Poor Rosina had nearly died on Saturday night, and probably would have done so if Mrs. Colin had not gone to her. She is better now, but still very ill.
There! our fireworks are over; and, just as all the natives prophesied, George’s luck made Tuesday and Wednesday the only two still days we have had this season. There was a great storm on Monday, only five miles off, that would have demolished everything. As it was, nothing could be prettier or more successful. It put one in mind of the old days of the war. We marked out the whole outline of the house with lamps, and, by means of bamboos, the great dome was entirely covered with them; the four great gateways covered with coloured lights in devices, and Victorias and Alberts in all directions. They said the dome was visible for many miles, and that three miles off the house looked like a palace of gold. The fireworks are always very inferior to what we see at home. Vauxhall would die of laughing at the best Indian fireworks; the climate produces so much more smoke than fire
