glad they are going away. Last night a friend of ours, who is in tents in our grounds, had his gun and dressing-case stolen, no doubt by thieves from the encampment.
20th.—The ashes of a rajah were brought to Prāg this morning to be thrown into the Ganges at the holy junction; they were accompanied by the servants of the rajah, bearing presents to be given, as is the custom, to the Brahmans, amongst which were two remarkably fine Persian horses. One of these horses, a flea-bitten grey from Bokhara, was bought by us from the Brahman to whom it had been presented. On Christmas-day my husband gave me this horse, making my own particular riding-stud amount to a fair number—Mootee, Black Poney, Trelawney, Bokhara. Are ladies in England as fond of their horses as I am? They cannot make pets of them in that country as we can in India.
25th.—How many presents I received this day—and such odd ones—the Bokhara grey, a sketch of Lord William Bentinck, Martin's Deluge, a proof-print, a bag of walnuts, a diamond ring, a hill-shawl, two jars of jam, and two bottles of hill-honey! All farewell-gifts from friends bound to England. We spent the evening around the horseshoe-table, the coal fire blazing brightly as we cracked the hill-walnuts and enjoyed the society of our friends. Of all the offerings of that day, the most welcome was a packet of letters from the beloved and absent ones in England. "A letter is half an interview[1]."
- ↑ Oriental Proverbs, No. 29.
