If we have not put a very high estimate on the social value of the Member of the Council during his sojourn in Calcutta, let us try to depict him as he dwells in his distant mountain home at Simla. Here he lives a sort of suburban life, sometimes physically, sometimes metaphorically, in the clouds. Doubtless there are some glorious days and even weeks of fine weather at Simla, and the change of climate to the hills at first seems delicious to those who have come up from a long and hot journey by the railway, or who have been detained by their duty in the plains until the hot winds and all the horrors of the hot season have begun. But if Simla has its advantages, it also has its serious drawbacks. There is seldom a visitor who has not promptly to summon the aid of the doctor, and only last year the chemists’ shops were almost cleared out of all their stores of chlorodyne. The highly rarefied air at an elevation of 7,000 feet above the level of the sea affects the circulation and breathing of almost all new comers, and those who have any organic affection are likely to suffer very seriously, unless they are exceedingly prudent. It is not, therefore, quite a perfect paradise. And there are many days when the clouds seem to come down upon the mountains, and the thick mists roll up from the valleys to meet the clouds, and you cannot see your next neighbour’s house, or even the trees of your own garden. Then, too, the rain descends furiously, and rattles upon the wooden or corrugated iron roofs of the houses with a deafening noise. A flash of lightning dazzles your eyes, and the sharp crack like a pistol-shot tells you how near to you it passed, followed by an awful crash of thunder, which echoes and reechoes from every neighbouring mountain and valley. In such a scene as this, you may perceive, if a lucid interval permits it, the Member of Council riding home from a meeting at the Viceroy’s residence, looking like a bathing-machine man, and caparisoned from head to foot in drenched waterproof garments. Riding, however, is an exercise not always congenial to the age of a Member of Council; and in this case he has to be carried in a sort of sedan-chair, locally known as a _jhompon_, with which four or more hill-men toil along, groaning and grunting and perspiring, partly from the weight of their burthen, and partly from the heat of the coarse but bright-coloured clothes which they wear as their master’s livery. There is a sort of grim satisfaction in seeing the sleek Member of Council exposed to some discomfort from the weather, as he _must_ go to his Council meeting, whatever the state of the weather may be. This, however, fortunately for him, happens only about once a week. On other days he is master of the situation, and can sit over his fireside, with his office-boxes round him, regardless of the elements. If the weather is fine, he will walk out on the Mall, with his pony or _jhompon_ in attendance, and escorted by one or more of his