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 come in its unfinished slammacking way, interfering with the regular course of things. We have also received our box of books, which are very satisfactory as far as they go, but not half enough. However, you will have received, long ago, letters by which you will perceive that we want books—more and oftener. It is of vital importance that we should feed our poor yellow Indian minds with constant amusement, so I wish, dear, you would take upon yourself to send off a box of the newest publications once in two months, and do not let people scratch anything out of your list. The more trash the better. We are essentially trashy by nature, write a good deal of trashiness superinduced by India; so only be liberal of any books—but those that concern India—and we shall not complain.

Friday, August 12. We had a sort of a puppet-show, called a Cutpootley, in the evening, more like the Fantoccini, I believe, but I never saw them. It was very pretty; at least fifty little puppets on the stage at once, dancing nautches, riding elephants, &c.; and between the acts the