I have come across forgotten letters that I have received at different times from India, Afghanistan, Zululand, Burmah, South Africa, East Africa, Russia, France, Egypt, in fact from most of the places where there have been stirring times during my life. Many of the letters written by the chief actors, others from those who at the time of writing were taught “not to think, but to do as they were told--thinking was for their superiors!” It has interested me placing them side by side and studying the different views held by the writers of the various situations they were dealing with, not all the facts being by any means in accordance with the accounts that have been handed down for our digestion. Some of these writers could have thrown very vivid light on various situations, but they have carried their griefs and in some cases their injustices with them to their lonely, uncared-for graves. Amongst these letters are a few written in bald John Bull, plum-puddingy jerky sentences, like roughly sketched in pictures to be filled in later; possibly they found speaking easier than writing. Then there are the letters dealing with the same situations, so eloquent, so full of human sympathy and yet so dramatic that it is almost like living through the experiences oneself. I suppose mistakes are not sins when people have honestly done their best, but then the best is sometimes painfully foolish, and it is poor consolation to those who have suffered in consequence of it, that it was all a mistake! We must now hark back to Lord William’s racing. He was hoping to win the Civil Service Cup at Lucknow, the best pony race in India. He and all the staff who could possibly get away from Calcutta went to see it run. Two of Lord William’s ponies were entered for it, namely, the famous Arab Blitz and an English pony named Bustle. The former was a strong favourite, and Lord William thought it a certain win. Before leaving Calcutta he promised Lady Lansdowne to telegraph to her the result of the race. At dinner that night Sir John Hext asked Lady Lansdowne if she had heard from Lord William as was arranged. She replied “No; I am rather disappointed.” Dinner had not proceeded very far when the expected telegram arrived. After reading it Her Excellency burst out laughing, and handed it to Sir John, who read, “Bustle _in front_ this time.” So the English pony had won the Cup. Myall King won the Horse Handicap, there being nothing there that could touch him. Lord William’s health was again troubling him. He had in fact had enough of India and its climate, though he would not allow it. He was advised to go home on leave for a while, which he agreed to do, but did not take long enough to benefit him materially, that curse of India, dysentery, claiming him at intervals. Before leaving for home he sold Euclid (whom he considered no longer of much racing value) to Count Poloki for £700.