LETTER THE NINETEENTH.
Samuldavee, March 26th.
Here we are, safcly arrived and established for the summer. The baby and I were beginning to be so ill with the heat at Rajahmundry, that A——brought us away in a hurry, and settled us here with Peons and servants, and is gone back himself this evening, He means to come every Saturday and stay till Monday, unless any particular business should prevent him. This is a most charming place—the thermometer eight degrees lower than at Rajahmundry, and at present a fine sea breeze from eleven in the morning till eleven at night, and a thick cocoa-nut tope between our house and the land-wind, so that I hope we never shall feel it in all its fury. E de not suppose there is a healthier or pleasanter summer place in all this part of India. Its only fault is its extreme loneliness. This is a solitary house on the shore of an estuary; not even a native village or hut near; forty miles from the nearest European station—Masnlipatam; and ne English people at all within reach, except the two Missionaries at Narsapoor, ten miles off. I have no one ever fo speak to, but my own IJindoo servants. I mean to amuse myself with learning Gentov, and haye brought a Moonshee with me. Gentoo is the language of this part of the country, and one of the prettiest of all the dialects, but there is nothing very fine or beautiful in any of them. ‘Phe idioms are quite disagreeable; they have neither simplicity nor finesse. I belicve the old Sanserit is a very fine language, but it is excessively difficult, and would be of no use tome. The Moonshee I have brought with me is not the little talkative magpie who told me about the language of the planets, but a very slow, sober, solemn gentleman, with a great turn for reading and sententious observations. Whenever I keep him waiting, he reads my books. The other day he got hold of a Church Prayer Book, which he began to read straight throngh—Dedieation,
