I suppose it is the intermediate region between the sea-board and the mountains that becomes so pestilential when once the warm weather sets in.  I remember the Belgian minister, M. de ——­, telling me that the mountain country of Georgia was as beautiful as paradise, and that the climate, as far as his experience went, was perfectly delicious.  He was, however, only there on an exploring expedition, and, of course, took the most favourable season of the year for the purpose.

I have had several women with me this afternoon more or less disabled by chronic rheumatism.  Certainly, either their labour or the exposure it entails must be very severe, for this climate is the last that ought to engender rheumatism.  This evening I had a visit from a bright young woman, calling herself Minda, who came to beg for a little rice or sugar.  I enquired from which of the settlements she had come down, and found that she has to walk three miles every day to and from her work.  She made no complaint whatever of this, and seemed to think her laborious tramp down to the Point after her day of labour on the field well-rewarded by the pittance of rice and sugar she obtained.  Perhaps she consoled herself for the exertion by the reflection which occurred to me while talking to her, that many women who have borne children, and many women with child, go the same distance to and from their task ground—­that seems dreadful!

I have let my letter lie from a stress of small interruptions.  Yesterday, Sunday 3rd, old Auber, a stooping, halting hag, came to beg for flannel and rice.  As usual, of course, I asked various questions concerning her condition, family, &c.; she told me she had never been married, but had had five children, two of whom were dead.  She complained of flooding, of intolerable back-ache, and said that with all these ailments, she considered herself quite recovered, having suffered horribly from an abscess in her neck, which was now nearly well.  I was surprised to hear of her other complaints, for she seemed to me like quite an old woman; but constant child-bearing, and the life of labour, exposure, and privation which they lead, ages these poor creatures prematurely.

Dear E——­, how I do defy you to guess the novel accomplishment I have developed within the last two days; what do you say to my turning butcher’s boy, and cutting up the carcase of a sheep for the instruction of our butcher and cook, and benefit of our table?  You know, I have often written you word, that we have mutton here—­thanks to the short salt grass on which it feeds—­that compares with the best south down or pre sale; but such is the barbarous ignorance of the cook, or rather the butcher who furnishes our kitchen supplies, that I defy the most expert anatomist to pronounce on any piece (joints they cannot be called) of mutton brought to our table to what part of the animal sheep it originally belonged.  I have often complained bitterly of this, and in vain implored Abraham the