Ice is our greatest luxury; and our ice, made from the cream of our own cows, and Gunter’s jam, is as good as any in England. My thoughts flow heavily and stupidly under such intolerable heat: when the thermometer is only 82°, we rejoice in the coolness of the season; to-day it is 92°, and will be hotter as the day advances; the wind will not blow. If a breeze would but spring up, we could be comfortable, as the air is cooled passing through the wet khus-khus: what would I not give for a fresh sea-breeze! Let me not think of it.
Horses at this season of the year are almost useless; it is too hot to ride, and even a man feels that he has scarcely nerve enough to mount his horse with pleasure: in the buggy it is very oppressive, the fiery wind is so overpowering; and a carriage is too hot to be borne. I speak not of the middle of the day, but of the hours between 7 P.M. and 6 A.M.,—the cool hours as we call them!
From Madras they write the thermometer is at 96°! How can they breathe! Here at 93° it is fearfully hot—if they have a sea-breeze to render the nights cool, it is a blessing; here the heat at night is scarcely endurable, and to sleep almost impossible.
I had a very large farm-yard. The heat has killed all the guinea-fowls, turkeys, and pigeons, half the fowls, and half the rabbits.
12th.—We have had a most miserable time of it for the last two months; this has been one of the hottest seasons in recollection, and Allahabad has well sustained its sobriquet of Chōtā Jahannum! which, being interpreted, is Hell the Little. Within these two days the state of affairs has been changed; we are now enjoying the freshness of the rains, whose very fall is music to our ears: another such season would tempt us to quit this station, in spite of its other recommendations.
Lord William Bentinck arrived July 3rd. The new Bishop of Calcutta is gone home, obliged to fly the country for his life; indeed, he was so ill, that a report of his death having come up here, some of his friends are in mourning for him; but I trust, poor man, he is going on well at sea at this minute.
Sept. 8th.—My verandah presents an interesting scene: at present, at one end, two carpenters are making a wardrobe; near them is a man polishing steel. Two silversmiths are busy making me some ornaments after the Hindostani patterns; the tailors are finishing a gown, and the ayha is polishing silk stockings with a large cowrie shell. The horses are standing near, in a row, eating lucerne grass, and the jumadār is making a report on their health, which is the custom at twelve at noon, when they come round for their tiffin.
Yesterday a mad pariah dog ran into the drawing-room; I closed the doors instantly, and the servants shot the animal: dogs are numerous and dangerous at some seasons.
Exchanged a little mare—who could sing, “I’m sweet fifteen, and one year more”—for a stud-bred Arab, named Trelawny; the latter being too impetuous to please his master.
Our friend Major D⸺ is anxious to tempt us to Nagpore, if we could get a good appointment there. “He rides a steed of air[34];” and we have indulged in building châteaux d’Espagne, or castles in Ayrshire.