land Bethesdas abound, in every state, from the attractive waters of lotus-eating Saratoga to the magnetic springs of Lansing, Michigan; from Virginia, the carcanct of sources, the heaving, the warm, the hot sulphur springs, the white sulphur, the alum, to the hot springs of Arkansas, the Ultima Thule of our migratory and despairing humanity.  But in India, whatever the ailing, low fever, high fever, “brandy pawnee” fever, malaria caught in the chase of tigers in the Terai, or dysentery imbibed on the banks of the Ganges, there is only one cure, the “hills;” and chief of “hill-stations” is Simla.

On the hip rather than on the shoulder of the aspiring Himalayas, Simla—­or Shumla, as the natives call it—­presents during the wet monsoon period a concourse of pilgrims more varied even than the Bagneres de Bigorre in the south of France, where the gay Frenchman asks permission of the lady with whom he is conversing to leave her abruptly, in order to part with his remaining lung, the loss of the first having brought him there.  “Pardon, madame,” said he, “je m’en vais cracher mon autre poumon.”

To Simla the whole supreme Government migrates for the summer—­Viceroy, council, clerks, printers, and hangers-on.  Thither the high official from the plains takes his wife, his daughters, and his liver.  There the journalists congregate to pick up the news that oozes through the pent-house of Government secrecy, and failing such scant drops of information, to manufacture as much as is necessary to fill the columns of their dailies.  On the slopes of “Jako”—­the wooded eminence that rises above the town—­the enterprising German establishes his concert-hall and his beer-garden; among the rhododendron trees Madame Blavatzky, Colonel Olcott and Mr. Sinnett move mysteriously in the performance of their wonders; and the wealthy tourist from America, the botanist from Berlin, and the casual peer from Great Britain, are not wanting to complete the motley crowd.  There are no roads in Simla proper where it is possible to drive, excepting one narrow way, reserved when I was there, and probably still set apart, for the exclusive delectation of the Viceroy.  Every one rides—­man, woman, and child; and every variety of horseflesh may be seen in abundance, from Lord Steepleton Kildare’s thoroughbreds to the broad-sterned equestrian vessel of Mr. Currie Ghyrkins, the Revenue Commissioner of Mudnugger in Bengal.  But I need not now dwell long on the description of this highly-favoured spot, where Baron de Zach might have added force to his demonstration of the attraction of mountains for the pendulum.  Having achieved my orientation and established my servants and luggage in one of the reputed hotels, I began to look about me, and, like an intelligent American observer, as I pride myself that I am, I found considerable pleasure in studying out the character of such of the changing crowd on the verandah and on the mall as caught my attention.