It is sad to die in a foreign land, and it is
somehow specially sad, at least I think so, for a home-loving Scot to
lie away from home.
"Tell me not the good and wise
Care not where their dust reposes.
That to him who sleeping lies
Desert rocks shall seem as roses.
I've been happy above ground,
I could ne'er be happy under,
Out of Teviot's gentle sound.
Part us, then, not far asunder."
Yesterday I saw a pathetic sight. A couple in a _tikka-gharry_; the
man a soldier, a Gordon Highlander, and on the front seat a tiny
coffin. The man's arm was round the woman's shoulder, and she was
crying bitterly. A bit of shabby crape was tied round her hat, and she
carried a sad little wreath.
Since coming back from Agra we have stayed at the Grand Hotel. It is a
comfortable, airy place, wonderfully pleasant in the morning when we
sit at a little table in the verandah looking out on the Maidan, and
flat-faced hill-waiters bring us an excellent breakfast. Our own
servants are with us--Autolycus and Bella. When we arrived very early
in the morning and the coolies were carrying up our luggage, a servant
sleeping outside his master's door held up his hand for quietness,
saying something quite gently about not waking his master, "Beat him,"
said Autolycus to the coolies quite without heat, as he hurried on.
The air gets hotter, and everything looks more and more tired every
day. Even proud-pied April dressed in all its trim can't put a spirit
of youth into anything.
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