Fyz Buccas, kidmutgar, trudged along, driving before him a knock-kneed shambling tatoo, which I verily thought he would have made a spread eagle of, laden with his wife, two children, and sundry bags, pots, pans, &c. Whether Mrs. Fyz Buccas was a beauty or not I cannot positively say, though, if I might judge from the sample of one coal-black eye, of which, through the folds of her hood I occasionally had a glimpse, I should decidedly say she was. I generally rode ahead of the procession, armed _cap-à-pie_, and shone the very _beau idéal_ of griffinish chivalry. My syce always carried my gun, to be ready for a shot at a passing wolf or jackal, and with one or two other servants, viz., a classee, or tent-pitcher, bhistee, &c., with my guard, we constituted a rather numerous party. In the above order I left Cawnpore, for a small village on the road to Furruckabad, where, in an extensive mango grove, I for the first time in my life slept under canvas. It is the almost invariable custom in India to march in the early part of the morning, so as to reach the halting-ground before the sun has attained much power; but I was either ignorant, of the practice, or thought it would be preferable to reverse the system; certain it is, that for some time I always marched in the evenings, arriving at my ground sometimes after dark; by that means I was enabled to rise at my own hour comfortably the next morning, and had the whole day till about sunset for my amusement. About that time I would seat myself on a chair under a tree, with my kulian in my hand, and superintend the striking and loading my tent, &c. About half an hour after they were fairly off, I would rise like a giant refreshed, mount my steed, whilst my syce obsequiously held my stirrup, and, fairly seated, would follow the baggage. I love to recall in imagination those days, the opening ones of my independent existence. How vividly can I recall the scene which this march so often presented! the waning sunlight of the cold winter evenings, a few bright streaks just tinging the horizon, my hackery slowly wending its way over the plain, and my scattered servants crawling behind it, in a cloud of dust; the mango groves—villages—mud huts, and all the accompaniments of a country life in Upper India! I must not here omit to mention that, prior to my leaving Cawnpore, I received a letter from my friend and patron Captain Marpeet, with whom I occasionally corresponded; it was couched in his usual frank and half-bantering style, and informed me that his regiment was on the eve of marching to Delhi, and that he anticipated great pleasure in meeting me there. Thus it concluded:—