Camp, Umritzir, Dec. 10, 1838.

It has just occurred to me in dating this letter, that we are very near the end of '38, and in '39 we may begin to say, ‘the year after next, we shall go home.’ I never know exactly where we are in our story, for I keep so many anniversaries it puts me out. So many people have married, and died, and gone home, that it is really incredible that we should have been here so long, and yet are kept here still. Something must be done about it, because it is a very good joke; but life is passing away, and we are in the wrong place. It has now come to that pass that we are in a foreign country from India, and that crossing the Sutlej is to be called going home again. You see how it is! Our first principles are wrong, and G. says, with a placid smile, ‘If Shere Singh does not dine with us to-day, would it not be advisable to ask Hindû Rao?’ Hindû Rao, being a Mahratta chief, a dependent on our Government, who has attached himself to our camp—not quite an idiot, but something like it, and in appearance like a plump featherbed, with pillows for his head and legs—covered all over with chain armour and cuirasses, and red and yellow shawls; and he sits behind G. at table, expecting to have topics found and interpreted to him.