feeds us all—regiments, camp-followers, and everybody.
I have written to you all about him, his jewels, and his nautches, and I have a great deal more before me to write, so I shall say nothing more here. It is a horrid thing, which we none of us own publicly, but there is every reason to believe that his troops are quite as well disciplined as ours. When you get an unreformed ministry who will give you your yeomanry back again, let them wear steel helmets, black heron’s feathers, and flaming red turbans, and mount them on Persian horses. You will be astonished at the effect.
The weather is lovely, the country quite hideous. I march on horseback every morning, and Shere Singh and his troops of followers hunt, shoot, and gallop about us, and an enormous escort follows us; when we arrive safely I feel piously grateful. The army was to march from Ferozepore to-day, but we expect that Dost Mahomed will give in without any fighting. God bless you, dearest!
