing looks at the open carriage at his side. All our aides-de-camp turned back to pass another day at Kurnaul from the half-way halt. Q. alone, guarded by his engagement to Miss U., was enabled to go on steadily to take care of the camp. I never saw anything so happy as the aides-de-camp were at Kurnaul; flirting with at least six young ladies at once, visiting and luncheoning all the morning; then our band played on the course in the afternoon; then there were dinners, balls, plays, &c., and they always contrived to get a late supper somewhere, so as to keep it up till four in the morning. I dare say after four months of marching, during which time they have scarcely seen a lady, that it must be great fun to come back to the dancing and flirtation, which is, as we all know, very considerable amusement at their age. I often think that with us their lives must be necessarily dull and formal. Colonel T. had asked them all to dinner and music, and they have all come back to-day, having had a charming evening.

C. sung, and Mrs. C. sung, and there was a harp, and a bride, &c. I wish you could see Mrs. ——. She is past fifty—some say near sixty—wears a light-coloured wig with very long curls floating down her back, and a gold wreath to keep it on, a low gown, and she dances every dance; and her forward step, and side step, with an occasional Prince of Wales step, executed with the greatest precision, gave me sentimental recollections of Jenkins, our dancing-master. He would have looked admiringly at Mrs. ——’s performances.

P. got back this afternoon and brought a letter from F., who got over her journey very well. He says W. is really quite well, though very weak; but had begun smoking again, in defiance of the doctor.

They are to begin their march to-morrow, K.s and all together; W. in a palanquin. The K.s must have had a horrid fright; the great jolt that threw him off, shook them so, that they did not think of looking at the coach-box, and only thought the horses were going very wildly. The syces stopped the horses, and then told them that W. was lying in the road. They were luckily close to the tent. He spoke at first and then fainted; but he seems to have suffered very little pain. I hope he will not go out shooting; the heat is very great, and will increase every day.

We are going to halt here to-morrow. It is a famous place for Hindu devotion, I believe the most sacred in India; and all the Hindu sepoys of the escort were very anxious for a halt, and a religious wash in the tank. G. and I stopped on our way in, to see the tomb, which has that famous temple in its centre, and all our bearers and syces rushed down to the water with great ardour. The Hindu religion has two merits—this constant ablution, and the sacredness of their trees. This place is really pretty from the avenues of peepul trees. It is so long since we have seen a tree, that I am quite glad we are going to stay a day with them; but our Mussulmaun followers will spoil them, they say.

Wednesday, March 6.

And so they have. G. and I went on the elephants yesterday evening to see the town with our dear Mr. C., who took us up again at Kurnaul, and J. and Mr. B. and various others. There was a great deal to see, and just as we were turning towards home, we heard a violent Émeute, and several Brahmins came running after Mr. C. to say our camel drivers were cutting down the trees, close by their mosque. Mr. C. had in the morning sent sepoys with the camel drivers to prevent it, so he begged G. would go himself to see justice done. It was a wicked scene. About two hundred camel drivers working away, and three of the finest trees reduced to stumps, and about a thousand Brahmins tearing their hair and screaming, without daring to interfere.

We all flew into violent rages. G. sent off Captain Z. with one party of the body-guard, and he captured ten camel drivers and sent them off to the camp. J. always throws out more legs and arms when he talks Hindustani than any other human being, and he looked like an enraged centipede, and finally jumped out of his howdah and began laying about him with one of the despoiled branches. Mr. C. preached with much unction to the Brahmins. Mr. B. looked vinegar at them, but was too Indianised to speak.

The result was, that we took sixteen of the ring-leaders, made them leave all the branches they had cut—so that the poor camels will be starved—and marched home in great glory.

Captain D. has levied a fine of a hundred rupees on the camel men, and paid it to the Brahmins, and as peepul trees grow again and rupees never do, the Brahmins are comforted.

Thursday, March 7.

We marched this morning only eight miles, which is pleasant; and what is still more so is, that there is a dÂk bungalow close to our camp quite empty—not a traveller stirring—so I have my furniture put into it, and am comfortable. The heat of the tents the last three days has been dreadful, and when I went down to luncheon just now the thermometer was 91° in the largest and coolest tent. X. and P. had some plans to copy for G., and were so giddy they could not see. Q. had the headache. Z. was in bed with fever. The doctor was simply depressed to that degree he could not speak; and even G. thought it would be as well, if this heat lasted, that Dr. D. should give him a black dose just to put by his bedside. Of course there was no necessity for taking it, but he felt a little odd, and it would be as well to have it at hand. J. came back from luncheon quite charmed with this little bungalow, which is as cool as an English hothouse at least, and looks on some beautiful cornfields, and ‘the browsing camel bells are tinkling’ rather prettily.

I have not lived near the camels except at loading time, and had no idea they could be so quiet and merely tinkling. I have made such a nice little purchase to-day—two little girls of seven years old, rather ugly, and one of them dumb. I gave three pounds for the pair—dirt cheap! as I think you will own. They are two little orphans. The natives constantly adopt orphans—either distant relations, or children that they buy—and generally they make no difference between them and their own children; but these little wretches were very unlucky. They belonged to a very bad man, who was serving as a substitute for a sick servant whom we sent back to Calcutta. This man turned out ill and got drunk, upon which all the other Mussulmauns refused to associate with him, and he lost caste altogether. Giles was very anxious to get rid of him, as a drunken Mussulmaun is something so shocking we are all quite affected by it. On Monday he gave us an opportunity to leave him at Kurnaul. I had tried to get hold of these children at Simla, hearing they were very ill-used, and that this man was just going to take them down to Delhi to sell them into the palace, where thousands of children are swallowed up. Luckily, his creditors would not let him go, and I told A. to watch that he did not carry off the little girls; so to-day he sent word I might have them if I would pay his debts, and the baboo has just walked in triumphantly with them. They have not a stitch of clothes on; and one of them is rather an object, the man has beat them so dreadfully, and she seems stupified. I hope to deposit them finally at Mrs. Wilson’s orphanage near Calcutta.