) The rain has made it very
slippery, and it was a fatiguing walk the road not being good, and
occasionally dangerous; one part fairly beat me, I was expected to pass
round a smooth rock by means of several ledges one inch wide and four or
five long, cut on its surface. The precipice below was deep, and when I
had taken one step, and found myself hanging over it; I determined to go
back and try another way. The other way is bad enough, but all I object
to is having my safety depending upon a single foothold. I like to have
at least one chance of recovering myself if I slip. My walnut tree
to-day is covered with mistletoe and my mind is directed to Christmas
time, and all its (to us) sad associations. Three Christmases have I
spent away from England, and a fourth is now approaching, one of them on
the ocean, and two in the tented field, the next will I fancy also find
me under canvass, but I trust on my way homewards. Westward Ho! is my
cry; let the gorgeous East with its money bags, its luxuries, and its
many hours of idleness, remain for those who are content to exchange
home-ties and the enjoyment of life for dreary exile and too often
untimely death, who will sell their minds and bodies for the price of
rupees.
AUGUST 4th.--Marched back to Ganderbul, nine miles.
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