Calcutta, Jan. 24, 1863.

Dear Simkins,–Indian travellers usually commence their first letter by describing their earliest impression upon landing in Calcutta. With some it is musquitoes; with others, Warren Hastings; while others, again, seem divided between an oppressive consciousness of heathendom and hot tiffins. My prevailing feeling was negative: it was the absence of Dundreary. The sense of relief at being able to ask a question without being told that it was “one of those things that no fellah could understand,” was at first delightfully soothing. On the whole, the current English slang is at a discount in the market here.

I did not write during the first fortnight, as I was in very low spirits, and nothing encourages that state of mind so much as trying to communicate it to others. There is no doubt that the situation of a young civilian has much in it that is very trying. His position is precisely that of a new boy at school. I was continually expecting to hear the familiar question, “What's your name, you fellow?” Nobody, however, seemed to care enough about me to ask. There are so many young civilians that older residents cannot afford to show them attentions until they have earned themselves an individuality. Every one has been a “student” in his day, with the same hopes, the same aspirations, the same anxiety about passing in Persian.