Transcriber’s Note:

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

That
Eurasian

BY

ALEPH BEY

❧

F. TENNYSON NEELY

PUBLISHER

Chicago New York

Copyright, 1895

BY

F. TENNYSON NEELY

PREFACE.

In a letter accompanying the manuscript of the following book were these paragraphs:

“Some years ago, while traveling in Southern France, I met with an accident that nearly ended my life. I was tenderly nursed to health in a family for which I formed the highest respect and a lasting friendship. Some years later I met the widow with her beautiful grown up children. One of the sons was devoted to science, the other to literature, and both becoming known in the world, while the daughter was engaged in landscape painting, ‘until,’ as she said with a most bewitching smile, ‘the right man comes along.’

“Talking of her husband, the widow said that he had left some manuscript which I might like to see. She then brought me a bundle neatly bound up in tape. Looking it over, I suggested its publication, and she gave it to me unreservedly to do with it as I thought best. I have not erased a line or altered a word. It is an autobiography of undeserved shame and sorrow, as well as an earnest effort of well doing. It is a pity that such a life should have been, and I trust that its lessons will be heeded by those who need them most.”

The word Eurasian is made of Eur, from Europe, and Asian, from Asia, and applied to the children of a European and an Asiatic and to their descendants, of whom there is a large class in India.

THAT EURASIAN

ALEPH BEY

Neely’s International Library,

Fine Cloth Binding, $1.25

A prominent newspaper editor of London, England, in a note to the author of this work says, “I am impressed with the freedom and freshness of the literary style, and am in arms against the majestic abuses about which it inveighs as if incidentally and without any grand motherly didactics. You arrest attention at once with the desertion of the Pyari by the Sahib; the treatment is pathetic and intense.”

A well-known Chicago editor says, “A powerfully written book, though without any evidence of straining after effect. It should be of especial interest to a wide circle of readers, as it deals with a new subject in a masterly manner. The life history of the offspring of an English father and a Mohammedan mother affords the author opportunity to give a vast amount of information about the doings of the British in India, and the results of the contact between the two races, with the peculiarities of each, and of their offspring, which may well open the eyes of the world to a view of the enormities that have been perpetrated in the far-off land under the plea of modern civilization. Simple justice to the work and its author requires that it should have a large sale.”

“A work of decidedly unique character, is ‘THAT EURASIAN’ just published by F. Tennyson Neely. It deals with a class of people which has heretofore seldom figured in our literature, viz., that large family of half European and half Hindu parentage so numerous in British India. The abuses and indignities to which these people are subjected have long been well known to those who have given any attention to the condition of affairs in British India during the past half century, but the general public is strangely ignorant of all this. The many startling revelations made by the author of this book, who is an European long resident in India, will be received with something like wonderment and horror. We can only hint at the extent of these revelations; the legalized vice, the cruel oppression of a wretched peasantry, the shocking abuse of native women by Europeans, and other gigantic enormities are fully and fearlessly exposed in this remarkable book—remarkable none the less for the author’s keen and caustic criticism of the Government that fosters such abuses, as for the grace and elegance of his literary style, and the lucidity of his thought.”

For Sale by all Booksellers or Sent Prepaid on Receipt of Price by the Publisher,

F. Tennyson Neely,

CHICAGO. NEW YORK.

THAT EURASIAN.

CHAPTER I.

On the southern coast of France, upon ground overlooking one of the beautiful bays of the Mediterranean, stood a chateau. It was nearly a mile distant from the coast, the land gradually descending toward the blue waters of the sea. The main and center part of the building was a relic of the ancient feudal times when strength and massiveness were characteristic of the architecture. The additions had been constructed from time to time, to suit the taste and convenience of the different owners of the property. The old park impressed one with a feeling of reverence for its solidity and quaintness, while the more modern parts added beauty and grace, making the whole consonant with the present age in comfort, luxury and utility. The grounds were spacious. An immense enclosure with its velvet green verdure, was broken here and there by patriarchal trees, of great variety. It was a park of orchards and gardens for use as well as beauty. A broad avenue, lined on either side with trees and trellised vines, led down to the sea where pleasure boats and yachts were moored. This avenue, with the blue waters as a background, formed a most enchanting view from the upper balcony of the castle. The quiet stillness of the place was its greatest charm. In the days of summer there was scarcely a sound to be heard save that of the bees and insects among the flowers, the songs of the birds in the trees, the gentle murmur of the fountains or the sound like that from invisible æolian harps, as the light breezes played among the branches. Occasionally a storm from the loud resounding sea added grandeur to the place. The drives, the walks, every tree and flowering shrub showed the careful attention of the gardeners. Every visitor was in raptures over the beauty of the place, and could say with truth, “If there is a paradise on earth it is here.”

The interior of the chateau corresponded with its surroundings. The halls were adorned with solid, grand antique furniture, statuary, and paintings, the accumulation of centuries, acquired by the wealth and taste of a long line of the ancestry of the present occupants, while the rest of the building was embellished in more modern style, showing excellent judgment and culture. The library was one of which a nation might be proud, composed of almost priceless old books, and the best of more modern authors. In all the apartments there seemed to be nothing wanting and not a thing too much. There was no crowding or confusion, nothing cheap or tawdry, but all in harmony with the massive building, and its noble park, showing the culture of its possessors.

The present occupants, a gentleman and his wife, of excellent lineage, of wealth, education, and most refined tastes, one could scarcely tell whether they were made for the place or it was made for them, as both and all were in such delightful harmony. They often had guests, but of the most select kind. There were several beautiful children, of whom I was one or would have been, that is, if this fancy picture was a reality and I had had a choice in the matter of my birth, those would have been my parents and there the place where I would have been born if such events could have been decided by myself. Had the subject been referred to me, I would have been very judicious in the choice of my parents, for it is better than any amount of wealth to have a good father and mother. Alas! and more’s the pity that so few of us are consulted about our birth, the most important event in our lives; we are brought into life without consideration, and, impelled by fate, are thrown upon our destinies for good or evil, and yet made responsible for what results from our inherited tendencies and circumstances.

Some one, I think a Frenchman, has said that we should select our parents with the greatest possible judgment. I thoroughly agree with him. So much depends on this, yet, as I have said, since very few of us are consulted about this matter, we have to accept the situation, whether it be in a palace or a hut. There is no use opposing the inevitable, still I cannot help finding fault in that we are made responsible for much that we could not in any possible way prevent. Many a one is environed, burdened and crushed by some hereditary impedimenta, and is blamed and cursed through life for that about which he was not consulted and from which he could not escape.

Before the law and human judgment all people are declared equal. Are they? Should not allowance be made for pangs of nature and taints of blood? Yet whatever men may do, I have faith that, if God is our judge, He will regard us for what we might have been as well as by what we are.

As might be supposed, the above is only a flight of fancy. Descending, I will now enter upon the real story of my existence.

CHAPTER II.

My first consciousness, my very first idea or remembrance of anything that I can recall, was on a hot sultry night in the city of Lucknow, in the year 18––, but no matter as to the exact date, for I do not know how old I was then, and do not now know the year in which I was born. I was awakened by the clinking sound of something that caught my ear; then turning my eyes I saw a number of beautiful round glittering things fall into my mother’s lap as she sat upon a charpoy. As I recall the scene, I think there must have been several hundred of these shining pieces. It is strange what an attraction there is in children for metal money, though they know nothing of its value. Is there not a latent love for it in them from a former birth as an inheritance?—but let that rest for the present.

My eyes then went to a man, as I now can designate him, for then it did not seem to me that I was conscious of him any more than that he was a thing of life, a being or something very indefinite, beyond my comprehension. I years after, recalled him as an Englishman, rather tall, of blonde complexion, with a cleanly-shaved face, except a heavy well-trimmed moustache. What struck me was the whiteness of his face and hands, so that I took him for a bhut or ghost, and quaking with fear gazed at him.

He was standing close to the charpoy looking down upon my mother, into whose lap he had thrown the shining things that I afterward learned were rupees and new, just brought from the treasury. After the clinking of the rupees I heard him say in Hindustani: “I must leave you, pyari. I am going to Wilayat, home, and may never see you again?”

“Jaoge! mujh ko chordoge?” said my mother, with trembling lips and a heart-breaking tone. “You are going and will leave me?” she repeated again, so plaintively. “Yes,” he said, “I have got leave and I must go. I have brought you five hundred rupees and hope you will be happy and take good care of the children. I have come to bid you good-bye.” Upon this my mother clasped her hands over her head and bent forward with a wail of anguish that was heart-rending. Amid her tears she exclaimed: “You always told me that I was your bibi, your own dear wife, that you would never leave me, and now you are going and will throw me away as the skin of the mango you have eaten, or as an old coat that you have worn out. You will leave me and go to Wilayat, where you will marry a young mem sahib as all the sahibs do, and she will never know that I am your wife. O Allah! Why did I ever listen to your soft words and become your pyari? Pyari, I have been and true to you in all things. Will you go away and leave me to be called a kusbi by all these people? O Allah! ya Shaitan! why am I thus to be accursed?”

Then she swayed back and forth, wailing as if her heart was breaking. She piteously asked, “Why not take me with you, as you often said you would?”

“That would be impossible,” he replied. “You would not be happy among my people in a strange land; you are of another caste or race, and it would only make you unhappy to go there.”

“I have been your beloved wife, your pyari bibi here, why could I not be there also? I have lived here all these years, discarded and despised by my people because I was a sahib’s aurat, woman, but I loved you, I lived upon the thought of you. The very sound of your footsteps thrilled me with delight. I have been good enough for you as your wife through all these years, for you have called me your pyari bibi, your darling wife, a thousand times, and now you will cast me off and get an English mem sahib. Allah! Allah! have mercy upon me! O my children, my children! They are your children. You were my God. I worshiped you when they were conceived. My love and adoration of you impressed your features upon them. They are more yours than mine, for I gave them no thought of myself but all of you. They are yours, of your own flesh and blood. How can you forsake them? How can you be so cruel to them and me?”

She ceased, bitterly weeping. He stood speechless, somewhat moved by her piteous appeals, yet as I remember him, he regarded her with a look of hardened contempt. A moment after uttering the last words she quickly threw the rupees from her lap, scattering them all over the floor and leaping from the charpoy, flung herself at his feet and putting her arms around his legs placed her face upon his boots, wailing piteously and praying him not to desert his children.

“Throw me aside forever,” she said, “but, oh! the children, your own children, do not forsake them! For Allah’s sake, take care of them.”

Her long abundant black hair fell over her shoulders. Her face showed the intense agony of her soul and her large eyes filled with tears that dropped from her face as if each one was a drop of hot blood from her heart. He remained silent, as I remember him, with a cold brutal indifference, without saying a word until she seemed nearly exhausted in her anguish. He then lifted her up and placed her upon the charpoy, and taking her hand saying, “I cannot help it, pyari, it is my kismet, I must go,” and kissing her, said: “Salaam, good-bye, God bless you,” and rushed from the room.

Is it strange that I should remember such a scene? This was my first consciousness of life. I remember nothing previous to that night, and what I saw and heard then was burned into my very being to remain a part of it as long as I continue to be. She was my mother, my own, my darling mama. I am now an old man and the sands in my hour-glass are nearly run out. I have had trials enough to have hardened all my feelings into iron, yet as I think of my dear little mama, in her agony and despair on that memorable night, great tears run down my furrowed cheeks. I cannot help their coming, and I would not if I could. Blessed tears! that relieve us in our sorrows and moisten our hearts with tenderness. It was a strange scene to me. I was frightened into silence and could not stir, and dared not cry. I could understand that my mama was in great trouble, though I knew not why it was, nothing of the cause of it. I sat in a corner partly concealed by a cloth hung on a rope that was stretched across the room. I now see every little thing as it was then, my mother’s eyes, the big tear drops on her cheeks are now in my sight, after all these years, just as I saw them then. I hear my mama’s voice, its wailing tones of entreaty, of despair. I see her body quivering in her agony as she was clinging to the feet of the sahib, just as vividly as if she was before me now.

As I learned afterward, he used to come late at night, so that I was asleep in a little side room when he came. At the front of the court was a large gate, but I was told the sahib never came in by that way. At the back end of the court there was a little narrow door, through which the rubbish and sweepings were carried and thrown, into a gully that wound its way to the old canal beyond the city. It was by the gully where the rubbish lay and through the door by which the sweepings went out that the sahib came in, never by daylight, but always near dead of night.

Shall I now express my opinion of that very brave Christian English gentleman? coming up through that stinking gully, through that little back door at the hour of midnight? A man who would do that would not only destroy the woman he had called his wife, make outcasts of his own children, but would barter his own soul and betray his God to gratify his lust. But I must not let my feelings overcome me. Yet I cannot help saying that often since then, when I have thought of that night scene, I have felt like tearing a passion to tatters, aye more than that, to be really truthful, to murder somebody; even that man, my own father, for the infamous wrong done my darling mother.

As I have said, when this sahib so suddenly appeared I was terribly frightened. He seemed to me a giant, so tall and big. Then the ghastly pale face; the reddish hair; the strange clothes, he might be one of the bhuts or jins that carry away little boys and eat them, one each day, for his dinner. Was it strange then, that I sat crouching in my corner, scarcely daring to breathe, lest he might hear me and seize me for his next day’s meal?

The clinking of the rupees is written on the first page of my memory. The sound and sight of them gave me a thrill of pleasure, but a moment after came the fright at the sight of the strange being. Scared as I was, I saw everything, heard all that was said and felt a thousand times more than I now can find words to describe. All was so sudden, strange and incomprehensible, that I was dumb with fear at the great thing standing so high up in the room, and when my mother began her piteous wailings, I was hushed to silence with my intense feelings of sorrow for her.

As the sahib rushed from the place, my mama threw herself upon the bare earthen floor with a shriek, and there lay moaning and crying out in heart-piercing tones, “My Sahib! my Sahib!” I sprang from my corner, and sat down by her, and placing her head upon my lap stroked her hair back from her face and begged of her “mama, pyari mama! why do you cry so?” There was no answer, but “my Sahib! my Sahib!” O! the agony of that hour! It has never left me, it became a part of my life and is with me now, for I feel it. What could I do, a little tot that had never been out of the court? I do not know how long I sat there; I must have become exhausted and gone to sleep, for in the morning I found myself lying on the charpoy where I suppose my mama placed me.

As I awoke, my first thought was of her. I glanced around the room and saw her sitting on a low stool facing the court. Her eyes were turned towards the western sky, but evidently she was not looking at anything. I awakened as from a horrible dream and could not at once realize what had happened, but when I saw that haggard, pallid face, those wide open eyes, that looked and saw nothing, all the night scene flashed upon me and I cried out, “Mama, mama!” She turned her head, without a word, toward me and began again to look far away as if for something beyond mortal ken. I was told years after, that before that night she was the most happy woman of all in the court, always so pleasant to her neighbors, always smiling, laughing and romping with her children; but after that awful night, the light of her life had gone out into utter darkness, for she never smiled again.

The rupees were gathered up and put in the rough wooden box, fastened with a big padlock. They were taken out one by one to pay the rent and to buy a little flour, rice and bread and a few vegetables for our daily food. There was a little sister, too young, thank God, to know anything of the trouble in the house. An old woman went to the bazar to purchase our food and did the cooking. At first a few of the neighboring women looked in at the door and tried to be friendly, but the little mother took no notice of them and they ceased coming. One day I overheard one of them say to the other as an excuse for her silence, “Her Sahib has gone.”

The little sister and I passed our time as best we could with the few cheap playthings we had, eating our cheap food, occasionally delighted with some native sweets that the old woman bought for us. The dear mama would sit on her little stool with her hands clasped over her knees, her face turned toward the west, her large eyes strained wide open as if to see something in the far away distance.

At early morning I would find her sitting thus. Nearly all the day she would sit looking in utter silence. Sometimes the little sister and I would fall upon her knees and chatter to her. She would turn her head toward us for a moment and perhaps say a word or two and then take up her looking again. There was never a ripple of laughter, such as used to cheer everybody around her, as they told me years after, not even a smile for us, her children. She seemed to be alone, and as I remember her and am now able to think about her condition and actions, it appears to me her heart was dying, gradually, to be sure, but dying.

I could not understand anything about it then for I was too young to realize what had occurred. I had scarcely ever been outside our rooms and never outside the little court or muhalla. I had no companion but the little sister. I knew nothing of the great world or little world outside, and had only seen a few native people in the court as I looked down from our veranda. As to the names, father or papa, I had not heard them, and if spoken to me I would not have understood what they meant. I was not aware that I had a father or ever had one. It was better perhaps as it was, for had I been told that the sahib I saw was my father; that it was he who had treated my mama with such infamous cruelty; that for him she was breaking her heart, dying day by day, as she kept looking toward him in the west, as he was going home to enjoy life and get a new wife, forsaking our dear mama and casting off us, his own children, for whose being he alone was responsible; had I known this, my life would have undoubtedly been altogether different and not for the better either. Knowledge is power, but it is often best not to have too much of it, nor to have it before we are capable of using it.

CHAPTER III.

I do not know how long this kind of life continued. It may have been a year or only a few months. There was nothing to break the monotony, nothing to be as time marks to show the passing days and months. The little mama took less and less interest in everything. One day coming out of the other room I found her lying on the floor. I saw by the look of her face that something was the matter with her, so I ran quickly and called the old woman, who placed her carefully upon the charpoy. She did not utter a word, made no sign of pain or distress, but kept on looking in the old direction with those large brilliant eyes, so wide open, peering into the distance. How bright they seem to me now, how they have haunted me all these years! Many a night have I awakened to see those eyes before me as if in reality they were there.

The rupees had been going, one by one, and now that the little mama remained on the charpoy day and night, the old woman took the key of the padlock from my mother’s waist-string and opened the box to get a rupee for some food. I saw there was but little in the box, a few fancy bits of clothing, some ornaments and a bundle of papers bound up with a string. The old woman took the best care she could of us all. She evidently saw that the time was short before all her labors, especially for the mama, would be ended.

One morning early, coming out of the other room, I saw those wide open eyes as usual, but the strange appearance of the face startled me. I had never seen a dead person, I had never heard of death. I did not know that people died. Yet, ignorant as I was, I saw that something terrible was the matter with mama. The old woman came quickly and at the first sight with a wailing cry exclaimed, “gayi! gayi!” gone! gone! I could not comprehend it, mama gone and yet she was lying there before me! The little sister came and we put our hands on mama’s face, we took her hands in ours. They were so cold and strange, we spoke to her, but her lips moved not. So unlike our little mama, as we delighted to call her. The old woman beckoned to some women in the court below. They quickly came. One of them took us into the other room and tried to make us understand what had happened but all we could realize was this, that our mama had gone. When we came out into the room again a white sheet was placed over the charpoy and tied at the four corners. All was so still and silent; we went and crouched into a corner clinging to each other in abject fear.

I felt as I did when that fearful white giant was in the room on that dreadful night, that I did not dare to breathe hard for fear some one might discover us. Toward evening two men came and took away the charpoy and all on it. I tried to get the old woman to tell me what had happened, but her only reply was that mama, the dear mama, had gone and we should never see her again. Our little hearts were breaking. We wept together until we fell asleep at night. The morning came but no mama for us to see.

How many times in my life since those dark sorrowful days have I thought to myself, Alas! What numbers of women’s hearts have been broken by these faithless Christian Europeans! These women were only natives to be sure, but they had hearts as warm for those whose soft words of love they had heard, and whose promises they believed, as any of their more favored white sisters. What is the use of talking of God, of justice, of virtue, of right and wrong, if such deception, cruelties and wrongs are to remain unnoticed and unpunished? Is there to be no recompense to those so cruelly injured? Are there no memories to follow the perpetrators of such infamous deeds? If not, then this world is one of chance and confusion. Might makes right, vice is as good as virtue and the sooner we get through the farce of living the better, to die and perish forever.

Soon the few remaining rupees were gone, then the trinkets, the few articles of clothing, and lastly, the box itself, all, everything had gone to purchase the little food we needed. There was nothing left with which to supply our wants or to pay our rent. One day the old woman took the little sister and me down into a little shelter, made by an old grass roof leaning against the back wall of the court. This was to be our home. She had gathered some coarse grass on which we were to sleep. Our only furniture consisted of two old earthen pots in which to cook our food if we could get any. All of our beautiful brass dishes that we once looked upon as shining jewels, when, after our meals they were scoured and placed in the sun to dry, had gone, following the trinkets and the box. My best suit consisted of a few inches of cloth and a string around my waist. My little sister had a very short skirt much fringed by long use around the bottom. For awhile the people in the court gave us food, some rice, others vegetables, and others a pepper pod and a few grains of salt. The little sister and I gathered old grass, and dried manure with which our food was cooked. So we were happy. It takes so little when we are willing to be happy that I sometimes question whether civilization is a benefactor, for it increases our wants and adds to our labor in supplying them.

The old woman lived with us of course, as this was her only home as well as ours. She was so kind that we clung to her as our new mama. Bye and bye the neighbors gave us less and less; not that they were unwilling, but they were all so poor. I did not understand the political economy of either poverty or riches. I did not know fully why the people could not give us anything.

However, I well remember a scene, an object lesson of tyranny, and the helplessness of poverty, that occurred one day. A man on a horse rode into the big gate followed by a number of men with long bamboo sticks in their hands. I heard one who lived in a hut next to us say as he ran into his house, that the zemindar who owned the place had come to collect his rents. It seemed that the rents were long overdue, because the people were unable to pay them though they did the best they could. The people were all called out of their huts where the most of them had concealed themselves and those that would not come were forced out by the men with sticks. The man on his horse demanded the rents. The people said they had nothing to pay. The little fields outside the city that they cultivated had produced nothing, for there had been no rain. They had tried to get work but there was none to be had. They could not get the poorest food for their wives and children. They were starving. They would work for him and do anything he told them, for their lives were in his hands. He turned upon them with scorn, denounced them with all the filthy names he could use and they were many. I could understand only a few of the words, but I knew they were terrible. How angry he was!

The men, with the women and children, threw themselves on the ground around his horse and pleaded with him for mercy, but the more they begged the more angry he grew, and then, when he became tired out with his stream of fearful words, he gave orders to his men with the long sticks to search every house, and in they went with a rush. The old charpoys, the tattered rags of blankets, here and there a brass cup or an iron dish, everything was brought and laid in the center of the court, a mass of rubbish the most of which should have gone out by the back door and been thrown into the gully. A cart was brought in and everything placed upon it and off it went. Just as the zemindar was going out of the gate, a man living in one of the huts came in. He had been out from very early morning going for miles to a pond where he caught a few small fish, not one over an inch in length. These he was bringing for his poor old decrepit mother who was really starving. As soon as the big man saw this handful of fish he ordered one of his men to take them. The poor man seeing that he was about to lose his little treasure threw himself upon the ground, and in tones heart-rending, begged the fish for his old mother who was dying for want of food; but he might as well have talked to the gate post. The fish were gone and the big man departed on his high-stepping horse.

Had the big zemindar put us all in some room, closed the door and suffocated us, it would have been an act of mercy compared with what he did. What is the little pain of a sudden death, in comparison with a life of hardship, starvation, suffering, misery, and after all, death sure to come? Better half should go and give the other half a chance, than to prolong the wretchedness of all. Death cannot be escaped by waiting. Much of philanthropy is to prolong misery. The real philanthropist should seek to shorten and end it. Men die for their country, for glory, the latter always a paltry thing. Why not die to relieve themselves from wretchedness and to benefit others by their absence? This would be the real sacrifice—a dying to save others. Words fail me to describe what took place after the robbery of our little court. In every hut there was wailing for their little losses, but all they had. There was not a tattered rag or dish left. There was no food of any kind, no work for anybody. They could gather nothing from the fields, for the country for miles was barren even of a blade of grass.

I was repelled by all I had seen, and felt like weeping as I heard the mournful cries of the women. We were more blessed than they were, because we had lost nothing, for the best of reasons. My instinct told me it were better to go away than to remain any longer. Our new mama seemed to have the same feeling, for without a word she took each of us by the hand and we went out through the big gate, whither we knew not. One direction was as good to us as another, so we took the first road we saw. We wandered on for a number of days, sleeping at night by the roadside, and during the days stopped where cartmen were feeding their cattle. They allowed us to pick up some grains of feed, which was the bread of heaven to us. One day toward evening we came to a large peepul tree with a small hut beside it. An old man, a faqir, was sitting in front of the hut. Something told him we were hungry, and going inside he brought out a few withered bananas and several dried fruits. He told us to eat them, and when he prepared his food he would give us some. I expressed my gratitude as best I could. I think I said that I hoped Allah would show him mercy. The old man gave me such a kindly smile, the first I had ever seen. We were all very weary, and the little sister was footsore. I went out to where some carts had stopped and gathered several armfuls of dried grass and straw, which I placed at the back of the hut. The old faqir, seeing this, went into his little garden and brought a square of bamboo, thatched with grass, that he placed over the straw with its top against the hut. What a house we had; a palace, furnished, for our wearied bodies. Into this we crept, for our new mama was always beside us. We slept—and such sleep! I dreamed of great dishes of food, how fragrant it was and how delicious it tasted, when we were awakened by the voice of the faqir calling us to come out and eat. We did not wait for a second call, and such dishes of rice and dhal, steaming hot and so fragrant. We ate as if we had not tasted food for many a day, and indeed we had but little for months. The old faqir smiled all over his wrinkled face as he saw the eagerness with which we ate his savory dishes. If I know anything about the matter—and probably I know as much as any one—I feel sure that the good angel above, who does the recording, gave the old faqir three very long credit marks for the good he did to each of us that day. He scarcely said a word. No doubt his motto was, “Doing—not talking,” and the very best habit one can fall into. After an hour or so of resting from our laborious task of eating so much, we crept into our little house and were all soon fast asleep. I dreamt that I saw my mama. She was looking with those large liquid eyes of hers, not to the westward, but toward us. She smiled so sweetly, the first smile I had ever seen upon her face, as she saw how comfortably we were placed.

At early morning we were awakened by the birds in the peepul tree. My first words were, “Darling mama,” for I expected to see her, and what an eternal joy it would have been if I could have had but one sight of her beautiful smiling face as I saw it in my dream! My heart was sorely disappointed and harassed. Why could not this world have been arranged without so many disappointments? Why could not the sorrows be more equally divided? The roses be without so many thorns? We went to the well in the garden and the faqir drew water with his lota and string, and the little sister and I had a nice shower bath as the faqir poured the water over us. He enjoyed his part as much as we did ours. He out-Christianed the Christian teaching, for besides food and shelter, he not only gave us water to drink, but poured it all over us. On returning to the hut he gave us some dried figs, nuts and sugar, and we were still more happy. After awhile, with a look of pleasure and pity, he asked whither we were traveling? I told him we did not know. This rather surprised him. Then he inquired where our home was, and I replied that we had no home. He wanted to know who our father and mother were, and I answered that we never had a father; that we had a dear mama once, but she had gone; two men had carried her away on a charpoy and we never saw her again.

The old man seemed very sad on hearing this, and when our new mama asked if we should not be going on, he begged of us to wait and rest another day; so we stayed. We watched the carts and the travelers as they passed by, listened to the songs of the birds in the peepul tree, and rested; and what a rest it was, without being hungry.

A day and another pleasant night passed, when something said, “Go on.” It is forever thus. It seems an inevitable law that one must be always going, progressing, growing, or else comes idleness, death and decay. This may seem a big idea to have any reference to the small subject in hand, but I do not look at it in that way. I was then of as much importance to myself as the greatest man on earth is to himself. The life of a fly is as valuable to the fly as the life of an elephant is to the elephant, though they differ so much in size of body and sphere of life. Each smallest thing has its round of destiny to fulfill, and I had mine.

We were very sorry to part with our kind old friend, to leave our palace of rest and feasts of food, but something impelled us onward. We started not without thanking the good kind old faqir in every possible phrase, and when we were on the way, as we looked back we saw him watching us. We waved our hands and he responded. Soon we were out of sight never to see our friend again, but I have erected a monument in my heart to his memory.

We wandered on, not in any haste, as one place was as good as another to us, only it seemed that we must be moving. Sometimes we went into the villages to get a drink of water, and the people gave us parched grain, and to the little sister, sweets, for they seemed to be greatly taken with her. She had our mama’s large eyes, and she was always playful and happy. She had not seen that white giant that frightened and killed our dear mama. Several times I thought of telling her about him, but as I was about to do so she appeared so happy that I had not the heart to do it. She never knew it, for some good angel ever kept me from telling. She was a little beauty, though I say it. Her only dress was a little skirt reaching just below the knees, and very tattered and torn. Her hair was gathered up and tied with a bit of grass. Though so poorly clad, her bright eyes, the dimples on her cheeks, the ripples of her smiles, the real priceless adornments of nature, as she tripped along with us, made her a beauty, at least in my eyes. Her sweet voice calling me bhai, brother, the only name she gave me, or pyari bhai, was like music to my ears.

After some days wandering we came to the outskirts of a town or city and we found shelter under a big tree by a wall. Some large beasts came into the tree above us and made a great noise that frightened us very much, so I persuaded the new mama to take us into the city. We came to a building into which a number of people were going, so we went with them. We found a place to rest on a veranda where there was a little straw on which we could sleep. Some one gave us water to drink and others some fruit to eat. About midnight the new mama began to groan as if in terrible pain. She grew worse and worse until I became greatly frightened and ran to some men who brought a lantern. Her moanings and groanings chilled me to the heart. I tried to comfort her but it was no use, the pain increased. Between the attacks her cries were, “What will become of the babas?”

Soon she was silent and when the men came again to see her they said to each other, margayi, dead gone, hyja! Other men soon came with a charpoy and took our kind new mama away and we never saw her again. Our dear mama and now our new mama both had gone and we were left alone in our sorrow that must be felt as it cannot be described. We cried ourselves to sleep in each other’s arms and were awakened in the early morning by the tramp of some people near us. There stood one of those white giants, not so tall as the one I had once seen. “Hallo!” said he, “What have we here?” Then speaking in Hindustani to some attendants of the serai, he asked who these children were. They said they did not know, that they had come with an old woman, that she had died of cholera in the night and had already been buried. The sahib, as I soon learned to call a white man, then turned toward us and though I was greatly frightened at first, his kindly face soon drove away every fear. He asked me, in Hindustani of course, who we were, and I told him I didn’t know. He asked where we came from and I couldn’t tell. He asked our names and I said we never had any names, and then he inquired who our father was, and I replied that we never had a father. Then he turned to his attendants and spoke in Hindustani so that I understood him well, saying, “This is a very strange thing under the sun! Two children who never had a father! What is the world coming to?” And then each of the others repeated, “Strange! barra taajub ki bat, a very strange thing under the sun, two children who never had a father! What is the world coming to?” I did not know what they meant by “under the sun” or “what is the world,” but that is what they said.

Up drove a great covered cart drawn by a horse. Such a thing I had never seen before. There might have been many in the place where we lived, but as I had never been outside of our court how could I have seen them?

We were put into this cart and driven away so fast that I was really scared and held my breath. It seemed like flying as the birds do, and I thought, “what wonderful beings these white giants are.” Soon we were at the gate of a large building and another white being came out, very slender and as thin as I felt I was, before I had eaten of that good old faqir’s food. What strange comparisons we often make, but the best of us only reason from what we know, and how little did I know? He was so thin that I did not feel very much afraid of him, as I thought he had not eaten many boys, or at most, not very many. Something was said that I did not understand, as the noise from the mouths of the two sahibs was so strange. I was lifted out of the cart and it was quickly driven away. I screamed, “My sister! my sister!” and started to run after it but was caught by a native and carried into a room where there were several other boys. They could shut me up in a room but they could not prevent me crying out for my sister, as I felt that I had been given to this sahib, and she to the other, and that she might possibly be eaten that day for dinner.

The sahib came in and had a long talk with me. He said that this was a school, an orphanage, where they kept boys who had no father or mother. They fed them, gave them clothes and taught them to read. This was news to me, but what about my sister? He replied that she would be sent to another school for girls in another city and be well cared for. This pacified me somewhat, as it was better than to be eaten, yet I would have rather been out on the road alone with the little sister than anywhere else. She was all I had, all, and I had lost her! My grief was intense. I dreamed of her at night, I thought of her every hour of the day. What else could I do but dream and think?

I was taken with the other boys out through a gate into a large yard that was surrounded by a number of houses all very neat and clean. We were then taken into one of the houses where we were given each a bath and some clothing, then into another house where we received some food that was most delightful and agreeable to me, as I had scarcely eaten anything for days, since we left the good old faqir. What a charming, soothing effect a good meal has upon, well, upon everybody. Like a fellow-feeling, it makes us wondrous kind. I had thoughts of rebellion, but the food conquered me. I concluded it might not be such a bad place after all if they gave us such good things to eat. I strolled out into the shade of a large tree in the center of the yard. The boys were rather shy of me. I was but a wee bit of a fellow, the smallest one among them all. Soon there was a ringing noise on the top of a high building at one end of the yard, when all the boys went into the building and I followed. It seemed to me that I should do as the rest did. I was lifted to a seat so high that I could scarcely get up alone, and when seated my feet were far above the floor. Soon the sahib came in and then another sahib like him, only this one had no beard and wore different kind of clothes. This sahib went to a big box, and then a great noise came out of the box and then all the boys made a great noise with their mouths, that fairly frightened me, but I thought if the other little boys were not killed by it I would not be hurt. Then the first sahib talked to Allah, as one of the larger boys told me afterward, for it was all so new and strange to me that I could not understand anything that was said. After that we went into what they called the school and I was taught to say alif be.

The days and the weeks passed and I became well pleased with my place. I followed the larger boys and they seemed to like me very much, calling me “The little one.” But one day they laughed at me when I spoke of the sahib who made a noise with the big box as the “Sahib without a beard.” This tickled them greatly, and for several days they often repeated “Sahib without a beard.” They explained that she was the mem sahib, the sahib’s bibi. I think some one must have told her about it, for the next time she came into the chapel she patted my cheeks and called me some pet name. This greatly pleased me and more than made up for the laughter of the boys. I had learned that the name of the large room was the girja, or chapel.

CHAPTER IV.

I was now as hungry to learn as I once was for food, and was soon changed from one class to another. I could not help learning for it was a delight to me. On entering the school I was put in a class studying English, and I gave my whole mind to learning this language, and the munshi who taught this class, seeing me so interested, allowed me to study with him out of school hours. Each new word and idea gave me extreme pleasure. I was very busy with my lessons, caring little for the simple sports of the boys. Yet busy as I was, often at night and often when I was sitting under the big tree my thoughts went back to the two upper rooms in that little court. It all seemed like a dream, and yet so real.

I always commenced with those rupees, poured into the dear mama’s lap. I could not go beyond their clinking sound, for at that moment my conscious life was born. I saw the white sahib standing there, the pitiful face of the mama, the tears running down her cheeks. I saw her clinging to his feet and him rushing from the room, and heard again her wailing cries. How well I recalled her sitting day after day, from week to week, peering with those large eyes toward the west; how the two men carried her away, so far away that she never returned. The grief I then experienced always came to me whenever I thought of her. Then followed the thoughts of that desperate poverty, the fearful zemindar, our wanderings, the scene at the death of the new mama, and always the good old faqir came in for a grateful thought.

The little sister—was she ever left out? Never. That little face, radiant with smiles and the mama’s eyes, my joy, my all, how could I forget her? Recalling these chapters of my life always gave me pain instead of pleasure, yet they would be remembered. If we could blot out all the pain and follies of the past and retain only the good and pleasant, what happy mortals should we be! But memory is eternal.

My reveries always ended with thoughts of the sister, and one day my desire about her became so intense that I felt I must see her. I had often been told that some day I would be taken to see her, and this kept me quiet, but now it seemed the time had come. I went to the sahib and begged him to let me go at once. He said that the next morning early he would send a munshi with me. I scarcely slept at all that night. I arose a number of times and went out to see if morning had not come. At the first glimpse of it I aroused the munshi and we departed, for a number of miles on a bullock cart and then by what he called the rehl. This was a wonderful experience to me, but I was thinking only of the little sister, wondering if she had grown, how she would look, what she would say and a thousand things about her and what I should say to her. The munshi on the way had bought some little ornaments, playthings and sweets for me to give to her, as he said we must not go khali hath, and it was very good of him to think of it, as no one ever should go with an empty hand.

How happy was I when the rehl stopped and I caught sight of the orphanage. I was trembling with joy and could scarcely walk. We soon reached the door and were shown into a room where there was a mem sahib. The munshi told her our errand. “O,” said she in Hindustani, “the little one has gone. A sahib and mem sahib came and said they would take her to be their little girl.” “Who are they and where have they gone?” asked the munshi. I heard nothing but the word, gayi, gone. It was the same word that I heard when the mama went away. My intense anxiety, kept on the stretch for so many hours, at the mention of that fatal word, was so suddenly checked, that it seemed that I was not dying but was dead. I remembered nothing more, but it must have been hours after that I found myself lying upon a cot and some one bathing my head.

A day or two after we left for home. The munshi was very sad and disappointed, for he had shared my joy in anticipation, as he now shared my sorrow. I took no pleasure in looking out of the windows of the rehl, nor cared whether we stopped anywhere or whether we went on. My heart was dead, my life had stopped and all desire had ceased. The dear mama and all I knew of her came to mind. She had gone, and now that little playful sister, how beautiful she appeared to me, she had gone too, and I would never see her again. My cup of sorrow was full, overflowing, and the dead aching pain in my heart choked me, and the more I felt the more I wished that I might be gone too as they were. I cannot tell how much I thought and felt, for who can measure the heart’s sorrows? Life for me had changed, for its only joy and hope was dead. I went through the usual routine of school duties, hardly conscious of what I was doing. I took no pleasure in anything. The boys tried to sympathize with me, but as they could do nothing they left me alone. The mem sahib talked to me and said, “It was the will of God.” I had been by this time taught a little about God. I could not see why it was the will of God that I should suffer so when I had not deserved it. I had seen some of the boys punished because they had done something wrong. I could see the right and justice of this, but what had I done to deserve punishment? I had always been kind to the little sister and loved her better than myself. When I was so hungry that I could barely stand up, and got a few grains of parched rice or grain, I gave them to her. I took more pleasure in seeing her eat them than in eating them myself. Her smile to me was my joy. If God was one of love and tender mercy, as I had been told, why was it His will that I should lose my sister and suffer so terribly? If I had done nothing for her, had ill treated her, then it might be the will of a just God to have deprived me of her as a punishment.

Such were my thoughts. I was but a child, a very ignorant one, yet I had my thoughts, such as they were. Children often think more than their elders give them credit for, and this is stranger still, since all were children once. Since that time I have often thought of myself, and could never believe my sufferings to have been according to the will of God. It is so common for people when they do not understand a thing to attribute it to this cause and make that an excuse for their ignorance and mistakes. I remember several of the questions, Was it the will of God that I should be born without a father unlike all the other boys? They had something to be proud of, though the fathers of most of them were dead; but even a dead father was better than none at all. Was it the will of God that our mama should suffer so much and then go away and leave us alone in the world? Was it the will of God that we should be separated and now be lost or as dead to each other? It is so much safer to lay the blame on God, or make His will an excuse for sins and follies than to blame ourselves, for to do the latter would be self-reproach, which is rather disagreeable; and to accuse our fellowmen might be resented, which would be dangerous. But God is so far away and keeps quiet.

I could not be resigned, yet following the routine of school duties, no matter how heavy my heart was, my grief gradually lost its power over me. What a blessed thing it is that time has the power of alleviating our sorrows and not allowing them to fall one upon another until we are crushed by them! I did not forget, but endured what seemed to me an inevitable fate or something, no matter what.

Months passed. I gave myself wholly to my studies with true delight in them. I rose from one grade to another, and became quite happy except when I thought of those who had gone. I was still the “Little One,” for even the sahib and mem sahib had come to call me by that name. I became used to it, as it suited me as well as any other.

One morning the sahib who had found me in the serai and brought me to the school came, with several others, with our sahib into the yard. Most of the boys were at play, but stopped to look at the sahibs. Standing a little behind them I heard the magistrate sahib, as I learned he was called, ask, “Where is the boy I brought you who never had a father?” “That Eurasian?” said our sahib, “we call him the ‘Little One,’ as he had no name and he is the smallest one of the lot.” One of the other sahibs asked, “Why not call him Japhet, and some day he can go in search of his father?” They all laughed, and our sahib said that “Japhet” might do as well as any other, so I was Japhet to him ever afterward, and to others to this day.

The older boys, however, had a chance. They exclaimed “That Eurasian!” as applied to me, so I was “That Eurasian” to them, and this name abideth with me still. Thus it was that I came by my two names that through all my life have been hurled at my poor head; one the donation of a Commissioner, the other of our worthy Padri. If I never got anything else from that school, I got this legacy of names.

A number of months now passed, when one morning the magistrate sahib came again. Passing into the yard I overheard him say, “I am greatly interested in that Eurasian, or, as I think, we named him, Japhet, the one in search of his father. What kind of a boy is he?” Our sahib replied, “He is one of, or rather, he is the best and brightest boy we have in school. He is a little one, as we for a long while called him, but he leaves the larger boys behind in all his studies.” This was so unexpected to me that I dodged behind a pillar; still I could hear what was said. The magistrate continued: “I have often thought of him, in fact, taken a fancy to him, and if you don’t mind, and will let me have him, I will take him away and educate him myself.” As the magistrate had brought me there, and as he was the big man of the district, whose word was law, and as our sahib had a great respect, almost fear of him, any boy of us could have told that his proposal would be accepted.

Our sahib in reply said that he would be sorry to lose Japhet, but it would be for his good to go, as he would have greater advantages. He then called out to the crowd of boys, “Japhet! Where is Japhet?” One of the larger boys pulled me out from behind the pillar, and brought me into the presence of the sahibs. Little as I was and ignorant, I was conscious that I ought not to have heard what was said about me, and I held my head down in shame, though they probably thought my embarrassment was caused by fear of the sahibs. It is often in life lucky as well as unlucky for us that we are misunderstood.

The magistrate smiled upon me. What a world of pleasure there is in receiving only a smile! They cost so little, why are they not oftener given? As he turned away he said to our sahib: “I will let you know in a few days.” Shortly after, going among a crowd of the larger boys among whom I was so small that I was hid by them, one, who understood English better than most, called out, “Do you know what the magistrate sahib said about that Eurasian?” “No,” said they, “what was it?” “Why, he is going to take him out of the school, and educate him himself!” “Wah! Wah!” shouted some of them, who were rather envious of me for being promoted out of their classes. They had also twigged the story of Japhet, and said: “Then he will go in search of his father!” “But he never had a father!” said another. “Wah! Wah!” was the only reply. I did not like the bantering tone, though I did not understand the joke, but as I had heard what the magistrate sahib said, these little things did not disturb me much.

As the months passed, the magistrate sahib often came with our sahib into the yard as if to see the school, but when I saw his smile towards me, I felt, though I never dared say so, that he came on purpose to see me. One day, as he turned to go out, I overheard this remark: “He is quite small yet, perhaps I had better wait awhile.” This startled me, and made me fear that I might never grow larger, and always have to remain. This, then, was the reason why I was not taken away. I at once made up my mind that I would grow, make myself taller by some means. The first step was to find out how tall I was, so I stood by a post in the house, and had one of the boys mark with a pencil my height, and to conceal my object, I made a similar mark for him on another post, suggesting that every Sunday morning we would come to the posts and see how much we had grown during the week.

I studied the subject very carefully. I concluded I must eat more, that I must take more exercise, walk, run and leap, and especially to practice on the bars, and suspend myself from them by my arms and chin. I had serious thoughts of tying a rope to each of my legs, with stones at the other ends to hang down over the foot of the charpoy at night, but fear of the ridicule of the boys prevented me doing this. I found myself when walking or sitting in school, straightening up so as to be as tall as possible. I often ran to a little hillock outside where there was a good breeze. I then expanded my chest; took in long breaths to see if I could not swell and make myself broader. I swung my arms around, drew them backwards, upwards and downwards, turned somersaults, as if bent on becoming an acrobat.

I often wanted to go and measure, as I felt sure that I was growing, but waited patiently for Sunday morning. It came. The result was surprising. I was above the mark, while the other boy had not grown a hair’s breadth. I was elated, and determined to increase my efforts. The extra food, the abundant exercise, the stretching, bending, pulling myself upwards was everything, but I could not get rid of the idea that my mind had a good deal to do with it, so I thought constantly of growing, longing to be taller, wishing it with all the power of my mind. Aside from my studies, my mind was wholly absorbed in growing taller. I reasoned upon the subject like a philosopher, to get every advantage I could. Another week passed, again I had grown, and so on for a number of weeks, a little more each week. Then I became somewhat frightened. What if I go on at this rate? I would be like a tall bamboo, a great, awkward pole of a boy and man. I thought of our sahib; a tall, lean, lanky man, who seemed as if he never got enough to eat. Years afterward, when I could think more naturally, I concluded that he had stretched himself so much trying to look into heaven to learn about God’s decrees that he neglected broadening himself toward his fellowmen, for his religion was such a straight up and down thing that it lacked all breadth. He had so much theology, that it made him lean to carry it. The boys could not suggest a question about anything, but he had a cut and dried answer ready, as if he had it pressed and laid away in a drawer, like a botanical specimen. Everything in him was dried and prepared with care without any of the juice left. He was a good and kind-hearted man, in his way, but his way was very narrow. Yet, I can say this of him, without any exaggeration, that I think he did more good than harm, and is not that saying a great deal to the credit of anybody?

I was greatly pleased with the result of my endeavors, though somewhat alarmed at what might happen. If necessary, to prevent myself growing too tall, I would stop eating, take no exercise, carry a weight in my turban, and at night have two sticks, one at the head and the other at the foot of my charpoy, to keep me from stretching out too much; with these provisions in mind, I concluded to run the risk and go on for a few weeks longer. The same result followed.

One morning the magistrate came. As soon as he saw me he exclaimed, “Why, my boy! How you have grown?” I was satisfied. I felt that I had accomplished my purpose. He turned towards our sahib, and said he would take me at once. I was allowed to take a few books. As the magistrate said I did not need clothes, I took only those I wore. The trinkets I had intended for my little sister, were carefully tied up in a little package, so precious to me, they were not left. I was ready at once, and salaaming to the lean sahib we went out of the gate, the boys giving a vigorous cheer as a token of their good wishes which I gladly received with a wave of my hand, we were soon out of sight, and I never saw that school again. Not long after, the tall sahib died, and I have no doubt that he got into that heaven toward which he had been stretching himself so long. My “sahib without a beard” went to Wilayat, and the boys, I suppose, soon scattered. Could I forget the school? Have I not been reminded of it every day of my life by the two names I received there, “That Eurasian” and “Japhet,” perpetual mementoes of that chapter in my life?

The carriage, with the fine spirited horses, soon reached the magistrate’s bungalow, and as we drove up under the portico, a crowd of servants, durwans, chuprassies, bearers, khansamas, khitmutgars, all came salaaming as if we were foreign princes. I say we, since they turned toward me as some special favorite who had come sitting on the seat beside the sahib. There was a broad veranda fringed with pots of plants and flowers; this I took in at a glance. On a large carpet two darzies were working, as if for dear life, though many a time afterward, I saw them nodding when their master was not by. The first word of the sahib was, “Darzi, kya, kuch kapra is larke ke waste bana sakte?” It was clothes for me, clothes, a subject on which the great Scotch mental tailor has laid so much stress. I had been so absorbed in the novelty of what was transpiring, that I was unconscious of the poverty of my appearance. Was not the great Newton once so absorbed in an experiment that he put his watch in the kettle and boiled it, while he held the egg in his hand to note the time? I always like to have some great example to refer to when I find some lapse or mistake in myself. It is so consoling, you know.

At the suggestion of clothes I took a look at myself; that is, as much of me as there was in sight. I knew that my growth had lengthened me a bit, but I had not realized that it had shortened and narrowed my clothes at the same time. The thought that like a flash of light, very warm too, rushed through me, that the boundaries of my coat did not sympathize with each other by a number of inches, that the bottoms of my trousers had sworn enmity to my feet, and were climbing in scorn toward my knees, and what was left of these lower encasements were clinging to my legs as tightly as bark to a growing tree. I could have hid behind the bearer, or the dog, or anything.

All this reflection took place quicker than light can run, and was ended by the darzi saying, “Huzoor, what kind of clothes?” The hukm was that he was to get the best in the bazar, with a free hand and a free purse, and to make everything “Europe” fashion. The whole thing was done in a jiffy. I think that is the word; it will do as well as any. Then the sahib said, “We will go into the drawing room.” We, that is, I and the sahib, or the sahib and I,—we; how strange it sounded! He didn’t hukm me at all. He asked me to take a chair. Now, I had never sat upon one of them in my life. My legs! what could I do with them? I felt that I must tuck them under me out of the way, but the sahib did not do that with his legs, so I let mine hang. What else? He talked to me so kindly that I soon felt easier; but it was a long time before I could get rid of the awe I had for the barra magistrate sahib.

He asked some questions in his kindly way, to which I answered and used the word “sahib.” At this he said, “You must not say sahib any more to me. Call me Mr. Percy, for I am your friend; I will be as a father to you if you will be a good boy.” I don’t know what I said, but I think I told him I would try ever so hard. The thought flashed over me how hard I had tried to grow to please him, and as I had succeeded in that I would do my best in everything he suggested. Soon we went to breakfast. Mr. Percy sat at one end of the table and I was placed at the other, a table large enough for a dozen people. How strange it was! The shining white cloth, and the great variety of food, dish after dish, when I had never before had more than one dish, and not always enough of that. Then my knife and fork and spoon, when I had never touched such things before! what could I do with them? I watched Mr. Percy closely. He was my working model. I wondered at the ease with which he handled his fork, and was surprised that he did not run it into his nose or under his chin. He told one of the khitmutgars to wait on me, and this man did his best to help me.

There was one thing I noticed but did not realize its object till several months afterward. There were two large vases filled with sprigs covered with flowers placed between us, so that Mr. Percy could not see me except by leaning aside. For several weeks these remained in that position, and I was left to work out my own salvation unseen. Afterward they were placed so that we could see each other face to face. When they had been changed I understood it all. I have often thought of that little expedient of his to save me from embarrassment, and I bless him for it, and for many other such little kindnesses.

Little things! and life is made up of them. A smile, a tear, a kindly word, so easy to give and of such value to receive! It is not only the one who does a great deed for a particular purpose, but the one who does the many little deeds of good to the many, who is the real friend of humanity.

As this is a truthful narrative of my experience, I must mention a little incident. I always admire truth, even when it does take down my own pride a bit. I knew what practice had done in my studies, and in my experiment in growing, and as I thought over the subject I concluded to have some practice with that knife and fork, so when Mr. Percy was starting to go to his court, and gave an order to the khitmutgar to prepare tiffin for me, I suggested to that worthy that I would have it in the room allotted to me. He nodded assent, and when the time came the tiffin was on the table. I told him that I would wait upon myself, and he could go to his khana. I locked the door after him and then took a general survey of the whole scene from the end of the room, then walked to the chair, placed it, sat down, unfolded my napkin, and began to use my knife and fork. After a few mouthfuls I placed my knife and fork on the plate, laid down my napkin, lifted back my chair, arose and retired to the end of the room for a new trial. For an hour I did this, and kept up my tiffin practice for several weeks, until one evening, when the vases had been replaced, Mr. Percy remarked, “Why, Japhet, you use your fork as if you had been born with one in your mouth.”

At first I felt I must tell him of my practice, but waited a moment and then did not do it. It is not always best to tell everything, even the truth, nor to tell all at once, for if you tell everything to-day that you know, what will you have left for to-morrow?

After dinner, Mr. Percy went with me to my room and bade me good night. A bearer was appointed to wait upon me. I thought the big bedstead, with its beautiful spread, must be an ornament to the room, and supposed that I was to lie on the floor upon its fine rug, but said nothing, as I reasoned that it was the business of every one to know his own business, so I gave the bearer his rope and let him do as it seemed best unto him, and I soon saw by his preparations that I was to lie on the bed instead of the floor.

I was mightily troubled about getting out of my coat and trousers, for, since I began that experiment in growing, they were to me and I to them, as if we had been born simultaneously. The bearer had brought the night clothes that the darzi had purchased. I have read how frogs get out of their old skins, and I think that bearer must have known all about it. I took everything as a matter of course, as if all was a daily habit of mine, and I to the manner born. I was growing very fast. The bearer left me and I slept. I almost wished for the old bare charpoy, for such fearful dreams I had on that soft bed after that good dinner! One dream was about getting into my trousers and coat again, and no end of worry it gave me. Very early I was awakened by Mr. Percy calling me, saying that he was going out to inspect a bridge, and would not be back to breakfast before eleven or twelve o’clock; that I was to make myself comfortable. So kind and considerate he was.

The bearer came and said that if I would lounge about in my pajamas for a while, the darzi would have some clothes for me to try on. That bearer was a jewel, a black diamond, a stoic, for he never even winked, or hinted at the narrowness of my former apparel. I think if I had stood on my head he would gravely have said that was the proper way for me to stand, yet I suspect he had lots of fun in the servants’ quarters talking about me. Upright as I am, I am somewhat of a suspicious nature; that is, I often suspect others of doing just what I would do if our circumstances were exchanged. I mention this, as I do not wish to be considered better than I am or was at that time. I hate gilding, for I always think there is flimsy, cheap material underneath.

When the clothes came, it took all the nonchalance I possessed to get into them, and appear to be at ease. They were not exactly a fit, but passable after a few alterations, so I emerged from my room. Then came the jutiwala with his boots, the boxwala with his shirts, socks, collars, neckties, and I was transferred into them, and transformed into what I never expected to be. I hardly need say that I went to my room to become acquainted with my new rig, so as to be ready for Mr. Percy. It seemed my whole desire was in trying to please him.

CHAPTER V.

I have been thus minute and particular to show, if possible, how strange it was to undergo this change of scene and circumstances. I have often wondered what a pupa must think when it first emerges from its prison of a cocoon into a butterfly to float in the air in the glorious sunlight! What shall we feel the moment after we have shuffled off this mortal coil and fly out somewhere? Whither?

I continued my practice in my new suit, before the great mirror in my room, until the time for Mr. Percy to come, when I went out on the veranda to meet him. He seemed surprised at my changed appearance, for, though clothes do not make a man, or even a boy, yet either looks more of a man or boy in good clothes, and before that I could scarcely say that I had any clothes at all. Mr. Percy laughed again and again, but his laughter was not in making sport of me so much as showing his pleasure. “Why, Japhet, how well you look!” and he turned me round and round, and I took a few paces out and back, as I had done before the mirror. The darzies, the bearers, the khitmutgars, the durwans on the veranda, and on the ground below, the malies snipping the flowers, the saises holding the horses, the bhisties, all were fluent in seconding the sentiments of the sahib. We then went to breakfast. The vases of flowers were between us as before, so I began to feel a little more at ease.

After breakfast we went into the drawing room and had a long chat, that is, Mr. Percy did the talking and I the listening. I have found later in life that a good listener is as necessary as a good talker in order to have an interesting conversation.

I do not remember now what was said, but I know that his remarks and especially his manner, had a charming effect upon me. One thing, however, I do recall. He said, “It is strange the way you got your name, Japhet. It is not really pretty and has no meaning but how few names are pretty and have a meaning? It is better than Hogg or Sheepshanks and may do as well as any other. It is not the name that makes the man and I wish you would always remember this. It seems to me you ought to have another name, as that is the custom nowadays and you do not want to appear odd, so I think I will call you Charles, Charles Japhet, will do very nicely.”

My blood flushed hot through me, as I thought of that other name “That Eurasian,” but I had rather have bit my tongue than told him of this. I remember also that he spoke of my books and studies, that my body had grown so fast lately, he wanted my mind to grow as well and to do this my mind must be fed with knowledge and exercised in remembering and thinking.

All this I comprehended in a moment. Had I not fed myself like a turkey for a Christmas dinner and exercised my body like a prize fighter and made it grow? The next day a teacher came and books were obtained and I commenced a course of study to continue until my departure for some school.

I now look back and see with what foresight and kindness Mr. Percy arranged to keep me in his home until I had become accustomed to my new mode of life before sending me out to fight my own battles. Scarcely a day passed but he examined me in my studies and seemed to take great pleasure in watching my progress. He had a special delight in his large garden, trimming and training his trees and plants, particularly those of a new kind, and it appeared to me that I was one of his plants that he was watching and developing. I needed no urging, as his pleased, intense interest made me respond with eagerness to his desires.

Clothes were made for me until I hardly knew where to put them, and it is not improper to say that I enjoyed practicing in them. He enjoyed making me pleasant surprises. I recall the great delight I experienced when one morning, dressing, I found in my waistcoat pocket a beautiful watch with chain and charm attached. I fairly danced for joy and I am not even now ashamed to say, I cried. I had to wait awhile for I hardly knew how to meet him. At length I went out with a joyful fear. I saw him watching me with his paper up before him pretending to read, with a merry twinkle in his eyes and a quizzical expression on his face waiting to see what I would do.

“O, Mr. Percy!” I exclaimed, “you are too good, too kind to me!” and I threw myself sobbing upon the sofa, shedding tears of joy. How could I do otherwise? “All right, Charles,” he said, “all right, my boy! Time is everything, improve it. Watch your watch! never be late for anything good, and always keep your appointments as you would your honor.”

Was I not proud? Where is the boy that is not proud of his first watch? If he is not, then there is something wrong in the make-up of that boy. How often during many days that followed, I took that watch from my pocket, let any boy who has had a watch answer. That watch has been the companion of my life, and now lies on the table before me. Many a time as I have looked at it during all these years it has recalled the expression of the eyes and face of the dearest friend I ever had, as he looked out at me from behind his paper on that memorable morning.

Such a man, such a friend, such a benefactor, was he not worthy of all my love, of my worship even? Is it not well for me now an old man, full of years and alas! bowed down with too many sorrows, to cherish with adoration the remembrance of such a friend? The very best of us have so few real, true friends, that we should make all we can of them.

The days passed and quickly too. I was absorbed in my studies and in trying to please my benefactor. He was very busy with his duties. In the mornings he usually went out to some village or to look at some road, bridge or building. During this time my teacher was with me. Our breakfast was at eleven when we had a pleasant time. Mr. Percy always had something new to tell me, made remarks on all kinds of subjects to give me ideas, and stimulate my intelligence. Then till evening he was in his court. After a time, when I had become somewhat acclimatized, so to speak, he took me with him on his evening drives to the club, the library and other public places. I kept retired as much as possible, conscious that I would appear awkward, and Mr. Percy showed his appreciation of my feelings. He was a man of the world enough to know that manners cannot be taught as from a recipe book. They must come by nature, from observation, be rubbed in by the friction of association, so he never gave me any instructions how to act, or placed any restraint upon me. Thus I was never uncomfortable in his presence since I had no fear of criticism. I was free to act, and he in all his ways, without suggesting his purpose, set me an example, in his manner, the tones of his voice, his words and method of expressing his thoughts. In after years I have often thought of this method of instruction and have wondered that so little attention is paid to the deportment, manners and personal habits of the instructors of youth. One, by observation, can invariably tell where persons were educated, from noticing in them the idiosyncrasies of their teachers. Man like a monkey is an imitative animal, and in early life he follows and becomes like that which most strikes his fancy.

Mr. Percy was of course my model, and though I have seen many men of all degrees of culture and schools, I have never met a more worthy example.

Though busy with my studies and taken up with the novelty of my life, I could not and would not forget the past. So great was the change that it seemed sometimes that I must be dreaming; but the events were too vivid in my memory to be anything but real.

I would frequently find myself sitting staring into the beyond. I always commenced with the clinking of those rupees. The sound is as real to me even now as when I first heard it. If a report starting miles away reaches me after some seconds, is it less a reality? It takes years for light to reach us from some distant planet. Is it less real because it has been years on the way? So I often saw that sahib as I see him now, as real to me as when I sat crouched in a corner of that room only a few feet from him. And the dear mama! How real she has always seemed! I have never thought of her but tears would come welling up from my heart. How I wished she could see me in my happiness! She surely would have smiled again. The little sister, always so cheerful even when she was hungry and tired! Our new mama, the good old faqir, all the scenes of the past, the hot dusty road, the separation from that sister, the losing her—what a queer strange kind of pain came into my whole body, a pain that never can be described, caused by the loss of those we dearly love; not a fleshy pain and not wholly in the mind, but of the soul, the heart, all the whole being, mental and physical; a choking, stifling, benumbing grief, that seems to stop the current of life and make us only wish for death.

The time approached for my entering some school. Mr. Percy wrote a number of letters. Catalogues were received, and it was at length decided that I should go to the St. George’s School at Dhurm Thal, a hill station. Preparations then began. The darzies were set to work, more clothes were made, and what they could not make were ordered from an English shop. The boxwalas came with brushes for the hair, the teeth, for the fingers, for the clothes, the boots and the bath. I never knew there were so many kinds before. Then thread, needles, tape, buttons, for Mr. Percy said in selecting them, “You must have a ‘Bachelor’ just like what my mother made for me when I started for school,” and away he went to his room to bring the Bachelor that his mother had made years ago, and which he had kept as a treasure. Blessed is the boy who has a mother to make nice things for him, but alas for me, my mother I had scarcely known!

He gave the Bachelor to the darzi for a pattern, with a strict injunction to be careful of it, as it was his mother’s gift. Said he, “This may come handy sometimes when you need a stitch, or find a button gone, for you should not be obliged always to depend on others.”

Then came the boots, the tennis shoes, the balls and bats, some handsome books, papers, pens, ink, sealing wax, envelopes, etc.

Nothing was omitted that he could think of. A spare room was devoted to this schoolboy outfit, and the articles were laid here and there over the room. Day after day he would say, “Now, Charles, let us go and look the things over,” and in we would go, and after a survey he would say, “Well, I don’t know what else you need!”

This outfitting was quite a recreation for Mr. Percy, and he acted as if he had once been a boy himself and had experienced the same preparations for his going away to school. If one knew in his youth how much happiness he really enjoyed, and could foresee the struggle and hardships to come, he might not be so anxious to become a man. The happiness of youth is mostly due to its unconsciousness of evil. Yet, even older people are like children in this respect, always wishing, longing for what is beyond them and to come.

Soon everything was in readiness, the boxes were packed and the morning of my departure arrived. The last thing was a huge fruitcake and a lot of sweets, “For,” said Mr. Percy, “this is the thing to make quick acquaintance with boys at school.”

A bearer was to go with me to take care of me on the way and return. He took a gari to the station with my luggage, and I went with Mr. Percy in his carriage. He had never preached to me or moralized, but on the way he said, “Now, Charles, I want you to be brave, to study hard, and above all be truthful, honest, upright, and be clean in thought, in word and act.” This was all, but there was so much in those few words, in his manner of saying them, and I knew that he spoke from his heart as he uttered them. Soon we were on the train, and as it moved off he said, “God bless you, my boy,” with a tenderness in his tone, and as I saw, with tears in his eyes. I felt it all, pressed his hand saying, “Thank you, thank you.” I knew that he felt that I was really grateful, yet it seemed to me that I had not shown my appreciation of his kindness as I should have done.

The journey was interesting, especially up the hills, as I had never seen any but level land. The school was reached in the evening, and we were shown into a large hall where there were about forty cots, but only a few boys were there. The bearer left me, to come again in the morning. At the ringing of the bell we boys went into the dining hall. I noticed its barren appearance at once. There was such a contrast between this and the dining room and tables at Mr. Percy’s that I felt homesick. I thought that if the other boys could live through it I could; but it seemed as though I was in an orphanage again, the only difference being that this was for white boys, not for natives, and in the hills. After supper we were ushered into another barren hall, the only ornament being an organ upon which a teacher played while the rest sang something, and then followed what they called prayers. I was too weary to pay much attention. Then to the dormitory to sleep.

I dreamed of Mr. Percy and saw him grasp my hand and heard him say, “God bless you, my boy!” and then I was carried away through the air up into some high mountain and left in a barren, desolate place. The fright awoke me all trembling. I saw that it was morning, the sun shining in our window. How well I remember that room! and would not four long years in it make me remember it forever? I recall it as on that first morning. Four bare walls, a ceiling and floor, with nothing to break the monotony but forty cots standing in rows as straight as the walls, and the square windows. I have often wondered, when pictures are so cheap, that they did not put a few on the walls; when nature outside showed the intention of God to make the world beautiful, that they did not give us a few flowers in cheap earthen pots, if nothing better, to relieve the everlasting squareness and barrenness. Compel a man to live in a hovel like a stable, he may not turn into a horse, but the chances are that he will not be near the man he might have been had his surroundings been such as to develop his sense of beauty. How much more should a boy be educated by his sight and senses, be taught by his daily surroundings?

There was no privacy whatever. I well remember months afterward when out walking with one of the boys, a little timid, refined lad, who told me that before leaving home his mother had made him promise to kneel by his bed every night and say his prayers. “But,” said he, “how can I do it with all the boys looking at me?” I knew nothing about praying myself, but I could feel for a boy who thought he ought to pray and was afraid to do so. A man might be brave in battle, but I think it would require more courage to kneel by his bed and say his prayers before a lot of scoffing men.

CHAPTER VI.

Everything about the place was solid and substantial. The walls were square and bare, the floors of wood, unblessed with any kind of cloth, on which our feet ached in the winter time; the tables and benches in the halls were of the hardest wood, our plates, cups and dishes all of metal, our food in abundance, the few kinds they were, but badly cooked and served by weekly routine. Even the strongest appetite must be appalled by knowing three months or a year beforehand, that on certain days at a particular minute, such and such food would invariably appear. A person’s appetite likes to be surprised at times and is pleased with variety.

As everything we saw was solid and at right angles, so everything we did was by rules. We undressed by order, got into bed by order, the light went out by order, we washed, dressed, played, studied, sang, prayed according to rule. I had an abundance of pocket money, but could not use it except by rule. We all had to take steps, to march by order. This monotonous grind by order, day and night for weeks and months and years, as if we were so many prisoners in a tread-mill, was one of the grievances of my school life. I had all I needed and more, to add to my comfort. Many of the boys were scantily supplied. Their fathers had perhaps never been boys and gone away to school, or perhaps they never had fathers as I had none, and they never found such a friend as I had. I pitied them and aided them often, and so gained many a friendship. I had plenty of good, warm, soft bedding, and many a night my extra blankets were loaned to those shivering near me.

The principal was a great solid, ruddy, beefy sort of a man, so plump and enshrined with flesh, that if he had slept on the rocks they would not have come near his bones. He wore “parson clothes,” and was always mousing around, not to do any work himself, but to see that the teachers did their’s and that the boys obeyed the rules. He read the prayers and flogged the boys, and from what we could hear some of them required his services very often, or he thought they did. The result was the same. I do not remember, during my whole four years, of ever receiving a kind word from him. If he ever spoke to me it was just what was required, of course, and by rule. We never came in contact for good or ill except once. Whether this was arranged by the decrees or by the rules, or what, I do not know or ever cared, but have since suspected—as I have stated that I am rather of a suspicious, inquisitive nature, wanting a reason or giving a reason for everything—that I was not worthy of his profound attention, but having been sent by the well-known magistrate and collector of Muggerpur, a man of considerable influence, who paid well, I was not to be interfered with, though I was unnoticed and unfavored. Though in birth I was nothing, as I well knew, and he I am sure knew it as well as I did, for such men can tell by a sniff what rank a boy or man is of, yet my patron, by his position, had raised or put me in the rank of the higher class. It was not long before I came to the conclusion that my position was fixed, not by my own merit, but by some arbitrary rule or something, I knew not what.

Though happy for myself in my position, I could not help pitying some about whom he inquired of a teacher if they were of the middle or lower classes in society. The result was that the floggings were in this proportion, commencing with the lower class, as three, two, one. Though to be just I think the higher class, of which I was accidentally one, seldom got what we deserved. Thus the scripture is fulfilled, “To him that hath, shall be given even more than he hath,” so the lower classes, who have all the poverty, misery and wretchedness, have these abundantly increased, and besides get nearly all the stripes and curses.

This class arrangement greatly puzzled me. Somewhere in one of the scripture lessons we read that “God created of one blood all nations of men,” but this we read according to rule, and probably meant nothing when it came to practice, as scripture often does, yet for the life of me, and I was very attentive whenever our rules compelled us to read our Bible lessons, I could never find out where it was said that God had created higher, middle and lower classes, and this is still one of the many things I have yet to learn.

Why was I sent to this school? I often thought of that, for I was always putting in my whys and wherefores. This school was under the distinguished patronage of the Lord Bishop of Somewhere, the Supreme Head of the Church and next to God in authority, following the ecclesiastical rules. Accordingly, every mother’s son below him in rank followed him darja ba darja, as the natives say, step by step, as sheep follow a bell-wether. When he says “Thumbs up,” it is thumbs up, and when he says “Thumbs down,” what else can it be but that?

I think it was on account of its prominent figure-head that Mr. Percy finally decided upon this school.

The teachers, with one exception, were excellent men. They were good scholars, as I afterward came to know. They performed their work thoroughly and took delight in the advancement of their pupils. And better than all, they had a kind, genial manner that showed itself in various ways and won the affections of the boys. They were above pettiness, and acted as if they had once been boys themselves. Many men seem to forget and act as if they had come into the world full grown.

The one teacher, my exception, seemed to be, I do not know what else to say, a freak of nature. I formed a dislike to him the first time I saw him. I could never get over this feeling, though I tried to do so. I was not alone in this, for during the four years I never heard a boy speak well of him. And boys can make up their minds about what they like or dislike as well as men. In fact, their judgment is often more correct, as it comes by instinct. Did you ever see a dog run around in a crowd and pick out just the man he wanted? A wide awake boy, as well as a dog, can tell who would be kind to him at the first glance.

Acquaintance with this teacher did not improve on the first opinion of him, but the reverse. He was tall and lean as if he had been brought up on milk with the cream removed. His complexion was almost milky white, or rather a pale yellow, sometimes whiter and sometimes yellower. The color of his hair was not much better than that of his skin. He had the most juvenile moustache, and a few straggling unneighborly hairs at the sides of his face, that he seemed to be nursing with great care to bring to maturity. Many were the sly jokes of the boys on those whiskers. His clothes were of the strictest cleric cut, a parson’s waistcoat, a great high collar that was ever threatening to cut his ears off, but refused to do the deed out of sheer pity.

I cannot but think, heathen as I am, that a parson, of all men, should always be a well favored, as well favored in body as well as mind, a manly man, of whom God or nature need not be ashamed and to whom the people would listen without disgust or pity. Another thing I could not understand why most of this class should always have that far away pious look, a ministerial drawl or holy moaning tone. Whether these are produced by their longings for heaven, or their food, or their devotions, or what I cannot tell. Their tone or drone and appearance, all goes to show that their profession has got the better of their manhood.

To return to the school. This teacher had really nothing in him or about him of a parson, except his manner and his clothes, and the clothes were the most valuable part of him. He evidently realized this himself, for, lacking in every respect what pertained to a real priest, he tried to make up in his dress and posing. By his manner, at first sight, not later, he would be taken to be one of God’s saints; and by his clothes, that he was the confidential adviser and chaplain of some great Archbishop or the Bishop himself. He went around the building or through our play grounds with his eyes turned towards the earth as if in holy meditation, appearing as meek as Moses was said to be, but an hour afterward when some of the boys were called before the beefy principal for some loud laughter or slight violation of the rules, we knew that “Yellow Skin” had been telling. How we learned to think of that man! not with hatred for he was not worthy of that, but with contempt, probably the same feeling that a noble mastiff has for a mangy pariah cur. He was lurking everywhere, with his eyes towards the ground as if searching for some lost jewel but we came to know that he always had his side eye upon us. Outside his classes he never spoke to the boys, as this might have compromised his clerical dignity. He never accused any one openly and the principal never revealed his informant, but any boy of us knew who had told. I always thanked my guiding star that I was not in any of his classes. By instinct I kept out of his range as much as possible.

The principal, portly as he was, knew a thing or two. He was a slow thinker, or probably thought but little, as I have not treasured up anything of his, not a saying, a witticism, an anecdote, and a man must be composed of the very essence of stupidity who in four years could not give out something worth saving. A learned professor—as I have read somewhere—claims that “genius is the evidence of a degenerative taint, that is, an epileptical degenerative psychosis.” To be just, I must absolve our chief from any such imputation. But he was business itself, a plodder in his little circle, with as much brilliancy and energy in his thoughts and movements, as in a buffalo going from grass to its wallow. He surely understood “Yellow Whiskers” thoroughly, as he never treated him as an associate, rather as a spy and lackey.

How different with the other teachers. We soon fell into the habit of making a note of their bright sayings, their anecdotes and witticisms and frequently after class, one boy would call out “Hallo Jim,” or “Dick” or “Japhet, I have got another,” and out would come the note-book and heads would be bent over it reading something good that he had got from his teacher in the class room. It became quite a competition as to who should get the most of these good things. And now after years have passed I often take out the old note-books and read them with the greatest pleasure, and again see the happy faces of the boys reading the bright things they had secured. But we never remembered anything of the sleek parson spy, except what we were obliged to do by the nature of memory, and what we would willingly have forgotten.

A little incident will show the character of one of our teachers. One morning, as we came into our class room, every eye was fixed upon a billy-goat tied in the master’s chair on the platform behind the table. Every boy looked at every other boy with a silent question on his lips, and waited in wonder what the teacher would say. I greatly admired him, as he was one of my model men, and I felt sorry for anything that might annoy him, and I think most of the class felt the same. Soon he came in, and apparently did not notice anything out of the way until he was about to step upon the platform, when he turned quickly, saying, “I beg your pardon, boys, I find I have made a mistake. I am not the kind of teacher you need, as I see you have selected a billy-goat to take my place. You, perhaps, think that he is able to teach you all you are capable of learning, so I had better seek another situation, but before I leave, as I would not act hastily, I would like to know if you all prefer the goat to me. Any one who wants the goat, hold up his hand.” Not a hand went up. “Now, any one who wants me to remain hold up his hand.” And every hand and arm in the room went up as high as they could be raised. “That settles it,” he said, “and I have a very good opinion of you. I think the chaukedar must have been playing on us all, so we will have him called to take the butt of his joke away.”

That was all. He never referred to the matter again, and our lessons went on as usual. We all, or most of us, felt so sorry for the master that we proposed as we left the room to keep dead silent. But the news of it got to the principal. We never knew how, but we all believed that the spy, always lurking about, had seen the goat through the window. That evening, as our chief pastor read the prayers, I felt by his tone, manner, and the redness of his face, that something was coming; just as the heated air and the distant rumbling thunder, tells of the coming storm.

Prayers said, little Johnny, he who was so timid that he could not kneel down before the boys to say his prayers, was called in front of the desk. Said our portly head in a pompous, angry voice, fierce enough to make a lion tremble; his face crimson, and his whole mountain of flesh fairly shaking with wrath: “You were seen in front of the school building last night, when several large boys ran past you, and I am sure they were the ones who put the goat in the master’s chair, and I want you to tell who they were?” There was a dead silence, of a minute, it seemed to me, but it may have been only a half of one, yet it was an awful long time. Johnny was as silent as the rest of us. Then the chief, angrier than ever: “Are you going to tell me who those boys were, or not?” “No, sir, I shall not tell,” said the brave lad. His voice trembled, but had a deal of firmness in it. As he gave his answer our chief drew a rattan from the table drawer, and laid it upon poor Johnny, right and left, up and down, regardless where he struck. Every blow hit me, for I had often met the little fellow and loved him. One thing, especially, brought us together. One day he told me he had never had a father, so this made us twin brothers in sympathy ever afterward. I screamed in pain, pain in my heart, the worst kind of pain. At my scream the big flogger stopped and shaking the rattan at me, shouted out: “If that boy makes another sound, I will give him something to remember. This will do for to-day,” said he, as he seemed to be exhausted, and out we went, the spy following us.

As I had been threatened for my sympathy with Johnny, my instinct told me that it might be better for him that I should not be seen in his company by the spy. I went back up the hill to a bit of level ground where we often walked, and where I knew Johnny would come, and soon he appeared. We went into a quiet little nook, and then he pulled up his trousers and showed the great red marks that were swelling into welts, and then showed me his arms and back. How those cuts must have hurt! I had never been whipped, but had received some cuts in play, so I could imagine how such a thrashing must have felt. But he never whimpered. He seemed to be more hurt in his thoughts than in his body. I took him in my arms, and told him he was a brave noble fellow, that there was not another boy in the school who could have stood such a licking without screaming and blubbering. This greatly pleased and consoled him, but he carried the marks, as he was black and blue for months. He then said that the night before, he had gone out for a few minutes, and just as he was in front of the hall, four boys ran out of the class room. He knew every one of them, as the moon was shining brightly. Just as he entered the door, the spy appeared. Neither of them said anything. When he was called up by the principal he was surprised, as he could not think of any reason for it. He was thunderstruck when the question was asked, and more so, when the blows fell.

Just as we thought, the spy was in it. Johnny did not tell me who the boys were, and I did not wish to know the name of any one who would sit still like a great skulking coward, and see a boy like Johnny, be thrashed for his fault. Though Johnny never told, they became known and were not forgotten during our four year’s course. They were not blamed for the goat affair, as all took that as a joke, but for their cowardice and meanness in letting Johnny be whipped while they looked on. They were often left out of our games when sets were made up if we could do without them. Often we would find placards on the walls and trees asking: “Who were the cowards that let Johnny be thrashed?” “Little Johnny is known, but who are the sneaks?”

But where was our teacher? It appeared that he had gone out for a stroll with a friend after his classes, but I felt sure that he knew something was going to happen about the goat affair, and he would get out of the way so as not to be called on to say anything, or to blame any one. This was just like him. He was a man, and we all admired and loved him.

As to our principal. That scene of anger and brutality ended his praying for me. He read prayers, but I never heard them. His influence over me for good or evil was ended. How could such a man as that preach to us of pity to the weak, of kindness, of charity, of mutual forbearance!

Johnny became a general favorite, a hero among us, and I never saw our teacher meet him without a smile or pleasant word, and I am sure that Johnny had many a treat without knowing the giver; for he often found sweets and cake in his coat pockets in the morning and wondered how they got there.

In spite of the rigid rules, the blank walls, the coarse solid food; in spite of the harsh bully of a man over us and the spy lurking at our heels, our time passed pleasantly. The rest of our masters were kind and considerate. I soon fell into the ways of my associates and although our rules were so precise, I soon became accustomed to them. I studied because I enjoyed it and for another reason. Not a day passed in which I did not often think of Mr. Percy. I would find myself asking, “What would he say if he could see me, if he could know my thoughts, know of my progress, what would he think of me!” I would imagine him in his home, or riding, driving, how he looked and talked. He was my other life and I could but feel from the interest he had shown in me that I was his. I guided myself in all my ways by what I thought he would like and this I now see had a wonderful influence over me. His gentleness, his intelligence, his nobility of character inspired me and had I been inclined to idleness, or injurious habits the remembrance of him would have checked me, for the thought of failing in his anticipation of me gave me pain.

To go back a little. As I awoke the next morning after my arrival, I thought of Mr. Percy and soon I was writing my first letter to him. It was the first real letter that I had ever attempted. My teacher on the plains, had daily instructed me in writing and composition, and had caused me to write some imaginary letters which he corrected. I now wrote as I thought and just as I felt. Mr. Percy had never criticised me in a way to make me feel any embarrassment. So I had no fear, besides it was a labor of love and respect. I told him of my journey, my surprise on seeing the hills, of my arrival and first view of things. The letter was ready on the appearance of the bearer. He took it and made his salaam, while I burdened him with many salaams to all the servants.

The next day there came a letter written on the day of my departure, the first of a great number that I received from Mr. Percy all of which I have kept, forming several volumes that are among my treasures. The letter ran thus:

“My Dear Charles:—

You cannot know how lonesome I have been since you left. This shows how much I think of you and what you are to me. I trust you had a pleasant journey, and arrived safely. I have no doubt you found everything strange, for it must be a new life to you. There will be some things disagreeable to you as there is to every one of us in whatever circumstances we may be placed. The world is far from being perfect, and as we ourselves lack so much, we should always be ready to make allowances for others. The best way is to do the best we can, take the bitter with the sweet, and endure bravely what we cannot cure. I am anxious for the return of the bearer to hear from him about you, and also to receive a letter which I am sure you have sent by him. Wishing you every blessing and success, I am your very desolate and devoted friend,

R. Percy.”

In a few days another letter came:

“The bearer has returned and I am so glad to hear such a good report of you and of your position. He is ready again and again to give his account of the ‘Chota Sahib,’ and I often see him surrounded by everybody in the compound and know he is telling of his journey up the hills and no doubt much about you. I was this morning behind one of the trees in the garden and overheard him say to the mali, “One day the ‘Chota Sahib’ will become a ‘Barra Sahib,’ so you see there is some hope for you.””

I could see in my mind the twinkle of his eyes as he would have made this remark had I been near him.

The letters came and went regularly two a week. One of the rigid rules was that we were to write home only once a week. I considered this most unjust, especially if the writing did not interfere with my studies. I evaded this rule openly a number of times until I was spoken to by the principal. I then secreted the materials in my pocket and went for a walk to a place sheltered by a rock where I could be unseen and yet see any one coming. This was my writing place, that is for off-day illegal letters during the first year, except in the rains when I sought shelter in a hut built for the watchmen. My trunk on leaving home was well supplied with writing materials and with stamps, so I had no trouble in this respect. But how to get the letters to the post was my first query? I had plenty of money and had given the bearer of our room several tips already, so he was my friend and remained very devoted to me during all the years I was in school. He was a good fellow in himself and would have done me favors without reward.

I always like to speak as well as I can of human nature. It is so defective at the best that we should always keep the better view of it to the front, if possible. Yet, I think my tips had considerable to do with his constant allegiance to my interests. Money is like cement in a wall; it keeps the bricks together. The power of money! What has it not done and what is it not able to do? Nothing on earth seems able to stand before it. Nor honor, nor patriotism, integrity or virtue? Even the doors of heaven seem to be unlocked by it. If not, why the gifts of wicked men who have spent their lives in sin, if they did not have faith that they could purchase a mansion in heaven, as they could buy a ticket for a seat in a theatre?

It was privately arranged with the bearer that on certain days he would find under the sheet at the foot of my bed a letter which he was to take to the post-box on the lower road. So faithfully was this contract kept that my letters never failed to be posted.

To be sure this was a violation of the one of the rules, but what of it? I was not conscious of wrong in evading the rule. They had no right to make it. It interfered with an inalienable natural right of mine, and the right of my best friend to have the letters from me. If they had said, “You must not write during school hours,” I would have seen the sense and justice of it. My instinct rebelled against the rule and I violated it with a clear conscience. I hate injustice and have a contempt for the petty kind, and who has not? Tyranny is one of my devils, man-made, however, for I have never got my faith high enough or so low as to believe in the divine origin of the devil or any devils. They are all so low down, that man must have begotten them.

As to the rule, I took pleasure in breaking it for it was absurd and unjust. If they had posted up in our room “No pillow fights.” I would at once have said, “Right you are,” for a violation of such a rule would cause destruction of property, confusion, and no doubt the devil of quarrel would have been born.

I think that the world, as well as schools, is cursed with too much legislation. Statutes, laws, regulations, restrictions, prohibitions at every turn, are enough to make us all sinners. I often think of that old fable of Eve and the apple, that if the Lord had told her to go out and gather all the apples in the garden and eat as many as she wanted, she would have said that she did not like apples, and never did from the time she was born, they were too acidulated, and she would not have tasted even one; but when she was told not to touch any of them she was bound to break the rule, even if she broke her neck and the necks of all of us, her children. I cannot leave this without noticing a question that has often bothered me, because I am no theologist and yet cannot take everything by faith on the mere say so of man or men—and that is, since the Lord foreknew what Eve would do, why did He place the apples in the garden and then forbid her to take them? Did He not lead her into temptation? That is, if the story about her is true. If, knowing the predilections of my bearer for appropriating my property, and particularly for his dislike of seeing silver and copper coin lying around unused, why should I freely place them about in his sight to excite his desire of reciprocity, in order to tempt him and so bring punishment upon himself and upon his children? Would not I, an educated fore-thinking sahib be more to blame for what I did, than what he a poor ignorant man did? Though I have studied much, and thought a little, yet I am often puzzled by such simple questions.

It is the little things of life that bother us the most. Poor Johnny could take a flogging that raised great welts on his body without a squeal, but he could not kneel to say his prayers when the other boys could see him. I have ridden an elephant, a noble tusker, all day in the forest after tigers and he never flinched, but in the evening when he was hobbled to a tree, one little mosquito buzzing about his ears would set him frantic with rage. It is the mean, petty annoyances that make life a burden, and it is not strange when they become frequent, that many take tickets of-leave for parts unknown.

CHAPTER VII.

From the first I found myself in a very good position in the school. The principal and teachers knew who had sent me and this settled my status with them. And I knew that the principal had received a letter, for Mr. Percy told me that he would write, and that I need have no fear of my reception or treatment. The boys soon learned that the magistrate and collector of Muggerpur was my patron. They also knew that I received two letters a week from him, and so probably concluded that I must be of some account. When I became better acquainted I read some of the letters or paragraphs to some of my intimates, and this had its effect, for the letters were such that any boy or man might be proud of receiving. They might talk of their fathers, and though I never had one I could show them that I was not friendless. These things gave me a standing with the boys. Besides I had a superior outfit, comprising everything that a boy could want in school. My clothes were of the best material and made in the best style, some of them by a “Europe” tailor. I think there is nothing that gives a boy such self respect as good fitting clothes. Some of the boys, and I pitied them, had clothes that could only humiliate them. “The apparel oft proclaims the man,” and I think often greatly helps to make the man. Their trousers were either so long as to drag on the ground or so short as to expose their legs, and their coats hung like bags from their shoulders. How could a boy rigged in such fashion stand erect and be polite?

Then I had two good trunks, not boxes, with spring locks, in which I could keep everything safely and neatly. These trunks were the admiration of my fellows. Later in life I have thought of the value of the impression those trunks made on the minds of my room-mates. The whole outfit of a man is a delineation of character. It has a subjective influence on the man himself and reveals to others the style of the owner. It seems nothing would humiliate me more than to go among strangers with a box or trunk, the hinges broken, the lock gone and the thing bound up with rope. I would certainly make an allowance, as I always have done, for poverty. I have never, since I was taken up by my best friend, been in want of money; yet I have seen so many to whom an ana was of more value than rupees to others, that I have not only a respect, but a profound sympathy for the poor. Still I cannot excuse negligence or laziness in not repairing a hinge or lock to a box, when it would require but little labor or expense.

Boys will be boys the world over, and I never yet saw a boy whose mouth was not open like a young bird’s, ready for something to eat. We were allowed only once a week to make purchases, and the mittai and boxwalas knew the day as well as we did, and never failed to come, and though it was not down in the rules that we should see them we always met them and on time. Many were the talks we had about what we should purchase next time. It soon became known that I was a liberal buyer, and I am proud to say that I was also a liberal giver. This made me many a friend and warded off many a bad cut that I might otherwise have received. There was nothing great in this, no real true feeling or friendship. It proves nothing but this, that boys as well as men know on which side their bread is buttered. How frequently we see men, brainless idiots, without a virtue or grace to recommend them, fawned upon by men of intelligence, of honor or without honor, for the sole and only reason that they have money. Let there be a carcass, though tainted, the vultures will surround it. My instinct was not so dull but that I saw through this personal attachment of some of the boys, not all of them, I am glad to state, for quite a number of them whose pockets were rather pinched, liked me not only for my sweets, but for my own sake. I know this, for years after, when I met them, they would say with a warm grasp of the hand and a kindliness of voice. “Japhet you were kind to me at school.” Such expressions are worth more than Government Stocks and far better than lying, empty inscriptions on a tombstone after one is dead.

But there were ripples now and then. Soon after the term opened the new boys began to make up the different teams, clubs and societies. There was one team rather high, inclusive of the larger boys of what they considered the “first class” and exclusive of any that did not quite come up to the views of their set. In short, they were aristocratic, and I could never understand on what this was based. In looks they were inferior to others; their manners were rude and coarse; in their studies they were below the average, and some of them did not pass their “exams;” yet they presumed to be the set of the whole school. It is not only in school that we see this assumption of superiority, for in life similar scenes are enacted.

I have often been amused by the strutting and parading of men who are in society. I knew one, the son of a London tailor in the civil service, who would have taken oath that he had never seen a goose; another, the son of an engine driver, who I know would have sworn that he really did not know what an engine was, but then he was so ignorant that he would not have known his own father, the engine driver, had he met him in “society.” And of the aristocracy itself, it might not be safe for many of them to look up their pedigrees, for fear of running against a pirate, a ruffian, or a scamp of some kind.

I saw something of this in the manners of the set, but paid little attention to it, as they were mostly very civil to me; probably for the reasons I have given. I was fully occupied, and this is the best preventive of devils being born in one’s self.

One day, as I was seated on a bench behind a bush reading a book, I overheard some one ask, “Why not take Japhet?” “What! that Eurasian?” said the other. This startled me. I had almost forgotten that other name of mine, but this remark revived it. I remained quiet, but as they passed on I saw that he who had repeated the name was one of the four who had been the cause of Johnny’s punishment. Had he been any other I would have felt the slur more than I did. I had no idea what the word meant, as I had concluded it was but a chance nickname that boys often give each other. But now being uttered by this boy, who could not have heard it before, I thought there must be something in me or about me that made the name applicable to me; that there must be a meaning to it, and resolved to say nothing until I saw Mr. Percy again. Yet I could not forget it.

When I went up to the room I surveyed myself in a small mirror I had. My hair was black, but other boys had hair as black as mine; some had red hair; others white; some yellow. I preferred the black, so the question about the hair was settled. Some boys had pale, sickly complexions, others reddish-yellow, and some had faces as brown as mine, so I could see nothing in my face to make me an oddity, such as to be called by a particular name. I stood erect, had well-fitting clothes, and saw nothing out of shape or style, so gave up trying to solve the mystery and went back to my book.

When I have thought of this I have smiled at the simplicity of my ignorance, and wondered why I did not inquire of some one what “Eurasian” meant. One reason was that I was too proud to confess my ignorance; but another and a greater one was a fear that there might be something in it to my detriment, and I would delay the knowledge of it as long as possible. It has been one of the weaknesses of my life to put off the disagreeable as long as possible, though sure it must inevitably come sooner or later.

I think it was the fear of hearing something unpleasant that kept me silent. I concealed my fear, however, and I doubt if any one ever suspected that I had thoughts of the opprobrium cast upon me by this name. I resolved to make up any defect or deformity by my standing, not only in my classes but in our social life, by my proficiency and courtesy, and I think in a great measure I succeeded, for except by a very few, who occasionally in a mocking way tried to give me a snub, the others treated me not only with respect, but considerable deference. One of those who would have crowded me out, if he could have got others to join him, was a great lubberly fellow, coarse in feature and dull in intellect. He was the son of a chaplain on the plains who was compelled to marry the daughter of his charwoman before he left college. This I heard years after, and it was well I did not know it then. It is a wise provision of Providence that we do not know everything about our fellow-mortals. The mother of this boy, as I saw her years after, was an adipose creature, a fine specimen of good living and poor thinking. Once, calling on her husband to make some inquiries, the only remark I heard her make was, “Henry, I think that rooster will make a fine curry one of these days,” referring to a pullet in front of the veranda.

The father was a “so so” sort of man, almost emaciated as if he gave his wife all the fat and nearly all the lean to eat. He had a recipe for a rum punch that he was offering to everybody, so that the profane of his flock called him the “Rum Punch Padri.” He was a good-natured, fidgety man, no sooner commencing anything than he was off to something else. He showed his nature in the performance of the Church service, for I never saw a padri get through with it quicker than he did. He never made a pause, and seemed never to take breath. From the time he commenced to the finish, it was a race between himself and the congregation; he to see how far ahead he could get, and they to keep in sight of him, for they would hardly begin “Good Lord” than he was far away into the middle of the next sentence. This reminds me of what a friend, the surgeon of a man-of-war, told me of their chaplain, one Sunday morning, betting a bottle of champagne that he could get through the service in fifteen minutes. He went in for it and came out with his watch in his hand, throwing off his gown, claimed his champagne, and got it. But the “Rum Punch Padri” was a truthful man, for he frankly said one day that so many services were a great bore. He was not to blame so much for his haste, for he had to make up for his wife’s slowness—and she was so slow! I often thought that if I had such a wife—but I will not say what, as it is not always best to say just what one thinks.

If it is really true that children get their intellect from the mother, and that there never was a smart man who had not a smart mother, one of the problems of the future in step with the progress in other things, will be to give everybody smart mothers; but that cannot happen just now, as what would be done with all the dull women? If it were said to each of them vide Hamlet, “Get thee to a nunnery,” the world would be almost motherless.

After seeing the mother I could make some allowance for that boy. Had I known her in my school days he would have had my fullest sympathies, with such a maternal burden. He could not help being born lazy, tired, dull and snobby, though the latter trait he probably got from his father. I did feel enough for him to aid him in his mathematics and translations. The father was of good family, that is, the society “good,” not in mentality, nor in sense, certainly not in morals. It was a false label as applied to him, or rather a good label attached to a fraudulent article.

I found myself admitted into the highest set, and had not much to complain of. The term passed quickly. I often indulged in reveries of the past, and hoped that in some future time I could gather up the threads of my life and unravel the mystery of my early days, for there was certainly something strange and mysterious, for little Johnny and I were the only boys who never had a father, and it was strange, very strange. He was a modest, quiet and lovable lad, and we often walked and talked together, for he confided in me as an elder brother.

The year closed with our examinations, and I was extremely happy in being able to carry the report to my best of friends that I had passed at the head of my classes. This was not from any superior mental ability, but because I had a special delight in studying. In one of Mr. Percy’s letters he said, “Anything you have to do, do it with all your mind and strength. Don’t dawdle. If you find your mind is tired, rest it by taking up another book, or if you can, take a good run. If at play, engage in it with all your might. Don’t linger over anything, act vigorously, and stop.” This letter was a spur to me, and many a time when I was growing listless, that expression “Don’t dawdle” came up. I did not know really what it meant, and have never looked it up yet. I caught the idea he intended to convey, and used it as my mental whip. Since then I have often used the word upon myself, and would like to have used it upon others, for there are many dawdlers in the world.

We had our final games, our last treats, packed our boxes and were ready to depart. The bearer had come for me. The journey down the hills and on the train was pleasant; but the anticipation of meeting Mr. Percy made me oblivious to almost everything by the way. As the train drew up to the station, I saw him looking eagerly at each passing car. He quickly saw me, and his first words were, “Why, Charles, my boy, I am so glad to see you. How you have grown!”

The carriage was in waiting, and soon we were at home. I cannot tell how the other boys felt when they met their fathers and mothers or friends, but I doubt if any of them were happier than I. If the heart is capable of holding only so much joy, they could not have been happier, for mine was full. The servants were all ready with their profoundest salaams and greetings, and even the dogs, from the big hound to the little terrier, were glad, and he must be hard-hearted indeed, who cannot enjoy the greeting, sincere and honest as it is, of a dog.

Need I tell of the pleasant dinner that followed? The big vases of flowers were not now needed to hide my mistakes. All was as if I were some distinguished guest, not that quite, but a long absent friend. After that came our chat with our coffee in front of the fire. One thing gave me the greatest pleasure, and that was Mr. Percy’s evident satisfaction in my improvement. He never praised or flattered me, though he always spoke kindly. It was not in his words so much that I knew of his pleasure, as in his manner, a feeling that came from his heart, and through his eyes, in his voice, his smile, his gestures; in fact, his satisfaction showed itself in the whole man. He was all or nothing. His whole being was absorbed in what he was, and all his faculties and energy in what he did. He could not profess to believe anything and then act contrary to it. There was no sophistry in his words or deception in his manner. His leading characteristic was sincerity. He often said that he made many mistakes, and he might have added that he was ever ready to acknowledge and rectify them. He had his moods as all should have. At home in his library, investigating some abstruse law case, he was as frigid as marble, and could bear no interruption from friend, servant or dog. Even in this mood he was never out of temper, for I never once saw him surly or cross. He calmly gave the order that he was not to be disturbed and it was obeyed. Once I broke the rule. The door was closed and the bearer acted as Cerberus. A young man had come to see me ride a pony that Mr. Percy had purchased for me. I did not like to wait, for it might be hours before the door would be opened, as it was early morning, and I might miss the chance of a ride. I approached the door and the bearer shook his head, but I gave a timid knock and heard “Come in.” I opened the door just enough to let my voice in and said, “Please may I ride the pony?” “Yes, Charles; good morning,” he answered. I heard the smile in his tone, and said “Thank you.” I think he would have received the bearer with the same courtesy if it had been necessary to interrupt him. He treated the servants with kindness, even the sweeper had respect shown him. He made all allowances for their capacity and position. I remember one morning a neighbor called, and while sitting on the veranda complained of one of his servants who was not able to do this or that, and after he had finished, Mr. Percy quietly asked, “Stoker, how much ability do you expect to get for eight rupees a month?”

I saw him in his court room where he put on his judicial mood, when calm and dignified he listened to all parties alike, showing in his manner that he had taken no side, but was trying to find out the truth that he might act justly. One thing I remember particularly, he would not allow a witness to be bullied or frightened out of his senses by a pleader on the opposite side, as is too often the case. In some courts one might think the one accused of crime had got into the witness stand instead of the dock, from the manner the witness is treated. The way they are often badgered is enough to keep them away from court, and when there, to prevent them telling a straight story, either true or untrue. After calmly hearing a case Mr. Percy would deliberately render his judgment. When many years had passed, and I had an opportunity of inquiring, I found that never was one of his decisions reversed by a higher court.

There was not a more sociable man in the station than he. He was extremely fond of good company. I mean by that, of intelligent men and women of good sense, agreeable manners; who had something worth talking about, who could wield argument even against himself, and I think he was more pleased with a keen opponent than with one who agreed entirely with him. He was fond of wit, and had an abundance of it. I knew that he hated low talk and vulgar anecdotes. No one ever commenced the second time to tell one of those ill-flavored stories in his presence. Once a rather fast youth, who presumed a good deal on his family and position in society, was about to offer one of his unsavory morsels, when Mr. Percy remarked in the tone of a judge roasting a thief, “Mr. Sharp, you had better take your smut to another market.” Another time, after a bachelor’s dinner, a man high up in the service commenced to relate one of his bald old elementary jokes that appeared to have some impropriety in it. Mr. Percy arose and left the room without a word, but every one was conscious of what he thought and felt. The social thermometer fell suddenly a number of degrees, and the story remained untold.

His purity of conversation was one of his characteristics. I cannot recall a word or story of his, that could not have been told in a drawing room to the most refined ladies and gentlemen. He would no sooner let dirty talk come from his lips than he would have taken filth from the gutter and rubbed it upon his own face or thrown it in the faces of his friends. This had a great effect upon me in after life.

One may make allowance for ignorant men who have always lived in an atmosphere of coarseness and vulgarity, for indulging in talk which seems second nature to them, but I never could comprehend how educated men, boasting of their blood and family descent, claiming to be Christians and gentlemen, can indulge in stories and insinuations that are most repulsive to all but those whose minds gloat and fatten upon salacious garbage.

Mr. Percy could become angry, but always with a reason and a purpose, yet at times, under great provocation, he could be as cool as if nothing had happened. He was once making an experiment in trying to grow seedless oranges. There were only half a dozen fruit on the tree, and while they were ripening he never missed seeing them several times a day, and every one about the place knew his interest in them. The malies were ordered to watch them night and day. One morning all were gone. The malies were instantly summoned. They declared that their eyes had been upon the oranges every minute; they would sooner have plucked out their eyes than to have had the fruit disappear. He knew that one or all of them were guilty, as it was impossible for any one else to have taken the fruit without their knowing it. They were all ordered to the veranda, and the bearer was told to bring the galvanic battery, or bijli ka bockus, as they called it. A large mirror was placed in front of the box. They were told to look into the mirror and to take hold of the handles of the battery and the oranges would be seen in the eyes of the thief. They all exclaimed that the idea was an excellent one. Three of them stood the test bravely, receiving the shocks and looking with eyes wide open into the mirror. The fourth, as he took hold, when the current was increased, cried out that he was dying, and tightly closed his eyes, declaring that the light was so bright that he could not open them. “All right,” said Mr. Percy, “if we cannot see the oranges in his eyes we will look into his house,” and every one went to see the search. Sure enough, the oranges were found hidden in the man’s hut. Mr. Percy did not dismiss the man or even utter a word of reproach. His fellow servants, however, did not let the matter rest, as they often asked him what he thought of the bijli ka bockus. There was no more fruit stolen after that. The report got abroad in the bazar, and probably there were but few in the city who did not hear of the Barra Sahib’s wonderful instrument for detecting a thief.

Once he had purchased a number of sheep to add to his flock. A few mornings after, looking them over, he asked the shepherd where he got those strange sheep. “Why,” said the man, “they are the very sheep his honor bought.” Mr. Percy suggested, “They are very much changed,” and examining them closely, exclaimed, “They have been sheared!” “Sheared!” said the man, in utter astonishment, “is his honor’s servant such a dog as that, to let any one shear the sheep while I am the shepherd?” “Very well,” said Mr. Percy, “put the sheep in the yard and feed them.” He then turned to me and said that we would take our morning ride, as my pony and his horse were waiting.

We rode off to one of the villages near which the sheep had been pastured. Calling the zemindar or head man he asked him if there was any wool in the village, as he wanted some immediately. The zemindar replied that the day previous he had seen one of the villagers carrying some wool to his house, so bidding him show us the place we followed. The man was called and told to bring out all the wool he had, which was quite a load for him. Mr. Percy said it was just the kind of wool he wanted, and told the man to bring it with him at once. He asked the zemindar to come also.

We returned at a walk with the men at our heels. Mr. Percy was so quiet and deliberate that no one would have suspected the purport of this wool gathering. On reaching the sheep-fold the shepherd appeared at the gate. With a glance he took in the whole situation, the zemindar, the purchaser and the wool itself. He stood trembling from head to foot. Mr. Percy sat on his horse silently looking at him for some moments, as it seemed to me, then calling the shepherd by name, he said, “You tell that lying dog of a servant who takes care of my sheep that if he has any more wool to sell that I would like to buy it.”

There was not a coarse or improper word used. There was anger, but it was of that slow, intense, deliberate kind that made every word cut with a keen, sarcastic edge, or fall like a blow upon the man until he could stand no longer, but fell crouching before us and begged that the sahib would strike him, kill him, but not say anything more. I thought that I would have rather taken any number of lashings than those reproachful words. Mr. Percy turned without another word to him, after he had thrown himself upon the ground. He inquired of the man how much he had paid for the wool, and calling the bearer told him to pay that amount and a rupee besides, and suggested that he buy no more wool of the shepherds. He also told the bearer to give the zemindar some fruit for his children, and our morning’s adventure was ended.

I asked him if he was going to dismiss the shepherd. “O, no,” said he, “I might get a worse thief, and he will never shear the sheep again.” He never did, and was one of the most faithful servants ever afterward.

I have known many sahibs since then, and doubt if they would have let such a man off so easily. Most of them, in their wrath, would have thrashed him with a horse whip, or others would have sent him to jail. Though Mr. Percy had his riding whip in his hand, he did not even raise it, and he would no more have struck the man than he would have struck me. He abhorred that brutal custom of flogging the natives, or throwing boots, or anything convenient, at their heads, so frequent among the high born sahib log.

He always made allowances for the circumstances of the natives. Once, referring to the ignorance, poverty and low wages of the people, he said: “If I was so hard pressed as they are, I am afraid I might do a little stealing myself.” He was very kind to the poor, and they all knew him as their friend.

Early on each Sunday morning, there would be a crowd of the lame, blind, diseased, old, decrepit women and mothers with sickly, starved children, in our compound. As soon as we had taken our tea, which was very early, he would say: “Now, Charles, let us go to our religious service. We will not say, ‘Let us sing, or let us pray,’ but we will worship God in giving something to His poor.” So we would go out, he, with his bag of rupees, anas and pice, which he had ready, and each of the Lord’s poor would come up to get their share. He never trusted this to the servants. This was his personal service unto God, and he performed it devoutly as if he felt God himself was there seeing it all, and I have no doubt He was.

CHAPTER VIII.

I have in my life attended many religious services, but never one that impressed me of so much good as those to the poor in our compound. This service was not restricted to Sunday, as is too often the case in religious matters, as if God was shut up in the churches and He only did business one day in the week.

Scarcely a day passed but some came to him for assistance of some kind, and very few went away without a token of his kindness. He was cautious in giving, yet he very often gave when he was not quite satisfied, saying: “I would rather take the chance of giving to twenty undeserving, than to fail once in doing right to any one. The deceivers hurt themselves more than any loss to me. I will do the best I can, and the settlement at last will be all right.” Then he added, “Charles, my boy, always remember this, a man who does a mean act always hurts himself more than anybody else. It may not seem so at the time, but sooner or later in this life, or the life to come, every wrong act will rebound upon the doer like a boomerang, and this will make an eternal punishment. This is one of God’s beneficent and inexorable laws, and I do not believe that He will or that He can change it. Whatever a man sows that shall he reap, is true, not because it is in the Bible, but because it is in harmony with the universal law of cause and effect, in nature, and also in morals.”

He often indulged in such reflections. It was his indirect way of appealing to my reason, in giving me suggestions and advice.

I have said that he was kind to the poor. He took a great interest in establishing hospitals and dispensaries in the district, and when the Government allowance for medicines was not sufficient, he supplied this from his own funds. He always kept a stock of medicines on hand and various medical works, which he had well studied, so that he was quite a doctor. For some of the villages remote from the dispensaries, he would send medicines for free distribution to some prominent native, usually a man in Government service, with full directions as to the use of them.

One day a native from one of these villages came to ask for a certain kind of medicine. He was asked how he knew of the medicine, and he answered that he had bought some of the Tahsildar sahib, and that he had gone to him for another bottle, but the Tahsildar sahib had demanded two rupees for it, and he had paid only one before, so he had come to the Barra Sahib. Mr. Percy told him that it was not possible that he was telling the truth in saying that he had bought the medicine. The man declared that he had told the truth. Mr. Percy, turning to me, said, “Well, Charles, we have some business in hand, and you must help me out. I believe this fellow, but his say so will not be sufficient proof against the Tahsildar. If we cannot get up a scheme to entrap this fraud we had better leave the country at once.” Ram Singh stood waiting very attentively, not understanding anything that we said. For a few minutes Mr. Percy sat with an elbow on each arm of his chair, with his hands in front of him, the tips of the fingers of one hand touching the tips of the other, while he looked away off, as if he could see help coming from a distance. This was often his attitude when engaged in deep thought. “I have it, I have it!” he exclaimed, and going into his library, returned with a ten-rupee note. “Now,” said he, “I will write something in Greek, and sign it with my initials, and you can put on it some writing with your name.” When he had finished, he handed the note to me, and as I turned to go to the other side of the table, there sat “Cockear” before me. This was a terrier always waiting and watching. We called him Cockear because his right ear always stood erect, or rather, leaned forward, while his left ear always hung down at the side of his head, giving him a most comical appearance. I had tried to make sketches of this dog, and on the impulse of the moment, with him before me, watching intently, as if he had some interest in the business in hand, I got a sketch of his head, particularly that ear of his, and wrote Charles in front, and Japhet after it, with “his” above and “mark” under the sketch.

A few days previous a soldier had come to sign some papers before the magistrate and I noticed he signed in this way with his mark. I was greatly surprised that a good looking European was unable to write his name, so I got the hint from the way he signed the paper. As I handed the note to Mr. Percy he exclaimed “Excellent! excellent! just the thing, couldn’t be better.” He sent for the villager and when he appeared he said, “Ram Singh, you know I am your friend, your bhai, brother.” “Certainly Sahib, I know it, for didn’t you come out and help me when I was in great trouble and came very near losing my fields.” “Now Ram Singh do you think you can do just as I tell you without a mistake?” “Certainly Sahib, if I have to die for it.” Said Mr. Percy, “Here is a ten-rupee note, now listen with both your ears for you must do just as I tell you.” “Without any doubt Sahib.” “You take this note, go back to your village and to-morrow morning, take two men, your friends with you, show them the note and then you go to the Tahsildar and buy a bottle of the medicine, give him the note and get eight rupees from him, do this so that your two friends can see the whole transaction and prove by them that you bought the medicine.”

Ram Singh was asked to repeat the instructions several times to show that he thoroughly understood them. And now said Mr. Percy “Don’t you gossip along the road with any one about this matter and don’t say a word about this to your wife for you know how the women chatter.” “Yes, yes, I know it too well,” he replied with a knowing look, for his wife’s free tongue had caused the trouble about the fields, and the Sahib had made a good point of it. “After you get the medicine, bring the bottle and the eight rupees and your two friends straight to me as quickly as you can, for I will be waiting for you.” Saying “very good, Sahib, it shall be just as your Honor has commanded,” he made his salaam and departed.

I was greatly interested in the affair, because I was admitted as a partner, a junior one to be sure, yet still a partner. I questioned if Ram Singh would do as he was told. “No doubt of it,” said Mr. Percy. “I know Ram Singh well, and he will do his part to the very letter just as I told him. That is the pleasure in dealing with these natives, if they have entire confidence in you, they have no minds of their own when in your service and never stop to reason, but do just as they are told. This is rather inconvenient at times. Once I gave a darzi some cloth and an old pair of trousers for a pattern and told him to make a pair just like the old ones, but to my dismay he put in all the patches and darns.”

I was considerably excited over our plot and showed it by my restlessness. “Charles, Charles,” said Mr. Percy, “You are too agitated. I am afraid you would never do for a judge.”

As that day was some joogly poogly of a holiday, Mr. Percy had more leisure than usual and various were our talks and amusements, as if he was living over one of his boyhood days. Suddenly changing our conversation he said, “Your letters each week were so different from each other, so much so that I could not help noticing it, why was it?” Then I told him, that by a rule we were allowed to write only one letter a week, on Saturday, and these were delivered to the principal who read them before they were sent; that when writing these regulation letters I was not free to write just what I thought but all the time I was writing I could think only of what the principal might say or criticise. “I see, I see,” said he. Then I told him of my little trick about the other letters, of my writing them out by the rock and of my compact with the bearer to post them. With a pleased smile, as if he remembered he had once been a boy himself, he replied: “Charles I am afraid you are somewhat of a rogue after all.” I could not help judging from his manner that if he thought I was a rogue I was a very good kind of one, for he often spoke of his delight in those stolen letters.

The morning came and with it, Ram Singh, his two friends, the bottle of medicine and the eight rupees. So far so good. He was told to keep the empty bottle and the filled bottle he had just bought, by him, and that he should go out and the bearer would give food for himself and his friends, but to say not a word about the business to any one. A sowar or mounted messenger was sent in haste to order the Tahsildar to bring all the money he had collected for some village purposes, all the medicine in hand, as Mr. Percy wished to examine them, and the full list of all those to whom he had given medicine.

A few hours afterward, came dressed for the occasion, the Tahsildar, with the haughty air of one honored by being sent for to meet the Barra Sahib. He was shown into the library. After the usual fulsome greetings, the Tahsildar, radiant with pleasure, the village accounts were examined and the money handed over. I was standing by and at once saw our old friend the ten-rupee note. To restrain my expression of surprise, I put my hand on my mouth as if I had suddenly bit my tongue and went to another part of the room. I felt certain that I was not fit to be a judge as I could not keep a straight face. I quickly returned, Mr. Percy counting the money took up our note, saying to the Tahsildar “This is a strange looking note, can it be a good one?” “Without doubt,” said the Tahsildar, “it must be a good one.” “We will have to trace it,” replied Mr. Percy, while turning it over and holding it up towards the light. “Where did you get it?” he inquired, and the Tahsildar quickly answered, “I am sure I got it of one Ram Singh of the village of Futtypur.” “How did you come to get it?”

“In this way,” and the Tahsildar hesitated. “The man came to buy some cloth, and got me to change the note for him, which I did.” “Very good,” said Mr. Percy; “we will see about this later.”

The medicines were all examined, and then the list of those to whom donations had been made. Mr. Percy, looking over the list, quietly said, “You gave away all these; that is, I mean, were none sold?” “Allah forbid!” exclaimed the Tahsildar. “How could it be possible when his honor, out of his distinguished generosity, had provided medicine to be given to the poor, that his honor’s slave should be such a dog as to sell any of the medicines?”

I looked over the list, but Ram Singh’s name was not there. Mr. Percy went out of the room for a moment, and soon after he returned, in came Ram Singh with his two friends. As junior partner, I did my part in looking on, especially watching the face of the Tahsildar. At the appearance of Ram Singh he surely felt that there was mischief brewing, for he scowled and fairly looked daggers at the man.

“Now, Ram Singh,” inquired Mr. Percy, “did you ever get any medicine of the Tahsildar sahib?”

“O yes, I got a bottle.”

“When?” quickly asked Mr. Percy.

“It was on the last day of the Ram nila mela, when the people were coming from the pooja.”

“He gave you some?”

“No, no. I paid a rupee for it; and here is the empty bottle.”

“Ram Singh!” said Mr. Percy, very sternly. “Do you expect me to believe that you went and paid the Tahsildar sahib a rupee for a little bottle of medicine, when you are so poor that you cannot get food enough to eat?”

“He is lying,” broke in the Tahsildar, catching at this straw, “they are all liars, these spawn of Shaitan!”

“Ram Singh,” continued Mr. Percy, with a grave voice, “I want to know where you got that rupee.”

“I sold some haldi to the poojawalas; a few pice worth to one, and a few anas worth to another, until I got the rupee.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Percy, “and then you wasted it on a bottle of medicine.”

“Wasted! wasted, sahib! wasted, when my only boy, the light of my eyes, the heart of my heart, was ill, and I was afraid he was dying! Had he died, where would I have been? My honor, my house, my all! How could I think of the loss of a rupee, even if it was the last one I should ever see?”

“It is well,” said Mr. Percy; “but did you ever get any more medicine?”

“Yes,” he replied, “this morning I got another bottle, and here it is,” holding it up.

“And this was given to you?” asked Mr. Percy.

“No, no! I gave two rupees for this one.”

“Ram Singh!” said Mr. Percy, more sternly than before, “I don’t want any falsehoods about this. You said you once paid one rupee when it was all you had, and now you dare to tell me that you have gone and paid two rupees?”

“Your honor!” exclaimed the Tahsildar, “he is lying, and I would not listen to him any more; where could he, a beggar get two rupees?”

“Yes, sahib,” put in Ram Singh, “it is a true thing; for these brothers of mine went with me and saw me get the medicine, and they know I tell the truth.”

“We will hear them,” said Mr. Percy. “What do you know about it?” They were all standing in a row in front of us, directly facing the Tahsildar, with the palms of their hands together, as is the custom. Said the elder of them, “Ram Singh came to us just as light appeared this morning, and showed us a ten-rupee note, saying that he was going to the Tahsildar sahib, at Sahib Gunge, to buy some medicine, and wanted us to go with him, as he said he was afraid of being robbed, or that the Tahsildar sahib might arrest him for having so much money; so we went with him and saw him give the note, and get the bottle of medicine and eight rupees from the Tahsildar sahib. That is all I know about it.”

“Another lie! they are all of a kind, and have made up this story together, to destroy my honor,” put in the Tahsildar.

“Now, Ram Singh,” said Mr. Percy, “I want to know about this; where did you get that ten-rupee note?” And Ram Singh, greatly surprised, not seeing the line of investigation, exclaimed, “Barra Sahib! Did I not come to you yesterday for some medicine, and from your honor’s kind heart did you not give me a ten-rupee note?”

“Is this it?” inquired Mr. Percy, showing him the note.

“The very one,” he exclaimed, “for there is the dog’s head. This morning when we were on the road, where no one could see us, I took the note out of my kamarbund and showed it to my two brothers, and I told them that I saw the Chota Sahib make that dog’s head while I stood at the Barra Sahib’s table.”

“Charles,” asked Mr. Percy, “Chota Sahib, are you in this conspiracy too? Let us hear from you; the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth!” as sternly as if I was a culprit, yet with a twinkle in his eye that I well understood. “Did you ever see this note before?” he asked. “Yes,” I replied, “I saw it in this room yesterday. Ram Singh was here, and Cockear was sitting in front while I made the sketch. I cannot tell a lie, sir. That is my mark. I did it with my little—pen.” I was about to say hatchet, as I had just read the story of George Washington. I also added, “These Greek words are yours, and there are your initials.” “Yes,” said Mr. Percy, “you are correct. The only witness yet remaining is the dog, so we will call him,” and at a whistle, there he was before us, all alive, trembling with eagerness, with that ear of his cocked up, as if waiting to hear us say, “Rats!”

In the whole of this investigation Cockear came as the climax, and his action showed that he was conscious of his importance in the affair. The whole scene was so ludicrous that we, Mr. Percy and all, even Cockear in his way, burst out laughing, except the discomfited Tahsildar, who responded with more of a savage grin than anything else.

Assuming his magisterial air again, Mr. Percy said, “Now, Tahsildar sahib, we will hear what you have to say.” This man, so bold when he entered the room, cowered in his chair. He seemed whipped; completely used up. He began, “Your Honor!” and hesitated. “If it had depended on the testimony of these miserable wretches I would never have believed myself guilty of such a mean act, but as the Chota Sahib’s picture of the dog and your signature on the note are against me, I must believe that I did this thing; it must be my kismet, though I cannot understand how I came to be caught in this net of Shaitan.” “You plead guilty, then?” asked Mr. Percy. “Your Honor have mercy upon me, for it was Shaitan that has beguiled me.”

After a pause Mr. Percy began, “Tahsildar!” he dropped the sahib, “I had all confidence in you, and trusted you implicitly. You have robbed the poor; you have deceived me; you came here boldly and lied to me, and have wronged these poor men in trying to make them out as false witnesses. Why, even the dog is more honorable and truthful than you are. An officer of the government, you are no better than a common liar, or a low down bazar sneak thief. I shall never trust or believe you again.”

As he went on Mr. Percy’s wrath increased, and he gave the Tahsildar such a scoring that made him tremble. Mr. Percy had taken a large round black ruler in his hand, and when firing off one of his severest shots at the Tahsildar, he brought the ruler down upon the table with such force that it broke into a number of pieces. This so increased the fright of the Tahsildar that he threw himself upon the floor and grasped Mr. Percy’s feet. Cockear, taking him for some kind of game, went for the crouching suppliant in dead earnest. This rather spoiled the judicial aspect of the scene. The bearer took away the dog, and the man was ordered to his seat.

“One word more,” said Mr. Percy, “Don’t you ever in any way interfere with these men. They have done just what I told them to do.” Then turning to the men, “Ram Singh, if this Tahsildar ever troubles you in the least, let me know it and I will have him put in jail as a thief. Here are the rupees you paid for the medicine and there is another bottle besides. I am much pleased with what you have done. You can go now,” and out they went, followed by the Tahsildar who made a most obeisant salaam. I doubt if in all his life he was as glad to escape from anything as he was from Mr. Percy’s withering scorn.

This ended, Mr. Percy said, “Now, Charles, I think we have had circus enough for one day, we will take a walk in the garden.” Several times he referred to the scenes in “our court,” as he styled it. The crash of that ruler, the quaking fright, and the crouching of the Tahsildar and Cockear going for him was so ludicrous, that he laughed till the tears came.

I said he was angry. I never again saw him show his indignation as on that day, and had he not cause for it then? Yet he did not use one improper word, nothing but what his mother might have heard, and I think had she been present she would have said “Robert, you are too good, you should not talk to such a man, rather take the ruler to him, or beat him out of the house with your slipper.”

CHAPTER IX.

In the evening I was amused at a little incident. We were taking our coffee after dinner in front of the fire in the drawing room. Cockear was crouched on the rug before us watching every motion and with that ear of his erect as usual. Said Mr. Percy, “Cockear! you honest fellow, come to me,” and with a spring the dog was on Mr. Percy’s lap. Mr. Percy looking into his bright beautiful eyes said, “Cockear, I believe you have a soul and are immortal. I know you would talk to me if only that mouth of yours was of a different shape, but I will say in that upright ear of yours that you are one of the best witnesses I ever had. I wish the witnesses in my court were only half, or even one-quarter as truthful as you are.”

Then we had another talk and laugh over the outcome of our scheme and the ludicrous incidents in it. Then he fell to talking over the deliberate falsehoods of the natives.

“I often wonder that there is any justice to any one, for who can decide, even with the utmost care what is truth when there is so much falsehood and perjury on both sides? I often think of Pilate and can sympathize with him when he asked “What is truth?” I have a case of murder in court. A score or more of Muhamedans swear on the Koran that the man is guilty, and as many Hindus swear by the water of the Ganges that the man is innocent. What am I to do? I have sometimes thought in such a case I might as well count the flies on the punkah over my head, and if the number be even, let the accused go free, if odd, sentence him to be hung. And I think the decision by the flies would be as just as by the evidence of the witnesses.

“The natives all acknowledge this habit of lying and perjury and seem to think nothing of it, take it as a matter of course. Why, I am told that the groups of trees in my cutchery compound are called two ana trees, four ana trees and so on up to two rupees, according to the size of the bribes the witnesses are willing to take; so when the parties in court want witnesses, they go to the different trees in proportion to their ability to pay and get what they desire.

“Some of these natives talk of representative government. Who would be the representatives? What would they represent? As a whole people they have no country. I never yet saw a patriot among all I have met. They have not the remotest idea of what that word means, what the love of country is. If they fight, it is because they are hired to do so for the sake of plunder, or to kill those who oppose their wishes, but they would never fight and die as patriots for the love of their country; and those who talk the most, would be the last to take up arms. If we were to leave the country, within a month all would be confusion. They would be robbing each other and cutting one another’s throats worse than pirates. The more educated know this, and while they want to become the rulers, they would like us to remain and be their protectors. It is the jealousy of the different tribes that is the greatest strength of the English in India. They cannot trust each other for they know too well what would happen if left to themselves. Just think of it. Here is this Tahsildar, from one of their old best families, as they would say, a devout Muhamedan, a man honored by Government with a good position, receiving a large salary, and yet for a paltry rupee or two he stole my medicine, robbed the poor of what I had given them, and then deliberately lied about it. Why, I would sooner trust you, Cockear, with my dinner than such a man, wouldn’t I?” and Cockear put up his paw and nodded his head as if to say: “You are right again, my master.”

Mr. Percy continued, “I was once in a district where there was a famine; thousands of people were starving. At the best, we had not funds sufficient to give them half enough to eat of the coarsest food. There was nothing for them to gather, not even grass, for the earth was as hard and dry as a brick. The people died in the villages, on the roads, under the trees, not from any disease but from starvation. Every day we sent out men to bury the dead—skeletons—on which there was nothing for even the jackals to eat. It was a horrid time. I could scarcely eat my own food for thinking of the poor wretches dying in want of such food as was given to my dogs and horses. The few Europeans could not be everywhere in the district and watch everything, so we had to use our subordinates. In a very large village we put the Tahsildar in charge. He reported to us the number to be fed, and we supplied him with funds and gave him orders to purchase and distribute so much food each day. He reported every day that he had done so. I rode out one morning very early and found some food cooked, the fires all out, and the distribution ready to begin. I had the food weighed and found it was only half the allowance ordered, and that he had daily reported. I ordered the fires to be relighted and the proper amount of food to be cooked, and saw to the feeding of the people myself, twenty-two hundred of them, and then what they did get was only half of what they needed, a couple of chupatties and a little dhal, to last them for twenty-four hours; but it was all we could give them. This was for that day; but what if I had not been there, or what of the days when no European was present? We were as positive as we could be that this Tahsildar was making money out of the famine fund; but what could we do? He received the money, he bought the food, saw to the distribution and made out his own reports. He could have bought up any number of lying witnesses to prove that he was honest, and we had none to prove him otherwise. Shortly after the famine he made a grand wedding for one of his children that cost him over ten thousand rupees, and it was the common talk among the natives that he got this money from the famine relief fund.

“Such a man, to rob the food from the mouths of starving children! He would be mean enough to take the winding-sheet from the corpse of his grandmother if he could sell it for a few anas! He was probably the best native in the district. What then were the rest? And they talk of giving such men power to make laws and govern India! If a man like him, in such a position, would be guilty of such contemptibly mean crimes, what might be expected of men receiving only a few rupees a month? Give me an honest dog every time, rather than such a man,” and Cockear nodded again very emphatically, as if saying, “There is no mistake in that.” Thus Mr. Percy talked, for this was one of his moods. He seemed to be thinking aloud. He was so just and kind himself toward the natives, though they often abused his confidence, that when he talked of their dishonesty and meanness to each other he always grew warm. Why shouldn’t he?

He had great sympathy for the poorer natives, since he knew so much of the extortions and tyranny of the richer classes.

To have some little part in the conversation I told the story of that frightful zemindar who seized the very rags of the poor people in that never to be forgotten court from which I had escaped; and of the cruel robbery of the man of his handful of fish that he had caught for his starving old mother. How vividly that scene came up before me.

“Yes,” said Mr. Percy, “and very likely that same zemindar would be called before some wandering parliamentary committee to give his advice about relieving the poverty of the people of India. He could tell them more of how to relieve them of their property.”

As I had no experience and little knowledge of these subjects I could not say much; so both Cockear and I were good listeners, as we frequently had such conversations, that is, Mr. Percy talked while we listened. Some Frenchman has said that there is a large class of people, including nearly everybody, who have not sense enough to talk, nor sense enough to keep still. Had he seen the dog and me, I am sure he would have made a special class for us.

I need not say that the days passed quickly, and the time was coming for me to return to school. I scarcely allowed myself to think of leaving Mr. Percy and his pleasant home. When I did so, a choking lump would come into my throat and a pain into my heart that brought tears to my eyes. What boy has not felt this? I hardly dared hint at my feeling, but one day when Mr. Percy suggested some preparation for going, I said I was sorry to leave. “Yes, Charles, so am I sorry to have you go. But I wish you to make a man of yourself, and this can be done only by discipline of the mind and the acquisition of knowledge, and the best place for this is in school. Manly strength comes from exercise of the body, mental strength from using the mind, and both should go together. If you neglect the culture of both, except to ornament the body with clothes, you become a fop or swell. If you improve the body only, you are simply a muscular animal or strong brute. Neglect the body and only cultivate the mind, and you may become a mental phenomenon, a dyspeptic growler. A trained mind in a trained body, is the way to put it; otherwise there is incongruity, as much as to speak of cleanly people living in a filthy house or filthy people living in a clean house. I said discipline of mind. This comes by thinking for yourself, reasoning with intense thought, and retaining what you learn. A man mentally strong is not the one who simply knows the most, but the one who has power to think, to reason, grasp facts, compare them and make conclusions. The most of the educated natives have acquired knowledge by memory, to the neglect of their reasoning faculties, and are like trained parrots. One with disciplined reasoning faculties has always the advantage over the one who is only a memorizer. The former is able to use the material he may find in his way, while the other has the materials but is unable to use them. Therefore get discipline, reasoning power first of all, and the other will naturally follow. You must labor with your mind as with the body. You may come across the story of the man who began by lifting the calf, and continued it daily, so that when the calf became an ox he could lift it as well. Strength of mind is acquired by constant study, mental lifting. The boy who at first lifts the light weight of the multiplication table and goes on lifting something heavier each day, will find at length no difficulty in grappling with Newton’s Principia. The training of either mind or body should not be by spurts or sudden starts. You cannot violate the laws of growth, either mental or physical, and be a really well developed man, any more than you can violate God’s natural or moral laws six days of the week and expect to make up for it on the seventh day. I do not want you to be a seventh-day sort of a man, but to be real and true every day and every hour you live.”

With such remarks as these he grew more and more in earnest. “And now,” said he, “I wish to talk to you from my inner soul, and I want to make an impression that may never leave you as long as you live.”

I will not try to give his words. I thought so much of what he meant that I did not remember the phrases he used. He talked to me of uncleanness of thought in which is the root of all evil, of uncleanliness of speech, of uncleanliness in deed. He told me of things that made cold chills rush through me and gave me such a fright of impurity that I think this talk was the greatest blessing of my life. He warned me against improper associates. “If you cannot get good company, it were better to be alone. If a boy makes any improper suggestion or indulges in improper talk, check him at once, show him the evil of it, persuade him, do him good in every way, but if he will not desist, run from him as if from a leper or from fire, and keep away from him as you would from a foul or poisonous thing. Better to throw yourself into the filth of the gutter than to allow yourself or any one to throw filth on your mind. You can wash your body or your clothes, but never wash your mind. The stains that are made upon it can never be erased. They are more indelibly engraved on the memory than any engraving on the hardest substance known. Memory is God’s judgment-day book, or rather men’s, for each one keeps his own daily and eternal record, and this he will take with him when he departs this life, and he will possess it, for it is a part of his soul, and carry it with him for ever; and this record will be a constant and perpetual witness for or against himself and make his heaven or his hell. This record is as indestructible as the soul itself; nothing of it can be lost, for nothing in the memory can ever be forgotten. Man is the architect of his own fortune, not only in this life, but for the life to come. Now Charles, I have told you all this as a sacred duty, and I beg of you in the fear of God, and for the love and regard you have for me, remember and obey these things.”

How well do I remember this. We had come into the garden and taken our seats on one of the benches. He took one of my hands in each of his and looking me in the eyes he talked with such warmth and tenderness as if his soul was in every word. And I am sure it was. Had I been his own son, and he upon his death-bed looking into eternity and giving me his last parting words, he could not have expressed himself with more solicitude and loving tenderness. How often in my life have I thanked God for such a wise friend and those words that have kept me from falling into many a snare and from getting many a stain and wound.

There are many thousands—bishops, priests, parsons et id omne genus, who are wasting their lives in trying to reconstruct the old hardened sinners. If they were to spend four-fifths of their time in warning the children and youth against vices and in showing them the horrid nature of the pitfalls of sin, in a few generations there would be no old sinners to worry about. They leave the young trees to grow all gnarled and twisted and then sputter about trying to convert them into straight trees. I have heard many a sermon, but all of them put together never had such a good effect upon my life as that half-hour’s earnest talk in the garden.

But as I am not well up in church therapeutics, my suggestions may be scorned by the last downy-cheeked fledgling of a priest who has just donned his church coat. Yet I cannot help thinking my own honest thoughts.

Did we have any such instructions in school? None whatever. The course of study was prepared by Government. It was so full and rigid that very few of the boys could spare time to read a book or paper. We were much like the poor geese of Strasburg. Each goose is nailed up in a box so that it cannot stand up or move, with its head and neck out at one end of the box. A number of times during the day and night, men go through the lines each with a syringe filled with chopped feed which is injected down the throats of the geese, willy nilly, and thus, enlarged livers are produced for the celebrated pâté de foie gras.

We human geese were stuffed and crammed by our teachers. It was “one demnition grind,” quoting Mr. Mantalini. There was no physiology or hygienic morals in the course and no time to give attention to such subjects.

It is true, we had our religious exercises. We memorized the creeds and catechism; but as they were compulsory and often given us to learn or repeat as a punishment, we got to rattling them off as we did the multiplication table or rules of grammar. We certainly neither understood them or fell in love with them. We had our daily religious service, as a matter of course, just as we had our morning wash, by rule and order, and as the water was often icy cold, so was the other. In fact all the religious ceremonies were as formal, exact and regular as if the motive power was a steam engine.

After the plain talk given me by Mr. Percy, I thought what a blessing it would be if all the boys could have heard him, or if our burly principal or some of the teachers could have given us some instruction about keeping our minds and bodies morally pure and clean, rather than cram us continually with mathematics, grammar, creeds and psalms. As for the good these latter did us, they might as well have been written on a roll of paper and placed in a Tibetan prayer-wheel, and each boy to give it a turn as he passed. However, I may be an old fool, as these are the thoughts of my later years.

CHAPTER X.

The time of my departure was coming. I scarcely need say that I had a new outfit. The darzies were set to work and various articles were purchased until the boxes were full to bursting. The day before my departure a large basket was filled, the center piece a huge fruit cake, surrounded by lesser cakes and the spaces filled with sweets. When this was full to the top, the sight of it was enough to gladden the mouths of any number of boys. Mr. Percy, no doubt, recalling his boyhood days as if he knew what was coming, said, “Charles, I think the boys will be glad to see you again.” And they were. We had many a feast out of that basket. We appointed a catering committee to see to the distribution and to prolong our stock. I could not take the credit to myself and omit Mr. Percy, so I told them that he had sent the basket for them as well as for me, and I think they were better boys for knowing they had such a friend. He, I think, would have called this one of his religious services. And why not?

As I had plenty of money to buy all I wanted on our market day, I reserved most of my share of the basket for little Johnny, the only child of the widow, who, like me, never had a father, and except his poor mother, scarcely a friend. Though he was not of our higher class society, I invited him to our treats, and as it was my basket, and I was somewhat master of the situation, no one, except two or three snobs, made objection to his coming.

My leaving home was quite an event, like the departure of some honored guest. All showed their love and respect not for myself alone, but on account of the friendship Mr. Percy had for me. He took me to the station in his carriage, and as the train was starting grasped me by the hand and with tears in his eyes said, “God bless you Charles. Be studious; be true; be clean in thought, in word, and deed,” and he stood watching until the train was out of sight.

The years passed pleasantly though monotonously. We boys had our little tiffs as men have their big ones. Toward the close of the year we put up a big calendar of our own on the wall of our room, and in the evening, at the close of each day, a boy in turn marked off the date with a long black pencil, and we all joined in a song composed by our poet for the occasion. Any one who has never been a boy at school can smile at this if he pleases. It was our way of keeping track of time.

I had a good supply of new books, and to get time to read them, finished my lessons as quickly as possible. My two letters a week came as regularly as the dates on our calendar. The delight I had in those just received, and the anticipation of those coming, was to me a great source of pleasure. And I had mine to write. Shortly after the term opened, the principal, meeting me, said: “Master Japhet, you need not send your letters to me any more for me to read. Seal them and put them in the post-box, and you can write as many as you wish.” He did not say why, for he never gave a reason for anything, as his word was law, he was law unto himself, and to all the rest of us, for that matter. But I knew the wherefore of it, that it was one of Mr. Percy’s surprises, as it was characteristic of him to give surprises of pleasure without even hinting about them. I could well say: “Nothing like having a friend at Court.” I left our dignified governor with almost a bound of delight, thinking I could write just as I felt, the thoughts of my heart without a spy over me.

The year closed, and we were all soon homeward bound again.

I need not tell who met me or how I was received. We had our morning rides, our evening drives, our walks, our talks, our cozy dinners and those blessed after-dinner coffee chats in front of the fire in the drawing room, for my vacations always occurred in the cold seasons, when it was pleasant to have a fire. Then we three enjoyed ourselves. I mean by three, Mr. Percy, Cockear and myself, for Cockear always made one of our company. He sat in front of us, on the rug, with that ear of his always erect, listening intently to all that was said, and frequently bowing assent to any good point that he thought we had made. And sometime, somewhere in the great beyond, he may be able to tell us how much he was helped to a higher and nobler life by those talks of ours. If God is so careful as to number the hairs of our heads, and to notice every sparrow that falls, will He not also look after the good dogs?

To tell really just what I think: I have seen many dogs whom I thought better fitted for heaven and eternal life than lots of men I have known. This may be only an opinion or a prejudice of mine, yet I will vouch for this as a fact, that a dog was never known to betray his friends. And still further. If mankind were as good as dogs in their morals and actions, then the clergy, priests and parsons might all go to cleaning pots and kettles or some honest labor, instead of trying to clean the souls of men.

Frequently in our evening drives we called at the library or club, where Mr. Percy introduced me as his Charles. All treated me cordially, as I thought, chiefly on Mr. Percy’s account, and for his sake I put my best in front, so as not to be unworthy of him. One evening, as I went out of the reading room into the hall, I heard Mrs. Swelter, a great, humpy dumpy woman, with a very red face, the wife of the General of the station, remark: “Mr. Percy, you seem to make a great pet of that Eurasian?” “Hit again!” I said to myself. I hurried away as quickly as I could. I concluded that the time had come when I must know the meaning of that word. When we gathered that evening in front of the fire I asked Mr. Percy what it meant.

“Did you hear what Mrs. Swelter said?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied.

“I hoped you had not heard what she said. She ought not to have made any such remark as that,” and Cockear said, for I heard him, “A dog would not have made such a remark, even about a jungly cur.”

Then Mr. Percy explained it all as kindly as possible. “And,” he went on, “I assure you it makes not the slightest difference to me. I look to find in you, truthfulness, chastity, industry and ability. You have been to me, thus far, all I could wish, so never let the thought of that word trouble you.”

These kind words took the sting out of Mrs. Swelter’s remark; yet I did not forget it and never will. I always forgive those who injure me, but never forget them. That is, I remember them enough to keep out of their way so as not to give them a second chance to wound me. This Mrs. Swelter was a kind of sergeant-major of our station society, and all paid deference to her, chiefly on account of the position of her husband, but she never got more than a silent bow from “That Eurasian.” Why should she? Once she asked Mr. Percy, why Charles never spoke to her, and he told her that I had overheard her remark, and she could not blame me for not being friendly. I was glad she knew my reason, and after that I took delight in avoiding her, for I had feelings as well as whiter-faced people.

Several evenings after this, when we three were assembled as usual, Mr. Percy asked me, “Do you remember when I first saw you?” “Yes,” I replied, “just as well as if it was this evening.”

“That was a strange meeting, wasn’t it?” he said. “Have you ever heard of that little sister of yours?”

What memories that question revived! I had not forgotten her by any means, for often at school I had recalled all I remembered of her; our leaving that wretched court, our tramp on the dusty road, her smiles and playfulness, the good old faqir, the death of the new mama, and then the sad separation; and I cried many a time as I thought of these things, and resolved that as soon as I was a little older I would go in search of her.

Then I told Mr. Percy the story of our lives, beginning with the first conscious knowing that I was in the world, the clinking sound of those rupees, the sahib, my mother’s tears and cries, her death, our destitution and wanderings up to that serai where he found us.

He had got to his feet by this time, and was walking back and forth in the room, with his head down, listening intently. When I had finished he asked, “Did you ever see or hear of that sahib again, or learn his name?” “Never,” I answered. “The brute!” he exclaimed, with such energy that I think if he had a ruler in his hand he would have broken it into a number of pieces, and it was well for the sahib not to have been within hitting reach just then. He was silent some minutes, when he said: