How changed is now the scene from what it was in the _qui hye_ days of our fathers! The clang of the trumpet, the roll of the drum, and the gleaming ranks, have long given place to more peaceful sounds and sights; the creak of the well-wheel, and the song of the ryot, as he irrigates his fields, supply the place of the former. Grain now waves where troops once manœuvred, whilst the light airs of the Ganges pipe, amidst the white mausoleums, the dirges of those who “sleep well” beneath, many of the once gay inhabitants of the scene:— “Ah! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, nor fear; Peace, peace is the watchword—the only one here.” There are few things which address themselves more strongly to the feelings than the sight of the tombs of our countrymen in a far distant land. In the cemetery to which I am referring, now rarely visited, it being out of the track of travellers, where grass and jungle are fast encroaching, and time and the elements are pursuing their silent dilapidations, many a Briton—many a long forgotten Johnson and Thompson—quietly repose, far from the hearths of their fathers. I have since more than once visited this and similar places, which may be compared to wrecks which the onward flow of our advancing power leaves behind it, and as I have stood and mused amongst them, have pleased myself by indulging in dreamy speculations touching the histories of the surrounding sleepers (for all have their little histories), of all their hopes, fears, and cares, here for ever laid at rest. We extended our excursion to some distance beyond the cemetery, and visited the mausoleum of a Mahomedan prince or saint, the history of which I have forgotten. I have now only a faint remembrance of its mosaic and lattice-work—its inlaid scrolls from the _Koran_—the sarcophagus covered with an embroidered carpet, the lamps around, and the ostrich eggs suspended from the vaulted roof. On returning home to the old general’s house, rather late, we found two or three of his friends, invalid officers of the garrison, assembled to do justice to his roast beef and other Christmas fare. A very social party we had; the general “shouldered his crutch,” and the invalid guests gave us plenty of Indian legendary lore; all hearts expanded under the influence of good cheer, and a couple of bottles of “Simkin Shrob” (Champagne), which the general produced as if it had been so much liquid gold, reserved for high days and holidays. A glass or two of champagne is your grand specific for giving the blue devils their _quietus_, and liberating those light and joyous spirits which wave their sparkling wings over the early wine-cup and the genial board; but, like other ephemeræ, soon pass away, drowned, perhaps, like flies, in the liquid from whence they spring, leaving but a pleasing remembrance of their having once existed.