u!" and, quitting his hold, perished in the ocean, which by a strange
fatality has been the grave of nearly all his family.

Waiting for the post upon the mountains of Western India is recalled by
this anecdote to my recollection. I well remember the last time I stood
on the heights of Bella Vista, as our ghaut was called, watching the
fleet approach of the _tapaul_, or postman. It was near sunset--a
glorious hour in all lands, but especially so in the East. A gorgeous
canopy of colored light was above us; beneath the "everlasting hills;"
Their tops--for we looked down on the first ranges of ghauts--tipped
with gold and crimson, and regal purple, or with blended colors, as if
they had caught and detained a portion of the rainbow itself. Here and
there, bits of jungle were perceptible, from one of which issued the
running courier, whose speed was no bad commentary or explanation of
Job's comparison--"My days are swift as a post." He was a tall, light
figure, gayly dressed, and holding a lance with a little glittering flag
at the top. He brought letters from the presidency; and some native
correspondence was also transmitted through his means. These running
posts are occasionally picked off by a tiger in their passage through
the jungle; but the journey to our (then) abode was so frequently made,
that the wild animals seldom appeared in the route, ceding it tacitly to
the lords of creation, and permitting us to receive our letters safely.
What joy it was to open one from England! it is really worth a journey
to the East to feel this pleasure. The native letters destined for the
official personages of the family are singular-looking affairs. They
have for envelope a bag of king-cob cloth--a costly fabric of blended
silk and gold thread; this is tied carefully with a gold cord, to which
is appended a huge seal, as large and thick as a five-shilling piece.
Once during our residence in India the homeward post was delayed by the
loss of the steamer which bore our dispatches to England; they must have
been vainly expected for two months, doubtless to the great alarm and
anxiety of the public. Some of the mail boxes were, however, recovered
from the sunken wreck by means of divers; and our epistles, after
visiting the depths of the Red Sea, were safely conveyed to England.
Once before, we were told, a similar catastrophe had occurred, but the
boxes became so saturated with sea-water, that the addresses of the
letters were illegib