A wonderful place is Fort William, and a hard nut it will be for the enemies of Old England to crack, if they should ever be induced to attempt it, whether it be the wily Russian, the gallant Frenchman, or Brother Jonathan himself. It is exceedingly wrong to be proud—very wrong indeed—I know it; but, nevertheless, I have always carried my chin at an angle of forty-five degrees with the plane of the horizon, whenever I marched into that bristling _place d’armes_. To other pens, less sketchy and discursive than mine, I must leave its minute description. Suffice it for my purpose here to observe, that its extent is vast, its defences admirable, and though making little exterior show, its green slopes once passed, a battery on the broad grin meets you at every turn, as much as to say, “A-ha! I’ve caught you, eh!—_on ne peut pas passer ici_;” in short, its guards, griffs, adjutants, and arsenals, crows, causeways, cookboys and counterscarps, its mountains of balls and acres of cannon, are all wonderful and astonishing. CHAPTER XIX. The day after my arrival at Calcutta I hastened to pay my respects to the Capsicums. On reaching the portico of the house, I threw myself out of my palankeen. “Is the general at home?” “He is, _khodabund_,” said the servant, and ascended to announce me. Upon my entering, and making my bow, “Ha! how are ye, sir; how are ye, sir?” said the old veteran, extending his hand to me at full length, as he reclined in his easy chair; “glad to see you again. Well, sir, and how did you lave my son? But I’ve heerd of all your prosadings.” Mrs. Capsicum congratulated me on my continued healthy appearance, and condescended to present me with the “tip of her honourable little finger.” I looked around for the dear widow, but she was not there. My pulse sunk below zero with painful misgivings; ideas of death, matrimony, or some other misfortune, flashed on my mind: it is the nature of some men always to fancy things fifty times better or worse than they are, to which category I belong. I ventured to ask the general after the health of his daughter, and was greatly relieved by his reply: “Oh, she’s well, sure—she’s well; but you’ll see her here immediately to spake for herself.” Some time before dinner was announced, a carriage drove up to the house; it contained Mrs. Delaval, who had been absent the whole day in Calcutta. She soon entered the apartment; it was late in the evening, the light dim and uncertain, and I seated in a recess near the window. “Well, Cordalia, my dear, have you seen all your friends and executed all your commissions?” Mrs. Delaval kissed her father, and answered in the affirmative, adding, “the Coppletons have taken their passage home in the _Derbyshire_; young Scapegrace, of the civil service, is to be married to Letitia Flirtwell to-morrow, and Colonel Oddfish sends his _bhote bhote salaam_ to you, and hopes to see you soon in town.”