may behold a sea of white and pinkish
blossoms on the apple and cherry-trees,
whose ancestors grew in English soil. All
European vegetables thrive in the gardens,
where the frost nips the almond and orange-
trees to death; and no grain, except millet,
is grown that does not belong to Europe.
Wheat, barley, peas, and potatoes are
most common. The inhabitants have their
balls and races, though the place is less
gay than Simla, and high play is not
usual. Some years ago, English foxhounds
were kept here. The climate is less affected
by the monsoons than might be supposed;
and neither droughts nor heavy rains are
common; but frost is usual during the winter
nights; and a visitor is surprised how enjoyable
port-wine, a blazing fire, and woollen
clothing, can be, even in India. Walks and
rides abound; and it is curious to notice the
wood-strawberries among the tufted rocks,
the little violets peeping from the long grass,
the rivulets full of trout,—all sorts of familiar
objects that tell a tale of home.

The Todahs, or aboriginal herdsmen, are a
fine tribe, well-grown, well-favoured, and of
a noble bearing. Without any savage arrogance,
they are totally free from the crouching
servility of Hindoos; but they are frank
and bold. They seem all well-off, being rich
in cattle and pastures, for they are Mandah
Wallahs, or herdsmen, almost to a man, and
raise scarcely enough grain for their own use.
They receive an annual payment from government,
as rent for their lands which we occupy,
and are charged with no tribute or tax. They
look with great scorn on the Hindoos, in
spite of the bond of religion, and respect the
Topee Wallahs, or wearers of hats, as they call
us. Ootacamund is a capital head-quarters for
sportsmen. The hills abound with deer of
several kinds, elks, bears, and wild sheep, and
ibexes. There are partridges, bustards, and
other feathered game; by descending the
hills into the forest region beneath, the
hunter is sure of large game of every sort,
from the buffalo to the tiger.

But the Ootacamund climate, delightful as
it is, has its share of dangers. Many who
have been languid and sickly, but not actually
ill in the plains, are seized with liver
complaints after a month or two at Ootacamund.
The reason of this is said to be, that the
keen exhilarating air provokes a voracious
appetite, with which the stamina of a
debilitated frame cannot keep pace. Still,
no one who has not simmered for years
with a thermometer ranging from seventy
to one hundred degrees in the shade, can
understand the luxury of a first arrival
at Ootacamund, where the range of the
mercury is from twenty-five up to sixty-nine
degrees, and the mean annual temperature
fifty-six of Fahrenheit. For ladies and children,
the climate is invaluable. But even on
the Neilgherries the Indian sun is not always
to be braved with impunity.  It is a common
remark that sepoys and Hindoo or Madras
servants "grow white" at Ootacamund; and
their complexions certainly do become a
shade or two paler after a long stay. But
yet I have known a black bearer, born at
Madras, fall down like an ox beneath the
pole-axe from a sunstroke at Ootacamund, in
summer, when the thermometer indicated no
unusual heat. This, however, is one of the
worst features of almost every southern
country—even of Spain—that you are never
quite safe, even from a winter sun. In India
old Aftab will rule everything and everybody,
and one is never quite secure from his power,
even at Ootacamund.

DEBT.

IF debt had no other attractions to recommend
it, it would always be welcome to a
certain class of people, because of the
importance that it gives a man, and the interest
that it causes others to take in his welfare.
By debt, of course I do not mean that miserable
blot upon our social system—that beggarly
degree of involvement which is akin to
pauperism,—that wretched existence made
up of small loans, obtained with difficulty,
even when scrupulously refunded,—that debt
for whose victims the black jaws of a Mammon
prison are always gaping with hungry voracity.
The debt I speak of is that of the large
operator—the merchant-prince, whose dainty
pampered palate revolts at capital proffered
with blind confidence, if it is at a fraction
above the market price; whose courage and
enterprise give a sublimity even to bankruptcy.
The debt I speak of is that of the
dweller in marble palaces—the dignified
receiver of the unsolicited offerings of usury
and trade, the patron of art, of literature,
and the drama, the noble scion of a noble
house, whose mission it has been to raise
insolvency from the dirt and mire of the
squalid streets, and place it in a fitting temple
where men will fall down and worship it.
Oh! thou poor blind reader of the book of
human nature—thou abject wretch—thou
miserable starveling—thou nervous, timid,
hungry applicant for half-a-crown: is that a
coat in which to effect a loan? is that a hat
to inspire confidence in the breast of a friend
or a capitalist ? For mercy's sake, go either
to the far west, and take a lesson from
Tattersall's, the Clubs, Hyde Park, or the
grand Opera house; or direct thy steps City-
wards, and watch the frequenters of banks
and discount-houses, the Stock Exchange,
and places where merchants most do congregate,
and tell me if thou seest any man as
abject in appearance as thou art (even when,
in reality, a greater beggar), except a few
poor city pensioners, and humble, meek, and
plodding clerks, who have worn themselves
out in a thankless, hopeless servitude for
bankrupt masters. Hast thou no friend
amongst all the thriving throng, who, instead