Christmas Day.—The whole camp turned out this morning to look at the Snowy Range, which is certainly the grandest object I have ever seen, as it appears from the plains of Oude, towering above the giant mountains of Nepaul. Some of the officers took some angles and compass bearings, and made us believe that we saw Dwalaghiri; others maintained that they could see Mount Everest, hundreds of miles away, the highest mountain in the world. As the men were going to mass and to the Presbyterian service this morning, two of the artillerymen near me held the following dialogue in a strong Irish accent of the Louth or Downshire species.

“Well, it's mighty quare that the papists and the dissinters should have a parson, and we without a soul to look afther us. Isn't it, Kinnidy?”

“Faith, and I think it's a compliment to us, my boy! They know well that we're the right sort—raal Prodestans. We can do without parsons! But as for them papists and dissinters, bedad they must have masses an sirmins every minit to give them a chance for their sowls.” An explanation which seemed quite satisfactory to the stalwart bombardier.

I was horribly alarmed after breakfast by seeing Lord Clyde walking up and down, and looking at the skies inquiringly, in a manner which indicated to those who knew him well that he was preparing to march.