home behind a tattie for two months at least, without letting any daylight in, and that then we shall enjoy ourselves uncommonly. I believe the best plan is, as I heard an Agra lady say the other day, ‘not to think of the hot winds till they come, nor to mention them, but to keep all your strength to try and live through them.’ But the constant thought of my mind is that this delay will put off our return home, and I am sure that two more hot seasons will be at least one too many; besides, I cannot stay away from you all any longer. I really can’t; I must go home.
I want to talk to you and never to see these brown, arid plains and browner, arider people any more, and, as for staying here a whole year that ought to be passed in England, I can’t. In Bengal there are at least trees, and everything is green, and there is the river, which leads to the sea, which leads home. Here there is nothing but dust and ruins, and no way out of it if one is ever so ill; even natives cannot travel in the hot winds.
We have left Captain and Giles at Agra to hurry on buildings, make up beds, mosquito houses, &c., and we have come out to visit
