jeet and his unhappy wives reduced to ashes. is to return from Lahore to-day, and the only interesting bit of Indian history I have yet got at is the account his letters give of the state of things there. Kurruck, who is next door to an idiot, sits at the durbar with those magnificent pearls of Runjeet’s, which he has recovered from the Brahmins, hanging round his neck. Our friend Shere Singh, having a sort of idea that he might like the throne himself, for a time kept aloof; then, having extracted a guarantee of safety, came and threw himself at Kurruck’s feet; ‘upon which,’ one of the Lahore papers says, ‘the Maharajah lifted Shere Singh into his lap, and they both sobbed plentifully;’ and, moreover, Kurruck has given Shere an immense sum of money, which will dry his tears effectually. The old fakeer who used to translate for Runjeet translates for Kurruck, and habitually calls him the ocean of sense and talent.’ Kurruck’s eldest son, Noor Mahal, has a great army at his command, and is young and clever. Great fears were entertained by the chiefs of his entrance into the city; the coronation was hurried over the day before his arrival. He was supposed also to hate the English, and his
