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Title: That Eurasian

Author: Aleph Bey

Release date: January 6, 2023 [eBook #69717]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: F. Tennyson Neeley, 1895

Credits: Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THAT EURASIAN ***





                                  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:

“Charles! I would rather a thousand times be you than such a man. You
can become a true man; he never can. He has lost his manhood and God
himself cannot restore it; and he never can make atonement for the
wrongs he inflicted on your mother, on you, and on your sister. He
committed an infamous crime; worse than murder. But we must find the
sister.”

I then told him of my visit with the munshi to the girls’ orphanage:
that the sister had been taken away, and I mentioned the name of the
lady and gentleman who took her. He wrote letters addressed to the
gentleman, but they were returned, uncalled for. He wrote to friends,
but they knew nothing, and it seemed that the little sister was forever
lost to me.

On each Sunday morning Mr. Percy held his religious service. The crowd
had greatly increased, but each received the usual share. There was a
great scarcity of food in the district, on account of the slight
rainfall, and Mr. Percy, foreseeing this, had purchased a large quantity
of grain, and this he called the “Widow’s Fund.” On other days he held
what he called his morning service, when the widows came, most of them
with children. He had a careful list made out, so as to be sure that
they were really widows in need. To some of them he sold the grain at
the price he paid for it, and at half the bazar prices. To those who had
no means of purchasing he gave, so that all were supplied. The low price
at which he sold the grain greatly offended the bunyas in the bazar, as
they had a large supply on hand, which they had taken from the poor
cultivators in return for the seed and money advanced at an enormous
profit to themselves.

One morning Mr. Percy called these bunyas to his bungalow and gave them
such a scoring about their rapacity and robbery of the poor that they
all agreed to lower their prices. It was through fear of him only that
they did this, as one might as well expect pity from a tiger toward an
animal he has caught, as leniency from a bunya to the poor whom he has
in his power.

One day, toward evening, we were walking in the garden and came to one
of the benches, when we seated ourselves. Some reference was made to the
orphanage where I had been placed. I then told him that I had overheard
him tell the Padri that he would not take me away until I was larger. I
related my experience in bending all my energies to increase my growth;
how I fed myself, exercised, how I hung by the arms and chin from the
pole, measured my height each Sunday, by marks on the wall, and thought
of tying weights to my legs at night, as I was determined to be released
from the place as soon as possible. He listened without a word, with a
questioning smile playing over his face, until I had finished, and then
he unbent with laughter. He laughed till the tears came, and I had to
laugh too, for I couldn’t help it, and Cockear, who had been gravely
listening, broke out with his dog laugh. And why shouldn’t we laugh? If
the man who hath no music in his soul is fit for treason, stratagems and
spoils, what might be said of the man who never laughs? Beware of him.

I never felt the least embarrassment from Mr. Percy’s laughter, even
when it was caused by some nonsense of my own, for it was always so
good-natured, joyous and spontaneous. It was rather an incentive to me
to tell him something laughable. Had his laugh been coarse or sarcastic,
which was impossible, it would have shut me up at once. He was as open
and free with me as if I was an intimate friend, so that I had no
hesitation in telling him everything, even my mistakes and follies.
There are few people we can trust in talking truly from our hearts, and
how few parents are the confidants of their children, when they should
be first of all in their hearts and lives. But why should I, now an old
man, a unit—and a very insignificant one among the wise millions of the
world—talk of such things? I have to constantly remind myself of the
habits of old people to run into tedious details, and so, often check
myself, or I shall never finish my history.

This vacation passed, others followed, and the years at school continued
with great improvement, I think to myself and to the satisfaction of my
teachers and above all to the great pleasure of my best friend, Mr.
Percy. His letters seemed to have more breadth and to grow better as I
grew older. He wrote me on all kinds of subjects. Each one of them was
an incentive to study for I had to read up or think on the many things
referred to in them. Frequently when the boys were at their games, and I
dearly loved play, I felt in honor bound and from love to Mr. Percy that
I must think over his letters and see what I could say in reply to them.
Our library was nearly as empty as a church’s poor box and the few books
in it were of little use for the reason that they were donated, and it
often happens that benevolent people give away what is useless to
themselves or anybody else. Whether the recording angel gives a credit
mark for this kind of charity I have my doubts. I was thrown mostly on
my own resources and had to think for myself, which probably was much
better than if I had borrowed from somebody. I think this correspondence
was the best part of my school education. The most of our school duties
was to commit to memory and repeat continually rules and definitions,
and we had so much of that to do that we had no time to think. The main
object seemed to be, not to make us think and reason, but to pass our
exams. What a thing this Government system is! and the men who concocted
it. But I suppose we should have charity for them as they could not act
otherwise than within the circumference of their own capacities.

I must relate an incident that occurred during one of my later
vacations. There was a holiday. Mr. Percy had been all the morning
writing a judgment on one of his court cases. I had entered the library
to get a book and seeing him at his desk, I begged his pardon for
interrupting and was turning to leave when he said, “Don’t go, Charles,
I have finished my work and am now ready for a holiday.” So we sat and
chatted. I was looking toward two photographs on the mantel that I had
seen there ever since I entered his house. I never asked about them, and
in fact I never questioned him about his life. He had told me many
things and I felt that he would tell me all whatever he wished me to
know and that I ought not to make inquiries. I was conscious that he had
some secrets that were sacred to himself. Everybody should have such
secrets. I have a kind of pity for those who will tell all their family
affairs, to every gossip who comes along, and a contempt for those who
besmirch their own relatives, for in doing so they are throwing dirt on
their own faces. Hearing a man talk of his brother as a liar and thief,
one cannot but suspect that some of the same blood may run in the veins
of the narrator. Some may say before I finish this narrative that I do
not practice what I teach; but who does? Truth is truth at all times and
everywhere, no matter if people do often stretch it beyond its power of
tension. I am laying down a rule in general, “Don’t do as I do, but as I
tell you.” Besides my excuse for my course in this narration that, as I
am stating facts, I am compelled to make my face still blacker by
telling the truth about my own existence, which I regret and lament as
much as any mortal man can regret anything. These, however, are thoughts
of my later life, and not at all referring to Mr. Percy.

As he saw me looking toward the photographs, he said, “I have never told
you about them.” Then taking one of them down. “This is a picture of my
mother, my own dear mother. She has been my star of destiny. Her
teachings, her example, and the remembrance of her, have fashioned and
guided my life. The best gift under heaven is a good mother.” I could
have cried as he said this. “My mother! my own darling mama! Why had
fate or destiny or the brutality of a man deprived me of such a gift?”
He had continued while I thought. He described his mother, beautiful,
intelligent, refined, accomplished and more particularly, how her soul
was wrapt up in her boy, her only child and she a widow. Above all
things she wanted him to be pure and true. I then knew why he had talked
to me as he did about such things. She had been my mother too, through
him. He told of her waiting supper for him to return from school three
miles away, to which he went and returned each day on foot. As they sat
together she talked with him about his lessons and he told her the
incidents of the day, and she inquired what new ideas he had received.
So they chatted, and I have no doubt there was laughter too, for he must
have been full of roguish fun, and those eyes of hers, one could not
mistake, for they were full of mirth. He said the recollection of those
cozy table chats always brought the image of his mother fresh before
him, for they occurred just before he left home to go into the world
never to see her again. He said they had no secrets from each other.
They lived with one heart, one soul and one ambition and all of her was
centered in him.

Could I doubt when I heard this, the cause of his being so pure, honest,
candid, frank and free? His mother.

Then he told me of the farewell, of her standing on the porch, and his
going over the down, turning now and then to wave his handkerchief, to
which she replied with hers, and at last going over a little hillock,
the house was out of sight, when he ran back to the top and saw her
still looking. Then the final waving of farewells. He spoke of the
almost daily letters full of loving counsels, and then of one from a
friend with a black margin, saying that the mother had gone. The tears
came freely as he finished his narrative. “Charles,” said he, “I know
you will forgive my tears, for I cannot prevent them nor would I, when I
think of the loss of such a mother.” I was crying too and could not help
saying “Would to God I had such a mother to remember.” After our emotion
had subsided, he took down the other photograph. “This,” said he, “is a
picture of my affianced, my loved one. She was all my heart and mind
could wish. I loved her first because she was so like my dear mother,
her very counter-form, and I know had they both lived, my mother, with
the love she had for me, would have loved her, we both alike would have
been her children, as we are now. She is mine still and I am hers, not
until death do part, but forever our hearts are one. I have never failed
to look upon these pictures in the morning, and they always say ‘Robert,
we are with you, watching over you and will guide you the best we can.’
That is the impression the sight of the pictures have upon me, and
whether they do guide directly or not, might be questioned, but
indirectly they have greatly influenced my life. Can I go wrong when I
think each morning of those two pure spirits watching over me? I trust
not willingly.”

I got from this the key of his life and I could interpret many things I
had heard and seen. This revelation of his inner life, the secrets of
his soul, which he told me he had never mentioned to any one else, had a
great effect upon me. To have known such a man, and to have been trusted
by him, made me love him more than ever, and further inspired me with a
reverence for him.

With all due charity for mankind one cannot but regret that there are so
few, really pure, noble upright men in the world whom we can respect and
admire. I cannot help asking, if after all the centuries of
civilization, has the growth of mankind in purity and honesty, kept pace
with the progress in other respects? After this conversation he showed
that he felt I was nearer to him than ever before as I knew he was
dearer to me. Next to trusting in God is to have a true friend in whom
one can confide and feel that all is safe and sacred.




                              CHAPTER XI.


The years passed with their vacations. One day at school I received an
urgent telegram, telling me to come at once as Mr. Percy was very ill.
The journey homeward was a sad one. Formerly they were full of joyful
anticipation; this was full of grief and fear. He was very ill. He
received me warmly and I attended him as an affectionate son would a
beloved father. “Charles,” he said, “the end is coming. I am going to
them. They are waiting for me. I shall soon be where there is no more
sorrow, or parting, or dying any more forever. Be true to my teaching. I
tried to do my duty. Pardon my mistakes. Come to me when you have done
your work. God bless you my boy. God bless you”—and he was gone. Could
my wish have been granted I would have gone with him to where there was
no more parting forever more.

The last rites were performed and I was given the place of chief
mourner, for all seemed to know how much esteem and love he had for me.
Then I felt myself alone in the world; the halcyon days of my life were
ended.

He had made his will very carefully, giving the details of his property,
and except a few personal articles, including those precious photographs
that he reserved for me, all was to be sold and the proceeds, with
various stocks, bonds and several bungalows in which he had invested,
were placed in the hands of trustees for me until I had reached the age
of twenty-four years. Until then I was to receive sufficient funds for
my support and I was to finish my school course. So I had money enough,
but of what account is money when the heart is breaking?

On the days when I used to receive those blessed letters sadness
overwhelmed me. No more letters to come. No more letters to write. This
deprivation constantly revived my consciousness of the loss I had
sustained, and during all the rest of my school life I could not
overcome this terrible feeling.

My school days ended and with great regret I bade good-bye to some of my
schoolmates and some of the teachers for they had endeared themselves to
me by their kindness.

I was again alone in the world. I did not know that I had even one
friend to whom I might turn for advice or comfort. I was conscious that
I ought to engage in some profession or employment as other young men
were doing, but which and what was the question. If I chose the Civil
Service in the Government, it was necessary for me to go to England and
pass an examination. I had no friend there, not even an acquaintance, so
had no influence, and I learned that influence was everything even to
get a chance to offer myself for an examination; so that profession was
closed to me.

To become an officer in the army the same difficulties arose. I could
not become a soldier as I learned that Eurasians were not accepted. In
fact I had no liking whatever for the army, even had there been an
opening for me. I always had a repugnance to taking life. I could not
see a chicken killed without a sense of pain and to see a gasping fish
just taken from the water gave me a shock. In my life I have gone out
shooting and the more birds I killed, the greater the burden of sorrow I
carried home, thinking of the number of lives I had destroyed when God
had created them as well as me and that they had as much right as I to
live. I never could realize any pleasure in what is called sport when
life is involved. For a number of men, not to mention women, to chase a
fox until he is worried to death and then let him be torn to pieces by
hounds was always a cruel, fiendish business to me. Suppose some bigger
brutes than these ladies and gentlemen, as they style themselves, should
run them down with horses and hounds as in former times slaves were
hunted, and tear them to pieces, what would they think of the sport?

Anent this subject one of the best English novelists makes one of his
characters say: “The most blood-thirsty nation on the earth, you shed
blood for mere amusement; we only shed it for some deep purpose, such as
revenge, ambition and the like. You English are not happy unless you are
killing something, if it is only a pigeon out of a trap; there is too
much of the Saxon and the Dane about you. Again your chief outdoor
amusement consists of galloping on horseback with a number of dogs, over
hedges and ditches after a poor animal called a fox, and when you see
the wretched, fagged-out creature torn to pieces by your dogs, you ride
home satisfied to your dinner.”

It is bad enough to kill birds and beasts for our food, but to kill men,
who, we are taught, have immortal souls, was and always has been,
horrible to me. Adam Smith, in his “Wealth of Nations,” says, “The trade
of a butcher is a brutal one and an odious business.” If that can be
said of a business which supplies necessary food for the people, what
can be said of a trade for the destruction of human beings, to gratify
the vanity or rapacity of a tyrant or people? To kill his fellowmen is
the soldier’s business, for that he is trained, for that the church
prays for him. The more men killed the greater the glory and the number
of medals. Beautiful trophies for the judgment day—the souls of murdered
men! The uncivilized, unchristian tribes show their valor by the number
of human scalps hanging to their belts, and a “heap big Injun” is the
one who has the greatest number of these tokens of death. Christian “big
Injuns” use honors and medals instead of scalps.

Would not this be better? Say for all who are killed by a regiment let
each soldier wear a blood-red stripe for each man slain. If very
successful in their bloody warfare the stripes would be increased until
their whole garments would be of one uniform, ruddy hue, and they would
be “heap big Injuns” for all the world to look at. Their praises would
be read and known instantly by all observers. Then, instead of
worshiping one whom they style a God of Love, and one whom they call the
“Prince of Peace,” why not be consistent and adopt a god of war, such as
is Kali, the goddess of the murderers of India, and offer unto him the
blood of their victims, as these people do to their goddess? Does it
speak well for civilization, after thousands of years, and after
nineteen hundred years of Christianity, that twenty millions of armed
soldiers, belonging to the most enlightened and so-called Christian
nations of the earth, should be waiting and expecting every morning an
order to attack and destroy each other? And all anxious to flesh their
weapons in the bodies of their fellowmen? If, after all these centuries,
Christianity has culminated in such a condition of murderous intention,
how long will it be before their “Prince of Peace” will come to reign?

Having such feelings about war and soldiering in my later years, I must
have had something of them when I left school, and they prevented me
from thinking seriously of a soldier’s life. I concluded that I would
rather be a hermit in a forest all my life, living on herbs and wild
fruits, and die thus, and go to my Maker without a spot of the blood of
my fellowmen on my soul, than to be the greatest warrior that ever
lived, though he could boast of having slain his thousands.

What of the responsibility of those who instigate war? The great poet
says, “The king himself hath a heavy reckoning to make when all these
legs and arms and heads chopped off in battle shall join together in the
latter day and cry, all, “_We died at such a place_;” some swearing,
some crying for a surgeon, some upon the debts they owe, some upon their
children rawly left. I am afraid that there are few that die well, that
die in battle, for how can they charitably dispose of anything when
blood is their argument? Now, if these men do not die well, it will be a
black matter for the king that led them to it.”

Well might the king say, in his remorse, “The lights burn blue, it is
now dead midnight, cold, fearful drops stand trembling on my flesh.
Methought the souls of all that I had caused to be murdered came.”

Another thing influenced me. A surgeon of the army remarked to me that
the best soldier was one with a vigorous, healthy body, and only sense
enough to obey an order and fire a musket.

I was not willing to suppose myself such a thing as that, an idiot,
strong enough to stand up and be shot at, and with only brains enough to
pull a trigger when told to do so to kill somebody. If I was to be such
a soldier, then God, who created me with a mind capable of thinking and
reasoning; Mr. Percy, in giving me an education; and I, in acquiring it,
we all three had sadly muddled the business and made a damnable mistake
somehow. So my warfare ended.

I then thought of the police service, but this was so like a twin
brother to soldiering that I dropped it quickly. I was in no great hurry
to choose a profession, as I was not obliged to work for a living, but
considered it my duty, as well as pleasure, to seek to do what was best,
so I went to the station where my property was situated, and found a
home in one of the houses with an excellent family, one of my tenants.

I had plenty of books, the gifts of Mr. Percy, each of them a true
indication of his style of thought and belief. I ordered others, such as
I considered would interest me. With them I lived. They were my best and
most intimate companions. I have often thought that if I were cast away
on some desert island, and had plenty of books, I could not be alone.

The middle part of each day I spent in reading; mornings and evenings in
adorning the compounds and gardens of my several houses with fruit and
fine trees, flower plants and shrubbery. I soon made a great change in
the places, to the great satisfaction of my tenants. This gave me a
great liking for botany, as I had scarcely heard of such a science in
school, for there we were so much driven to study men’s rules and
theories that we had no time to study what God had created.

This employment finished, I became restless with a desire to enter upon
some profession or business for life. I thought of commercial business,
and from what I knew of it I supposed it would give me a chance to use
my brains; but I had no more idea of what it required than if I was the
son of a lord. I knew nothing of book-keeping, for this was another of
the practical things omitted in our school, and it sometimes puzzled me
to see what I really had learned that was to be of practical use to me.
If it be true, as some one has said, that the greatest knowledge is to
realize how little we know, I concluded that I had reached that happy
condition. It is true that I practiced a little book-keeping as required
by Mr. Percy, but it was single entry, or rather two entries, cash
received and cash paid out, and every pice I handled was in that
account. Since then my acquaintance with even commercial men has led me
to believe that single entry book-keeping is not a slight affair, for
some forget to enter what you have paid them, and remember to enter what
they did not pay you.

I concluded to make a trip on commercial life intent. I took me to the
capital city of India with the highest ambition. At once I sought the
papers with an advertisement, “A young man of good abilities and
excellent education, etc.” Some letters were received to which I
replied, and found that there was work enough, and that the salaries
offered, ranged from the magnificent sum of fifteen rupees to forty
rupees a month, and some of the parties expected me to keep a pony
besides, as their’s was outdoor work. Some of these offers were made by
white men!

The advertisement evidently useless, I got a city directory and wrote to
a large number of the best mercantile houses, and as I had a very fair
hand and did my best with the Queen’s English, I received a number of
very polite replies in babu English asking me to call at a particular
time, which I did in my best rig, as I came to know that a well-fitting
suit of good clothes had a great deal to do with a first impression.
Each kuli, and there were a number of them at every door, had to look at
my card, and then several babus wished to know my business, until
finally I reached the grand mogul of the place. Looking me over while I
stated that I had received his letter asking me to call, “Yes, yes,”
said he, “but since your letter came my partner has found a man.” The
same thing happened in a number of places. That partner was always the
one who was putting his fingers in my pie. Several asked me what salary
I wanted. I replied that I wished to learn the business, so I would be
satisfied with a hundred rupees a month to begin with, and they
exclaimed something like this: “Great heavings! we can hire a dozen
babus for that money.”

I kept up this “racket” for a number of days, as I became quite
interested in learning this part of mercantile life. If it had been a
matter of daily bread with me, perhaps I would not have taken the
rebuffs so easily.

One day I ran across two of my schoolmates on the same errand. They were
terribly down in the mouth or down at the heels, for they were
completely discouraged, and their clothes had long since forgotten the
press of the tailor’s goose, and their boots were in the last stages of
decrepitude. They put me in mind of the fellows we read of in our
Scripture lessons at school, who went down to Jericho and fell among
thieves. “Well, boys,” said I, “come over and dine with me, and we’ll
talk over old times.” They did not look into their note-books to see how
many engagements they had, or say, “We’ll think it over,” or “We’ll
see,” in that kind of society style you know, but accepted at once.
After making a short call on one of the merchant firms, I found the boys
in my room. We had a good feed, the best I could get, and they told me
their experience. They had been at so many houses, run the gauntlet of
so many kulies and babus, and had been snubbed so often by the
mercantile gentlemen that they had scarcely courage enough left to look
in at the door of a house again. Through the friendly influence of the
dinner they confided to me that they had trusted “an uncle” with their
watches and most of their clothes, and their money was nearly all gone,
and if they did not get work soon they would have to sleep in the park,
and then have a chance of being accommodated with apartments at the
workhouse.

“Yes,” said one of them, “if we were not Eurasians we could get
situations at once, and one fat white face had the cheek to tell us that
he would not employ Eurasians, as they were not trustworthy. How did he
know that of us? It was a downright insult!”

Again he burst out, and as we had not had any liquor whatever, he was
clear-headed, saying, “Hell and fury! Who made us Eurasians, I’d like to
know?” “That’s it,” said the other, “who made us Eurasians?” and they
brought down their fists so hard onto the table that the bearer rushed
in to see what we wanted. At this I changed the subject to our school
days, and inquired after the boys of our set. Before leaving I told them
if they did not succeed in a day or two, to come to me and I would let
them have money to go home with; for the sake of old times I would not
have them “run in.”

I was such a simple innocent that it never once entered my head that I
had been refused because I was an Eurasian. This reference of the boys
opened my eyes, and I concluded to make some calls to see if what they
said was really true. I was out again the next day. I did not care so
much now for a situation as I did to know the effect of the color of my
face. I had a roll of government notes in my pocket, and could draw for
more when needed, so could face the kulies and babus without having that
utterly forsaken walk and look of a beggar. As I entered one of the
prominent offices I could not help thinking of what Mr. Percy would say,
“Charles, be a man, in your looks and in every step you take,” and so I
uprightly faced the grand panjandrum. I bowed politely, and said, “I am
seeking a situation. I don’t care so much about the wages, as I wish to
learn the business.” Looking me all over, as if I was some specimen from
the zoo, he remarked, “I don’t think you would suit us.” “Will you be so
kind as to tell me the reason?” I inquired, with as much suavity as I
could command. I think my manner fetched him, for he said, “Take a seat,
will you?” the first time a chair had been offered me in all my rounds.
He replied, “Well, really, you know, I don’t like to say; for myself I
think you would suit us, but, now, ahem! I hope you will take no
offense, but the fact is, I am really sorry to say it, but my partners
are opposed to having any Eurasians.”

“What reason have they?” I calmly inquired, that is, outwardly calm, but
inwardly very uncalm. Said he, “Really, I don’t know, and can’t say; you
will have to ask them, and I think they are both very busy, as it is
mail day.”

What a lot of lies mail day is responsible for! He then began to fumble
his papers, as if to say that my time was up, so I bowed and left,
feeling in my soul that he was a liar, and at the entrance door I
inquired of a babu about the partners, and he said that they had not
come to the office that day.

But why prolong the story? I made out a list of the firms on whom I had
called. There were all sorts of excuses, but the majority objected to
employing Eurasians. One thing astonished me, that so many of them had
wicked partners. Perhaps they were only imaginary dummies or office
devils, to whom they could attribute all their sins. And most of these
men were Christians in their way.

One morning I found an article in one of the daily papers that fitted so
well with what the boys had said and with what I felt, that I cut out
this paragraph. I was rather glad that they had not seen the paper, as I
had furnished them with tickets-of-leave; or they might have been
tempted to curse their fathers, which is bad business when it can be
avoided.

“There is a prejudice against the Eurasians, both among the Europeans
and natives. It is not surprising that the heathen natives, with all
their old feelings about caste, should prefer to have their own people
about them, but not at all creditable that Europeans, all probably
calling themselves Christians, should despise and degrade a people who
are a part of themselves and begotten by them. It is said that a person
always hates the one he has injured. As a Saxon, I have often thought of
what I would have felt, if my father had made me an Eurasian. For some
months, every morning, there passed my house, a fine well built man,
clad in native clothes, going to his work at five rupees a month. I
frequently conversed with him and found him quite intelligent. It
appears that his father a Scotchman, years ago, on coming to India took
up a native woman by whom he had several children. When his time for
furlough came he gave the woman a few rupees and said, “Salaam.” He
married a beautiful Scotch lassie, she no doubt believing him to be a
chaste Christian gentleman—and returned to India. Other children were
born, were well educated, and these young Scotch Macdonalds are in the
service receiving one thousand to two thousand rupees a month, while the
other poor devil of a Macdonald has to be content with his five rupees.
I often thought as I saw the man, that if my father had played such a
scurvy trick on me, I would have cursed him by daylight and by candle
light, month by month, and year by year, up hill and down dale to my
latest breath and before high heaven I think I would have been right in
doing so.”

Thus ended my mercantile life. It was all confined to single entry, as I
never had a chance of making a double entry to any of the houses. I
visited the libraries but it was not worth while; being managed wholly
by natives, what could be expected? the botanical garden and saw the
great tree spreading out, as if it would protect and shelter everybody
like the Indian Government, but very poor protection and shelter I found
it, for during a storm that came on I had been better under a beggar’s
thatch; then the Zoo with its monkeys, about as full of tricks as some
of the mercantile men I had met, and the tigers not more merciful than
many human animals; then to the Museum and to the Art School, where
several hundred natives were being taught, but not an Eurasian! Poor
devils! Why should the Government care for their education?

As I had failed in my main purpose, I endeavored to get all I could to
pay for my trip. I got considerable mercantile experience, or rather
experience of the mercantile character that has lasted me for life. I
proved it to be true that experience is what a man gets after making a
fool of himself a number of times, and as experience is about all we get
in life, or take out of it, I tried to be satisfied.

One evening after returning from one of my trips and trying to analyze
this antipathy, prejudice or hatred of the Europeans for the Eurasians I
recalled this saying, “It is said that a person always hates the one he
has injured.” I thought there may be a great deal of truth in this and
further, the Europeans may look upon us as connected with themselves. We
are constant, perpetual reminders of the lustful sins of themselves or
their class. Even Lord Palmerston got to hating Punch for its continued
pictures of himself with a straw in his mouth, and I have read that in a
political campaign, caricatures have more power than argument. It may be
the Eurasian pictures of themselves that the Europeans do not like. Who
knows? What puzzled me then, and what my poor brain has never been able
to comprehend is, that as nearly or quite all the Europeans I met were
what are called Christians, how they could reconcile the hatred and
oppression of a poor unfortunate class with their religious professions.
I leave this to some head, wiser than mine to solve.




                              CHAPTER XII.


I returned to my home and to my books. These were true friends on whom I
could rely, and with whom I could find good society, especially as I had
my bread provided for. But what if I had been without books, without
money and could only eat my crust after I had earned it and unable to
get any work to do? This has often been one of my serious questions.

There is not a country on the globe where a European is so badly off as
in India, if he is without work and destitute of means and influence. I
have known a family of father and mother, with several sons and
daughters well educated. The father and sons tried to get employment but
failed. They offered to work at wages that would barely supply them with
the coarsest food, but this was denied them. They were at last reduced
to living on rice alone, the amount for the whole family of six not
costing four pence a day, and this they often could not purchase.

Another case was that of a man and his wife, well educated and of fine
appearance. He had invested all his money in a business that did not
pay. They sold their little property for almost nothing and then their
clothes. He could get no kind of employment, and at last they were so
reduced that the wife had to conceal herself in the hut where they
stayed, for want of clothes, and their almost starving heathen neighbors
gave them a few handfuls of rice to eat. An empty pocket and a naked
back are about the worst certificates a man can show to get employment
or position of any kind. Nobody wants such a recommendation, not even a
Christian. Accursed is poverty, for in proportion to his descent in
destitution, a man is less liable to receive anything. The rich, who
need nothing, have money thrown into their laps and positions thrust
upon them, but the greater a person’s necessities, the less he gets.
This is a strange contradictory world, yet this is also nature’s law.
The more you enrich a field the more it gives you in return, the more I
improve my bungalows, the higher rents I can get, but what is the use of
talking; the poor cannot grow fat on illustrations and arguments.

If the poor whites have such a struggle for life what must be the
condition of the destitute Eurasians who from their emaciated looks have
not even rice to eat?

Some months passed and again I became restless. I thought that in the
economic arrangement of nature in which everything has its function and
uses I also must have my place and work; that I, not less than an active
mosquito or a creeping snail, could not have been forgotten in the
universal plan.

I knew I must first fit myself for a position. As I had tried to learn
the mercantile business, so I thought of engineering. This was no sooner
considered than settled. Even if I did not find employment by it I would
have the discipline and knowledge of the science, so would lose nothing
and be a gainer by it. I entered an engineering college and passed
several successful and happy years without anything really worth
mentioning occurring except several incidents that were of great
importance to me.

The station was a small one, so the society was limited. The students
were rather above the average in ability; in fact there was not a sumf
among us. All had passed in the highest grades in school, so we could
stand erect with our heads upon our shoulders and act like men. We
called on the European families, were invited to their lawn and tennis
parties, took our share in the games, or rather more often got up games
of our own to enliven our hours of recreation and give pleasure to our
friends. During the last year of my course a gentleman, with his wife
and daughter, came to reside in the station. The daughter was about
eighteen years of age, finely formed, healthy and robust, of blonde
complexion, very good looking and to me, handsome. She had passed the
giggling stage of girlhood, if she ever had been in it. She was well
educated, intelligent and had read a number of good books.

From what I have read in English books, from what I have heard and the
little I have seen, it appears that most young women and many older ones
in society can dress finely, smile, giggle, dance, flirt, look pretty
and be or do anything but be sensible. The chief characteristic of this
young lady was her sensibleness. She seldom indulged in nonsense, but
when she did there was so much wit and real fun in it as to lift it
above inanity. I said she was a blonde, so my opposite, for I was rather
“soso.” I have heard the story of an Eurasian who in England was with
some unsophisticated girls, when one of them innocently remarked, “You
are very much tanned, are you not?” “Yes, I am,” said he. “When I was in
India I was out a great deal in the sun.” I think this is what has ailed
me, or something or other, perhaps the other, had made my complexion the
opposite of a blonde. Yet I think being opposite we were attracted to
each other for that—well, no matter—what’s the use of surmising? We
often met. I tried to talk as intelligently as I could to her, and I
think she reciprocated my efforts, for a number of times she mentioned
that she had found the books I had referred to and gave me their
opinions. I liked her for this.

One holiday when we were at a tennis party, a white, or rather a reddish
youth, still in the downy stage of adolescence, on a visit in the
station was of the party. I was standing a little aside, but heard the
youth ask the young lady to be his partner. She replied that she was
going to play with Mr. Japhet. “Well,” said he, “if you prefer that
Eurasian.” “You have no right to make such a remark as that,” she
replied with warmth. It was not prudent for me to appear as if I had
heard anything, and her choice of me and her reply helped me to restrain
my anger. But I remembered the youth, and why shouldn’t I? He was not
yet old enough for a man, nor young enough for a boy; “as a squash
before ’tis a peas-cod, or a codling when ’tis almost an apple.”

At first I liked her for her good sense and goodness, then I admired,
and then—but what’s the use of repeating the old, old story that has
been so often told since Adam looked upon Eve and saw that she was good;
and yet I will, for there is a pleasure in telling it—I loved her. By
that electrical, unseen, unheard power or means of conveying messages
from heart to heart that love has, I knew that she loved me. Nothing was
said between us about it, for what need was there of telling when we
both knew it all? After a while we talked as if the subject had been
understood and settled for some time. I will not relate what we said,
for nearly everybody knows our conversation all by heart; at least they
ought to.

Then the next question was about mama and papa. My dear little mama had
gone, and I was still Japhet in search of his father, so there could be
no trouble on my side, but hers? Aye, there was the rub. I had my
“doots,” as the Scotch say, and yet I was full of courage. She was a
fair lady and my heart was not faint. I concluded to attack the weaker
half of the family first, but I found my mistake, for she was the
stronger of the two when it came to heart affairs, as probably many men
have learned to their sorrow when dealing with what is called the weaker
sex. She listened most attentively, turning red, then white and so on,
the red coming like flashes of lightning. I saw this danger signal at
once, but love and courage made me go on. I had formed rather a tender
regard for this expected mother-in-law. So in the gentlest, most winning
terms and tones I could command, I plead my case. I saw and felt I had
no chance from my first word. My courage at last took to its heels and I
was trembling and powerless. It was one of the hardest and most trying
bits of work I ever had and I have had not a few. When I had finished
she said in angry tones, repressed like water bursting from a pipe under
a pressure of seventy pounds to the square inch:

“I am surprised! I am angry! How dare you think of such a thing? No,
never! I tell you, never!” Just then the other half came in, but he was
cold and rather mild and his better half remained on deck. In a word she
told him what I wanted but gave him no chance to talk. “No,” she
continued, “I tell you once for all. She shall never see you again.
Before I would let her marry an Eurasian I would shoot her.” “And I
would bury her,” said the other half.

As I did not want any shooting or burying, just then, I thought it best
to retreat, and having said, “I am very sorry,” departed.

It was sometime before I could realize what had happened. I have read of
the experience of people who had been nearly paralyzed by the shock of
an earthquake. They say it is impossible for the mind or words to convey
any idea of the intensely awful abject feeling that took possession of
them. It seemed to me that I had been through, or into or out of,
something of that kind. I do not remember whether I walked, or crept or
ran, but I left that scene of failure, anger and despair as soon as I
could, and who wouldn’t? My wits had all left me, like sunshine friends.
“When a man’s wits are gone, the heavens should open and take him away,”
but no heavens opened for me, and I was left to make the best of the
situation. When I thought of the young lady, of my love for her, I could
have been knocked down by a feather, or anything, for her sake, but when
I thought of that unattainable mother-in-law, and her cruel mean fling
at me, and of that cold-blooded masculine, offering his services as
sexton at the funeral of his daughter, I felt like swearing, and I will
not say that I did not use some good robust Saxon expletives, for
really, the occasion demanded it.

I think the Episcopal Bishop had a good idea when, in a convocation, he
became indignant over some wrong: “Mr. President, I think it is the duty
of this right reverend house to set forth a form of sound words to be
used by a man under strong provocation.”

In principle I am opposed to swearing, and then only in good, choice
language. I never take the name of God in vain, as that is a sin against
Him, and a crime against my better nature, and I detest the use of gad,
begad, ’swounds, ’sblood, ’sdeath, so many snobbish “Christian
gentlemen” are guilty of.

Darwin looks upon swearing as one of the most curious expressions which
occur in man; he considers that it reveals his animal descent, and looks
upon it as the survival of the habit in animals of uncovering the canine
teeth before fighting. I will not dispute this, but confess frankly that
I felt like uncovering my canine teeth, as no simple words could do the
subject justice. Neither anger or whimpering would accomplish anything
for her or me. I hardly knew what I did or did not do, for several days.
I could not attack the citadel, as I had no band of knights to aid me,
and had to subdue and smother my love and grief as well as my anger
allowed me. After several days, I received a letter clandestinely
dispatched by some bribed servant. She told of her love for me, that her
mother and father were furious, that her mother was to leave at once
with her for Bombay and England. She had begged them to let her see me
just once, but they declared it impossible, that they would bind her
with ropes, or lock her in a room, if she dared to think of such a
thing. “And all because you are an Eurasian! How could you help that?”
she added. Certainly? How could I help that?

She further wrote that she was going by the morning train, and wished me
to come, not to the railway station, where they would be watching, but
to stand on a hillock, near the track, where she could see me once more.
I was there. As the train passed she cried out to me, “You have all my
heart and love,” and she was gone. I was left in an agony of sorrow and
despair. How could I help being an Eurasian? Who made me an Eurasian?
How often have I repeated these questions? I often felt like cursing
him. It is said that Noah, the Patriarch, good enough to be specially
saved, cursed his son for his lack of parental respect, and Ham turned
black. My father, for Mr. Percy told me that I must have had one, did
the same for me and without any provocation on my part.

There was an interval of several weeks, just here in my life, that has
always been a blank to me. I must have been very ill.

My course finished, I received one of the best certificates of my
proficiency, and was soon homeward bound again. I was then anxious for
employment where I could use the knowledge I had acquired. I was
ambitious to go to the capital city to begin at the top. I wrote to the
Government of Bengal asking for a position and received the answer—“His
Honor directs me to acknowledge the receipt of your letter, and to state
that he does not deem it advisable to bring outsiders into this
province.”

This seemed to me very unjust, as his Honor himself was an outsider, but
he probably had in mind the saying, “Present company always excepted.”
Besides the babus were everywhere employed from Calcutta to Peshawar.
Have the rest of the people no rights? Are the babus so loyal or
superior to all others that they should be made the special pets of
government? I have often wondered why the rest of the people of India
submit to this injustice. There may come a time when the government will
wish it had friends in the place of these impudent Bengalis, and the
babus themselves will think Hades has burst wide open.

I wrote letters to various firms and all replied, “No assistants
required,” or, as some of them put in their printed slips, “No Eurasians
need apply.” So there was no help for it; to the books again! It was
everything to me that I had an income, but what of the thousands of poor
wretches who had neither money, income nor employment.

A year later the bequest of Mr. Percy was placed in my hands, and every
rupee accounted for. I invested in villages, and in various parcels of
ground in the station, on which I erected bungalows, one of which was
for myself, according to my own taste, with one room especially for a
library for the books that I had been accumulating.

All this gave me employment for several years, and I was quite happy. My
new house was the best in the station, and was better furnished, with
ample grounds, ornamented with every kind of shrubbery and flowers. It
became the envy of the station. The Commissioner of the Division wrote,
asking if he could rent it; then the Barra Sahib wanted it, and the
officers wished it for a Mess Koti. My refusal to all created quite a
feeling against me. Some one told somebody else, who told me, that the
“higher classes” considered the house too good for an Eurasian. I wonder
if they should accidentally get to heaven and find some of the lower
classes—Eurasians—there, whether they would blow up St. Peter for
letting us in?

I had numerous brushes with the magistrate; for he seemed determined to
annoy me because I had not let him have my house. My hedges were too
high or too broad. I should trim my trees, or should not trim those by
the roadside, which I myself had planted. When I had one of my houses
partly constructed he forbade the work to go any further, as I had not
obtained his permission to build, and besides it would obstruct the view
from his house, though it was five hundred yards away. I felt that all
this was petty, spiteful tyranny, and resisted as well as I could, but
of what avail? I might as well have quarreled with the man in the moon.

The magistrate had almost absolute power over affairs in the station,
and could be a despot if he chose. He was the Great Sahib, and he let
everybody know it, especially those he styled the lower classes. If he
could not carry out his plans in an open, manly way, he resorted to
petty tyranny that goaded one to madness. I had never met him, and all
his orders to me were made not in person or by letter, but through his
servants, which made it more annoying.

I was soon to make his personal acquaintance. One night, after dining
with a friend, I was walking homeward when I heard the screams of a
woman, or rather of a girl. I ran, and found two native policemen, one
holding each of her hands and dragging her along the road. They stopped
at once, and she begged me to have her released. They said they had
orders to bring good looking girls into cantonments, and they found her
on the road. I ordered them to let her go at once. They said they could
not do so. I insisted, and they replied that I should have to answer to
the magistrate for obstructing them. I took the girl to a friend’s
house, and told them to keep her concealed at my expense. The next
morning a servant came, ordering me to appear at the magistrate’s
bungalow. I went. As I entered, this worthy was sitting at his writing
table.

I said, “Good morning,” and bowed, but he made no salutation. His manner
and silence was very embarrassing to me, so I said, “My name is—” “Yes,
yes,” he interrupted, “I know you well enough; you are that damned
Eurasian who is always making trouble.” “But,” said I, and before I
could get in another word he retorted, “I don’t want a word from you. I
will let you off this time, but if you ever interfere with the police
again, I will give you cause to remember it,” and with a wave of his
hand, a servant opened the door for me to retire.

The seizure of this girl was a part of a damnable plan established by a
Christian government to supply victims to gratify the lusts of its
imported soldiery, and these soldiers probably all baptized, confirmed
Christians.

I sent that girl to a girl’s school, and paid her bills for years, which
I trust the Recording Angel has put down to the credit of my account.

All the Eurasians were my friends, all the second class whites, and I
had besides a number of acquaintances among the first grade. I had
several riding horses, the best that money could purchase, a fine
carriage, and several rigs of the best make, with horses to suit them. I
had a fine house and could give good dinners, no small item in making
friends, so some were glad to know me for that, if for no other reason.
Then I was greatly interested in sports, and was liberal in my
subscriptions, so that, having received my money, they could not well
overlook me, especially as they no doubt expected other favors to
follow.

One evening, near the band stand, I saw a number of ayahs, with the
children of the Mem Sahibs, and among them a very comely young woman,
evidently an Eurasian. My beloved magistrate was talking with the
children, but with his eyes on the governess. One, a young officer near
me, nudged another, and nodding toward the children, said, “The old
fellow is up to his tricks again.” The other smiled. The former asked,
“Do you know what he said when he came to dine at our mess on Sunday
evening?”

“No, what was it?” “Well, the Barra Sahib had read prayers at church in
the morning, so at the mess, just as we sat down to the table, he asked,
‘I say, Langton, by the way, who was that young woman in front at the
left this morning?’ ‘O, that was the Shaw’s governess,’ replied Langton.
‘By Jove! she is not a bad looking piece; though rather, don’t you
think, as if she had been too much in the sun?’ At which there was a
slight buzz among the younger set, and they looked at each other with
sly winks and nods, and Jeems, at my left, whispered to me, ‘The old man
may have the incapacity of age, but he evidently has not forgotten the
desires of youth!’”

I was disgusted—angry. Though I did not care a fig about the church and
its worship, yet I have always been a stickler for decency, even in a
church, or among my dogs. The thought of such a depraved thing reading
prayers—the Scriptures, styled sacred—and in what is called the house of
God, and while going through with his farce of worship, looking around
over the congregation to find some one on whom to rest his lustful eyes!
Evidently his eyes were not made for the good of his soul.

For several weeks I often noticed the Barra Sahib among the children, as
they seemed suddenly to have become special favorites of his; but he was
always near the governess.

Some months after this we lost our magistrate, for he was promoted to
the Commissionership of a distant province. The governess also
disappeared.




                             CHAPTER XIII.


I had frequently in going about the station, seen a European whose name
I learned was Jasper. He had a beautiful house and well kept grounds on
a retired road. This much I saw as I passed his place, but had never
spoken to him. One morning he came, as I was sitting in the veranda, and
handing me his card said that his mali had told him that I had some very
fine crotons, and with my permission, he would like to see them. We went
into the yard, and through the garden, and I found he was greatly
interested in botany. This suited me exactly, as I began to have a
special delight in adding to my knowledge of that science, as well as
increasing my stock of plants. He praised my collection of crotons
saying that they could not be excelled in India. After a pleasant round
of seeing and chatting, he invited me to call on him, as he had some
things to show me and bade me “Good morning.”

Thus commenced one of the most pleasant friendships I could have formed,
which continued until his death. He was about middle age, of good parts,
well read, and I had not been with him an hour before I knew that he did
his own thinking. He always showed great respect for the opinions of
others, the same that he claimed they should have for his.

A few mornings after, I returned Mr. Jasper’s call, and was delighted
with his rare plants and flowers. We then took our seats on the veranda,
and he called for tea. In the course of our conversation, I referred to
my releasing the girl from the police. I could not forget that screaming
cry for help in the night, and the oftener I thought of it, the more
indignant I grew. At once he exclaimed “What an outrage! It seems
incredible that such things could be possible. It is not only this one
case, but all over India such seizures are taking place. Sometimes when
I hear of such things, I wish I was God, or given His power for a short
time, I would cause lightning to strike the men who organized such a
devilish system, and those who carry it on. I would make such a
retribution upon them all that they would feel they were in hell. If a
daughter of the Queen, or of the Prime Minister, or of a member of
Parliament, of the Viceroy or Commander in Chief, should be seized, to
be kept as a prisoner to pass a short life in infamy and die of vice
disease, what would happen? Why every paper in the United Kingdom would
have gory articles on the subject; the whole nation would be aroused,
and there would be a question in Parliament. If done in a foreign
country it would be a cause for war. It is the old story of whose ox is
gored. Admitting that she is an orphan, without friends, an Eurasian,
pardon me Mr. Japhet for this word.”

“Go on,” I quickly replied, “I have been too often under the lash, or
rather through the fire on account of that word to take any offence, for
I know just what you mean.”

He commenced again. “Suppose this girl and other girls are friendless
and weak, are they not the very ones to be protected? What are laws and
governments for, if they are not to shield those who need protection the
most? Are the laws for the rich, the strong and mighty, who do not need
their aid? To whom should we be charitable if not to the poor? To whom
shall we show mercy, if not to the weak and erring? These girls have
immortal souls, or else Christianity and all human teaching is a lie.
Have we not had it drummed into our ears, from our infancy that all
souls are precious in the sight of God, and that He is not a respecter
of persons; that the poor and helpless are his care? You know the
teachings of Christianity and of the Church, but what is the practice? I
am old enough to care very little about creeds and theories. I care more
to know of a man’s life, what are his daily acts and thoughts. I don’t
care to hear a man’s prayers, so much as to see what he does. He may
pray for the poor with his lips, but I would rather see him pay for them
from his pocket. But what is the practice here?

“We took this country because we had the power to do it. We hold it by
might and force, and rule it with a sort of tyranny, a military
despotism. We are not here because the people want us. If we did not
keep the country by force, not by moral or religious power, but by real
brutal force, it would slip out of our hands in a single day. Blink at
it as we may, this is the fact and no one can question it. Here then is
a force, of one hundred and fifty thousand English soldiers, more or
less, sent out at an enormous expense to live by the sweat and blood of
these poverty-stricken, overtaxed natives. Only ten per cent. of these
soldiers are allowed to marry. A direct violation of the laws of God and
nature. It is not enough that the people are taxed to support this great
army, they must also provide victims to gratify the,—I will not say
brutal, for that would be a libel on even the lowest of the brute
creation,—but the foul, inhuman lust of these officers and soldiers. And
what is enough to make infidels of all mankind, is that all this is done
under a Christian Queen, a woman and a mother, by authority of a
Christian Parliament, and executed by the Christian Government of India!
By a nation ever ready to parade its civilization, chivalry and
Christianity! No wonder that these heathen have so little faith in the
Christian religion. I heard an old missionary say that the worst place
for missionary work was in the vicinity of a cantonment; that the very
lowest heathen were degraded by contact with the soldiers. It is so
everywhere.

“A writer on Africa says, ‘The farther the traveler advances into the
interior, the better is the condition of the natives found to be, less
drunkenness and immorality!’ Yet it is pretended that we are holding
this country for the glory of God, and the welfare of the people, and
that the subjugation of the people of the world by Christian nations is
for the promotion of civilization and Christianity! Out on such cant and
hypocrisy! The biggest robbers get the loot, and we are the robbers. Why
not say so, that we are after the loot and nothing else? Why not be
truthful even if we are thieves and not try to cover up our iniquities
with a film of religious varnish?”

I had no chance to put in a word and did not care to, as I thought he
was hitting the bull’s-eye at every shot, but I interjected: “They say
that it is necessary to make some provision.”

“All rot,” he exclaimed, “it is a slander on humanity. Don’t you know
that men can frame excuses and apologies for everything they wish to do?

“Why not make provision for men to commit theft, or highway robbery or
murder? It is false that men cannot restrain or subdue their sexual
passion the same as they subdue their other passions. Are they worse
than the brutes? If men are such gross animals that they cannot control
themselves, they ought to do as Origen, the saint, did to himself, or as
they cripple their fighting stallions.

“The fact is that the teachings of our people are wrong. They always
uphold what they do themselves, and make excuses for those who do like
them. One cannot take up a high society English novel but he reads of
the seduction and ruin of some poor ignorant girl by some titled roue.
High society seems to demand and gloat over such rotten mental food, as
it enjoys its rank over ripe game. If not, why are such books written,
and some of them by women, too? If the literature of every nation is the
mirror of its mind, what can be the minds of those who write and read
such books? The level of public morality must be very low when the
higher classes can delight in such things. If these stories were written
to condemn vice and licentiousness, to show the curse and crime of
wrong-doing, I would say nothing, for I am not a prude, but the most of
these stories make the amours and seductions by their heroes as
something to be admired, rather than horrible and repulsive.

“If there is any truth in Christianity, or any force in morality, it
should be used against the great vices of the nation, as well as of the
individual. But, as the Rev. Mr. Morley, in the “Times,” says: ‘The
church has nothing to say to public justice and mercy, to the spirit of
our legislation, to the union of hearts and minds embracing all classes
and conditions. All this it leaves to the world.’

“What are all the sweet mouthings in church about baptismal regeneration
and holy communion, when the majority of those listening are constantly
violating the laws of God and their own natures, and not a word about
this? I suppose all the soldiers in these regiments have been baptized.
Were they regenerated? If so, they must have got over it very quickly.
If there is any virtue in baptism, they should be baptized every day,
and by immersion, even to drowning, and then they would not be fit to
live on earth, much less to enter the Kingdom of Heaven.

“The trouble is, that in the churches, faith and morals, creed and
practice have been divorced, and do not live together. Many of these
soldiers would probably be astonished if it was suggested to them that
their religion had anything to do with their passions or their lusts.
They would probably answer as the old negro woman did, who had stolen a
goose. She went to church and gave testimony for Jesus. When reproached
by her mistress for doing such a thing, after her theft, she exclaimed:
‘Do you think I would deny my Lord and Master for the sake of a goose?’”

At this I interrupted him, by asking if these girls and women were
restrained and prevented from leaving?

“Certainly,” he said, “as much so as if they were in prison for life,
and there were armed sentries paraded before the gate. If, by any
chance, they escape, they are seized and brought back as any escaped
prisoner would be. The doors of these hells never open outward for these
poor wretches, and it might be written on the portals ‘Death to all who
enter here,’ and their lives are very brief when fresh victims must be
got. Talk about slavery! Why, the very worst African slavery is Paradise
to this, and our goody goody canting hypocrites make much ado over the
enslavement of the negroes.

“What can we expect when the church is silent, and the priests and
bishops make excuses, and apologies for this foul and ghastly pestilence
of lust? What a comment on the morals of a people when the church is
seriously considering the necessity of separate cups for administering
the wine at communion to prevent the contagion of venereal disease! Such
a proposition would be amusing and a sarcasm, if it were not so serious,
and yet an outsider cannot forbear asking why the church does not attack
the root of the matter instead of lopping the branches, or why such
noxious persons should be allowed to partake of the communion at all?”

Again I interrupted, I inquired if there were not medical examinations,
and did not the doctors give certificates?

“Certainly,” he said, “but what of them? They might as well give
consecrated charms to carry in the pocket, as a protection against
cyclones and earthquakes. Do you suppose any man can give a certificate
to protect any one against the evil results of a violation of the laws
of God and nature? Can we thwart God when He evidently intended to make
the consequences of sin terrible? Heal the sick, cure and save all we
can, but their medical examinations and so-called cures are for another
purpose. When Jesus lived, and as it is said, healed the diseased, what
did he always say? “Go and sin no more.” But these false cures are not
to cure, but on purpose to let the victims go and sin again, and be
damned. I am not giving my own opinions, for I have talked with doctors
themselves, and they have told me what they thought of the business.

“One of them, a Scotchman, a true man in every fibre of his being, a
surgeon who had been through the Mutiny, and at the siege of Delhi. I
met him one morning, coming from the hospital. He referred to what he
had been doing. Said he, ‘I hate the stinking business.’ ‘Why then,
don’t you refuse to do it?’ ‘Man, alive! I would then lose my position,
if I did. I am nearly ready to retire on a pension, and I cannot afford
to stop now, and lose that.’

“‘But you cure and give certificates,’ I suggested? ‘Certificates be
damned,’ he said with disgust; ‘I might as well snap my fingers, and say
that the wind shouldn’t blow again. Every time I have this hateful
business to do I wish the Viceroy or the Commander in Chief had to do my
dirty work, they would soon stop it if they had to make every soldier a
eunuch, unseminare them. It is only a trick or deception to delude the
soldiers to think they are safe, and let them go on from bad to worse.’

“I expressed surprise that those who made the law did not understand.
‘Understand,’ he replied, ‘they did not want to understand. They wished
to please the soldiers, even if it was by deception, and so made their
regulations, forgetting that the Almighty had made His laws some time
ago. We cannot frustrate the plans of God.’ Much more the doctor told
me. I hope Mr. Japhet,” said he, “that I have not detained you too
long.” I replied that I was in no hurry, as I had no special business on
hand.

He asked, “Were you ever in Naples?” “No,” I replied. “I want to tell
you a little incident. One morning, while visiting a friend who had long
been a resident of that city, we were seated at an open window, looking
out at the belching fires of Vesuvius. I remarked, ‘Why not bore a hole
or tunnel from the sea, and let in the waters to drown those infernal
fires? Wouldn’t there be a muttering and a spluttering, and a—’

“‘Stop, stop!’ he exclaimed. ‘You do not know what you are saying!
Should you dare suggest such a thing here in public, the Neapolitans
would mob you at once!’ After a little hesitation he continued: ‘Why, it
would be a crime! What a catastrophe would happen, and where would
Naples be, or even the globe itself, if such a thing should be done?’

“As my friend was of a religious turn, he went on: ‘It would be the most
stupendous attack on God’s order in nature that man ever attempted. The
building of the Tower of Babel would be children’s play compared to it.
It would be an eternal sin, involving not only the doer of it, but the
entire human race. Why, your suggestion will give me the nightmare as
long as I live in Naples, fearing that some God-defying man might do
it.’

“I have often thought of his remarks, and the lesson of them to me was,
that we cannot, or ought not to think of defying the physical laws of
nature, any more than we should outrage the moral laws of the God of
nature.” Thus ended my first call on Mr. Jasper.

On returning I had these thoughts: It is pitiable to think of the
thousands of loving Christian mothers praying daily for their soldier
boys in India, unaware of the cheap temptations furnished by the
Government within a few steps of their barracks, and to be with them in
camp, to march with them for their convenience.

It is pitiable to think of the thousands of pure, innocent women at
home, accepting as husbands the returned gentlemen from India, where
these have left a number of their own black-and-tan pickaninnies, or
have been shorn of their strength, in the laps of many Delilahs among
the native women.




                              CHAPTER XIV.


I had a good home, and everything pleasant, but I was alone. Some one
has asked the question: “What is home without a mother?” Mine was: “What
is home without a wife?” I had sadly failed in my first and only effort
to get a partner of my joys, a queen for my home, to my sorrow and
extreme chagrin and mortification. I had no ambition to encounter
another angry mother, though she had her rights, as I believed I had
mine. Burnt fingers make us chary of handling fire.

I had been in a number of happy homes, though excluded as I was, and had
seen a number of noble wives and mothers, who shed a divine light and
influence not only in their family circles, but on all around them.

Mr. Percy’s description of his mother and of his betrothed, gave me a
high ideal of the real and true woman. He never spoke of woman but with
respect, and I might say with reverence. The influence of his mother had
so formed him, that he could no more have injured a woman than he could
have hurt his own soul.

I think the opinion a man has of woman is a true index of his character.
I have never heard any one speak disparagingly of woman, but I have
asked myself, “What must he think of his own mother or sister?”

I had frequently met a young Eurasian woman. I always like the word
woman, for God made women; ladies are a society product, and are
somewhat like artificial flowers, painted and produced to order. There
are to be sure real ladies, but first of all they must be true women,
and as I have always preferred flowers of nature’s own making, so I have
a preference for a real woman, yet I will have to admit that even the
best of us may be deceived by appearances. I once saw some roses painted
so true to nature that butterflies came and lit upon them, and I could
imagine them saying to each other, “Fooled again!” So we imperfect
sighted mortals may be fooled with what we think are roses.

But to my story. The young woman was really handsome, and quite well
educated, though to be truthful, her education was somewhat artificial,
as the most of her life had been spent in a convent school. On her
father’s side of French descent; she was born of lawful wedlock, and in
a happy, well-to-do, prosperous family. Cupid shot me with one of his
best arrows soon after we became acquainted, and I think she was also
hit with the same kind of weapon from the quiver of the famous little
sportsman. There seemed to be a mutual sympathy for each other in our
wounded hearts. The result was, as it generally happens in such cases,
we concluded to cure each other’s wounds, by joining hands and hearts.
The wedding took place at the home of the bride, with great ceremony,
and a large gathering of friends, and then this Adam and his Eve
returned to their garden of Eden, and all went merry as a marriage bell.

It seemed as if I had now reached the acme of my desires, wealth enough,
a beautiful home, a fine library, flowers in our garden, and above all—a
wife. I had forgotten the story, as probably most of us have, that there
was a serpent even in the garden of Eden, and I never thought that one
could enter mine.

I had fine horses and carriages, so we could enjoy our drives. As I have
said, I subscribed liberally to all games and entertainments, so we had
frequent invitations, and were well received. We also gave our little
parties, which were well enjoyed. My wife was an excellent pianist, and
entertained our guests with music, in which some of them took part. One
of the most frequent callers was an Hon. a young officer of one of the
regiments, very gentlemanly in appearance, of a high society family,
well read, and one who had traveled and seen the world. He had a good
ear for music, and played well, so he and my wife had something in
common to interest them, with which I was well pleased. He not only
often dined with us alone and with others, but before our evening drives
he frequently took tea with us on our veranda, and we talked on various
subjects, for he was an excellent conversationalist, full of anecdotes
and incidents, which he related in a very fascinating manner. He had
style, a quick appreciation of things, and what interested me was his
remarks on moral and religious subjects, not connected with churches or
creeds, but in their widest meaning, and frequently with me alone he
spoke of the beauty of virtue and honor. He seemed to be a devoted
church-goer, belonged to the High Church party, was a stickler for
ecclesiastical forms, and often talked of the beauty of the services,
and the value of the sacraments.

Both my wife and myself were greatly pleased to have such an
acquaintance to relieve the monotony that rules even in our best India
stations. We had other friends whom we often saw, each excellent in his
way. We were happy and time passed rapidly. One of the largest
gatherings in the station was at the Birthday Ball, when guests came
from outside places. We attended the ball, though I could not dance, yet
I was very fond of music, and the social part. My wife excelled in
dancing and took great delight in it, so she had plenty of partners, one
of whom was our Hon. friend, and he was about the best dancer of them
all.

I had frequently to be absent for several days, to visit my villages,
and to look after my investments. I regretted these absences for my
wife’s sake, as she was timid at night, and besides she appeared fond of
my company, as I know I was of hers. One day, as I was about to leave,
our Hon. friend called, and during our conversation asked me if he could
take my wife out driving during my absence. I replied that I would be
most pleased to have him do so, and suggested that they should use the
phaeton, as it would be more comfortable than a cart, and the horses
needed exercise. During my absence I congratulated myself on our
happiness and prosperity, and thought with pride of the pleasant
reception of my wife in the station.

So the months passed with nothing to cloud my happiness. One day when I
was in the garden, looking over my trees and flowers, pruning a limb
here and there, my head man or durwan, an elderly Hindu, whom I had kept
in my service for years, followed me around. I saw by his manner that he
had something to say to me, so I asked “What is it, Ram Kishn?” He
replied, “I have been with the Sahib for years and have eaten his salt,
and I would shed my blood for him.”

“I know that, Ram Kishn, but what do you wish to say?”

“Sahib!” he said with hesitation, “I have often thought of telling you
something, but I was afraid. I have seen something that even we poor
ignorant idol worshipers—Kam ackl, bhut parast log, as the Sahibs call
us, think is not right.”

I quickly asked, “Has somebody been stealing my fruit or flowers, or the
bearer been cheating with the grain?”

“No, Sahib! nothing of that kind, something worse than that.”

I began to be impatient and said, “Out with it then, what is it?”

“Sahib, you know I love you, and think much of your izzat, honor. I
would let you beat me, or you might put your feet upon me,” and he threw
himself upon the ground toward me. I began to be alarmed, thinking there
must be something serious, or he would not act in that way, for he was a
very reliable, sensible man. I told him to get up, and urged him to tell
me what he meant. He said, “I would rather die than say it, but I tell
you for the sake of your honor, I must tell you.” ‘Well, then tell it,’
I urged.

Said he, “If the sahib will not kill me with the knife in his hand.”

I hurled the knife away, and said, “There goes the knife,” and then I
folded my arms and stood waiting. He went on:

“Now, if the Sahib will not call me a liar, or the son of a dog, or
curse me.”

I held up my right hand and said: “Ram Kishn! I will eat an oath before
God, that I will not touch you with my hands or feet, neither will I
harm you with my words, if you tell me what you mean.”

After a few moments, he said, “Sahib, you know the young Sahib who comes
here often, and sings with the Mem Sahib, who goes out with her in the
phaeton when you are absent?” I nodded my head in reply. “Well, when you
are gone to your villages—how can I tell it, Sahib? he comes late at
night when the lights are all out, and the Mem Sahib lets him in, and he
does not go away till early next morning.”

I staggered and fell. He rushed to me moaning, “Sahib, forgive me, what
have I done? I have killed you!” Then he helped me to a seat in the
arbor.

It seemed my heart had stopped, and I was choking. He stood with the
palms of his hands together, bending towards me, and the tears running
down his cheeks.

For some time we were silent. I could not think, it seemed that I had
fallen from some house or tree and was insensible. After awhile I said.
“Ram Kishn, I don’t doubt that you believe what you say, but there must
be some mistake. It is impossible, impossible.”

Then he said, “Sahib, do not say a word, not even to the Mem Sahib. I am
the only one of the servants who knows this, for don’t I watch on the
front veranda when the Sahib is absent?”

“But, what shall I do?” I asked, for I was in such a dazed stupor that I
could not think.

He replied, “The Sahib is going away to-night. Go, but do not go far
from the station, and return here to this arbor at twelve o’clock. Do
not come before that time, or the servants will be about, and we do not
want them to know anything of this, and then we’ll see that which is to
happen, will happen.” I told him I would do as he said, and that he
should order the sais to have the cart ready at five o’clock, and to
have the bearer put in my luggage. He replied that it should be just as
I ordered.

I sat for awhile, and then started for a walk, somewhere, anywhere, I
did not know, or care. I did not wish to see my wife, as I could not
trust myself to meet her just then. As I expected, when I returned, she
had gone out with her Hon. friend for a drive in the phaeton, so I
started in the direction of my villages. I halted at a village several
miles from the station, telling the sais that I was ill, and very ill I
was, too. How long the hours were! How slowly the minutes crept! I held
my watch in my hand, counted the tick, ticks, as if every one was
taunting me with my wretchedness. So I waited and ate grief for my
dinner. Eleven o’clock came, and I turned towards home. Home! How
suddenly it had changed to Hell! I formed no plans. I doubted, I feared,
I hoped. Nearing the station I went by a back lane to the stables, and
taking the luggage myself, went through the garden to the arbor. There I
found Ram Kishn. To show his sympathy in the dark, he took both my hands
in his and pressed them without uttering a word. After some moments of
silence I whispered, “Ram Kishn, is it,” and interrupting me, he said,
“We’ll see, sahib, come with me.” I followed him to a side door which we
entered, for it seems that he had quietly unfastened this door. He lit
the night lantern, and drew the slide to hide the light, and we silently
groped our way to our bedroom, yes, our bedroom. As we entered it, he
drew the slide, and there upon my bed, our bed, they were both asleep in
each other’s arms!

If I had been dazed before, I was paralyzed now. It was well that I had
formed no plan and taken no weapon, but it would have been useless, as I
could not raise my arms. I could not think; my power of speech was gone.

In an instant, at the glow of the light, they both awoke with a scream
of fright. I turned and left the room.

Often since that terrible moment I have thought of what I might, could,
would or should have done. That is always the way. Most people can think
afterward, when it is too late for thinking. But it was well that my
guardian angel or something kept me from taking a pistol or even a stick
in my hand. It has all passed, except the sad remembrance, and I console
myself with the thought that when one has done his best, that whatever
is, is best.

I went out into the darkness, wishing that it could engulf and hide me
forever. On and on for miles down the metaled road, thinking, but all my
thoughts ran into a delirium.

When the morning sun shone into my face, I found myself seated on the
sand by the roadside looking toward home. Home! I had none. It had
vanished in the darkness. Strange, is it not, that after a lapse of
years old scenes will suddenly flash upon one? It is true that a
thousand times I had thought of my mother, but at that moment I saw the
dear little mama, with those beautiful eyes wide open, looking, looking
while her heart was breaking, dying! I could realize her bitter sorrow,
for was not my heart breaking too?

These thoughts of her brought me to life again, to the maddening reality
of my own condition. I arose and went back to my infamy and disgrace. I
felt but little anger, as the consciousness of my degradation
overwhelmed me, and despair paralyzed all my feelings.

As I entered the house, I saw my wife—how I hated that word then—seated
in the drawing room. She did not look at me, and I passed on into my
private room. When I came out again, she sprang toward me, but I
retreated, saying, “Don’t come to me, never touch me again.” She threw
herself upon the floor, wailing and begging me to forgive her. My heart
was stone, my whole body dead to her. After a while she took a seat and
I listened in silence, while she told me all. How the Hon. had flattered
her, deceived and so seduced her, that at the Birthday Ball, after a
waltz together, he had taken her into the kala jagah—well is it named
the black place—and then had taken liberties with her, and then on and
on—why repeat the hateful story?

By the time she had finished I had formed my plan, and said this to her,
“Your Hon. seducer will probably not tell of this. The only one else who
knows it is Ram Kishn, and he will not tell, and we need not say
anything. We can live in hell here, and that is enough, without telling
others to have them add fuel to the flames. You can have that side of
the house entirely to yourself. One of the rooms you can use as a dining
room, and you can have the carriage for your evening drives. I will keep
this side of the house for myself, and we’ll live as never seeing each
other.”

The thought of the pleasant life we had passed, and of this horrible
life coming, made me exclaim, “What infamous crimes were my ancestors
guilty of, that I should be cursed like this? Why should I be damned for
the sins of that villainous father of mine?”

At this she asked, “Am I not to be your wife again?”

“My wife!” I exclaimed; “No, never, never again. Your purity is gone.
You are polluted for me. You have violated all your rights, not by a
sudden passion, but deliberately, time and again. You took advantage of
my absence. You have done your best to degrade me, to ruin me, and to
pollute yourself. You have not the slightest claim on me for any rights
or privileges. As for love, such as I had for you yesterday, my heart is
now dead to you. I forgive you, pity you, and will provide every comfort
for you, but you are not my wife except in name, and never can be.”

She fell back in a swoon, and I called her ayah, waiting woman, and left
the room.

What else could I do? Since then I have often thought of what I did, and
my conscience has never condemned me. I acted toward her as I would have
had her act toward me if the circumstances were changed. Had I broken my
loyalty to her in but one instance, she would have been right in dealing
with me as I dealt with her. I do not believe in two codes, one for
erring men, and another for erring women. If men demand virtue in their
wives, and cast them off when they fall, then let the men apply the same
law to themselves. The man who has commerce with more than one woman, is
as guilty as the woman who has had commerce with more than one man. If
immorality is wrong in a woman, why not in a man? Why should the man
have the right to transmit the curse of sensualism or debased appetite
to his children more than the woman? Why should a woman in marriage take
up a damaged article of a man, any more than a man a disreputable woman
for a wife?

Asks a Danish novelist, “Is a woman who has had no relationships with a
man before marriage entitled to expect the same in her husband? Is a man
who has had relationships with other women before marriage entitled to
complain of his wife who has had such relationships?” Another gives this
paragraph—a conversation of a father with his daughter. “There,” he
says, “is woman’s noblest calling.” “As what?” asks the daughter. “As
what! Have you not listened? As—as the ennobling influence in marriage,
as that which makes men pure, as—” “As soap?” she suggests. “Soap?” asks
he, “what makes you think of soap?” “You make out that marriage is a
great laundry for men. We girls are to stand ready, each at her wash-tub
with her piece of soap. Is that how you mean it?”

Once conversing with a young man, a full-blooded European in high
position, from a remark of mine he was led to ask, “Do you think that
children will inherit the disease of their father?” “Inevitably,” I
replied, “and I do not believe that God himself can or will avert this
natural law.” He replied, with a tremor in his voice, “I am very sorry
to hear you say that, as I am going to be married in a few days.” I
changed the subject, and made another remark, when he asked, “Don’t you
believe in the blood of Jesus to atone for our sins?” “No,” said I, “not
at all.” “Well!” he exclaimed, “if I did not believe in that, I do not
know what I should do.”

His was a strange mixture of practice and belief, like vice and virtue
sleeping in each other’s arms in the same bed. Living in the midst of
sin, diseased, and about to commit the meanest of frauds by marrying a
pure, noble girl, and yet professing to believe in Jesus, the purest of
men, who denounced lust in the severest terms, and taught that even
lustful desire was as criminal as adultery. Why should there not be
pure-minded, physically clean men, for fathers, as well as pure-minded
and beautiful women for mothers?

Why not, in the name of all that is just and holy, demand of men the
same chastity that they demand of women?

I know this is not the rule in “society”; that there are many men who
claim to be men of honor, gentlemen, and many of them professing
Christians, who glibly talk about the beauty of chastity and virtue, and
yet who feed in every pasture as if they had a right there, but if their
wives step aside, then the devil is to pay, and all that.

I acted according to my sense of justice—one law for both sexes, so how
could I have done otherwise than I did?

What of the Hon. gentleman, an officer in her majesty’s service? I might
have shot him, and been hung for it, as that is justice according to
English law. I might have exposed him and created a scandal, to be
myself despised as a cuckold, and he be patted on the back by his
gentlemen comrades, or laughed at for being caught. Such an escapade, by
what I have read and heard, is winked at by mothers in English
“society,” and constituents would not hesitate in making such a man a
member of Parliament. “Young men will sow their wild oats,” is their
excuse. “It is only an exuberance of gaiety—a youthful indiscretion,”
say they.

An English writer, a member of Parliament, so the statement is not to be
doubted, said in a newspaper article that “An Englishman is never so
happy as when stealing his neighbor’s wife,” so the Hon. may still be
happy stealing other men’s wives, as he stole mine. But then she was
only an “Eurasian,” the wife of that “damned Eurasian,” and so fit game
for an Hon. or any other gentleman.

I went to Ram Kishn, and he followed me into the arbor where we could be
alone. I told him what I had done. He replied, “Sahib, I am a poor,
ignorant, bhut parast, and have no more sense than if I was brother to a
donkey, yet I think you are doing right.” “Now, Ram Kishn,” I inquired,
“you will never tell a word of this?” He thrust out his tongue, with his
teeth upon it, as if to say, if it ever utters a word may it be bitten
off. And his tongue ever remained true and unbitten.

We two lived in this way in a divided house, not a home. Talk about hell
fire! It could not be worse than what I endured and suffered during the
long and dreary months while we lived and died a living death in every
day. I provided everything I could for her comfort, the best of
servants, the choicest kinds of food, books, magazines and illustrated
papers. She had her drives, but alone, the carriage was for her and no
one else. We seldom met, and then only for a word or two, when I asked
if she needed anything. I think, as she became conscious of her sin
against me, she respected me for the course I took.

She fell ill. I got the best medical attendance and nurses. The end was
approaching, and then she sent for me, and confessed again that she had
wronged me, and almost cursed that Hon. gentleman who, by his pious talk
and seductive flatteries, had led her astray, and held her in his power,
spellbound and powerless as the serpent holds the poor, weak bird, and
destroyed our love and home. Why should she not curse him? “For cursed
be the heart that had the heart to do it.” She did not blame me for what
I had done. My kindness and consideration had made her love me more than
ever. She had repented with bitter tears, until her heart was broken,
and now, at the close of her life, ending so sadly, she wanted my
forgiveness, which I gave most freely. She begged a parting farewell
kiss, which I had no desire to refuse, and she departed, once the life
of my life, but now no more.

Did I not suffer, and for her? Did I not live down in the valley of
despair, and under the shadow of death, all those months and for her
sake? I would have given all I possessed, even life itself, to have
restored her to me as she once was—my wife.

I buried her body in a beautiful spot in the cemetery, in silence, as
not a prayer or funeral note was uttered, for I had been so damnably
wronged by my Christian father, and this Hon. Christian gentleman who
had murdered my love, whom I had often seen, hail fellow, well met, with
the chaplain, and had noticed in church piously reciting the prayers,
that I hated everything associated with him, and wished to have neither
priest nor prayers.

My wish is, that if there be a devil, he may get this seducer and give
him his just dues, as I would wish to see a murderer caught and hung. I
believe in justice to sinners as well as to saints.

Some might say, “Why not have charity?” and my reply would be,

            “Urge neither charity nor shame to me,
            Uncharitably with me have you dealt,
            And shamefully by you my hopes are butchered,
            My charity is outrage, life my shame
            And in that shame still lives my sorrow’s rage.”

The last mark of respect I could show her was to erect a beautiful
monument on her grave, inscribed with “Mary, the wife of Charles
Japhet,” which the world may read, though it has never known the secret
of our lives until now. Though she had ceased to be in my heart my wife,
still she was and ever will be my wife in name.

Years have passed since that awful, memorable event. I have often tried
to analyze and comprehend my feelings and condition at that time. I had
such implicit, absolute confidence in the virtue of my wife that I would
have risked my soul in proof of it. I had such respect for that man that
nothing but overwhelming proof could have convinced me of his lack of
integrity. I was rather proud of his acquaintance, pleased with what I
considered his polite attentions to my wife. I would have felt it
degrading, not only to them, but to myself, to have entertained the
slightest suspicion of the least impropriety.

This was my condition before the fearful awakening came. Then it came so
suddenly, like a flash of lightning before my eyes, that I was
bewildered, stupefied. For the moment I could not realize anything,
either that I existed or could think or feel—paralyzed is the best word
I can use,—in thought and feeling.

Then there flashed through me a contempt, a thorough disgust for those
two things as if they were but slimy toads in the mire that were beneath
my notice, and too nasty for me to touch or look at. With this latter
feeling overpowering me, I escaped from what, had I remained a moment
more, would have become a revenge, and I would have committed a terrible
deed, not a crime, in killing them both, if I could. I think I would
have been justified in doing this, and yet, and yet, there would have
been a fearful remembrance of it ever afterward. I wonder why I acted as
I did, and still am heartily glad that I did not act otherwise.

Mr. Jasper was my kindest friend when the shadow of death was over my
house. He walked beside me to the cemetery, and stood beside me in the
silence at the grave, and returned with me in the carriage. He scarcely
spoke a word in all that time, but I felt the sympathy of his heart. The
shadow of death brooded within my house, the stillness was awful, almost
beyond endurance, and I was terribly alone. I could well apply the lines
of Shelley to myself:

                  “As the earth when leaves are dead,
                  As the night when sleep is sped,
                  As the heart when joy is fled,
                    I am left lone, alone.”




                              CHAPTER XV.


The next morning my friend called, and we had a long conversation on the
veranda. He said, “I was not a little surprised that you did not have
the chaplain and no kind of service at the grave. Not that I personally
was dissatisfied, but rather that you dared to go against the usual
custom.”

I could not tell him the exact reason, which mainly was my dislike of
the chaplain on account of his intimate companionship with the Hon. who
had wrecked my life, so I said that I had no acquaintance with the
chaplain; that according to social custom, as he had come last to the
station, it was his place to call on us. If he had any interest in our
religious welfare it was his duty to see us. If he was the shepherd and
we the sheep, it was his place to look us up, and not ours to run after
him. As he had never cared for us, either in health or in sickness, and
we could live and die without his services, it seemed to me that we
could be buried without his aid.

“Believe me,” he answered, “I am not finding fault or criticising, but
only referred to your not following the usual custom, and am rather
pleased that you had courage to do what you thought best. For myself, I
would prefer a solemn chant, or such a hymn as ‘Abide with me,’ or any
hymn that would lead us to think of eternal life. I object to the
service for the dead, as given in the prayer-book, being used for
everybody, saint and sinner alike; not that I would be a judge of the
dead, yet we cannot always restrain our thoughts and judgments.

“When I stood at the grave of a man whom everybody knew as a drunkard,
and we both knew such a man, who, going home at night drunk from a
party, fell from his horse and broke his collar bone, and died from his
injury mainly because he was dissipated. He was worse than a drunkard, a
seducer of innocence, a debauchee, most profane and vulgar in all his
conversation. He was vice personified; destitute of all pure noble
feelings, spending his nights in vice and his days in intrigue, whose
acquaintance was fatal to a woman, and who reveled in the putridity of
immorality. Every decent person loathed him while he was living, and
only recognized him because he was in a prominent government position.
When we stood at his grave, and the chaplain said the words:

“‘Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take
unto himself the soul of our dear brother here departed, we therefore
commit his body to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to
dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life
through our Lord Jesus Christ,—’

“I could not help thinking, you are either a fool or a liar and I
recalled the saying of Garibaldi: ‘A priest knows himself to be an
imposter unless he be a fool, or have been taught to lie from boyhood.’

“Such a performance as that, and I don’t know what else to call it, is
degrading a religious service, and turning it into a falsehood, making a
sham or mockery of what at such a solemn moment should be—most truthful
and sacred. Everybody present at the time knew the service was a lying
flattery, a religious farce. Is it any wonder that so many people lack
sincerity, and lose faith not only in the church, its ministers, but in
all things religious? The clergy go through their forms whether they are
suitable for the occasion or not.”

I suggested that perhaps his hymns might not always be appropriate.

“Why not?” he asked. “They would not lie about God or the dead, but
would be only for the living. Another thing. As this man to whom I
referred was near death, they sent for the chaplain. He may have found a
suitable prayer, or have said some good words, but what could he do for
such a man in the awful hour of death? They say, ‘The man may repent,’
and then? Would he go to heaven? What kind of a heaven would be suitable
for him? What society is he fitted to enjoy? What delight would he take
in anything that is pure and holy? That is another of the false, baneful
teachings of the Church, that the vilest of men may in a dying hour, by
a few words of the priest, by partaking of the communion, by the
anointing of oil, or the sprinkling of a few drops of so-called holy
water, in an instant, be fitted to go into the presence of God and
associate with angels and the pure and good. You might as well take a
savage cannibal, or a wild Hottentot, suddenly into a London drawing
room, among the refined and educated, and expect him to enjoy himself
and be at ease, as to think of a vile, polluted man gaining admittance
into Heaven, and to be happy should he get into it. Of what interest
would God be to a soul in a future life, who had nothing to do with Him
here?

“With me it is not a question if I shall go to Heaven, but how shall I
like it when I get there? Strip many people of all that is in them that
pertains wholly to this life, and there would be little left that would
be worth taking over into that other life. The whole church scheme is
founded on the idea that Heaven is a kind of a pen, or a big sheep-fold,
and that the keeper of the gate can be cajoled or bribed to let in
anybody who is vouched for by some priest; that even those so vile as to
pollute the earth by their presence, who can get past the keeper through
the gate, or by any hook or crook get in, will at once bloom out into
saints and angels.

“Is it strange that so many live in vice and sin, when their salvation
is made so easy, by getting in a priest at the last moment? How can
honest men, as clergymen, bolster up such a flattering delusion? If it
is criminal to deceive men about things in this life, how much more so
when it is about that which affects their eternal life? If the parsons
cannot keep a man from sinning, or make him lead a good life here, how
can they, in the hour of death, save him from Hell or fit him for
Heaven, when his body is racked with pain and his senses are benumbed?
Is it not a gross deception to teach that, when a man becomes so feeble
from his vices, that he can enjoy nothing more on earth, neither of its
good or evil, and has nothing left but its dregs, that he can take
communion, and reach Heaven?

“Colley Cibber wrote of Nell Gwynn, the notorious profligate mistress of
Charles the Second: ‘She received the last consolations of religion. Her
repentance in her last hours appeared in all the contrite symptoms of
Christian sincerity.’

“This is only one instance of thousands of similar statements. How can a
person’s death-bed be illumined by the holy consolations of religion,
after a whole life spent in the meanest kind of wickedness? What
sacrilegious rubbish!

“My idea of Heaven is this—that it is a condition of the soul, and is
made by ourselves, with God’s help always—by conquest, the conquest of
self, the subjugation of all thoughts, feelings and acts, everything
that is unheavenly, and by building up the soul with pure thoughts and
deeds of rightness. We make a heaven for ourselves by subduing and
improving. The farmer clears the ground and destroys the weeds to give
place to the seed, and then by cultivation, produces a harvest. He does
not expect a crop without labor; by some chance, or prayer, or miracle.
Why should we expect a spiritual crop of good without working for it?
Our diseases, are in no sense, accidents or mysteries, but the necessary
and legitimate results of the violations of laws. A man who violates the
laws of his physical being to his own injury is a criminal in regard to
himself, just as he would be a criminal in breaking the laws of the
state.

“Government does not accept the plea of ignorance of the laws, for to be
ignorant is a part of the crime, so no one should be excused for not
knowing or obeying the laws of his own being.

“The material view of Heaven as a place, instead of a condition of the
soul, that men can be thrown into it, by some force or power, outside of
themselves, that some one else has the keys and can open the place for
them, is a delusion that has done great hurt to humanity. With these
ideas men deceive and excuse themselves. Instead of making and building
up a heaven of their souls, they depend on others. They shift the
responsibility. If they sin, some one will bear their sins for them. No
matter how often they sin, or how long they continue in it, if they, at
the dying hour, can say they are sorry, get a priest to vouch for them,
and give them the pass-word, they will be made heirs of Heaven, and be
straightway carried to Abraham’s bosom. All this is contrary to common
sense and reason.

“Is it fair and just, supposing heaven to be a place, to those who all
their lives have striven to be good, to have these wretches who are
steeped in sin and made up of vice and crime to become at a breath,
inhabitants of heaven when they are not able to sin any more? This would
not be human justice, nor can I believe that it is God’s plan to people
heaven in that way, supposing it to be a place. O, yes, the thief on the
cross! I think if Jesus could have foreseen what use would have been
made of that expression he would never have uttered it. He had the
Jewish notion of heaven being a city, a new Jerusalem, with many
mansions, surrounded by a wall with gates. With all due respect to him
as a great teacher and a pure man, I cannot but think that these words
of his have kept many in sin, delayed their repentance and leading of a
better life. Do I say this rashly? Have I not heard men say, ‘O, I will
repent before I die;’ and when warned of their mistaken idea of
repentance and the danger of delay, have answered, ‘The thief repented
on the cross when he was dying and was promised paradise.’ And there is
the parable of the laborers. This is a Jewish story and might be told of
one of their rulers who could do as he pleased. It is utterly contrary
to human justice for a man who works only an hour to receive as much as
the man who labors ten hours. It is a libel on God to think he would pay
his laborers in that way.

“I have sometimes thought that some people are dead long before they are
buried. All the spiritual life, that which makes manhood or saints, is
dead, killed by their vices and transgressions against their spiritual
nature, and the animal life alone remains that keeps their bodies in
existence. What effect then would a prayer or a wafer or anything have
upon such a thing that is only like the carcass of a dying brute? In
proportion as a man sins he becomes dead to righteousness. I think no
one can question this. Then we cannot help admitting that there may come
a time when he, his soul, will be actually dead to all good influences.
Then he will be a hell to himself, or in hell, just as you choose to
have it.

“It is a horrible thought, I know, yet there are many horrible things in
life that we cannot escape. The hell or the punishment is of man’s own
making, not of God’s.

“If a farmer who has good soil, rain and sunshine, wastes his time in
idleness, how can he blame God for not giving him a harvest? When a man
wastes his life in vice and crime and becomes a hell to himself, how can
he accuse God of being unjust or unmerciful? The moral laws are as exact
and reasonable as those of nature.

“The mistake is, I think, in leading people to believe that the church
by some supernatural power given to it, or by a sudden belief, hope or
regret of the man himself, can change this inexorable, inevitable law of
God so as to make the vilest sinner become a saint. The soul that
sinneth shall die, and my belief is that God will not frustrate the
execution of His own laws. There are no miracles in nature or anywhere
else. It is inconsistent to suppose that the Creator of the universe
would permit or give power to a few poor mortals anywhere to interfere
with or change the working of His laws. In the revolution of the spheres
there has not been for ages the slightest variation or shadow of a
change. It is impossible to suppose that there could be such a variation
in the orbit of a planet so slight as to be beyond the power of man to
detect it with his most delicate instruments, without believing that
chaos would be the result sooner or later. There is as much harmony and
equilibrium in a globule of water as in the largest planet. The dazzling
glory in a dew-drop is but the exact reflection of some greater and
higher glory. Everything in nature is according to the strictest kind of
inerrant, unchangeable law. Why then should we expect or believe that in
the spiritual or moral life its laws are errant or changeable? Why
should cause and effect be different in the one than in the other? When
water can be produced by any power of God or man without the exact
proportions of oxygen and hydrogen, then I will attempt to believe that
a vile man, dead in trespasses and sins can suddenly be changed into an
angel and be fit to enjoy the society of the pure and the good.

“The mercy of God! It is blasphemy to make such a plea to ward off and
escape the consequences that are the result of the deliberate violations
of God’s moral laws. Earthquakes and cyclones are in harmony with
nature’s laws that God has made. Why not demand that the mercy of God
shall suddenly interfere and prevent these from engulfing cities and
destroying thousands of innocent women and children, as to believe that
the mercy of God will interfere with His spiritual laws and save a soul
that is dead in sin or has never wished for salvation.”

“But,” I inquired, “do you not believe in the forgiveness of God?”

“Most emphatically I do,” he exclaimed. “When a man longs for it in his
soul with heartfelt repentance. You know what I mean; not a sham
repentance or asking for forgiveness when he is at the end of his tether
and is too weak and impotent to sin again. But suppose that full pardon
is given, what then? Does it restore the sinner and reinstate him in his
former innocent state or place him where he might have been had he not
sinned? Not at all, for I say it with loyalty and reverence to God that
there are things He cannot do. He cannot do away with the results of the
cyclone of last year. He cannot blot out the occurrences of the past and
make the history of the world a blank. He cannot violate His own laws
which His own omniscience and wisdom have established. This is
inconceivable.

“There are so many who misinterpret the forgiveness and mercy of God
that they transform Him from a being of infinite perfectness into a
thing of whims and caprices.

“To illustrate my meaning. Suppose a young man, well educated and
trained, a model young man in every respect, leaves home like the
prodigal son and goes to some city and yields to temptation and vice, as
so many do where they think they are unknown and have a chance to see
life. His money all spent, his strength all gone so that he can
dissipate no more, he goes home. The father and mother receive him with
tears of gladness; not a word of reproach is uttered. He sits at the
family table, kneels again at the family altar and apparently all is as
if nothing had happened. He is fully forgiven but does that forgiveness
restore to him the innocence he lost? Never! That is lost forever. He
may never sin again, but he cannot obliterate the wounds and scars he
made upon his own soul by his sinning. Neither the forgiveness of his
father nor the prayers of his loving mother can ever make him what he
would have been had he not sinned. Nor can God do away with the
violation of His laws. A man’s deeds become a part or all of himself.
Destroy the remembrance of those deeds and so far you annihilate the man
himself. The only thing for a sinner to do is to sin no more and make
the most of the rest of his life.

“Suppose I take an illustration from nature. We go into your garden, and
as we pass along, you with your pruning knife in your hand make a cut in
one of the trees. Ten years from now we meet again, and as we pass the
tree you remark: ‘Why, Mr. Jasper, here is the very tree I cut ten years
ago, and there is not a sign or scar of the knife. It is as if it never
had been hurt!’ ‘Hold! I cry. Let us cut the tree down and open it.’
There is the inevitable wound made by your knife. It could not be
otherwise. Nature always retains its scars and why not men? So the
immortal soul never forgets or loses anything of good or evil. It is
fearful, awful, I know, and makes one dread to live. Everybody has to
carry through life the scars they received in their youth. It is
nonsense to say that a life tainted with sin may come out all right in
the end.

“The acts of men when once performed are indestructible and eternal,
whether they are good or evil. Could they be annihilated, then the good
might go as well as the evil, and nothing would be settled, all would be
chaos.

“‘According to law,’ is an expression of the justice of an action among
men, so we can say that God does everything according to law. Neither
will He, or can He, by miracles or any special providence, change or
interfere with the execution of His established laws. Why should He? In
answer to prayer? What a mess this world would be in, if God answered
everybody’s prayers! Two Christian people are at war. Both claim to be
right, and each prays to God for help to conquer the other. The one is
conquered, but does it acknowledge that its defeat was because God was
not with it?

“A farmer went to his minister and asked him to pray for rain, as his
corn was drying up. Another farmer objected as he had just cut his grass
and rain would ruin it. What would be for the benefit of one might be
loss or death to many. Who can interfere with the government of the
Almighty?

“Who knows the laws so well as He that made them? Nine-tenths of the
suggestions and directions to God, as to how He should manage the
affairs of the world, would be insults and sins, were it not for the
incapacity and ignorance of those who make them. It is no crime or sin
for a donkey to bray at the moon.

“Suppose that one who has spent years in study and experiment produces a
large and intricate machine. He knows the purposes for which it was
built and all the details and manner of using it. Is such a man to
receive directions how to manage his machine from any passer-by, from
persons who know nothing of mechanical laws, and of but little else, and
never gave an hour’s thought to the simplest mechanical appliance? If
any one knows more about the machine than its maker, it might be well
for him to give suggestions. So if any one knows more about the world
and knows how to take care of it better than its Creator, let him step
up, and give his advice and orders.”

I interjected, “If a man makes his own destiny, what is the use of the
church or parsons?”

“Use! Why to help make it better, for good, not by any delusions,
deceptions, false hopes, jugglery of ordinances or soft sayings.
‘Believe, have faith in this or that and you will be saved.’ Let the
priests and all religious teachers warn the people of sin, show them the
fearful and inevitable consequences of the violation of the spiritual
and moral laws; that as a man lives so he dies, and as he dies so will
be his eternal condition. Give him no chance for an excuse, of dodging,
of trying to escape through somebody’s influence. Educate him, threaten
him, frighten him by the awful present and eternal consequences of sin,
into a better life. Make no apologies for sinning. Give him to
understand that he is making his own heaven or hell. As the Persian poet
puts it:

              ‘I sent my soul through the invisible,
              Some letter of that after life to spell,
              And bye and bye my soul returned to me,
              And answered, I, myself, am heaven or hell!’

“There is nothing truer than the saying of Kant. ‘Every action carries
with it its own punishment, and its own reward.’

               ‘It matters not how straight the gate,
               How charged with punishment the scroll,
               I am the master of my fate,
               I am the Captain of my soul.’

               ‘Our acts our angels are, for good or ill,
               Our fatal shadows that walk by us still.’

“The great mistake is, that salvation from sin is made so easy; is
considered so cheap a thing, that few pay any attention to it. Make men
understand that their eternal destiny is of their own making—with the
help of God always—that no mediation, intercession of others can
possibly change their evil nature, or do away with the fearful
consequences of the violation of God’s law. I would not smooth over
anything. I would show them that the most difficult thing in life is to
be good, and yet that every difficulty can be overcome and the way
become delightfully pleasant if the mind and strength of the heart and
soul are inclined to it. When a man has wasted his life, sucked the
sweets from every flower to gratify his pampered appetite, and the fires
of his passions have gone out, he becomes devout, builds a church,
endows a hospital, says his prayers, and is cock sure of heaven, as if
the eyes of justice were blind and the record of his misspent life could
be erased by a few donations of money or the mumbling of a few prayers!

“Away with all such cant and hypocrisy! Money can do a great deal on
earth, for all on it, even immortal men are purchasable, but it would be
blasphemy to think that the justice of Heaven could be thwarted by
bribes, or the records of wrong-doing be washed away by a few tardy
tears.

       ‘Yet here’s a spot,
     Out damned spot! Out I say,
     What! will these hands never be clean!
     Here’s the smell of blood still;
     All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.’

“It is not by any creed or prayer, or ordinance, or mediation that a man
is to be saved, but by noble thinking, and brave doing every moment of
his life. He may get all the information and assistance he can, but he
alone can and must do the work.

“It is awful to reflect that not a thought, or word, or deed is ever
forgotten, and that each one makes his own doomsday book, in which all
is written with such exactness that there are no erasures or
corrections, and to be forever carried as a part of the soul, a
perpetual, eternal witness for or against himself. The soul, disrobed,
naked, and seeing itself in that fearful light where there can be no
deception or the least concealment—what need of any judge or any record
but the memory of the soul? The memory keeps an everlasting account of
all that ever comes to it,—‘Where I do see the very book indeed where
all my sins are writ, and that’s myself.’

“The great mistake is, I think, in making religion wholly a supernatural
thing, something to be accepted by faith only, in somebody’s statement,
and clothing it with mystery, and placing it before our reason. True
religion is as much a science as mental philosophy, or chemistry, and
should be investigated by the same methods.

“Says Webster: ‘Science is the understanding of truth or facts; it is an
investigation of truth for its own sake, and a pursuit of pure
knowledge.’

“Sir William Thompson says: ‘Science is bound by the everlasting law of
honor to face fearlessly every problem which can fairly be presented to
it.’

“‘Conviction,’ says Bacon, ‘comes not through arguments, but through
experiments.’

“Says a French philosopher: ‘I have consumed forty years of my
pilgrimage seeking the philosopher’s stone called truth. I have
consulted all the adepts of antiquity, and still remain in ignorance.
All that I have been able to obtain is this: chance, is a word void of
sense. The world is arranged according to mathematical laws.’

“The relation of cause with effect, heat with cold, light with darkness,
sweet with sour, positive with negative, is not more or less definite in
the natural sciences than that of good with evil, vice with virtue, pure
with foul, or rewards with punishments in moral or religious science.
Why invent a devil to be the author of evil any more than to imagine
some demon to be the creator of darkness, or another as the devil of
cold in the arctic regions, or another as the devil of heat here in
India?

“Once, conversing with a Roman Catholic priest, he said, ‘Your theory
may do very well for you, but for the masses of ignorant people, sunken
in vice and sin, a literal hell of fire and a devil are an actual
necessity.’

“Bobby Burns says:

                 ‘The fear of hell’s a hangman’s whip,
                 To haud the wretch in order,’

but I prefer his other sentiment,

                  ‘Just where ye feel your honor grip,
                    Let that aye be your border.
                  Its slightest touches instant pause,
                    Debar a’ side pretenses,
                  And resolutely keep its laws,
                    Uncaring consequences.’”

Said he, as he arose to go, “I hope I have not tired you. I have talked
enough, so I will practice a little by seeing my poor families, for
wishing the poor to be fed without giving them bread, would not be
satisfactory to them now, nor to me hereafter.”

Such was Mr. Jasper. I liked him for his honesty and sincerity. I doubt
if he ever uttered a word but what he believed, and what he said he
felt, as if it was a part of himself.




                              CHAPTER XVI.


My home was lonely. The light that once shone so brightly in it had gone
out, as I might say, in darkness. I took to my books, but I had no
purpose or pleasure in reading. I improved my own grounds, and my
property in the station. I often went to my villages and spent weeks
among them, having good wells dug, a large tank, covering an acre of
ground constructed to contain water for irrigation, built roads, made
drains, planted good fruit and timber trees. I took much pleasure in all
this, and had great satisfaction in doing my duty to the poor people. I
was not satisfied to squeeze every pice of my rent out of them and give
them nothing in return. The results were better than I anticipated.
There was scarcely any sickness or disease among the people, owing to
the good water and drainage. They became healthy and more able to labor,
and, having abundant water in the tank for irrigation, they raised extra
and improved crops. The people had plenty to eat, and the cattle were
well fed. They had gardens, for which I supplied imported seeds, so they
had vegetables the year round, of which formerly there was a scarcity
except during the rains. In a few years there was plenty of fruit, and
the branches of the trees supplied the villagers with fuel, so they
could save the refuse, that was formerly burned, for their land. I
considered all the expenditure I had made, enhanced the worth of my
property. The ryots did not fail to realize the value of the
improvements to them, and gave me not only my legal rents most
willingly, but in their generosity gave me something of their products
and would have provided for me as their guest while I was with them.

They always received me with pleasure, not as their landlord, to make
demands upon them, but as their best friend. They ever had some present
for me. The largest melon, the ripest fruits, the finest flowers, were
kept for the sahib. I encouraged them to cultivate flowers, giving them
seeds, and sending them various kinds of plants and shrubs. I offered
prizes for the best flower beds kept by the women, and appointed a
committee of five to decide upon the awards. This was such a success,
and gave so much pleasure, that I offered other prizes for the planting
of trees, for the best productions of their gardens, and the best crops,
the finest looking cattle, and the cleanest, neatest houses and yards.
Twice a year we had our little fairs, gala days, on which the prizes
were distributed. The amounts I offered were not large, but the
emulation they excited was very great. They stimulated industry and
induced the people to work with pleasure, and gave them a taste for
beautiful and useful things.

My villages soon became the envy of all around them; my people, my
friends, took pride in speaking of me as “their sahib” and telling what
he had done for them. Need I say that I was pleased, for what is there
to produce greater happiness than in doing good and making others happy?
I might have skinned these people, and drained every pice I could out of
their poverty, but thousands of rupees accumulated would have been only
blood money and a curse compared to the pleasure I received from the
contented happiness of these once impoverished serfs.

I ventured on another experiment. I built a cheap school-house in each
village, and surrounded them with trees and flowers, planted by the
villagers themselves. I always got the people to be my partners in
everything. A teacher was engaged for each school-house, and every girl
and boy was asked to attend, and they were all there. I had no thought
of encouraging that Oxford and Cambridge fad of giving the higher
education to people to whom it is more of a curse than a blessing. I
have often thought of writing a book denouncing the government scheme of
giving the sons of the rich natives a classical education at the expense
of taxing the groans, sweat and life blood of the poor to pay for it.
These upstarts are impudent and mean enough in their natural condition,
but with the nonsensical crammed education they get, they are still
worse. But I have never found a pen sharp enough, so my book is still in
embryo.

In these schools, reading, writing, and the simplest figures were
taught; nothing more from books, but a great deal as to morals, manners,
health, about their houses, their fields, their cattle, about the birds,
the flowers and trees.

I put the girls first, as I always do. If we educate any let it be first
the girl, for as the girl is, so will be the mother and the coming man.
“A clever mother makes a clever man.” One might as well suppose a stream
to rise above its source, as to expect a nation to rise above its
mothers. An English writer says, “No great general ever arose out of a
nation of cowards; no great statesman or philosopher out of a nation of
fools; no great artists out of a nation of materialists; no great
dramatist, except when the drama was the passion of the people.” And I
will add, no great, good men without good mothers. Therefore, I say,
educate the girls! Sometimes the whisper of a mother, in the ear of a
child to-day, becomes the boom of a cannon a century hence. The people
of India are utterly blind in this respect. No matter what else they do,
they will never become a people among the great nations of the earth
until they educate the women.

I visited these schools often, gave the children treats, and offered
prizes. I gave little lectures to little people, and being only “That
Eurasian,” I had their language probably better than they could speak it
themselves, so had no difficulty in reaching them.

On the lecture prize days, the work in the fields was stopped, the
gardens neglected, and the holiday clothes taken from the earthen jars.
The people were all there, and not even a zanana woman or baba left
behind. The walls of the little school-house were too near each other,
so we had our School Jama’at under the big tree, with mats all around on
the ground for the people to sit upon. The result in a few years—for I
am looking back now—was that there was not a girl or boy in the villages
but could read and write fairly well. They were eager to read, and
begged for books and papers, so that I never made a visit that I did not
carry out a supply to them. It was interesting, to me at least, to see
frequently a little tot of a girl standing up and reading to a number of
grown men.

All the teaching was in their own language, of course, as I was not an
enlightened fool enough to introduce English among them.

I have always considered, and I do not speak from guess or supposition,
but from what I know, that the zemindars, or village owners, are the
greatest curse of India, unless they do something for their people, and
not one out of a hundred, or even one in a thousand, does that.

Next unto these zemindars is the army of brazen robbers, the jamadars,
who collect the rents. They live on the villagers, while with them, and
take all the dastoori and plunder they can lay their hands on. The poor
people might better welcome a swarm of locusts than these plunderers. I
never employed a jamadar to do my collecting, but went myself, and each
ryot placed his money in my hands as I sat by a table under the big
tree. All paid willingly, as they knew the exact amount, and that there
would be no extortion.

Another thing. I allowed no bunyas or money-lenders about. These are
another set of leeches, who suck the life blood of the poor in the shape
of interest on money advanced on the crops, at from one hundred to two
hundred per cent. profit. I have often wondered that a government, half
civilized or even a quarter enlightened, should not pass a law against
this accursed system of usury, and so protect the poor from wholesale
robbery. These harpies are worse than thieves, for they plunder under
protection of government, and can collect their extortionate demands by
means of law, and in the government courts. I found that several of
these fat sleek fellows paid regular visits to my villages, and I well
knew from the nature of these animals that they did not go without a
purpose. One day I called the ryots together and discovered that a
number of them were paying from fifty to one hundred per cent. for
loans—a profit to these extortioners that not a mercantile man of
Calcutta, or his wicked partner, hardened though they be, would expect.
I made a list of the names, with the amounts. I told them that I wanted
all this borrowing stopped at once. I drew up a paper, and said that I
would advance the sums they had borrowed, without any interest, on
condition that they would make their marks on the paper promising never
to borrow from the bunyas again. And they all agreed and signed. I got
no interest, but received what was better, the good will of these poor
men. I advised them to wear their rags, and live on weeds, rather than
go in debt. I loaned them money, but at the same time I tried to give
them a lesson in political economy. I gave not only one talk, but
repeated it. The result was excellent. In a couple of years there was
not a man in the villages who owed a rupee. They had a pride about this,
for knowing my feelings, it became a disgrace for a man to borrow, and
any one was marked when he went into debt. I got a good deal of pleasure
out of this in the hatred of the bunya tribe.

Another thing I noticed. Before my improvements and the new regime, the
people went to different melas to see the tamashas, for however low and
poor a people are, they will have their pleasures. I have read this
somewhere. “One way of getting an idea of our fellow men’s miseries is
to go and look at their pleasures.” I have often thought of this when
seeing the simple trifling amusements of the millions of India people at
a mela. How narrow and empty the minds that could take any pleasure in
what they enjoy! My whole feeling toward them was pity, even to sadness,
as to bring tears to my eyes. Immortal souls, with no desires worthy of
immortality!

After a few years, what with the improved culture of the fields, the
gardens, the trees, flowers, our fairs and school exhibitions, the
people had so much to look forward to and prepare for, that they had no
time or inclination to run about the country, or go away from home for
amusement.

I made very few rules, but gave many suggestions which they were very
quick to take up. Once in our assembly under the big tree, one of the
younger men wore a rather earthy looking coat. I suggested that he ask
his wife to loan him her clean sari. He left at once and soon appeared
with a nice clean coat to the amusement of the company. This little hint
was enough, and they showed respect by appearing as cleanly as possible.

I gave them a lecture on the impurities of water and showed them by
means of a magnifying glass, first to the women and then to the men,
what hideous creatures there were in foul water, to their great disgust,
for I saw it in every face, and explained that when they drank such
water, and all these clawing, wriggling creatures got into their
insides, they would see bhuts, ghosts, even in the day time, and get
fever, cholera and all other diseases.

I may have magnified even the truth in this, but as it is what all
medical men do when they wish to frighten their simple-minded patients,
my little exaggeration was excusable. I talked very plainly to them of
the nasty, filthy habit of the Hindus, washing their bodies and rinsing
their mouths in the foul pools, and then using the water for drinking
and cooking purposes. Of all the customs of the India people this is the
vilest, and often have I seen these self styled holy Brahmins, so
fastidious as not to drink water out of my clean glass, yet bathing in
water so foul that I would not allow my dog to be washed in it, and then
drinking the same water.

The Government sends to Europe for learned Medicos to come out here at
great expense and publishes octavos on the prevention of disease, and
yet allows these talaos or cess-pools to exist near every village, the
very hot walloes and breeding places of nearly every kind of disease. It
is a very soft thing for these gentlemen to get such a pleasure trip,
and that is about all there is in it, except the taxes on the people to
pay the bills.

I think my talks on this subject were a great success, as I saw
afterward that the people were particular to get water for drinking and
domestic purposes from the wells, and the water for bathing they carried
away from the tank to use outside.

All these things may be considered trifles by learned scientific minds;
but no matter. Many a time in my life I have had to do with trifles.
When that English gentleman, my father left us, and poor mama broke her
heart, a trifle perhaps to him,—and little sister and I lived on a few
handfuls of rice a day, given by the poor out of their scanty store, it
was a mere trifle, and when the good old faqir gave us a few handfuls of
parched grain, it was only a trifle, but life to us, and when Mr. Percy
found us in the serai, only a trifle, but what would I have been if that
trifling incident had never occurred? I do not think I am out of my
sense in saying that the man who looks carefully after all the trifles
may let the big things take care of themselves.

It is said that one of the great characteristics of Charles Darwin was
his interest in the littles of every day life, and besides he was one of
the most courteous of men. One statement of his, has given me great
satisfaction. In a letter he says: “As for myself I believe that I have
acted rightly in steadily following and devoting my life to science. I
feel no remorse from having committed any great sin, but have often
regretted that I have not done more direct good to my fellow-creatures.”

The tank, well filled with clean water, I stocked with the best of fish
of which the villagers soon had a plentiful supply. I am surprised that
the distinguished officers of government who write so learnedly about
relieving the poor of India, do not look after such a cheap and
excellent means of supplying food for the people. Yet as this might
become another article for taxation my prudence suggests silence.

I gave and also received, illustrating the Spanish proverb, “He who
would bring home the wealth of the Indies must carry the wealth of the
Indies with him.”

I became very fond of these people, and I know they had great regard for
me, and the children, especially the little girls, chattering, laughing,
playful things always around me, and they were rewarded. As I looked at
them I thought of that little sister of mine, would I ever find her?

One thing I recalled years afterward, and that was, I never once talked
to the people about their religion or referred to mine, for heathen as I
am, I have a religion. I never once spoke to them of the Bible or the
Shasters, nor gave them any creed or catechism. I often spoke to them
about God, pointing upwards, as to the One above, and explained what I
thought He would be pleased to have us do, and with what He would be
displeased. I am sure they came to reverence Him with a desire to obey
Him, for they paid less and less attention to their old idolatries.

One day one of the men came to me with a question. He first stated his
case, and then asked “Sahib, do you think Permeshwar, God, would be
pleased to have me do that?” “No” I replied, “I don’t think He would.”
“Then,” said he, “I will not do it.” I felt that good seed had been
planted in their hearts as in their fields, and I would let it grow and
ripen, cared for by God himself.

For some time I enjoyed this pleasant labor, as it diverted my thoughts
from my desolate home. I have long since come to the conclusion that
when a man becomes tired of himself, or is down in the mouth or heart,
the best remedy is to try and benefit his fellow men.

Said Rowland Hill: “I would give nothing for that man’s religion whose
very dog and cat are not the better for it.”

I left the villages to themselves for awhile and engaged in other
matters.




                             CHAPTER XVII.


One day, starting on a journey, I entered an apartment on the train in
which there was a lady and gentleman. They were very reserved as all
English people are.

I remember the remark of the great Dr. Johnson to his friend Boswell,
“Sir, two men of any other nation who are thrown into a room together at
a house where they are both visitors will immediately find some
conversation. But two Englishmen will probably go each to a different
window and remain in absolute silence.

“Sir, we do not understand the common rights of humanity.”

Apropos of this, I recall an account of a shipwreck when only two men,
Englishmen of course, were saved, one clinging to the foremast and the
other to the mainmast. One, as he was rescued was asked, “Who is that
other man?” He replied, “I don’t know.” “But didn’t you speak to him?”
“Speak to him!” he exclaimed. “How could I when we had not been
introduced?”

I read my paper for awhile in silence. I am never alone when I have a
good book or paper, and yet I felt like talking, as I sometimes do.
Probably we all feel that way. Strange isn’t it?

I tried to think of something to break the silence between myself and my
two silent fellow travelers, but failed entirely. Some miles were
passed, and I thought of a good iced drink that my bearer had brought
for me in my traveler’s ice box, and without a reflection, but from the
impulse of my good nature, I suggested that perhaps they might take
something. Had I been acquainted, I might have said in good Johnsonese,
“Let us reciprocate,” but I was prudent and cautious. They accepted at
once with thanks. This broke the ice between us, and I found them very
pleasant company. It is said, no matter by whom, that if an Englishman
is once introduced, or the ice is broken, he can be very affable.
Probably this may be true.

It was so in this case so what matter elsewhere. We enjoyed our
conversation so much that our journey passed quickly and we were
scarcely aware that we were at the end of it. They gave me their cards,
and said they were from Wazirabad. Wazirabad! How that name struck me! I
quickly asked, “Did you know a Mr. and Mrs. Strangway, who lived there?”
Both replied at once, “They were our most intimate friends!” I told them
that the Strangways, years ago, had adopted a little sister of mine, and
though I and another had written, we could never get a word from them or
about her. They replied, that soon after the Strangways returned with
the little girl they left for Europe taking her with them, and remained
abroad for years, where she was educated. While absent, the Strangways
from some cause or other were obliged to return to India, and soon after
their arrival they both died suddenly from the cholera. “But what became
of the daughter?” I impatiently asked. Replied the lady: “She was left
without any means, and went as a governess to Bhagulpur.” At the mention
of this name I sprang to my feet with a start. “Do you know to whom she
went?” I asked.

The lady looked at her husband, and after a moment’s hesitation said,
“Wasn’t it to the Shaws?” “Great Heavens! then I have seen her without
knowing her,” I exclaimed. My heart thumped in its beating, and cold
chills raced over me. They probably attributed this to my excitement, at
suddenly hearing of my long-lost sister. And I, what did I think, or
what didn’t I think? That villain of a magistrate leaving the station,
and the sudden disappearance of the governess, my sister!

We shook hands, but I hardly knew when my newly made friends left me.
Horror of horrors! To have been so near and yet not known her, and that
cursed old Englishman talking about her as he did, and how could I think
it, leading her astray! My sister! As long as she was somebody else’s
sister, how little I cared, but now when she was my sister? How could I
think of it? How endure it? I went to some hotel, I cared not where. I
had no desire for dinner. I could not sleep or rest, but walked the
floor. What a never ending night it was! The moments grew into hours,
and the hours into days, before the morning broke. It seemed as if I was
under the curse of Heaven. Born under a curse, with trouble enough
already to have broken my heart, when would it end? Would this be my lot
until death released me? What maddening thoughts I had during that long
never ending night! It seemed as if my heart would burst and my brain go
mad in anger and despair. I forgot my business and took the first train
for home, and the journey seemed eternal.

At last I reached home, so thoroughly exhausted that I felt and knew
that I must rest and sleep or die. I ate some food without tasting it,
and then yielding, I slept, for nature could endure no more. Ah! what
would become of us if we could not sleep! What a hell of anguish and
despair would we be in without it?

Yet I awoke as if from some terrible dream, of demons, fiends, with
horrible forms and faces and some accursed men wrangling and fighting
over a beautiful innocent childlike girl, with none to help her, neither
God above, nor angels, nor women, or men. I awoke so terrified that I
could not realize my own self. I felt that I was absent, gone away and
had to come back to myself. It was some minutes of time before I
recovered from that fearful state, and then I became calm, for I began
to reason about the folly of wasting my strength when I might need it so
much. I compelled myself by my will to be quiet, and partook of
breakfast.

The next thing was to find out the station of the commissioner. I
thought first of Mr. Jasper. No, that would not do. I did not want him,
now my best friend, to know my secret, my fears or my sorrows. We often
prefer to hide such things from our best friends. I went to the
magistrate, a stranger to me. I asked him as calmly as I could, the
address of Mr. Smith, now commissioner somewhere, formerly magistrate
and collector in our station, that I had some important business with
him, and hadn’t I? He at once gave me the name of the place. I thanked
him and left.

I took the first train for Jalalpur, the headquarters of the
commissioner, where I arrived the next morning. Another fearful night. I
cannot describe it, as the very remembrance of it now makes my old heart
ache. I thought of those of whom I had read, going to the guillotine,
the awful journey, and the dread of its end. What would be at the end of
my journey? I shuddered at the thought of it, and felt as if I was going
to my doom, to a hell of some kind, and something which I could not
resist, compelled me to go on, go on.

The station was at length reached, and reason took possession of me, and
I thought I heard a voice saying, “Be a man, Charles, be a man.” Ah! Mr.
Percy, would to God you were here now to help me! The thought of his
words braced me up. I had a bath at the station rooms, the colder the
better, I thought, and then a breakfast by force of my will, and then
out on my search.

If ever a criminal went limp to the scaffold I could sympathize with him
that morning. Going along the road I met a government chuprassi, as
shown by his clothes and badge, and I made inquiries of him, one of
which was, if he knew of a young woman, an Eurasian, under the
protection of the Commissioner Sahib? Protection! God forgive me for
that lie! But how else could I ask? He looked me over, again and again,
and hesitated. I waited. He then said, “Sahib, I am one of the
Commissioner Sahib’s servants. If he knew I told you anything about this
woman he would send me to Jehannam before the sun went down.” I replied
that I had some news for her, that he should have no fear, and need only
tell me the direction to her place. Before telling, he exacted a promise
that I would never mention him in any way, or his head would have to say
salaam to his shoulders.

I went on and came to the place. How much it reminded me of that small
wretched court where my little mama once was. I hurried in through the
narrow door or gate, as I did not wish to be seen by any one. There she
sat on the veranda of a small house with a little boy at her knees. She
was very much disturbed at my appearance. I saw at the first glance our
mother’s large lustrous eyes. Why do we always speak of the eyes of a
person? Is it because they are the windows of the soul through which we
look as through windows into a house? I now saw the well remembered
features of the face. I could not be mistaken. It was she, the long lost
sister.

Though I recognized her, would she know me, as she was so young when we
parted? That thought troubled me.

I did a great deal of thinking in that moment of silence. How fast we
think at times!

I bowed and said, “Good morning. My name is Japhet, Charles Japhet. Are
you Miss Strangway?” “Yes,” she replied. “Then you remember Mr. and Mrs.
Strangway, of Wazirabad?” I asked. “Oh! yes, surely I do,” she quickly
answered, with animation. “They adopted me, I was as their daughter,
their only child, and how they loved me! O, if they had only lived, I
would not have become what I am now.”

She bowed forward, her face in her hands, and sobbed bitterly. I could
have cried, too, and why not? Quickly the thought came to me, “Don’t let
your feelings run away with your sense, for you need all the sense you
have got.” After she had recovered a little, I asked, “Do you remember
where Mr. and Mrs. Strangway got you?” She thought a moment, and
replied, “Not very clearly, all I remember, that there was a great big
house, and a great number of girls, with nice white frocks; that a lady
came one day, took me by the hand and led me away; that is all I
recollect, and I suppose that this lady must have been Mrs. Strangway,
for I was with her always afterward.” “So you remember the frocks; just
like girls!” I couldn’t help saying. She smiled. It was that playful
smile that I so well remembered, and which I was glad to see, even in
her sad condition, and though my heart was breaking with sorrow and
dread.

“But do you remember nothing about a little brother of yours?” I asked.

“Nothing but this,” she answered. “I remember a long, dusty road. One
day the little boy, my brother, I think, went to climb a tree to get me
a flower or some fruit, and a great big monkey up in the tree made faces
and chattered at him, and when the little boy ran away from the tree the
monkey chased him, and I was in a great fright for his sake. That is all
I remember.”

How vividly I recalled that scene! How frightened I was as I saw that
monster grinning at me, and how I ran with him after me, and another
thing, that the little sister picked up a stick, and came to defend me,
bravely shaking the stick at the vicious brute.

There was no more doubt, so I said, “I am your brother.” She sprang to
her feet, exclaiming, “You my brother? You that little brother? Come in
quickly!” For I had been standing outside. She threw her arms around my
neck and kissed me. Why shouldn’t she? “You my brother? You my brother?”
she repeated, as if it was impossible. “Yes, and you are my sister, my
long lost sister!” I replied.

We sat for an hour or more. There was no fear of interruption, as no one
came in the day time but an old woman servant, and she had gone to her
home in the city, not to return until toward evening. There was no fear
of that distinguished Christian gentleman, the Honorable Commissioner,
coming, for his deeds were deeds of shame and darkness, for which he
always chose the night. I thought this, but certainly did not say so.

She gave me an outline of her life, told how kind and loving her adopted
parents were to her, how they left India and placed her in a school in
France while they spent several years on the continent. They then took
her to England, where they placed her in an excellent school, while they
spent some years visiting relatives in America. Returning, they took a
home in Scotland, often traveling, sight-seeing, mainly for her
improvement, while she enjoyed all the luxuries she wished. Then the
loss of property, the return to India, and the sudden death of those she
loved, and who loved her as their own child, how she was then thrown
upon the tender mercies of the world to earn her own living, of her
going to the Shaws as a governess, and then she cried as if her heart
would break. The pitiful story—ah, the pity of it—I knew that was yet to
come. I sat in dread, cold with fear. “O, God, if this cup would only
pass from me.”

She began again, with bated breath, how the commissioner came to her at
the club grounds where she was with the children, how he met her as if
by accident in the early morning when she was out with them, of his
smiles and flatteries. That he told her of the death of his wife, and
how lonely he was, to get her sympathy. Then of his asking her to marry
him, and of her repeated refusals, of his persistency until she at
length consented. Then he received promotion in a distant province. He
promised that they would be married on the journey, and in his new home
she would be his wife, so she went with him, but it was not convenient
for him to stop on the way, for he had to be at his appointment on a
certain date.

“So here I am,” she bitterly exclaimed. “He has promised a hundred times
to marry me, and lied every time. What am I now? Not his wife, only his
aurat, his woman.” She moaned.

It was the same old story, of lying, deceiving rakes to allure victims
into their nets. I have often thought if there is no hell, one should be
invented for such infernal villains. What shall I compare them to? I
know of nothing but that they are incarnate devils, fiends in human
shape. The tiger, the most ferocious of brutes, kills his prey, destroys
them and puts an end to their suffering, but these human devils prolong
the lives of their victims, by deception and lies, to gratify their
damnable and insatiate lust. What were my feelings? I felt like cursing,
and committing murder. I do not hesitate to say this, and before God
too, who I think would not rebuke me.

She shed bitter tears while I stood by, thinking. At length I said: “I
have come on purpose to take you away from this hell, and we will go at
once.” “I am ready! Thank God, I am ready now!” she exclaimed.

I went out and called a gari and on returning, found she had put all she
wanted in her bag, and taking her baby boy, we were soon on the way to
the railway station. Before the train came in, she took a piece of paper
and wrote, “Gone, to return no more, for you have lied to me,—Clara
Strangway.” This was enclosed in an envelope and addressed to “H. J.
Smith, Commissioner,” and dropped in the postal box.

We reached our home, and a new life for her commenced. We were happy in
a brother and sister’s love and care, as much so as we could be, except
for the thoughts of that cursed part in her last few years. No one asked
questions, and we told none our secret. She passed in sight as my
widowed sister. Was she not a widow, in a cursed widowhood?

Not long after, a young Eurasian gentleman of good family and business,
became acquainted with her and proposed marriage. She told him the whole
story, concealing nothing. They were married, and lead a happy life.

It seemed that I had lived a dozen lives in that short time. Life is a
comedy to those who think, and a tragedy to those who feel. Mine surely
was a tragedy, terribly real.

Thus ended another episode in my life, ended only in part, for it was
burned into my memory to remain forever. What a blessing if there were
some erasive to remove the foul stains from memory! But no, it cannot
be; not God himself can do it. A blessing? No, a curse, for the good too
might then be erased as well, and so we are to keep all, the good and
also the evil, and forever.




                             CHAPTER XVIII.


I was alone again. I sought company in my books. They were friends whom
I could trust, and would not leave or betray me. I also busied myself in
my garden, and in looking after my property. I often went to my
villages. There was nothing that gave me so much satisfaction as to see
the happiness and prosperity of those people. They were not all good, or
without faults by any means, but what people are? I had found more
sinners than saints among the upper class of society, so why should I
expect anything more from these ignorant villagers? I say upper class. I
don’t know why, except it is the fashion, good form, or something of
that style. They may be upper, that is, ahead in shameless dishonesty,
in gilded fashion, deceptive force, in skillful lying, willful seduction
and foul unchastity. If that is the meaning of the term, I accept it,
but the real genuine upper class of the world is what are called the
common people.

I doubt if anywhere on the globe the same number of people could have
been found making up a community, as in my villages, who were more
industrious, honest, truthful, grateful and virtuous than were these
people. They were not allured by ambition to be something above their
lot. They had not learned anything of the follies, fashions, intrigues,
deceptions, seductions and vices of the civilized Christian world. Their
natures had never been distorted and deformed by coming in contact with
civilized society.

I often doubt if so much education and knowledge is not more of a curse
than a blessing. Eve got to knowing too much, and Adam followed her, and
their knowledge has made liars and seducers for us ever since.

I doubt, no I know it, that it would have been utterly impossible for
any leading man in either of the villages to have conceived, planned,
and accomplished such a villainous crime as that of the distinguished
Christian Commissioner Sahib. They could not, and would not have done
it, for their high moral, or high animal sense, if you like it better,
would have revolted at it. The highest sense of chastity is in brutes,
and the very lowest in the upper classes of human society. I am a liar
if this is not true. But what is the use of talking?

I sometimes went to the club, as I did not like to exclude myself from
all mankind. There were many newcomers, who looked askance at me. To
some of them I was introduced, and they proved to be very pleasant and
agreeable companions, for though I have had my grievances, and may be a
little cynical at times, yet I would not have it understood, that I
think all people are bad, or that there may not be some people, even of
the “upper classes,” and in every grade of society who are good and
trying to do good. Yet, I was not comfortable. The general company was
not to my taste. The conversation was usually horsey or vicious among
the men, or made up of gossip and slander among the women. Frequently on
going home, I tried to recall some idea, some information that I had
acquired, but there was absolutely nothing worth carrying home.

One evening, as I approached a company, I was introduced to several, but
one quickly and deliberately turned his back upon me. A friend told me
later on, that he was one of the new magistrates, who had just come to
the station, and that he gave as his reason for snubbing me, that he had
a preference in his acquaintance, and did not care to know that
“Eurasian.” I recalled him as the downy youth, who had made a similar
remark when I was at the engineering college, and further that he was a
son of the Commissioner of Jalalpur. Worthy scion of a noble sire!

I concluded that the game was not worth the candle, so I paid up all my
dues and withdrew from the club, for my own good, and probably to the
satisfaction of Mr. Smith and others.

Mr. Jasper frequently called. His conversation always set me to
thinking. This is a good sign of conversation, as well as of a book. In
my experience the best books are those which lie open in my hand, while
my thoughts are pursuing some ideas suggested by something just read.
The only real use of books is to make a man think for himself. Reading
that does not set the mind to work, not only wastes the time but weakens
the faculty for thought.

If a book will not set one thinking for himself, it is not worth
shelf-room. The same with men. One might be with some a week or month,
and all they have to give is talk, mere words, while they are enamored
by their own verbosity. I also dislike a man who always agrees with me,
and never goes beyond my depth. Mr. Jasper was always climbing, reaching
out for something higher than himself, and exciting one to go with him.

One morning I abruptly asked him, “Do you believe in God?” I cannot tell
why I asked the question, as we cannot always give a reason for our
doings.

He exclaimed, “Why do you ask such a question? Believe in God! How can I
help it? How can any thinking being do otherwise? I see, you have got
the impression from something I have said, that because I do not believe
everything in the Bible, the church, the creeds, as some do, I must be
an atheist. It is so easy for some to use that epithet against any one
who is not willing to swallow everything that people wish to force down
his throat. Some one has said, I forget who, that ‘if some mortal steps
on the world’s platform and announces a few salient truths which do not
conform to the stereotyped systems of the religious community, he is
overwhelmed with hisses and objurgations, denounced as a heretic or
ostracized as an agnostic or an infidel.’

“I am profoundly a theist. I can say, with Voltaire, that if there is
not a God it would be necessary to invent one. He was also very orthodox
in his belief in hell, for, when a friend wrote to him, ‘I have
succeeded in getting rid of the idea of hell,’ Voltaire replied, ‘I
congratulate you; I am very far from that.’

“But to the question. I doubt if there is really an atheist in the
world. There are infidels, as every one is an infidel in regard to
something. There are different views about God, as many as there are
people. You never saw two faces exactly alike. I have often thought of
this, that of the fifteen hundred millions of people in the world, we
can recognize every one from another. It seems incredible. If then, all
these faces are different, so are the minds, and each one has his
conception of God. Who will presume to say that any one kind of face is
more acceptable to God than another? Or who is to tell us that all the
rest must make theirs conform to a certain type, or to lay down a law
that such is the will of God?

“He that did it would be laughed at as a fool for his presumption. The
white man, in his arrogance, sneers at all the rest, and thinks that his
complexion is the one above all others. How does he know but what God
prefers the ebony black to his white leprous skin?

“The different races uphold their own color, as they should. If then, we
cannot determine the type of face or color, how, then, can we fix the
type of mind to be preferred? Who shall lay down a law that all men
shall think alike, in a certain groove, and in a particular manner, and
believe the same things in the same way, as one man or a set of men, in
their assumed superiority, think the best! Why should you, or any class
of men, dictate to me how I shall think about God, or in fact about
anything, any more than you or they should tell me how to have my hair
cut, or to select a certain pattern for my clothes?

“I go into your garden, and may make suggestions about your walks, or
your flowers, and you may act upon them or not, but what right have I to
insist and command you to do according to my views with your own
property? What right, then, have I to step into your mind, and tell you
to think as I do, and believe what I tell you, or be damned? When men
cannot make two faces alike, how can they expect to fashion the minds of
men to one pattern? This has been attempted in all ages, and mainly by
the Church, and what was the result? Persecution, imprisonment,
crucifixion, burning at the stake, pouring molten lead into the ears,
bursting people with water poured into their mouths, tearing them limb
from limb, in short, no tortures that devilish ingenuity could invent
but were inflicted, and the wars, desolating countries, the destruction
of cities, the outrage and murder of helpless women and children, fire
and the sword, the fiendish passions of men unrestrained, a greater
destruction of property and human life by the Christian religious wars,
than in all the wars of the world put together, and for what purpose? To
make men think alike. Did they succeed? Not at all. Mankind will think
as it pleases, fire or no fire, and in spite of the direst persecution.
The attempt was so absurd and outrageous that any one, half mad or an
idiot, ought to have seen the folly of it. The scientists might, with as
much reason, call a convocation and pass a resolution that after a
certain date all mankind should be of a certain height, and of a
particular color. Yet, notwithstanding the horrible failure, the same
old spirit exists, and the dungeon, the rack, fire and sword would come
into use again for the same old hellish purpose if it were possible.

“This is the era of another method, until in the revolution of time, the
old system may again appear, as the affairs of men have their cycles and
their seasons, as the spheres and all things in nature. In ancient times
the religious believed in knocking unbelief on the head with battle
axes. Now it is the use of offensive epithets, caricature, sarcasm,
virulent attacks, denunciation, differing from the former methods, but
with the same old spirit and the same purpose in view.

“Yet, to be candid and reasonable, I am glad to admit that there has
been great improvement. There is now a wide liberty and more generosity,
simply because the world has grown wiser by experience, and the number
of free thinkers, those people who think as they choose, have increased,
and can show that they also have rights which the others are compelled
to respect.

“One thing I cannot abide. It is that any man, or set of men, should
organize a church, patch up a creed, formulate some ordinances and make
claims that they are right and all others are wrong. They have divine
authority, they say, and so say they all, each batch of them.

“But who are they? Men, all, every one of them, and all of them very
fallible men, too. Can any one set of them have any superiority or right
over all other men?

“If Peter, who denied his master, and cursed, and a very fallible man he
was, could found a church, why not each of the other apostles, or why
not anybody, for that matter? If a Roman Church, why not an English
Church, an American, an African, a Chinese, a Hottentot Church? No one
could assert that the African Church might not be as acceptable to God
as the African face, and there might be as much difference between these
churches as in the color of the different peoples. So many get up
schemes to assist Providence, as if He was incapable of conducting His
own affairs.

“Suppose a being from another world, or not to go so far, say a heathen,
should begin the study of the different beliefs of the different
churches and at the same time study the actions of those who profess
belief in them. What would be his inevitable conclusion?

“That Jesus was the Prince of Peace? And that all the people of these
different creeds are his true followers?

“No more, than that the sheep and tiger, the hare and the cat are of the
same family. He might believe that the tiger and the lamb might be
together, but the lamb would be inside the tiger, and that there would
be peace among the churches only when all the others would be in the
bowels of one.

“There is a great deal made of that scripture phrase of the lion and the
lamb lying down together, but each sect wishes to be the lion.

“This may be a crude way of stating the case, but is it not a fact that
the Roman church will never rest until it has devoured all the others?
The Anglican church and its infant in America are always crying out for
unity, but is not this ever the cry, ‘Come into me?’ It ill becomes the
adherents of the Church of England, that dissented from the Church of
Rome, to throw stones at those who dissent from them. Each of the sects,
and they all are sects, claims to be the body of Christ. What a
wonderful number of bodies he must have! If they are all in one body,
what a disturbed condition it must be in! If Jesus was divine, it is
sacrilegious to think of all the discordant elements shut up in him, or
if he was only human, still it is mortifying to think that his teaching
and example should produce such a variety of beliefs and actions.

“The Roman church, to begin with, regards all others as schismatic,
heretic, their clergy as lacking lawful orders, their sacraments and
ordinances as null and void. The Roman church declares that its
restoration to civil power is necessary, ‘that when the temporal
government of the apostolic see is at stake the security and well being
of the entire human family is also in jeopardy.’ This church insists
that the state has no rights over anything which it declares to be
within its domain, and that Protestantism being a mere rebellion, has no
rights at all; that even in Protestant communities the Catholic bishop
is the only lawful spiritual pastor. She claims everything.

“The Anglican church would like to affiliate with the mother church, be
considered as a branch or offshoot, but the mother church will none of
it. She will have no bastard children in her family. She must be all
over all. The Anglican after such a snub comes with his apostolic
succession and assumed divine rights, treats others as the Roman serves
him. Both have their different creeds and rituals, ceremonies,
millinery, exclusive consecrated churches and graveyards, in which none
of the outside world may be laid to rest.

“None even can enjoy the last inheritance of mankind unless he happens
to belong to their folds, they making death a sort of human judgment
day, in trying to forestall the Almighty by keeping their sheep from the
goats.

“And as we go on, the separations continue in almost endless variety,
each sect attacking the other. Their papers or organs are full of sneers
and slurs, bitter acrimonious attacks on each other, while they all
assume to be of Christ. Yet they wonder that the churches do not reach
the masses. What would the masses get by going into them?

“Another view. A church established by law or by some means may be
considered a very respectable, proper and orthodox thing and all that,
but what can it do to relieve me of my individual responsibility to God?
I am not answerable to the church for the eternal welfare of my soul. I
myself must look to that. Go to church, believe in the church, accept
its creeds. Some of this may be a help to me, to quicken my thoughts,
enlarge my understanding, but I deny any divine power or authority in it
over me. Will the church take my place and be judged for me, relieving
me of any final judgment? If not, how can I rely on it when there is a
final settlement between God and myself? At last I am to stand naked and
alone. This is the truth. ‘Thou wast alone at the time of thy birth;
thou wilt be alone in the moment of death; alone thou must answer at the
bar of the inexorable Judge.’

“Nothing can come between me and God. I am what I am, and so shall I
remain forever.

“If I could get some one to do my thinking, to believe for me and to
relieve me of all mental and moral responsibility in the end; if any one
of these ecclesiastical leaders, from the self styled infallible pope
down to the street Salvation Army shouter, could give me a quittance
from sin and a sure deed to an inheritance in heaven, it would be well
to trust them. Not one of them is sure of heaven himself. Yet they
uphold their different creeds as if the Almighty had written and signed
them with His own hand. Their assurance is only equaled by their
impudence, when they demand of every one, ‘Believe as I tell you,’ as if
the eternal destiny of human souls was in their say so.

“The church can be a kind of a human mutual aid society, and has its
place in the world, but nothing more. I must live my own life, die my
own death and remain what I make myself; and I cannot see how God, or
angels, or men can change this inevitable condition for me.

“If I could sell out, deliver myself over to the church or some body,
get rid of life, of myself, but I do not know how it can be done, nor do
I know of anyone who could make the purchase and give me a release from
all further responsibility.

“The fact is, everything in the world is so desperately human. All
humanity is on the same level plane. None can rise higher than the rest.
Yes, it is true that some claim to know, to have entered into the secret
councils of the Almighty and to understand all His plans, and so are
able to dictate to the rest, but when investigated they really know no
more than others. They have evolved a lot of theories from their inner
consciousness, nothing more; most frequently the less they really know,
the more bold and dogmatical they are.

“A young man—and generally they are below the average in natural
ability—goes to a school where he is taught some particular belief, how
to preach it, defend it; then he is set apart, ordained by the laying on
of hands of men little wiser and better than himself, and he goes forth
to uphold or disseminate his creed with the voice of an infallible
trumpet. By what right does he assume to have the ability or the
authority to know all about the purposes of God or dominate over his
fellow men?

“I grant his right to bray like an ass if he chooses, but I deny his
power to anathematize me for not believing his bray to be the roar of a
lion. Many a time have I sat in church and heard a beardless stripling
of a youth, just from school, make his statements about Providence with
an air of authority as if he had just been appointed prime minister to
the Almighty. What did he know more than his audience? Much less than
most of them. Take an old priest or clergyman. Who is he? Only a man as
I am. What is he? Only a student as I am. Where has he been that I have
not gone? What advantages has he had more than I? None. Is God nearer to
him than to me? I trust not. We are the same in every way, men. Yet when
he takes his place in the pulpit he assumes that he knows everything,
and presumes that I know nothing; preaches to me, dictates to me and
denounces me for not agreeing with him and accepting all his talk, his
sublimated drivel as God’s truth. Charles Kingsley, a most sensible
priest, says, ‘Youths who hide their crass ignorance and dullness under
the cloak of church infallibility, and having neither tact, manners,
learning, humanity or any other dignity whereon to stand, talk loudly
_pour pis aller_ about the dignity of the priesthood.’

“The churches assume to be invested by God with power to regulate our
belief without taking upon themselves any responsibility for our
miscarriage; they teach that the spiritual direction and salvation of a
man’s soul is wholly in the power of somebody else than himself.

“The priest declares that the bible says so, and therefore it must be
true. Who made the bible? Men, such as we are, and therefore of no final
authority. He says the church teaches so and so. But who made the
church? Men. So on all through the gamut. We start with man and man made
things. We never get away from men and never rise any higher than men
can go.

“I put nothing in the place of Almighty God or between Him and myself. I
defy the authority of any to impose upon me what they are not willing
that I should impose upon them. Why should a man attempt to bind my
conscience when he is not willing to allow me to bind his? I refuse to
accept pope or priest as having any authority to direct me in religious
matters. God is as near to me as to them. If they can get power from Him
so can I. If they can presume to use upon me what they assume to have
received, why can I not act in the same way toward them? The pope
assumes to direct me; why not I in turn direct him? He has his
authority, so he says, from heaven; so might I say of mine. What then is
the difference? Only this. He is a big pope, inheriting his power by
tradition; I am but a little pope, just starting. In himself he is no
greater or better a man than I am. He has only power and wealth acquired
by other men. A man, as Buddha, Jesus, Muhamed, starts alone as the
founder of a new religion. The movement continues until the followers of
each are numbered by millions. A priest commences a schismatic, and as
the years pass on, one thing after another is assumed, culminating in
papal infallibility, and the pope is considered as a god upon earth.

“Religious tyranny is worse than political tyranny. In the one the
highest aspirations of the soul are fettered and enslaved, while by the
other the body only is in subjugation.

“Charlemagne converted an ecclesiastical fiction into a political fact.
The sword compelled the people to acknowledge the pope as the vicegerent
of God. The popes were the confederates of cruelty and crime. There was
not an enormity so great in the political world but would be consecrated
by the popes and priests, if it was for their interest to do so. History
tells what this church has done for its own aggrandizement. The Roman
has been more bold and defiant, as it had the political power, but the
other sects, each in its own way, has sought to dominate the opinions of
mankind.

“But enough of this. The time must come when the world will worship only
one God and do away with the idolatry of the bible, of Jesus, of Mary,
of the innumerable saints, the adulation of rites, rituals, ceremonies,
and make righteousness and holiness consist in obeying the laws of God,
as written in the hearts of men, and in maintaining clean, upright
lives.

“We need a natural, not an artificial religion, one in harmony with the
nature of God, not something manufactured by councils or religious
tinkerers. I am well aware that most if not all the people in the
churches would deny my right to have any opinion at all on these
subjects except what they hold. I have known Christian ministers shocked
at the suggestion of a doubt about any of the tenets of their faith, and
yet I have heard these same men, well versed in Hinduism, attack it with
such virulence and ridicule that the very heathen in front of them
begged them for shame to desist.

“If Christian ministers in the bazars can preach against Muhamedanism
and Hinduism; if they can write books to destroy these religions, why
should they object to an investigation of their own creeds? They talk of
the intolerance and bigotry of the Muhamedans, but who so intolerant as
the Christians? Let one of their number leave their ranks with all
honesty and good intention. He is then shunned as a leper, avoided as if
he were a dangerous animal and treated with contempt, and reflections
are made on his motives, until he is at length obliged in self defense,
and for his own self respect, to give his reasons and make attacks in
return, when but for the uncharitable treatment he received would have
remained silent.”

I had asked frequent questions during the conversation, but do not
consider them worth repeating. This accounts for the apparent breaks in
Mr. Jasper’s remarks. It was no fault of his that he did not answer my
first question, as I diverted him from it by a question. I again
referred to it, and he said:

“Believe in God? Most emphatically I do. I came to conclude in the
existence of God in this way. I see about me a world of matter. It is
inert, dead, incapable of motion in itself or of moving other things. It
could not therefore come into existence by itself. I observe that
vegetable and animal life is above matter and has a certain power over
it, yet I am conscious that this life did not create itself. Then comes
man, supreme over all, with his varied powers and faculties. I know from
my own experience, that though he can do much he is only a transformer.
He cannot create anything, so he could not be his own creator. So on,
from the lowest to the highest life I see no power of creating. I see
what man can do, the transcendant harmony and adaptation of the things
his mind can arrange but not create. I see the wonderful things in
nature, their beauty and the universal harmony of all things, not only
of the earth but of the heavenly bodies. Everything I see is according
to law, nothing by chance. I see nothing on earth that can create the
smallest thing, and that nothing is moved or transferred but by life,
mind; and hence I infer that there must be a mind above all this to
start it and continue it, and this mind I call God. I do not know what
you think of my theory, but it is satisfactory to myself, and this is
sufficient for me. It may not satisfy you or any other being on earth. I
am not thinking for others; only for myself. I must believe and act for
myself.

“This mind, spirit, Being above, I revere, I worship, I love. He is my
light, my life, my peace and joy. I cannot but think Him infinitely
wise, for I see proofs of His wisdom everywhere. I see His goodness in
all He gives me to enjoy. I judge Him to be Almighty, for I see his
power displayed everywhere. I know of His mercy, for if it were not for
that I would not be permitted to live, violating what I cannot but see
are His righteous laws. I see it is the evident purpose of life to be
and enjoy. Should I wantonly wound a bird, I ask, what if some one
should torture me in the same way? Should a man wrong my sister or my
daughter, how would I feel? How then could I injure his sister? Why
should I do anything which I would not have done to me? I believe in
Providence, one who upholds and directs this universal all, from the
largest planets, down to the drop of dew on a rose leaf. I see and feel
all this, that as matter cannot act of itself, it must be acted upon,
and with what wisdom, power and love!

“When I obey the laws of nature, and of my being, there is a
satisfaction. When I violate the laws there is a sense of wrong, a
knowledge that I have sinned, and remorse follows, warning me not to do
the like again. If I fail to listen to the requests of the poor, the
question always comes: ‘If you were in their place, how would you like
to be treated in that way?’

“What more? I pray for light, for forgiveness, for strength, for wisdom.
I thank God for all things, and when I come to Him in humility, when I
make confession of my sins, throw myself upon Him, into His merciful
arms, and feel that this mind, this Infinite being is my God, my Father,
what a peace and joy comes into my life! I often like to sit in silence,
not to think, but to feel with my whole being, after God. This is Heaven
to me, to be in harmony with the Divine One above, around and within me,
and I am supremely happy. I have no fears, no doubts, for I have done
the best I know.

“Now you have read the thoughts of my soul. Good night, Mr. Japhet.”

He said all this with so much sincerity that I could not but believe
that he had let me read “the thoughts of his soul.”




                              CHAPTER XIX.


I had not forgotten scarcely an incident in my past life. I often went
back, in memory, to that little court where I first found myself.
Everything appeared before me as if placed upon a canvas by some
realistic painter. The old, dilapidated gate-way, with some of its
bricks ready to tumble out on some passer’s head, the very color of the
bricks, that wall at the back, with its little narrow door, the mud huts
at either side, the women sitting in front of their doors preparing
their scanty food, then the narrow stair against the back wall, the two
little rooms above, and the narrow veranda in front, as clear to my mind
as if I were standing there, and seeing it all. And that little mother,
with the sad face! O, how sad! Her lustrous eyes looking, staring, until
they became like glass. This was more than painted, rather engraved in
my memory, on my very soul, every line and point so indelible as never
to be erased.

I frequently thought of going to this place, but was repelled from doing
so. It gave me a chill, or kind of shock to think of it. I had often
read of the anxious desires of people to revisit the lands of their
birth, the places of their youth; of the Swiss, when absent, pining for
a sight of their mountain homes.

In my maturer years I reasoned about this apparent prejudice of mine
against the place of my childhood, and called myself foolish for
allowing it to influence me. Such thoughts gradually removed my
objections, and I resolved that I would visit the court. The opportunity
soon occurred. I had some business in Lucknow, and this being finished,
I took a stroll, and soon reached the old place, guided by directions I
received on the way. There was the old gate-way, the mud huts, and the
two little upper rooms in the back corner, all the same as they were
years ago, but in a worse condition, if that were possible. The poor
were there, for they are always with us, and will be, until men learn
the great lesson of humanity to their fellow-creatures, and while might
makes right, and avarice makes men stony-hearted and cruel.

I obtained permission, and went up into the little rooms, and seating
myself on a charpoy, gave way to a host of reflections. I went back to
my beginning, to the clinking sound of those rupees. I saw again that
monster sahib. I heard the cries and laments of the dear mother, and
then on—but why tell of it? I thought till I cried, yes cried, I am not
ashamed to say it. Tears, blessed tears, they are the shower to cool the
burning heat of the heart!

How long I sat I know not. I did not measure the time by tears, as they
did in the olden times by drops of water. Recovering myself, I had a
desire to learn if any one remembered me, or could tell me anything of
that dear mama, but the older people had gone where my questions could
not reach them. The others had not known, or had forgotten. They had
miseries enough of their own without burdening themselves with those of
other people. I went from one to another to get, if possible, one
remembrance. Had any one given me the slightest recollection, I could
have embraced him with tears of joy. It is so sad to be entirely
forgotten, to have passed away into nothing, not to be able to find one
who remembered seeing or hearing anything about you. This made me
inexpressibly sorrowful. At last one said that there was living near by,
a Le Maistre Sahib, an old man who might tell me something. This gave me
a gleam of hope, and in gratitude for this hint, apparently of so little
value, and out of kindness for these poor, where I had once been so
kindly treated by their kindred, I gave the crowd around me some rupees,
to their great joy.

I at once made my way to the bungalow of the sahib. He received me with
great courtesy. That he was of French descent, on his father’s side, at
least, I knew from his name. And more, he had that suavity of manner and
genial “bonhomie” that distinguishes French people wherever you may meet
them. I told him my name was Japhet, and I could not help adding
playfully that I was in search of my father. He replied, “Yes, he is a
wise son that knows his own father.” We chatted about various things,
and then I said I supposed I was born in the muhalla over there, that I
had been taken away when a child, and never again saw the place till
that day, when I had come to Lucknow on business. I told him that I was
an Eurasian, that I must have had a father.

“Yes,” he interrupted, “The most of us have had fathers.”

I continued, that very likely my father was a European, but I never knew
him, and did not even know his name—that as he had resided in Lucknow
for a long time, he probably could give me some information.

He replied, “My father was a Frenchman of good family, and was in the
service of the old King of Oude. He married a native woman, and we were
a happy family, yet I cannot but regret that my father had not married
one of his own race, but I was not in a position to give him any advice
on the subject. At my father’s death he left considerable property, so I
have stuck here ever since.” This and more of his biography he gave me.

As I was more interested in looking up my own pedigree than in listening
to an account of his, I suggested a year somewhere about which I wished
to inquire and asked if he knew of any incidents to aid me in tracing my
mother or my father.

“Yes,” said he, “I remember the time very well, and it is strange how
trivial things at times will help to fasten greater things in the
memory.”

And the old man chuckled over something as he recalled the time. He
continued: “I was then very much annoyed by a number of cattle coming
into my compound at night, eating the grass and the vegetables in my
garden, and destroying more than they ate. My servants repeatedly tried
to catch them, but at the first noise every one bolted out through the
hedge as fast as their legs could carry them. It seemed as if the devil
was in the cattle, and the cattle were in the plot to worry me and
escape. This continued for a number of nights. I went to the cowherds,
but they declared and swore that they tied up their cattle every night,
and they would not think of such a thing as letting their cattle go
loose to be lost or else get into the pound. I returned home determined
to have those cattle, outwit the devil and those cowherds or else I was
not the son of a Frenchman. I laid my plan. I sent to the bazar for a
lot of strong rope, and had my servants make a lot of loops or snares,
and I explained to them that after the cattle had entered the compound,
we would slip around through the gully and fasten the ends of the ropes
to the trees standing in the hedge, and let the snares hang between
where the cattle would have to go out. The servants rather enjoyed the
prospect of fun as much as I did, and besides they were becoming tired
of night watching and being aroused to chase the cattle.”

The old man went on with the garrulous prolixity of old age, entering
into all the details, and in fact the story was interesting from the way
he told it, with so much earnestness, with his French gestures,—how well
they illustrate,—and the twitching and smiles of his face. “Well,” said
he, “the night came and the cattle also. I took a number of men with me,
they with the rope snares, and we went a long way around, down through
the gully and fixed the loops. When all was ready, a man went into the
compound, and at once such a scurrying of the cattle, and then what a
bellowing, roaring and plunging as each was caught in a noose! It was a
good deal more sport than to see a poor devil of a man hung!”

The old man laughed again and again, as he recalled those bellowing,
plunging cattle, and I had to laugh too, almost forgetting what I came
after, but asked, “And then?”

He replied, “We watched by the cattle till morning, as we were in to the
finish, and sent for the owners, as we well knew who they were. They
held up their hands in surprise, saying they had been everywhere looking
for the cattle as they had broken loose during the night. I made them do
something more than hold up their hands, for they paid me well before
the cattle were released. It was a trick of theirs to let their cattle
out at night to steal a good feed, and the brutes seemed to be trained
therein.”

I could not see what all this had to do with me so I asked, “And then?”

“Really!” he replied, “I had almost forgotten what I was going to tell
you. It must have been about three or four o’clock in the morning or
just before day break, as we were watching the cattle as I went along
the gully, I came near running into a man. I saw at a glance that he was
a European and recognized him as Mr. Smith the young magistrate.”

“Smith!” I thought, “that name Smith, have I come across it again?”

“And then?” I asked.

He continued. “I said, ‘Good morning Mr. Smith,’ but he made no reply
and slipped away as quickly as he could. I was much surprised, as it was
very strange for a European to be there in that stinking gully at that
time of night. It was bad enough for me, but then I had a little
business there. I asked one of the servants close by who that was? ‘That
is Smith Sahib,’ said he. ‘Smith Sahib!’ I exclaimed, ‘What can he be
doing here at this time of night?’ The servant coolly answered, ‘The
sahib has an aurat over in that muhalla there and comes to see her at
night.’ You cannot hide anything from these natives.”

As my friend was evidently in a gossiping mood, I checked him by asking:
“Do you know anything more?”

“Yes,” said he. “One night, I was aroused by a native saying that some
one in the muhalla was taken with the cholera, and they wanted me to
come at once. They always come to me when they are in trouble, and I am
such an old fool that I always help them, so I quickly dressed and
taking some cholera mixture, went to the sick man and he was soon
greatly relieved. While standing by him, as he was lying on a charpoy in
front of his house, I saw Mr. Smith”—“Smith again!” I groaned
inwardly—“come in by the little door in the back wall and go up the
narrow stairs to the upper rooms at the corner. I knew him well, yet I
asked ‘Who is that Sahib?’ And they replied, ‘Smith Sahib, his woman is
up there.’”

My friend halted a little and I started him by asking, “And then? Did
you learn nothing more?”

“Yes,” said he. “Some time after, it may have been a couple of years,
when the famine came, the muhalla people being in great distress sent
for me and I went. A number of the poor wretches had died, really
starved to death, and there were others who could barely stand alone,
living skeletons, an awful sight! Strange isn’t it that with all our
boasted civilization, philanthropy and religion, yet human beings die
for want of work and the coarsest food to eat?”

I became fidgety, thinking he was about to give me an address on
political economy or religion, which at any other time I would gladly
have heard, so I pulled my check rein again, “And then?” He took to the
track immediately.

“Well, I sent for some food at once and waited to see it distributed,
and while waiting looked about the place. I noticed the upper rooms and
thought of the woman, so I inquired about her. They told me that her
sahib had left her to go to Wilayat; that she mourned for him day after
day and at last died of a broken heart, uska dil tut gaya, her heart
broken went. Then the old mamagee who had been the servant of this choti
mem sahib took care of the two children, a boy and a girl, as they had
nothing to live on. The muhalla people gave them something till the
famine came and they had nothing for themselves. One day the mamagee
took the children one by each hand and went out of the big gate, and
that was the last they ever saw or heard of them.”

How my heart beat, and my whole body, hot then cold, trembled, as he
told this.

He remarked, “This is all I know, and I am afraid it will not be of much
use to you, and now I want you to stay and take dinner with me.”

So considerate he was, and kindly, just like a Frenchman, as I had read
of them. I thanked him, but said that I must take the next train for
home. He urged me to come again and see him, just as the French do.

I took my departure. Dine! Take dinner! I felt as if I never wanted to
eat again. I had rather gone to death. I wandered towards the railway
station. I almost cursed my insatiable curiosity for leading me to that
wretched place, of which I always had such a dread of seeing. We can see
evil enough, and misery to the full, as we pass along, without rummaging
around to find it. I had taken the bit in my teeth in spite of my
reason, of my good sense, and I was wilfully making my own evil destiny.
We are all mostly fools at times, and most of us all the time. I was
bewildered, weary, sick in my very soul. I tried to think of other
things, but the black nightmare that had come, would not away. “What
next? What next?” some coco demon kept torturing me in asking. I had so
much of the past, not of the remote, but of the recent past, to think
of, rather to feel, that I could take no thought of the future.

I was in a condition of a traveler, who, after a toilsome journey of
months comes to an immense stream, where there is neither bridge, nor
boats, nor ferryman. He can neither retrace his steps, or go forward,
and sits down in abject despair. I reached home, and hardly knew how I
passed the next few days.

I took to my books, but my old friends were either very dull, or
sleeping, or dreaming, and failed to take any interest in me. I rode out
to my villages, on my fresh horses, and they gave me a good shaking up.
The villagers failed to please me, as they formerly did. Evidently the
times were out of joint, or I was, or something. We’ll leave it at the
latter. Would you believe it, that in a few days, when I was just
recovering from that fearful wide awake dream, and had called myself a
fool a score of times for ever venturing to that place in Lucknow, that
had been the dread of my life; that one morning the question came right
to me, “Why not go again, and find out all about that Mr. Smith?”

I was in the garden at the time, and I must have called out something
terrible at myself, for all the malies came running to know what I
wanted. I concluded I must be going daft, and to save appearances, told
them that they must keep the walks cleaner, or I would cut their wages.
I saw the nonsense of this, for there was not a weed or a blade of grass
to be seen, and the paths were as smooth as a bald man’s head. But I was
ready to break or cut something, I could not tell what or where.

The question came again and again, and would not down, and the result
was that I was on my way again to Lucknow. I knew what I was going for.
I was Japhet in search of his father. But why? Yes, why? I have often
wondered why people do certain things, even to their own hurt. I have
put the question to them, and the answer was: “They couldn’t help it.”
There seems to be a tide in the affairs of men, and often a big flood
tide that carries them whether they will or not. Good, old Æneas was
impelled by fate, and so it seems are all other men. I was going, I knew
that, impelled to go, and all the time calling myself a fool. I might be
going to my degradation, my death, my damnation, yet I must go. Men will
worry their lives away in trying to invent some powder to blow other men
to bits, yet knowing all the time, ten chances to one, they may blow
their own heads off first, yet they keep on trying. But what is the use
of any further explanation when everybody knows what I mean, that when
the devil of curiosity takes possession of us, as it did of our mother
Eve, as the story goes, we do not think of consequences.

I went directly to the bungalow of M. Le Maistre, and he received me
most cordially. I told him that I came to look up the record of that Mr.
Smith, as every one ought to have some interest in his paternal parent.
He looked at me with a peculiar expression on his face, showing that he
thought me a queer lot, but it was not in his French blood to say
anything to hurt my feelings.

He suggested we go to the cutchery, court house, which we did at once.
He knew the head clerks, and they would tell us everything. And they
did. I often think these natives know especially what they ought not to
know. I went on purpose to learn something, but in my secret soul I
wished they were as ignorant as mules, and could tell me nothing.

Smith Sahib, they said, had gone home, to Wilayat, from Lucknow, on
furlough, had married, and returning had been assistant at some place,
and then magistrate at, alas! my station, and then commissioner at
Jalalpur.

The whole story came out in a sentence. I then knew too much. I
restrained my feelings as I was becoming hardened as a criminal who
commits crime upon crime.

I did not care to think, and if I was ever thankful for a man who could
talk, I was then. My friend was a whole mill stream of talk. The gate
once opened, on he went. It was not idle or dull chatter either, but a
flood of good things, interesting and amusing. I yielded entirely to his
good humor, and the blue devils had no chance of attacking me. I dined
with him, as my reason told me that this was the best thing I could do,
and so it was.

At home again, but I was not happy, for I was not satisfied. I had, as
it were, started out on a hunt, got track of the game, but had not
bagged it. I know this is not at all respectful to compare a father to
game, and to talk of bagging him, but then what had my father taught me
of respect to himself or anybody else? What had he done for me but to
curse me in begetting me?

When I have heard that prayer, “We bless thee for our creation,” may God
forgive me I never could say it, and God knows why, and I think I love
Him too well to believe that He will make any record against me for what
I am now saying. What next? was the question. The same something, I do
not know what, either led me, or pushed me on, or told me to go on, go
on. I could sympathize with the wandering Jew.

I went to Jalalpur. On the way I tried to analyze my feelings. I had no
love or respect for this man, though he should prove to be my father.
That was settled. I had nothing to give him, that he would like to
receive; I wished nothing from him, no public recognition of me as his
son, if it was found that he was my father; I wanted no money or favor
of any kind whatever. The only thing I wished really to know, who was my
father. This man, or some equally honorable gentleman? I wanted to know,
if I had a father, and who he was. I made up my mind to go most
respectfully to Mr. Smith, state the case calmly, find out the fact, and
go home to let the matter rest for ever and aye.

With this conclusion, I tried to assume a moral philosophic kind of
feeling, and by the time I had taken a good bath at the hotel, donned my
best morning suit, and fortified myself with a good substantial
breakfast, I felt myself ready to meet anybody, even my father, if I
should find him.

I went to the big bungalow of the Commissioner, guarded in front by a
number of impudent lackeys, the hangers-on often make the man in India.
I sent in my card, and was admitted to the presence. I bowed and said
“Good morning,” but he did nothing. That was his style. He did not ask
me to be seated, and I did what I could not help doing, remained
standing. Glancing me over he quickly said, “I have nothing for you,
there is no vacancy.” I replied that I did not wish for a situation.
“O!” said he, “I thought you were the man that wanted a place.” I
answered, “I come to ask you a few questions: were you in Lucknow in the
year —.” He stopped me at once, saying, “I deny your right to question
me. Say what you have got to say and as briefly as possible, for I have
no time to waste.” Then I said, “I will state the matter as briefly as
possible. You were in Lucknow in — and were acquainted with a
Mussalmani, and I believe you to be my father.”

I got this out quickly so as to give him no chance to choke me off. He
sprang to his feet, his face livid with rage, and shaking his fist at me
exclaimed. “You damned Eurasian! Do you come here to insult me? I dare
you to prove what you have said. Out from here at once. Chuprassi! Open
the door, and get this man out.” This last was said in Hindustani in the
most insulting tone and words.

What more or less could I do than go, and at once? I think even the
cringing slave at the door, pitied me as the gentleman fairly shouted
his insulting command. Did you ever see a dog go into a room wagging his
tail and expecting a pleasant reception, then turned out with the
forcible aid of a boot? I was that dog. If I had any respect, or desire
to be just and fair before I went in, when I came out all had given way
to anger and hate. That is about the size of it. I had been humiliated,
cursed, spurned. My feelings flashed within me and over me, chills and
fever, cold and hot they were. But this was uppermost. He dared me!

I have read that the quickest way to get up a shindy at an Irish fair,
is to have a man go with his coat tails dragging on the ground and dare
any one to step on them, or to put a potato on his shoulder and dare any
one to knock it off. Men, that is, real men won’t be dared. I have known
a little fellow at school to be dared by a big bully, and he went in for
all he was worth, no matter if he came out all bleeding and pummeled,
for he wouldn’t be dared.

“All right, Mr. Smith, you dared me to prove it. But how shall I do it?”
was the question in my mind for days. It was a queer thing to do, prove
that a man is your own father, but there are many queer things in the
world, as probably all of us have discovered. I concluded to go again to
Lucknow, though I had not the remotest idea of what I should do.

On arriving there, I at once went to M. Le Maistre. I had formed an
opinion that he was very shrewd and quick-witted, and that if any one
could help me he could.

He received me very kindly and after a little talk, I said, “M. Le
Maistre, I rather like you and think I can trust you.”

“I don’t see why you shouldn’t,” he replied.

I went on. “You know what I am in search of?”

“Your father,” he said with a smile.

I answered, “Something of that kind, perhaps. I went to see Mr. Smith.
He was very angry, and dared me to prove that he was my father. I don’t
care a fig about him as a man, or as a father, but I won’t be dared. I
am to prove this thing, if it is possible, if it takes me the rest of my
life. Can you help me?”

“We’ll see,” he answered. “Let us go over to the muhalla.” He was full
of talk about everything. I think he would have gone to Jericho with me,
if I had only agreed to listen to him.

A little incident occurred which I must relate, as I remember it so
well. As we were going through his compound, I bounded up with a scream
at the sight of a cobra rising in front of me. I think if Eve had hated
snakes as I do, she would never have listened to that serpent. M. Le
Maistre went to the cobra, took it in his hand and let it crawl up his
sleeve. I stood aghast in astonishment. When I recovered my breath, I
asked, “Are you not afraid?”

“Afraid!” said he. “Why should I be afraid? I never harmed a snake in my
life and they never harm me.” Then he pulled the hideous thing out,
placed it on the ground, and patted its neck with his hand, and we went
on. The chills were still racing up and down my back, but with his
lively stories I soon recovered.

Reaching the muhalla he began talking with the people, especially an old
man, with whom he was well acquainted. M. Le Maistre told him, that he
wanted to find out something about Smith Sahib’s woman who had lived in
the two upper rooms, years ago. The old man after thinking, said that
there was the son of a money-lender, not far away, whose father had done
business for the woman, cashed notes for her or something, he did not
know just what, and he might tell us something. So on we went and found
the son. He at once said that he had lately been looking over some old
papers of his father’s and had found some, hidden in an earthen jar, and
among them a package. This might be what we wanted. He quickly brought
it. There were some letters in English, turning yellow, yet very
legible, but not one of them signed. Better than all these was a
photograph of an English Sahib! The very thing! I recognized it at once.
The fright I had received on that fearful night, when I had got the
first and only sight of that monster man was so impressed on my mind
that I remembered him as if I had seen him that very day. I fairly
leaped for joy and M. Le Maistre chuckled at our success. That wonderful
little package, so carefully done up, the treasure of my darling mama,
and what was it not to me?

M. Le Maistre, with all his wits in hand, said: “Yet he may deny all
these letters, for there is not a name anywhere! He was a shrewd one.
But as it is a long lane that has no turn, we’ll see.” Away we went, I
with the packet fast in my pocket, as happy as if I had got a deed of
possession to a new world.

“Now,” said he, “we will go to the cutchery and get some papers to prove
this handwriting.” On mentioning to the head clerk that we wanted to
look at some papers of the year—he immediately said that he had just
received orders to collect all the papers beyond a certain date to be
burned in a few days, and we could look them over. We found what we
wanted, and were allowed to take a dozen or more all written and signed
“H. J. Smith.” The very handwriting of our letters to the crossing of a
t and the dot of an i. I was satisfied and suggested that we return to
his house, but M. Le Maistre said “O, no, we are not through yet. There
is the photograph?” “Yes, but what of that?” I asked. “We’ll go to the
photographer, and see what we can see,” he replied. He asked the man of
art if he had the negative of such a photograph, showing him ours, or if
he had any copies of it. He went to his closet and soon returned with a
photograph, on the back of which was written: “You may make me one dozen
like this—H. J. Smith.” The very same writing as in our letters, and in
the cutchery papers. We quickly bought the picture, worth its weight in
gold to me, not only for the likeness, but for the writing on the back
of it. If I was surprised before, I was astonished now. I was in a
delirium of excitement, but my old friend was as cool as when he handled
the cobra. Any one can imagine only slightly my feelings, but they
cannot realize my intense enjoyment at the out-turn of our search. With
a quiet smile, my good friend then said, “I think you can eat a good
breakfast now and we’ll have it.” And it was a good one. He drew on his
boundless store of stories until I departed, giving him all the thanks
my language could express, and carrying with me the proofs that I,
Japhet, had found my father! Would he dare me again? It was some days
before I felt that I could venture to beard the dragon (I ought to say
my beloved father), in his den again. I was anxious to get through with
the business, for it seemed that until it was finished I could do
nothing else.




                              CHAPTER XX.


Again I was on my way to Jalalpur, with the precious parcel, the other
papers, and that fatal photograph. What is the use of telling of my
feelings? Any one can imagine what they were. I reached the big bungalow
again, but instead of sending in my card, I told the Janus at the door
that Stark Sahib wished to see the Commissioner Sahib. I well knew that
if he learned my name I would not be admitted. It was a little lie, but
who does not lie sometimes?

I was ushered in. I had scarcely got inside the door before he shouted,
“You here again! What the devil do you want now?” I replied that I had
come on very important business. Rising to his feet, in a great state of
anger, he blurted out, “I don’t want to hear anything from you—not a
word,” and he came toward me. I stood my ground, facing him so boldly
that he halted. I said, “I have something to tell you this time, and you
have got to hear it whether you like it or not. I am not going till I
tell you, and the sooner you let me commence, the sooner I will finish.”

“Well, damn it!” he fairly screamed, “what have you got to say?” I
calmed down a little and said, “I come to you with all the respect I can
command; I want nothing from you whatever; no recognition, no place or
position; and as to money, thanks to the best friend of my life, I
probably have ten rupees to every one of yours; so I want nothing but to
tell my story, and then there will be an end, so far as I am concerned.”

I think he saw that I was not to be bluffed or bullied, and as I asked
for nothing, it would be best to let me talk. “Go on then,” he said very
sternly, but quite subdued, “and the sooner you get through the better!”
I continued, “You were a sub-magistrate in Lucknow in the year —, and
you kept a mussalmani in a muhalla.” “It’s a lie, every word of it!” he
retorted. I went on regardless of his interruption. “You remember a M.
Le Maistre there, for you rented one of his houses. One night, or rather
toward morning, he met you in the gully coming from the muhalla. Another
time he saw you coming in through the little back door—you remember
it—and he saw you go up the narrow stairs in the corner to the upper
rooms, where the woman lived.”

“It’s all a lie, a damned lie!” he cried.

I resumed, “You had two children by this woman, a boy and a girl, and
then you left her.”

“You cannot prove a word you have said,” he interjected.

“You left a number of letters with her.”

“I deny them,” he replied.

“You thought,” I went on, “that you were very shrewd in not signing the
letters, but I got a lot of papers from the cutchery written by you, and
signed with your name, and here they are, a dozen of them and a package
of letters, all written by you, with every stroke and mark and dot
alike.”

“What damnable plot are you hatching?” he exclaimed.

I continued, “In the packet of letters there was a photograph of
yourself. This is it.”

“Let me see it,” he said, reaching out for it.

“You can look at it, but it shall not go out of my hands,” I said.

“That is no likeness of mine,” he replied.

I started again, “I went to the photographer and obtained this, another
of you, and on the back is written by the same hand that wrote the
letters and papers: ‘You may make me one dozen like this. H. J. Smith.’
Is that your handwriting and signature?” I inquired, holding up the back
of the picture for him to see.

He rose and began pacing the room back and forth. He evidently found
himself caught and bagged. He at length asked:

“What is your object in raking up these youthful follies of mine? I wish
you would stop at once.”

“No,” I replied, “I am not ready yet.”

“Go on then, go on; damn your persistency,” he retorted.

I did go on. “You left my mother. She never smiled again, and soon after
died of a broken heart. You left your two children to die of starvation
had not some kind-hearted people taken care of them. What were they to
you? You married in England and returned to India. After some years you
became magistrate of Bhagulpur, and one Sunday, when you were reading
prayers in the church, you saw a young girl in the congregation, and
when you went to dine at the mess that evening, you asked who that plump
young woman was. Even when you were in the house of God, and conducting
religious service, your lustful eyes were searching for a victim.”

“Damn your insolence!” he angrily exclaimed.

I waited not. “You became acquainted with that governess, and by your
flatteries and promises to marry her, you seduced her, and brought her
here with you, as your mistress, to her shame and sorrow.”

“Where is she? Tell me where she is and I will marry her at once,” he
excitedly exclaimed.

I replied, “I came here and took her and her child away and you will
never see her again. That girl was your daughter and my sister.”

“Good God! You don’t say so!” he exclaimed, and flung himself into a
chair. He sat with his face pale as death, and with staring eyes, as if
he really saw the horrible enormity of his crimes.

I let him have some moments for reflection, and then asked, “Do you
remember seeing me in Bhagulpur? I had rescued a young girl from the
hands of your police, as they were dragging her to a brothel. For this
you ordered me, by the mouth of one of your servants to come to your
bungalow, and then not only insulted me, but called me ‘That damned
Eurasian.’ When I called to see you here, you insulted me and spurned me
out of this door, and again called me ‘That damned Eurasian’—me, your
son! Who made me an Eurasian, but you?”

“Have you finished?” he asked, very mildly though, for the great man, as
he was considered to be, seemed to be completely cowed, beaten.

“Yes,” I replied, “nearly so, for I have little more to say. Had you
treated me any way decently, I might have concealed some of these things
from you, but you defied me, dared me, so I have done my best, as you
know to your sorrow. And to close, I must tell you that I have not the
least respect for you as a man, nor the least regard for you as a
father. I leave you to your own bitter thoughts, which will be hell
enough for you, and may God have mercy on your soul, if He can.”

I left at once, glad enough to have finished the hateful business. Did I
do right in what might be called running this man to earth? What less
could I have done than what I did? It seems most natural that there
should be some filial regard of a child for a parent, but I could never,
from the time I first saw him, so hardened and devilish, looking down on
my weeping mother, feel the least respect, much less love for him as a
father, and could only think of him as a wicked, contemptible, living
thing.

Other thoughts I have had. The chaplains must have known the character
of this man, and yet they appointed or allowed him to conduct the
religious services in church; his associates must have known of his
amours, intrigues and seductions, for such things cannot be concealed,
but they probably were as deep in the mire as he was in the mud, so very
likely no one ever checked him in his career of lust and crime. Society
must have known all about him, yet he was the swell cad of them all, the
admired and intimate friend of the ladies. What delicate tastes some
ladies have! He was called a Christian too, and he would no doubt have
taken it as an insult if any one had hinted otherwise. A Christian!

I have read the story of a wicked man, who, being angry with his wife,
took their child to a wood and murdered it. Then taking some of its
flesh he returned home, and sending his wife on an errand put the flesh
into a curry that she was preparing. Unheeding the child’s absence, the
woman presently ate of the curry, when the inhuman father told her what
he had done. Crazed with horror the wretched mother fled to the jungle
and destroyed herself. This wicked man belonged to a wild jungle tribe
of heathen, but there is not a heathen so low and degraded but would
hold up his hands in horror at such an unnatural crime.

But here is a Christian, an intelligent man, of good standing in the
upper class of English society, who murdered his wife, my mother, as
much as if he had put a noose around her neck and strangled her. He
discarded his own children; left them to poverty and starvation. He
seduces his own daughter, my sister, and becomes grandfather to his own
child! Tell me, O God! and all thinking beings on the earth, who was the
worse, that heathen wicked man, or this so-called Christian gentleman?




                              CHAPTER XXI.


For some days after returning home, I could not get rid of the horrid
gloom that brooded over me like a cloud of sulphurous vapor. During the
day I kept myself very busy, looking after various things, making calls
on those who needed a little assistance, looking after my garden and
property, visiting Mr. Jasper, so my mind was diverted. But at night! I
had to read the driest metaphysical books I possessed, not for pleasure
or profit, but to fatigue my mind, so that it could get any rest at all.
Woe to me, if it caught even the slightest thread of the black story of
my life, for then away it would run like a fast flying reel, until all
from the beginning was unwound. How I tossed and turned, trying to
sleep! I repeated poem after poem, put wet cold towels around my head,
arose and ran as fast as I could through the garden, and to concentrate
my thoughts, repeated poems and paragraphs backward word by word.

I thought of the fate of the damned, who through the long eternal night
are trying to forget the foul offenses and crimes of their lives on
earth! No, no hell to be compared to such a torment! To be their own
accusers, to be their own judge, to keep forever their own infamous
record! To be haunted by a ghost that will never be laid. Utter
annihilation would be a paradise of bliss compared to such an eternal
state of misery.

I still had a duty to perform before I could drop the subject so far as
it was possible to do so. M. Le Maistre had made me promise to let him
know the result of my investigation, and of my visit to the
Commissioner. It was no use to delay, as sooner or later I would have to
tell him, and the black wounds would have to be re-opened again. I could
not write to him, for I have made it a habit of my life never to write
anything that I was not willing the whole world should know. I have gone
a hundred miles to tell what I might have written in a few lines. There
are so many chances for a paper to be lost and be found by the wrong
person, to be mislaid or kept for years, to be read and gossiped about
by the world after the writer is dead. These letters and writing of the
Commissioner, some of them unsigned, had been his death warrant.

So I had to go again to Lucknow. My old friend received me kindly, as
usual. I went over the whole affair again, except that about my sister.
That I never told except to the one himself most concerned. He heard it,
and will remember it. My sister never even suspected what that man was
to her. She had enough sorrow and shame as it was, without knowing of
that black, foul crime. It was too much for me to know, and what would I
have given to have erased the hideous remembrance of it from my memory?

I was rather ashamed to tell of my ruse, the white lie (though I never
knew how any lie could be white), I told in order to gain admittance,
but my old friend said that in catching rascals, as in trapping rats,
one has to use a little chaff and deception, so I concluded that he did
not think any the worse of me for my little trick.

Yet I have always hated to lie, it strains me so, and after it I feel a
weakness, as if my moral system had been wrenched, so I refrain, that
is, as much as possible.

M. Le Maistre was as good a listener as I knew him to be a good talker,
though these two traits seldom go together. After I had finished by
telling him of the apparent remorse of the man—I do not like to write
man, as applied to him, as it seems a degradation of that word, neither
do I like to use epithets all the time, so will have to let it go—he
exclaimed, “Served him right; served him right. Such a scoundrel as that
should be put into the public stocks to be jeered at by every beggar who
passes, as long as he lives, and after death, we need not say anything
of that, for he will have all he deserves. God is not just if he will
abate one particle of punishment due to such sinners. I know that some,
the church people would censure me for such an expression.

“There is a lot of nonsense talked about eternal salvation. Why, they
would people heaven with scoundrels, reprobates of earth, suddenly made
into saints. There cannot be two laws of God to directly contradict each
other. This is what I mean. There is a man of fair education, exemplary
in every way, an excellent Christian. I am not making a case, for I knew
just such a man. He is seated one evening with his wife and children on
a veranda in front of his house. A man for some slight grudge comes, and
without a word, shoots, and the father and husband falls dead in the
arms of his wife. The criminal is tried, found guilty, and sentenced to
be hung. The priest has been with him. On the scaffold he tells the
crowd that he has repented, believes in Jesus, and is going to be happy
among the redeemed.

“The church affects to believe him, that all his past has been forgiven,
that the blood of Jesus has washed him white as snow, and that he is
going straight to become a saint in heaven.

“But what about the family? Deprived of their support, guide and best of
earthly friends, they are reduced to want and beggary. The mother is
crushed to death by her hard toil and care. The boys without education
and the training of a father, fall into vice and sin. Their children
inherit their defects and so on for generations; aye to the very end.
With the family the evil consequences of that man’s crime are eternal.
How can we by any torture of justice suppose him to be saved from all
the consequences of his sin and to be happy in heaven, while they suffer
all the miseries inflicted by his crime while they are upon earth, and
an eternal loss and degradation?”

I think I said that my friend, when he got started was like the rushing
waters in a mill-race when the gates were open. As I enjoyed his talk, I
had no inclination to shut down the gates. Of his own accord he made a
halt. I took occasion to refer to my story and said that the only thing
I questioned, was that perhaps I had been a little severe on my unworthy
parent. He quickly said, “Not a bit of it, not a bit of it. With such a
man, hardened, encased in sin, you have got to be severe in order to
touch him at all. Had you gone to him otherwise than you did, he would
have smiled in your face, rubbed his hands with glee over the tricks of
his youth, and the follies of his old age. Had my father served me as
yours did you, killed my mother, and made his children outcasts, I would
by the God who made me, I would have done more than you did, very much
more.”

He used some other very forcible expressions that I forbear to give. I
saw the old man’s blood was up, so waited without a word. He began
again. “I am a father, I have daughters, but all happily married, thank
God, but for years it was the torture of my life as to what might happen
to them. They went into “society,” as it is called, and what these upper
class men, as they are styled, polished and skilled in all the sly arts
of flattery and seduction, might do, I did not know. They are educated,
trained in vice as they are in grammar and mathematics. I was just
reading an account of a candidate for Parliament, being accused by his
opponents of impudicity when he was at the Charterhouse school. There
was issued a writ for slander and when the case came on, a paper states,
“there was a shocking light on the morals of the great public schools,
at any rate twenty-eight years ago.” I was astonished not long ago when
an Englishman, lately from home, said that he did not believe there was
a boy in England over fourteen years of age, but was guilty of
immorality. One prominent school was called ‘Sodom on the Hill,’ because
of its wicked practices. A gentleman told me that when he was in the
university, one of the greatest in England, there was no set that could
keep up with the divinity students in immorality and flagrant
blackguardism. Great God! what a condition of society! Where are the
fathers and mothers and sisters of these boys? What can be the condition
of the homes of England? What can we expect of men who were such boys?

“I know this is not a pleasant or agreeable subject for conversation,
but like some other things in life it ought not to be avoided on that
account. If I were to write about this, not a paper would publish my
article. They are too much absorbed with politics, in detailing the
dresses worn at some party or ball, with wars, intrigues, or the events
in society, to give any attention to a subject on which the very
preservation of society depends, and not only that, but the destiny of
souls. Some say we ought never to refer to such things to corrupt the
minds of the young. Such people are so simple-minded, as to have
forgotten all about the inquisitiveness or the passions of their own
youth. The young! They know too much, taught by the example of their
elders and the vicious stories in novels, of the intrigues and
seductions in society life. They are attracted, allured, rather than
repulsed and warned of danger. Another class, and a numerous one, the
guilty, the culprits themselves, would frown and declare it was too
nasty for anything. They certainly would not like anything that would
reflect on their own wicked conduct, or show up their own impurities.

“Impurity is the greatest evil of this age. It is worse than cholera, or
any pestilence, for these only destroy the bodies, but this undermines
the moral nature, and destroys the souls of mankind. We give little
attention to this sin of all sins. Fathers and mothers let their
children grow up without a word of advice or warning. ‘It is such a
delicate subject, you know,’ is the excuse. The clergy discourse on
everything, but are as dumb as mummies about this devil of lust. Only a
few days ago the chaplain was over here, and I asked his advice and made
some statements about some young men, whom I wished to save from ruin,
when he interrupted me by saying, ‘M. Le Maistre, these things are too
horrible, I wish you had not told me a word about them,’ and away he
went, this man who ought to be a sin doctor, a soul curer and saver of
souls, went away to gossip with a lot of women at a croquet party.

“I am inclined to think that we ought to go back to the Christ that was,
begin a new church with a new set of preachers, who would talk less
about rites and ceremonies, less about the souls of men, and care
something about their bodies, and dare to denounce the sins and lusts of
the flesh, and have manhood and courage enough to take for a text,
‘Whosoever looketh upon a woman to lust after her!’ Wouldn’t there be a
squirming among the sinners such as your distinguished father, if they
dared to preach as Jesus would? Let us have some dinner.”

We had a good dinner, and a very pleasant chat among the family present,
until the time for my train. On bidding good-bye, I said, “I can trust
you.” He answered, “You need have no fear of me.” And I never had.

I wanted a change, to go into a retreat after all the excitement and
anxiety of the past few months, to get rid of the ennui and disgust of
life that was unsettling me, and the best remedy I have found in such
cases, is to go and benefit somebody, and give real enjoyment to others.

I at once thought of my villagers. Have not great men sought rest by
retiring to their country homes, why not I? For several years I had only
ridden out a day at a time to attend some school festival or fair, but
now I concluded to make a real visit. I had my tent, servants, bag and
baggage sent out to make a real stay in my Reviera or Tusculum. I sought
the shade of a big peepul, a ficus and a religiosa to me, and I was soon
pleasantly situated. The condition of the villages was excellent. The
drains I had formerly made carried away all the refuse to the opposite
side of the village from the tank. The people were extremely healthy.
Few deaths had occurred, and these were from natural causes. I had given
them a number of talks about the value of manure and refuse, that this
was food for the soil, that the land was hungry, starving, and needed to
be fed. This they could understand, for they had been hungry themselves.
I said nothing about nitrates or phosphates, or the chemical ingredients
of different kinds of soil, or that the ash of wheat contains
phosphates, potashes and magnesia. Too much learning hath turned many a
wise man’s brain, and I wanted no insanity or confusion among my people.
I told them that every seer of refuse was land food, and every seer
would bring in a number of extra grains of seed, larger and better
vegetables, a larger rate of interest than they had paid to the bunyas.
I had frequently pointed out the stuff lying about and making the
villages untidy and going to waste, while the soil was begging for it. I
found that they had acted on my suggestion, and swept the streets and
yards, and every straw and leaf were stored in the pits. The result was
a clean village, healthy people, and thriving fields. In planting the
trees years ago, I was careful to have them of good timber, or of
excellent fruit. They beautified the villages, gave plenty of shade,
while the lopped branches supplied fuel, the fruit was a harvest in
itself of food, and gave the people a pleasure in life all conducing to
health and happiness. I am a utilitarian, but include that which gives
beauty and pleasure with the useful.

Some years previous I had supplied a few imported cattle. These now
formed quite a stock, of which the people were very proud and I rejoiced
in their pride. I had given some talks on cattle and their treatment;
that they could not expect a poor starved bullock to do good work, any
more than a weak starved man. I drew a picture on the school blackboard
of a fat-bellied man, thrashing and punching a pair of skeleton cattle,
and gave my opinion of such a man, fattening himself while starving the
poor brutes depending on him.

I had offered prizes to be distributed by a committee at our semi-annual
fairs to those having the best cattle, and also a big leather medal to
be given to the one having the poorest cattle, this to be nailed to the
door of his house until the next fair. I wanted a little fun, and they
all appreciated this leathery idea. I hardly need say that after a few
years the committee decided that there were not any cattle in the
villages to entitle the owner to the leather medal. It was a standing
remark for them to make when any one’s cattle were becoming a little
lean, “O he is going in for the leather medal.” I am egotist enough to
believe that my talks about cattle were far superior to any given by the
wordy lecturers of the anti-cow-killing society. It is the grimmest kind
of a farce for the Hindus to talk of the sacredness of cattle and then
to cruelly starve and treat the poor brutes as they do.

I had stocked the tank with the fry of the best fish and some had grown
to a large size, and plenty of them. There had been a fish committee
appointed and a law passed, that no one should fish except with a hook
and line, and that no fish under six inches in length should be kept
out, but be thrown back into the water. I had plenty of sport, if it can
be called sport to take life of any kind, and a fish for my breakfasts,
giving the rest to the widows. I always showed great respect to the
women, putting them ever first.

One morning I received the finest compliment of my life. I was coming
from the tank and my boy,—I never was in want of boys when fishing, who
is?—had a fine string of large fish, when the widows approached to get
their share. As the fish were distributed, one old wrinkled body getting
her share exclaimed: “The Sahib is a friend to the poor widows.” I trust
the recording angel made a note of that, for I like to get all the good
marks I deserve, as I am afraid I shall have so many bad ones to be
erased, for I have read somewhere, that every time the scribe above puts
down a good mark for any one he rubs out a bad one. The fish committee
made their report that there had been no violation of the law except
once, when a man was caught going away from the tank with a number of
small fish. The committee at once surrounded him, and decided that he
must eat the fish raw, then and there, and they waited until he had
devoured heads, tails, bones and all. I doubt if the justices of any
high or low court ever gave a decision with more justice, or
administered a punishment with more alacrity than did my fish committee.

Once going to the tank with my rod, I met this man and said, probably
with a slight hint in my voice that I had heard from the committee:
“Well Gulab, are you fond of fish?” He hesitated, with a slight grin on
his face, for he was somewhat of a wag, “Yes, Sahib, when they are
cooked.” I replied, “That is the way I like mine, not raw, but well
cooked,” and we parted, each with a meaning smile.

I was so well pleased with my fish investment, bringing in a constant
crop of food without labor, worth the product of a number of acres, that
I sent for some fishermen with nets to go to the river to bring me a lot
of small fish at so much a seer, and they brought me not seers, but
maunds, and I waited to see what a harvest my planting would produce, as
I told the villagers that the tank was my field. Some of them, I
afterwards learned, called the tank, “The Sahib’s Khet.”

I found that it was the custom of the people after their evening meal to
assemble in front of the school-house at the chibutra, the areopagus of
India villages, when the teacher and older scholars would read aloud the
papers and books that I had sent them. Questions were put, and various
were the discussions, with more courtesy and order than in the British
Parliament, when the Irish bill is to the front. These assemblies became
so popular that every man, woman and child in the village would be
present, not one left to guard a house, for why should there be a guard,
when all were at the chibutra?

The women had their right to half the space, and well they claimed and
kept it. Woe to the wight who dared intrude upon their side. I greatly
enjoyed this assertion of rights by the women. I have always been
foolish enough to believe that a woman is as good as a man, everywhere
and at any time, and most of the time a great deal better. She has her
rights and should demand them, even if she has not as much coarse brute
muscle as the self styled lords of creation. From my little reading and
observation I have come to the conclusion that the moral and social
status of a nation, a tribe or individual, is seen by the way they treat
their women. If a man, or rather a male of the human species, acts like
a hog towards a woman, he is a hog in other respects. I mistrust that
this word is not a polite one to use, and that it would be as bad to say
hog before some fastidious people, as it would be to say hell in church.
But when I mean hog why not say it, and surely I have seen hog bipeds,
as well as hog quadrupeds.

I cannot help throwing in a suggestion. If I, now an old man, should
give any advice to a young woman, about to accept a man for a husband,
it would be to see him often with his mother and his sisters, and
observe his treatment of them. His murder will out to them, when he
would be all smiles and graciousness to women outside his home. In his
home he is off his guard, and there is the place to judge these slippery
men.

As long as the people of India keep their women in ignorance and
seclusion, England need have no fear of holding the country in
subjection. Liberty, patriotism and the higher moral traits of the human
race were never born of men, but of women. Was it not the mother of the
Gracchi who bade her sons go forth and conquer in battle or be brought
home dead on their spears? That was also the spirit and patriotism of
the Spartan mothers that made a place in history for their nation. Was
there ever a great people, but had its grand women, its noble wives and
mothers? The people of India think they know a great deal, but they are
far from having learned this first great principle, the great secret of
a nation’s freedom and civilization, the education and elevation of
women. I may be mistaken in this as I am in so many things, yet I see no
reason why I should not say the best I think on the subject.

I do not know when I acquired this regard and reverence for women. I
think they must have been implanted by Mr. Percy to grow with my years.
I know of so many traits in my thoughts and life, that in after years I
saw I got from him unconsciously, not that he taught me directly, but
rather that he impressed upon me by his conversation and example. It was
an education to walk and move beside or in the company of such a man, to
absorb something of his character and goodness. Ah! that grand man, so
pure and good! What would he have been without that noble mother of his!
He fairly worshiped women as God’s best gift to men, and he could no
more have harmed a woman than he could have blasphemed his Maker. I have
often thought that a man who respects and reverences women can scarcely
go wrong in a moral sense.

I was greatly pleased with the position the village women had taken, and
with their spirit of inquiry. They were my best hope in the permanent
prosperity of these people.

I was allotted the place of honor at the chibutra. There was no one to
move that I take the chair, or to ask for a vote of thanks at the close
of the meetings. They had not come to imitate the babus in aping the
customs of the English. There were more questions put than ever dreamed
of in Parliament, but with this difference, none were asked to gain
time, or to waste time, or to perplex the Ministry or the chair. They
applied their inquisitive pumps to me, as if I was a never-failing well
of knowledge. The women, too, had their questions, mostly about the
women in Wilayat, how they lived and did, a very good sign. During all
these evenings I gave talks on all sorts of subjects, making them
practical, as well as interesting. Once I talked on gossip and slander.
I suspected that there were several women whose tongues hung as loosely
as a clapper in a bell.

The next day several matronly women met me, and said they were very glad
I had talked about women quarreling, as there were some guilty of it.
All this may be called trifling matter, not worth mentioning. Yet, what
to great people would seem trifles, were to these simple people great
affairs. They were not in society, could attend no operas, clubs, or
fashionable parties, had few books, knew nothing of the great life of
the world, and were better for it, so the little things would make their
lives happier, and would lift them up from the earth, above the brutes,
and raise them toward God, and fit them for a better eternal life.

I am convinced that if the simple, ignorant people of India were shown
how to better their condition, no people on earth would be so ready to
act. Theories will not reach them. They, like all people in their grade
of life, are materialists; they want to see with their own eyes—results.
They can reason upon what they see and feel, or better, upon what they
eat. I have been told by an educated, English gentleman, that most of
the common people or voters in England, were guided more by their stupid
bellies than by their brains, how much more so these people? I might
have talked and persuaded all my life, and they would have remained just
what they were, and would have continued doing as their forefathers did
centuries ago, but when they saw me spending money in support of my
theories, they became interested, and when they saw results, they were
convinced. All the people in India are the slowest in the world to make
experiments or engage in anything that they do not comprehend or see a
profitable solution.

It appears that when the tram-car was first proposed for Bombay, not a
native would invest in it, though begged and urged to do so. As soon as
they saw it was a paying concern they clamored for shares, and felt
wronged that none were sold to them. A Parsee complained to me that he
had been hurt by the refusal.

There is a great drawback. The people are desperately poor. There is not
a people the sun shines on, who are so sunken in the degradation of
poverty as those of India. Ninety per cent. of them are connected with
agriculture, and it is stated on good authority, that sixty per cent. of
them do not get enough to eat, even of the coarsest food.

What can a people do for themselves when the average wage is not more
than three rupees or three shillings a month? What can all the learned
investigations and scientific reports of Government do for a people in
such an utterly helpless condition? I am not speaking at random. I have
seen and heard for myself, and know what I am talking about. To
illustrate: Passing through a field where a man—almost naked—was rooting
up the earth with a pair of small skeleton cattle, I had a chat with him
about his life and crops. I asked him how much he got a year from all
his labor. He replied, that if by working every day he could get a
little food for himself and family, and at the close of the year could
have enough to buy a cloth for himself, he would be happy. A whole
year’s work for a little food, a little rice with weeds and stuff from
his fields, not wheat or grain, as all the latter would have to be sold
to pay the rent, and at the end have enough left to buy a cloth, worth
less than a shilling!

The great curse of Indian agriculture, is the middlemen, the
“zemindars,” or village owners. They do nothing except to pass their
time in idleness and dissipation, spending more in one night on a nautch
dance of prostitutes, than would dig a dozen wells, or build a good
tank, while they live on the sweat and blood of their ryots. It is to
the infamy of Government that it tolerates such a system of tyranny,
injustice and robbery. Not one in ten thousand of these zemindars does
anything for the benefit of his villagers.

I once talked with a great Maharajah with a long string of titles, who
was ever head first when his name could be mentioned in public, and who
privately was known as a screw, the owner of hundreds of villages, and I
suggested some improvements for his people. “No,” he replied, “I have
nothing to do with them, except to get my rents, all I want is my
rupees,” and he was getting them by lacs a year. They are worse than
vultures, for these are scavengers, destroyers of carrion, good birds,
and never take life, but such men as this Maharajah, live and grow fat
on the lives of their serfs. It is evident that I grow warm, yes hot, on
this subject, and why not?

Another thing I cannot abide, and that is the learned nonsense about
improving the condition of the agricultural population by some high
flown scientific processes. You might as well form a society to
cultivate the valleys of the moon, or “go about to turn the sun to ice
by fanning in his face with a peacock’s feather.”

Lighten the burdens of poverty, and the crushing of the ryots, by less
taxation, by the destruction of the leeches, the zemindars, and then the
people would have something on which to live and help themselves. The
permanent prosperity of a country depends on agriculture, and India will
never come up, it is now at its lowest depth, until the condition of the
ryots is radically changed.

The editor of a prominent India paper says: “The direct effect of unduly
low rents is careless husbandry. Instead of benefiting the cultivator,
such rents are a mere incentive to idleness.” What a sapient conclusion!
His publishers should have immediately cut down his wages so that they
might not be an incentive to his idleness.

This reminds me of a bunya who sold cloth, traveling from one bazar to
another. He purchased a fine, stout pony to carry his goods. The beast
was so fat that he diminished its food, and as it traveled so well, he
increased its load. He continued to do both, until the poor brute, of
its own accord, discontinued eating and going, and the man wondered what
gave it such an incentive to idleness. But he had not the wisdom of the
editor.

An expert sent out by Government says in his report, “Until a more
adequate collection of statistics is made nothing can be done for
agriculture!” I might use some very harsh words, if I should relieve my
mind by using epithets regarding such twaddle, so I refrain. Yet I
cannot forbear saying that one of the things for which I have an
unsurmountable contempt is an educated fool.

Referring to these Government learned scientific investigators recalls
to me an incident. One of my neighbors went on furlough. He had several
valuable horses, which he left in the care of his sais. They were large,
strong-limbed, well-proportioned animals. But something seemed to be the
matter with them. They became thinner and thinner and drooped, standing
for hours with their heads down and their legs scarcely supporting their
bodies. Some of the neighbors happened around in the mornings and formed
a kind of committee of investigation, as they did not like to see such
fine animals go to the dogs and vultures, and beside, they had some
regard for the interests of their friend. At length they decided to send
for a distinguished veterinary surgeon, several hundred miles away. One
suggested that this would be expensive. Others blanked the expense; they
couldn’t let the horses die. The vet came, took a general look at the
beasts and stood silently as if meditating where to begin. At last he
spoke, “Gentlemen, this is a very serious matter, very strange; never
saw anything like it in an experience of forty years. Yes, gentlemen, in
forty years. Here are young, fine, well built animals slowly dying by
inches, and yet apparently without disease. I will have to investigate,
and it will be some days before I can make a report.” The days went on,
and the vet stayed on, at a salary of fifty rupees a day to somebody.
The weeks passed, and notwithstanding the vet’s investigation and long
report, the horses grew thinner, and then the poor brutes went to death
for want of breath, or, to be explicit, they died because they hadn’t
strength enough to breathe, and not because they were sick or diseased.
The vultures sang requiems over their bones, and said, “It was a strange
case, very strange, the like they had never seen in all their experience
of years, all skin and bones, not a particle of meat; very strange.” So
said we all of us, “a very strange case.”

After his weeks of diagnosing and cognising the vet departed with his
pockets full of rupees. Besides, he made quite a reputation, for he sent
a long account of this very strange case to a horsey journal. A deluge
of letters came, everybody had his theory or opinion, until the editor,
buried under the accumulation of papers, said that the discussion must
stop. At last the Government got to hear of it. Why is it that
Government takes such a long time to hear? Is it on account of the
length of its ears, the distance anything has to travel to get into its
head? It had a long investigation by a committee of fifteen, all titled,
distinguished—nobody knows anything but this class—and as each had to
have his talk printed, the result was a voluminous book, of which a
thousand copies were published, costing many times more than the horses
were worth, not to mention the expense of the committee, for such men
are always good livers. Of these thousand copies only twenty-five were
used. Each member of the committee took a copy to show his wife and
friends, and ten were sent to editors. A Government subsidized paper
declared that the book reflected great credit on the distinguished
committee, that it was just what the public might have expected from the
well known reputation of the members selected with such great care and
excellent judgment by His Excellency, the Viceroy.

An opposition paper, reviewing the book, said that the committee was a
ponderous one, in number, in titles, in its expenses; the report was
ponderous in its size and weight, in the number of its pages and
sections, and in its cost. The subject of the investigation, to begin
with, was of no consequence, the quiet death of three probably worn-out
old hacks in a little up-country, out of the way station. There was not
a thought in the book worth preserving, the style was verbose, flatulent
to a degree, as if the committee had been appointed wholly and solely to
make a book. “Without wasting any more of our valuable space on nothing,
we give it as from our profound conviction that a mosquito might take in
every idea in the whole book and then not be conscious of any
enlargement of its brain.” A babu tried his copy, but declared it was
too much for him, as “it made him sick in his mind to read it.” The only
real benefit from the book was what the paper-maker, the printer and the
waste paper dealer received. The whole committee decided unanimously
that the horses had died, and as everybody agreed with them, the subject
was dropped and forgotten by the public.

One day, not long after the mysterious affair, I met the sais who had
charge of the horses. He knew me very well. I questioned him. I told him
he knew what ailed the horses, and wished him to tell me. He hesitated.
I urged. At length he said, “Sahib, if you will promise me upon your
honor never to report me I will tell you.” I promised. He replied, “When
my sahib was taking leave he told me it would cost him a great deal to
go to Wilayat and back, that there was now a very big income tax, and
that the rupee was very bimar, that there were taxes on everything, and
more to follow, he didn’t know on what next; it might be on his wife and
children, so that he couldn’t afford to allow more than one seer of
grain a day for each horse, and that he would give me so many rupees,
and that would be so many anas a day, while he was away, and that I must
not spend more than that, or he would cut it from my talab, and I knew
he would do just what he said. When he is here he strikes me with his
whip, when I am within reach, or, if not, he hurls a brick, or anything
he can get, at my head.” “But about the horses?” I asked. He replied,
“The grass, as you know, all dried up, the price of grain doubled in the
bazar, and as I had only so many anas a day for each horse until the
sahib returned, I had to cut down the feed until it was scarcely more
than a child could eat, and that is what was the matter, the horses died
for want of feed.”

“But why didn’t you tell me, and I would have given the feed?” I asked,
quite indignant. “Yes,” he continued, “and when my sahib returned he
would get to know of it, and I would be thrashed, my pay cut or be
dismissed. I know my sahib too well to think that he would be willing to
have any one know that he had left his horses to starve. I was sorry for
them, and often cried, but what could I do? It was either I or the
horses, and I preferred to save myself, for he is brother to a donkey
who will not try to keep his own skin on his back.”

As the sais has gone to a place from which he will never be dismissed,
and though he may not be flogged by a sahib, he will have to meet the
ghosts of those starved horses, so let him be happy if he can. As I had
promised on my honor, though an Eurasian is not credited with much of
that, I never told the story until now, and the learned vet, and the
distinguished Government committee, can have the free and full benefit
of my information. It was a strange case, very.

I will not point a moral to this incident, for if any one has been so
slighted by nature as not to have the ability to see it, all pointing
would be superfluous. It would be like having to explain one of my own
jokes, and that always gives me a mental twist. This reminds me of the
reply of a Scotchman, when asked to explain, “A body canna be expectit
baith to mak the joke an’ to see’t; na, that would be doin’ twa fowk’s
wark.”




                             CHAPTER XXII.


I believe in feeding and grooming, whether of a horse or a man. I have
no scientific knowledge, though I spent years in school, and hardly know
what the term means, so I have had to rely on my instinct or common
sense, and I cannot rid myself of the idea that the first thing we need,
whether men or horses, is enough to eat. I have often thought, in my
blind way, that most of the crime of the world is due to poverty,
poverty of work, and poverty of food and clothing. I cannot forget the
remark of Mr. Percy, that if he was poor and in want, as these people
are, he would likely lie and steal as they do. I have often thought that
I would have done the same. When the poor, the abject poor, willing to
labor, but can get nothing to do, see the rich, living in luxury, and
most of them by extortion and tyranny, how can they help being
socialists or nihilists, or anything under heaven that promises them a
chance of relief?

The longer I live, the more charitable I become towards the shortcomings
and sins of the poor.

The rich have no excuse for sinning, while those in want have the best
reasons. I can even think kindly of Judas. He was the treasurer or
financial secretary, and had to provide for the other twelve and
himself. As none of them earned a penny, he must have had a sorry time
of it, to get anything to put in the bag, if the people were not more
generous than they are nowadays. Most of the twelve, I doubt not, were
experts at finding fault, and especially that changeful, fiery-tempered
Peter! Judas often felt the lash of his tongue, when the meals were not
forthcoming, or insufficient. I doubt if Judas had any intention of
betraying his master to death. He probably thought those who made the
request to see him, wished only to talk to him, or may be worry him a
little, and if he could get thirty pieces of silver for such a slight
favor, it would help him in his commissariat department for many days to
come.

His intentions were probably of the best, but the result surprised him,
grieved him to death, and he did what any real man would do, killed
himself. At any rate, the betrayers of virtue, the seducers of ignorant,
innocent girls, the rich tyrants and extortioners, those who oppress and
rob the poor, and lots of people who do abominable things, and all
sinners, for every one is a traitor to goodness, should never take up
even the smallest pebble to hurl at the badgered and bewildered Judas.

Another, and it may be a queer notion I have, and it is this; that about
all the sins we commit are by the body. I doubt if the soul ever sins.
It is the house we live in that is forever decaying and tumbling down
about our ears that brings us into trouble, or as a vehicle in which we
go about, always running us into some scrape or other, yet the soul is
made responsible for it all.

Many become so absorbed in thinking of what they call the sins of the
soul, that they have no time to look after the vices of the body. If our
bodies could be kept in subjection, kept strong, healthy and clean, we
need not worry much about the salvation of ourselves, our souls.

Touching the subject of food again. I was much interested in a book on
Honey Bee Culture loaned me by Mr. Jasper, a subject on which I had
never read.

One particular item of importance was the production of queens. There
are three kinds of bees in a family. The drones are the males, large,
clumsy fellows, whose only use is to furnish a husband to the queen.
They are idle, never do any kind of work, but always great eaters, and
like their types in human society the least useful, they make the most
noise, by the loud hum of their heavy vibrating wings.

The workers, styled “the bees” by Aristotle, are neuters or undeveloped
females, of which there are from fifteen thousand to forty thousand in a
colony or family. They gather the honey, secrete the wax, collect the
pollen, protect the hive from intrusion, and manage the general affairs
of the family, the younger members, before they are strong enough to go
abroad, build the comb, ventilate the hive by flapping their wings, and
thus grow stronger, feed the larvæ and cap the cells until they are able
to make journeys outside.

The queen is a fully developed female, the only one in the family. She
is the mother of all, and only meets her husband once, at the beginning
of her life. Her only work or duty is to lay eggs, which she does at the
rate of two to three thousand a day, and during the extreme limit of her
life of five years, may lay one million three hundred thousand eggs to
keep up the family circle. This is small business compared to that of a
queen of the white ants that lays eighty thousand eggs a day! No wonder
that we have such an infinite multitude of these pests!

The making of a queen is peculiar and interesting. Suppose she dies, or
is unfit for duty. There is then great consternation and excitement, for
without a queen or mother, the bees know that their family would be
extinct in a short time, as the workers only live from one to three
months. If a cell can be found containing a neuter egg they enlarge it
to three or four times its former dimensions to form a regal palace.
After the egg has been hatched, which takes place three days after it
has been laid, the bees fill this large cell with what is called “royal
jelly.” This is a delicate, highly concentrated food of a rich, creamy
color, made by the bees eating honey and ejecting it from their stomachs
after it has been partially digested. Floating in this nectar the larva
lives and thrives until after sixteen days from the laying of the egg,
she appears as a full grown, graceful queen, and in a few days takes her
marriage flight, meets her husband and then begins her work of life.

The point of my story is that it is the “royal jelly” that makes her a
queen, elevating her and making her a mother. Had it not been for this
royal food she received, she would have remained a neuter, a most
honorable and necessary member of the family, but not a mother. This has
given me great proof in favor of my theory of the value of good food in
the making of grander men and women. If regal jelly can change a neuter
worker bee into a queen, why should not good food raise ordinary human
beings into kings and queens of humanity? A starved human animal must
necessarily lack courage, energy, ambition, and most of the traits that
go to make up manhood. Any one who has studied the rearing of domestic
animals knows how almost useless it is to try and make anything of one
that has been starved in its infancy by lack of food. It is often better
to kill it at once than to waste time and money on it. I do not suggest
this treatment in the case of stunted human infants, though the Spartans
pursued this method in making themselves a brave strong race, by
destroying all their puny, crippled children. However, I cannot help
thinking that it were far better if some people had never been born, or
had taken their quietus in infancy, than to live years of suffering,
degradation and misery. When I have looked upon maimed, disgusting
creatures, I have agreed with John Stuart Mill that suicide is
justifiable, and that it would be Godlike to help these unfortunate
spirits to escape from their pest houses. This, however, pertains to
another subject, and I may have shown the perverseness or obliquity of
my nature by alluding to it. What I would urge in all sincerity is, that
humanity should take at least as much care in producing and rearing its
progeny, as it does in rearing its domestic animals.

Another item in regard to the bees struck me. That when the queen has
once received her husband, and there was no further need of the drones,
the bees destroyed all or most of them as useless, idle eaters. It might
be severe, and yet I cannot help thinking that humanity might imitate
the wisdom of the busy bees, and destroy all the drones, the idle eaters
of the world. Let not any one hold up his hands in horror at such a
suggestion, for who but our God made the bees, and gave them this
instinct of righteousness, and showed them how to deal with the
vagabonds in their community? Instead of saying with the wise man, “Go
to the ant thou sluggard,” why not say, “Let us go to the toiling bees,
and learn of them how to deal with the human drones, if not to adopt the
drastic method of the bees, at least make the idlers go to work.”

The zemindars are the drones of India, the dissipated idlers. They
should be exterminated by the workers or by the government, and the
industry and progress of India be rid of its greatest curse.

We might learn many a lesson from the industry of the bees, when we poor
mortals get tired or lazy. To make one pound of clover honey, bees must
deprive sixty thousand clover blossoms of their nectar, and to do this
they have to make three million seven hundred and fifty thousand visits
to the blossoms. That is, if one bee alone collected the pound of honey
it would have to make that many journeys back and forth from the hive to
the flowers. When we consider that the distance traveled is often from
one to three miles in a journey, how can we compute the miles this
little toilsome creature has to make to collect the pound of honey that
we consider of so little worth? Surely there is many an open bible in
nature, from which we could gather many a lesson if we were not so
bigoted, proud and stupid. I am reminded of a remark of Charles
Kingsley’s, “Ere I grow too old, I trust to be able to throw away all
pursuits save natural history, and die with my mind full of God’s facts
instead of men’s lies.”

Another item of interest. There is no king or emperor among the bees, as
Shakespere states in his play of King Henry the Fifth, nor a queen.
Theirs is a democratic government without even a leader, the worker bees
each attending to their own business, all acting together on some
general principle for the common welfare. The queen, so-called by men,
is only such in name, as she does nothing but her duty, as the only
mother, to provide for the increase and continuance of the family. There
is no ruler with a royal squad of idle relatives to live in dissipation
and luxury on the industry of the laborers, no blathering parliament, no
judges, no high or low courts, no big salaries, no legal members to
fleece the innocent, no policemen, for there are no evil-doers, no
annual budgets to provide for from the increased taxation of the poor,
no expense of any kind whatever, as there are no idlers except a few
drones kept in case of a paternal necessity, the most being killed,—no
criminals, no poor, no rich, no castes! What a lesson a nation of bees
can teach the most exalted human nation on earth! And yet humanity in
this nineteenth century boasts itself as being civilized, enlightened
and Christian, and having been created in the image of God!

The old station life again. The blessed books, the gardens and the
duties of each day occupied my attention.

One day I received a note, asking me to meet a committee. A new road was
to be opened, and as it affected my property, I was to be consulted. I
went at the appointed time. A friend introduced me to several I had not
met before, and then “Mr. Smith, this is Mr. Japhet.” “O, yes!” said he,
“I have seen Mr. Japhet, and gad! I never hear that name, but I am
reminded of the story, ‘Japhet in search of his father!’” and he
chuckled at his bright saying. I replied, “Mr. Smith, I have heard you
make that reference several times. Once you asked me if I was in search
of my father, and I told you I was, and wished you to help me find him.
Now I can tell you that I have found him, and perhaps you would like to
see his photograph, here it is.” And I pulled the picture out of my coat
pocket, and held it up for him to see. “I have lately been down to
Jalalpur to see him. He is Mr. H. J. Smith, the commissioner, and may be
some relation of yours?” The fellow turned white, then red. There was a
tableaux, a quiet scene for some moments, when one of the party
blustered out, “Come fellows, let’s get to work, as I have got to go to
Mrs. Tinkle’s to see about some confounded party.”

Our business was soon finished, and as I was going out through the yard
my friend remarked, “I say, Japhet, what was that deuce of a joke you
got off on Smith?” “Joke?” said I, “There was no joke at all.” “Great
Scot!” he exclaimed, “you don’t mean to say that you and Smith are half
brothers?” “I have said nothing of the kind,” I replied, “only I know
this, that H. J. Smith, commissioner at Jalalpur, is my father, and if
he is also this Smith’s father, you can draw your own conclusions, I am
not bound to make any statement.” He fairly shouted, “Great heavens! you
don’t tell me! Well, ta, ta, I must hurry, or the devil will be to pay
with Mrs. Tinkle.”

We had no newspaper in our station. A paper is an expensive luxury to
the publisher, and besides we didn’t need any. Mrs. Tinkle, the wife of
the colonel, was our newspaper and news-carrier all in one, a host in
that direction. If we had anything good, bad or indifferent, that we
wanted to circulate, and there were many things that no living man would
dare to print unless he was prepared for death, we got them all to Mrs.
Tinkle, and they went with the wind, or as fast as her ponies could take
her. When my friend said he was going to Mrs. Tinkle’s, I knew and could
have sworn to it, that before they had closed their eyes in sleep that
night every one in the station would learn that Smith and Japhet were
half brothers! Confound the impudence of the fellow! If he had only
treated me with the least respect I would have never given a hint, but
his continued bullying I could not endure. I felt as badly about the
relationship as he possibly could. It would not be a credit to either of
us. I will say, however, that he never troubled himself about “Japhet in
search of his father” again. Some one told me that Smith had denounced
the story as a red-hot lie, and asked if they would take him to be a
fool. Yet everybody believed the story, for they knew the character of
old Smith too well to doubt it, and probably believed young Smith to be
a fool. About that photograph, how did I happen to have it in my pocket
just at the right time?

I knew that Smith as a magistrate was on that committee, that he
couldn’t well turn his back on me, as he had before done, that if he
noticed me at all he would give me a shot or a thrust of some kind, so
with deliberate forethought, or malice prepense, if that is a better
term, I put the photograph in my pocket, ready for I knew not what,
anything that might come. In time of peace, prepare for war. So did I.

It may be thought that I had some streaks of wickedness in me. I have
often thought that myself. I have gone through enough ill-usage in my
life to make a saint profane and revengeful. As I do not believe in any
erasing or washing away of sins or forgetting them, I try to be as good
as I can be under adverse circumstances, and never sin unless I am
absolutely compelled to. I have ever desired to live a life of peace and
righteousness, if only others would let me do so. If a dog snarls or
bites at me, when I am quietly passing, I feel like striking him, or
when a fellow mortal deliberately hurts me, I am inclined to give him
one in return, treating him as I do the dog. The many kicks and insults
that have come to me along the way have reminded me that Cain and I were
alike in this respect, that we both had a mark put upon us, but with
this difference, that his mark was that any one seeing him should not
kill him, and my mark was to let any one who saw me wipe his feet on me
if he could, or give me some mean thrust. But who is there that has not
a mark of some kind?




                             CHAPTER XXIII.


I often called on my friend Mr. Jasper. One morning he had just laid
down his daily paper as I entered. “Did you see this?” he asked, “that
the Pope and the Romish Church propose to dedicate England to the
blessed Mother of God, and to St. Peter, to consecrate the whole country
to the Holy Mother of God, and to the blessed Prince of the Apostles.”
These are the exact words. Where does God come in? He, the Creator and
Preserver of the universe, and, as we believe, of England, is left out,
ignored altogether. How can one read such blasphemy as this without
being shocked and angry? Such a proposal is not only an insult to all
the Protestants and non-Christians of the British Empire, but is an
outrageous imposition on the common sense of mankind! It is a sin
against God. What must be the cheek and impudence of any men to dare
propose such a thing as giving England over to the protection of a woman
and a man who died nearly two thousand years ago, and taking it out of
the hands of Almighty God?

The world is shocked at the idolatry of the heathen, but what is there
in their systems worse than this deifying a woman and a man, and placing
them above God? It is awful, profane, wicked and insulting! “Most holy!”
No stronger words could be used of God himself, and these applied to a
woman! As if the eternal, infinite God without a beginning, should have
a mother, and she a woman, an ordinary finite being! I had rather be a
heathen, an infidel, or even an atheist, than to be guilty of such
sacrilege and driveling nonsense.

But who is this they set up as the most holy mother of God? A woman, a
Jewess, the wife of Joseph. She was not known except as the mother of
Jesus, no claim that she was more than an ordinary woman, but blessed in
being the mother of an excellent son. Taking the New Testament, which
gives the only account we have of her, it scarcely mentions her, and
then without giving her any prominence. No allusion is made either to
the time or place of her birth, or of her death. Even her son Jesus
scarcely treats her with common respect. When he wandered away from his
parents, and gave them great trouble and anxiety in finding him, he did
not show her any special regard when they found him. At the marriage in
Cana, when she spoke to him, he addressed her in the style of orientals,
not even calling her mother, but “Woman! what have I to do with thee?”
He apparently neglected her, and never mentions her, his own mother, and
at his death he had little to say to her. The apostles seldom refer to
her, and then only as the wife of Joseph, the mother of Jesus. I defy
any one to show a word or line in the Bible to indicate she had any
special regard shown to her by either her own son Jesus, or by his
apostles. It was not until several centuries later that she began to be
reverenced, then prayed to, and finally to be deified and worshiped in
the place of God. Her virginity was of no importance to the evangelists,
as they never refer to it, and the theory was not taught during the
first three centuries. In the fourth century she was first styled the
mother of God. Augustine repeatedly asserts that she was born in
original sin. Anselm declares that the virgin herself when He (Jesus)
was assumed was conceived in iniquity, and in sin did her mother
conceive her, and with original sin was she born, because she, too,
sinned in Adam, in whom all sinned. Others expressed the same views.

The explicit doctrine of the immaculate conception was first taught
about 1140, at which time a festival was established in favor of it.
Bernard of Clairvaux opposed this. “On the same principle,” said he,
“you would be obliged to hold that the conception of her ancestors in
ascending line was also a holy one, since otherwise she could not have
descended from them worthily, and there would be festivals without
number.” The Franciscans favored the feast of the conception without the
immaculation, which the Dominicans under Aquinas opposed, and a severe
and bitter controversy ensued between these rival sects. In 1854 Pope
Pius IX promulgated the bull _ineffabilii deus_, by which the doctrine
of the immaculate conception became an article of the Romish faith, to
disbelieve which is heresy. All history shows that this doctrine is but
a modern invention. There is not a particle of proof that God had
anything to do with it. It is assumed that God could be born of a woman,
then that he must be without a human father, his mother a virgin, and to
improve the situation that she must be immaculate, born without sin. The
frame-work once set up, the fabric has been completed by additions from
century to century, until this obscure Jewish mother of the man Jesus
has become in the Roman church the most holy mother of God. The very
idea is sensuous, born of the flesh and not of the spirit, repulsive to
a refined mind, and degrading to the character of God.

The whole structure reminds one of an English medieval house that has
been added to and patched upon, and so changed that the first occupant,
should he come to the earth, would not recognize his own birthplace.
Without a doubt, if Mary and Jesus should rise from the dead, they would
be astonished at their modern portraits; and Jesus, honest man that he
was, would lash these libellers out of the house of God for making it a
place of lies, deceit and merchandise. Among the heathen or pagan
nations such an apotheosis was not uncommon or strange, but that an
intelligent people, claiming to have exalted views of almighty God,
should invent such wicked, degrading nonsense, is astonishing. It was
customary among the earlier Romans to deify their rulers, and place
their prominent men among the gods, but it was reserved for the modern
Romans to bring God down and make him a man among men.

As to Jesus, he was the son of Joseph, as much as any man is the son of
his father. Leo, the patriarch, published in A. D. 726, an edict
prohibiting the worship of images, declaring that Jesus was but a mere
man, born of his mother in the common way. It is evident that Jesus was
an observant, studious youth, given to devout meditation, and on this
account greatly esteemed by the ignorant people around him, and
stimulated by this admiration, he became somewhat of a fanatic, but a
good one, absorbed in grand and noble thoughts, and fell in with the
Jewish notion of the redemption of their race from the enemy, but he
took a still higher view, the deliverance of his people from their
slavery to rites and ceremonies, from their hypocrisy and wickedness, to
a life of purity and uprightness. A noble effort of a noble man, worthy
of the world’s profoundest respect and admiration. Not a word was said
while he was alive, or until centuries after his death, of his being
God, or equal with God, or anything but a great teacher, a noble man,
worthy to be styled the son of God, as all good men were and are the
sons of God.

John Stuart Mill says of him—and his opinion is worth as much as the
Pope’s—“A man charged with a special, express and unique commission from
God to lead mankind to truth and virtue.”

If Jesus was God he must have been conscious of it, and would have shown
or disclosed the fact in his life, but nowhere did he do this. He was
aware that a prophet is not without honor save in his own country, thus
likening himself to a prophet. When in the course of time he was
deified, and as they could not do away with God, they made Jesus a part
of God, or one of three Gods in one, a medley the most absurd ever
attempted by the human mind, and tried to explain it in the Athanasian
creed, the most nonsensical puzzle of the world. If the greatest of
modern lawyers or scholars should now go into any court on the globe and
try to make a statement of a fact in such a jugglery of words and
nonsense, he would at once be sent out of court or be committed to a
lunatic asylum.

I cannot understand how religious people, believing in one God and
accepting the Ten Commandments, can accept this doctrine. I cannot
comprehend how, obeying the first and second commandments, any one can
take the likeness of a man born of woman and put him before God, and
worship him as God. How can they, believing in one God, the Eternal one,
the Creator of all things, take this, as they say, part man and part
God, created only a few centuries ago, deify him and worship him as the
Creator, and place the eternal destiny of all the souls in the world in
his hands! It is awful, the extent of human credulity! It is a monstrous
assumption and a fearful sin, contrary to common sense and abhorrent to
the moral and enlightened sense of mankind. How is it possible for
Christian people to tolerate such a degradation of God! Yet Christian
people wonder that men of intelligence and judgment do not accept
without a murmur this heathenish jargon as truth, or bow down along with
them in their idolatry.

The Romish Church very likely will soon drop God altogether, and put in
His place the Jewish woman. One of its most prominent priests, in a
sermon not long ago, said, “He prepared her virginal and celestial
purity, for a mother defiled could not become the mother of the Most
High. The Holy Virgin, even in her childhood, was more pleasing than all
the cherubim and seraphim, and from infancy to the maturing maidenhood
and womanhood, she grew more and more pure. By her sanctity she reigned
over the heart of God. When the hour came the whole court of heaven was
hushed, and the trinity listened for the answer of Mary, for without her
consent the world could not have been redeemed.” What could possibly be
more impudent and blasphemous than the statement that the Almighty maker
of the Universe could not save mankind, whom he created, unless he got
the consent of a woman!

I put it as a question of good taste, leaving out religion altogether,
would not the feelings of a refined man be shocked at the suggestion
that the Infinite God had a human mother?

It is assumed that Mary conceived by the Holy Ghost. Such stories are
common in the world. Buddha is said to have been born of a virgin. It
was a common occurrence when people wanted to set up a new god or hero
to assert that they were born of a virgin by the help of a god. It was
claimed for all of them that there were wondrous signs, portents and
occurrences about them, and that these beings to be exalted were not,
like ordinary men, born of a human father.

The virgin mother of Egypt, Isis, was represented holding her infant son
Horus in her arms. She is also shown as the Queen of Heaven, holding in
her hand a cross. On one of the tombs of the Pharaohs, Champolion found
a picture, the most ancient of a woman ever found, bedecked with stars,
with the form of a child issuing from her bosom. The Hindu virgin is
shown as nursing Krishna, a golden aureole around the head of each.

In the caves of Ellora is a figure of Indruna seated on a lounge, with
her infant son god pointing toward heaven, with the same gestures as of
the Italian Madonna and her child.

Horus, Ishter, Venus, Juno, and a host of Pagan goddesses, have been
called Queen of Heaven, Queen of the Universe, Mother of God, Spouse of
God, the Celestial Virgin.

The Buddhists believe that Maha Maya, the mother of Gotama, was an
immaculate virgin, and conceived him through a divine influence.

Perictione, a virgin, immaculately conceived Plato through the influence
of the god Apollo.

The ancient Mexicans, though they believed in one Almighty Invisible
God, had minor deities, the chief among them being the god, born of a
virgin, conceived by a ball of light colored feathers floating in the
air.

Says a writer, “Hundreds of Christs and virgins are being continually
born into the world in Russia, and find thousands of worshipers and
disciples.”

So great is the resemblance of these virgins and goddesses to the
alleged character and adoration of Mary, that the Romish Church should
be indicted for its false claims to a patent to which it has no right or
title. Bishop Newton, of the English Church, asks, “Is not the worship
of saints and angels now in all respects the same that the worship of
demons was in former times? The name only different, the thing is
identically the same ... the very same temples, the very same images,
which were once consecrated to Jupiter, and the other demons, are now
consecrated to the Virgin Mary and other saints ... the whole of
Paganism is consecrated and applied to Popery.”

The testimony of Abbe Huc, a Romish priest, of what he saw in Tibet, is
not to be doubted. “One cannot fail being struck with their great
resemblance with the Catholicism. The Bishop’s crosier, the mitre, the
dalmatic, the round hat that the great lamas wear in travel ... the
mass, the double chair, the psalmody, the exorcisms, the censer with
five chains to it, opening and shutting at will, the blessings of the
lamas, who extend their right hands over the heads of the faithful ones,
the rosary, the celibacy of the clergy, the penances and retreats, the
cultus of the saints, the fasting, the processions, the litanies, and
holy water, similarities of the Buddhists with ourselves. Besides, they
have the tonsure, relics, and the confessional.” The Catholics, to
account for these things, attribute them to the devil.

          “Bad as he is, the devil may be abused,
          Be falsely charged and causelessly accused,
          When men, unwilling to be blamed alone,
          Shift off their crimes on him, which are their own.”

Instead of the thousands of imaginary gods and semi-gods of the
ancients, the Christian Church has its calendars of saints. In place of
the oracles of mythology, the church has its priests, who presume to
know all the purposes of the Almighty and to speak for Him. The old
system in new clothes.

The Romish notion of purgatory and the use of the rosary is evidently
derived from Tibet. Every Tibetan prays with his string of beads. The
fear of a Buddhist is the six-fold existence after death. The long
purgatory is his dread. Believing that he can pray off much of it in
this life he keeps his whirligig praying machine going continually. In
that country they have little grinding mills that are turned by the
mountain streams and common to all the community. When a man goes with
his grist to mill, he takes along a roll of paper prayers, yards in
length. Having put his grain into the hopper, he winds the prayer around
the mill shaft and turns on the water. He then smokes his pipe while his
grain is being ground and his prayers repeated by water-power. Is not
this much easier and as beneficial, as much of the church religious
praying?

In Ladak there are long lines of walls on which prayers are inscribed.
Walking back and forth along the walls each works off so much of the
dreaded hereafter.

Do I believe that Jesus was conceived of the Holy Ghost? Not at all, any
more than any other child. He was the son of Joseph and Mary, just as I
am the son of my father and mother. My reason, my common sense, my sense
of honor, and my deep reverence for Almighty God will not allow me to
think otherwise. I cannot think of the Infinite God being born of a
woman. Such a thought is most degrading, it degrades the character and
being of God, and it degrades men to have such a thought about Him. If
Jesus could be conceived in that way, why not others? This has actually
been claimed again and again.

I read not long ago of a man and a number of women in a harem, not far
from Chicago, in America. The women had children whom they claimed were
all conceived by the Holy Ghost, and why not, if Mary could have a child
in that way? The account says that some Christian people assembled in a
church, made angry speeches, passed resolutions to bring the man and
women into court, and some proposed to mob them and burn down the
premises. The only charge against them was the claim of the supernatural
conception of the women, as in every other respect they were
irreproachable. These Christian people, whose very fundamental dogma of
their faith is the unnatural conception of Jesus, attacking this first
principle of their belief, is like thieves berating a thief for
stealing.

Who was this Peter, under whose protection it is assumed to place
England? An ordinary man, unstable in character, impulsive, blowing hot
and cold at a breath, declaring he would never leave Jesus, and then
swearing that he never knew him, as much a betrayer at heart as Judas,
but not as manly, for Judas showed his consciousness of the wrong he had
done by killing himself, while Peter, shrewd as a modern Jesuit,
shuffled out of his brazen falsehood around to the winning side. In
mental ability he was inferior to any of his fellows, a bigot in his
belief and in his character, far less to be admired than any of the
others. Supposing him to have been transcendent in virtue, wisdom and
goodness above all other men who have ever lived, and to have been
absolutely perfect, yet he was only a man. Then why should he be made a
saint, or be invested with divine power and made protector of anything,
in the place of God? In respect to mankind, the veneration of Peter and
attributing to him power or authority above all other men is absurd, but
when considered in respect to God, it is outrageous blasphemy and
idolatry. It is placing a creature, and a very insignificant one in the
place of the Creator.




                             CHAPTER XXIV.


One day, reading in my library so intently that I did not hear the sound
of wheels, my bearer brought me a card on which was the name “Mrs.
Clement.” I told him to show her into the drawing room. Soon I went in
and saw an elderly lady, slender in form, with snow-white hair drawn up
in curls at the side of her forehead and with a very bright, intelligent
face. She was old in years, but evidently young in heart and mind. All
this I saw at a glance. With her was a young man whom I judged at once
to be her son, slender and delicate with a bright face partially covered
with a beard and a heavy moustache. On my entering the room they rose
and greeted me, the mother introducing the young man as her son. We then
seated ourselves, and had some introductory talk, probably about the
weather, or some such interesting, novel subject. In fact I had become
so absorbed in reading Plato’s “New Republic,” that I was still in a
dreamy state and supposed they had called on some matter of business.

The mother then spoke. “Are you the Mr. Japhet who was in the St.
George’s School in 18—.” “Yes,” I replied. “I must be the one as I know
of no other. The Japhets by that name are very scarce, as I never met
one in my life.” “Well!” she replied. “Johnny has always been talking of
you and of coming to see Mr. Japhet, and I thought I would come with
him.” This was what she said, but she had scarcely uttered the name,
“Johnny,” before I aroused from my stupor, sprang from my chair and
taking both his hands in mine, exclaimed, “Johnny, is it you?” I put my
arms around him and gave him a real brotherly hug, and would have kissed
him after the good German fashion, but let my tears of joy flow instead.
Taking his hands again I studied his features, asking: “Is it really
true that you are Johnny?” Then turning to the widow, “Mrs. Clement, I
wish to shake your hand again for Johnny’s sake.” I saw the tears
glistening in her eyes as she observed us, for was not he the only son
of the widow, the treasure of the mother’s heart and life! Had she not a
right to be proud of him and of the love I showed him? Why should we not
give full play to our sympathies and feelings, the noblest traits of our
human nature? Have we not enough in life to make us hard and unfeeling
that we should not soften our natures by yielding to our affections when
we can do this sincerely?

I have seen husbands and wives, parents and children meet and separate
as coldly as if they were only strangers or ashamed to show any feeling.
How very strange, and is it not unnatural? Surely I did not take time
just then to philosophize for I was too excited even to think.
Recovering myself, I ordered the bearer to tell the Khansaman to bring
some tea and toast, to open the two guest rooms, to bring in the luggage
and dismiss the gari, and all this in one sentence and a breath. I was
in a state of delightful excitement and I yielded myself entirely to it,
and why not? No more of Plato’s New or Old Republic, but the pleasure of
the old and new friendship. I have often recalled Mr. Percy’s saying,
“Charles don’t dawdle! When you have anything to do, either work or
play, give to it all your might, mind and being.”

I need not say we were busy, not a moment wasted either before or at
breakfast. I insisted on the midday rest, that my friends might not
become exhausted, but Johnny found me in the library. I call him Johnny
for he was always that to me, and ever will be and why not? Later in the
afternoon we had our walk in the garden, and then our long drive about
the station, but I doubt if either of us saw anything. The pleasant time
was after dinner, when we had our coffee in front of the fire in the big
room. It reminded me of the old times when we three, Mr. Percy, Cockear
and I, sat before our fire and were like boys together. Ah! those happy,
joyous days! How much has passed since then?

In this more quiet time Mrs. Clement gave me a little of their history.
When Johnny’s school days closed, several years after my time, he tried
in various places for a situation, but failed completely. The world
seemed harsh and dreary to the widow and her son, the future without any
prospect on which to rest a hope. Without friends or influence, what
could they expect? Just then a letter came that like the wand of a fairy
swept away all the clouds and darkness. It appeared that years before
Johnny was born, his father had befriended a lad by helping him to a
situation in Bombay, where he commenced at the bottom, and by diligence
and honesty rose step by step, until he became one of the partners of
the firm. He had lost track of his friend, but on the evening of the day
on which he was admitted to the firm, he was recalling the past, and
thought of the time when he was a homeless orphan, and almost
friendless, and of the one to whom he owed his position and the success
of his life. From that moment he could not rest until he had found his
benefactor. He wrote letters to him, not knowing that he was dead. One
of these letters reached the widow. The writer gave an outline of his
life, told of his gratitude, and that if in any way he could do a favor
to the one to whom he owed everything, he was not only ready, but
anxious to do it. It was like a debt, and almost a burden to him, and he
could not be happy until he had discharged it, or shown his willingness
to do so.

This letter came as a message from Heaven to the widow and her son. She
wrote and explained everything, with the result that Johnny got a
situation, and in the course of time became a partner of the man whom,
as a lad, his father had befriended. This was most natural, and such
incidents would oftener happen if people would pay their debts of
gratitude, and put their religion into deeds, and not so much into
words.

“So, Mr. Japhet,” said the mother, sitting with her cup of coffee in her
hand, forgetting to take a sip of it, “you have our history. I say _our_
history, for in it all, Johnny and I have been one. He was all I had,
and I think I was everything to him, though many bright eyes have tried
to win him away from me, I have him still.”

“Don’t be too sure, good mother,” said Johnny, “Don’t you know that
Cupid’s arrow, if the right one be used, may pierce the hardest heart.
Didn’t it your’s once?”

“John, John!” she said very gravely.

I noticed she always called him Johnny, except when she gave him a
reproof, and this was always so kind that it must have given him more
pleasure than otherwise. He then took her hand, as he sat by her side,
just as if he had been her lover. And he was. Blessed is that boy, whose
first love is his mother, and happy is the mother of such a boy. I have
often thought, yet it may be one of my crude notions, that a boy or man
who truly loves a good mother can never go wrong.

As I sat looking at this loving couple, I could not help asking myself,
with a deep, sad sigh: “Why did I not have such a mother?” Thus do the
sorrows of our lives break in upon our joys.

The mother continued: “All his life, since he first met you, he has been
talking about you. It was Mr. Japhet this, and Mr. Japhet that, and he
has always been longing to see you. I often told him to go and visit
you, but he would say: ‘No, not without you, mother,’ and thus the going
was delayed until he became a partner, and was entitled to a long
vacation, when I said to him: ‘Now, we will see Mr. Japhet, if he can be
found anywhere,’ so we started, and here we are. So you see Mr. Japhet,
he is still his mother’s boy.”

“Yes,” said Johnny, soberly, “I am not ashamed to say, it was first God,
then mother and Japhet, all through my life. These three have been my
trinity for good—” and as if talking to himself—“for to these I owe all
my best impulses, and the happiness of my life.”

After a few moments silence we fell to talking of our school days.

“Yes,” said the mother, “Johnny has told me about them again and again.
What a time you must have had! And do you know, Mr. Japhet, that he
never told me about that flogging until after he left school.”

“No, good mother,” he said, “I did not, for I well knew that if I told,
you would have tied me to your apron-string, and never let me go back to
it.” She answered with warmth: “Indeed, I would not, to such a school as
that! A great brute of a man flogging a little boy for not betraying his
comrades! Often when I have thought of it, years since, I have felt like
going to that man, and upbraiding him for his meanness and cruelty.”

“Mother, dear,” spoke Johnny, very gravely, for it was his turn to
reprove, “I am surprised!” And then with a smile: “How funny you would
look shaking your little fists at such a monster man, and all for such a
little thing that occurred years ago.”

“John, John,” she replied very sternly. “It was not a little thing,
John, and you know it.”

“That’s so, I surrender,” he answered. “Haven’t I felt the smart of that
rattan years after, when I have thought of that scene? Not in my body,
but in my sense of right and justice? Didn’t you scream though, Mr.
Japhet? You never knew that I was ready to faint, and thought of dying,
as those cutting strokes fell on me, but when I heard you scream, I made
up my mind in an instant to be brave to the last, if I died. I would not
have you think me a coward. It was your voice that gave me courage and
nerve.”

Thus our talk ran on. I know these things are but trifles, but the sum
total of life is made up of little things, a flogging is but a small
affair, but have we not all of us received cuts that we have remembered
until they have become a part of our very selves, and so have changed
many a destiny for good or evil?

“But,” said the mother, “you might have let me share your sorrow.” “O,
no, good mother,” replied he, “that could not be. Sorrow cannot be
divided, shared, sold or given away. I might have told you and a hundred
others, and you would have felt grieved and sympathized with me, but my
sorrow would not have been diminished in the least so it was better for
me to carry my own burdens than to have troubled you.” Brave as a man,
as he was a brave boy.

The days passed only too quickly, full of delightful enjoyment to me,
and I think, as well to them, and my friends took their departure. Then
I was lonely and sad, yet happy in this renewal of our old friendship,
and the addition of a new acquaintance, the charming mother of Johnny. I
have given this account of their visit for several reasons, first
because of the old friendship; then for the delight I had in their
company, but most of all because of the admiration I had for this loving
couple, mother and son. As the mother said, they were one. She had lived
for her son, he for his mother, and thus their lives were blended
together.

First of all, she was so pure. This was my first impression, and
increased the more I saw of her, not from any special thing she said or
did, but purity seemed to be in her every feature, in her dress, her
walk, her conversation, the tone of her voice. She seemed to be made of
sweetness and light, not simply of the soft and mellow kind, for she had
her opinions, which she dared to defend with energy, yet a sense of
goodness seemed to rule her. Such a life is a perpetual prayer. She had
a great mind in her little body, and was not willing to let it sleep and
rest. It was evident that she had kept up with her son in his reading,
with his thoughts and his business, so she could be his close companion.
There was scarcely a topic in our conversation, on which she could not
converse with excellent sense, and with flashes of wit and fun. On some
subjects her womanly instinct seemed to outrun our slow, plodding
masculine thoughts.

I have read somewhere a criticism on woman, and probably a just one;
that many of them, on becoming married, seem to think that they have
reached the summit of their lives, and lose all their former pride of
appearance, stop reading and thinking, and so cease to be companions of
their husbands and older children, and remain as common useful articles
of house furniture. It was not so with this mother. To her elasticity of
youth in body and mind, she had added the culture and refinement of
years, while her body seemed strengthened and matured through her mental
activity.

I have but little patience with the theory of some scientific men that
there is necessarily an inequality of the sexes because of the greater
avoirdupois quantity of the male brain. Mind cannot be weighed with a
butcher’s scales, no more than strength can be computed according to the
amount of muscle. What does it prove if a difference exists between the
brains of the two sexes of no less than 220 cubic centimeters per
individual, more than to say that because two men live in different
sized houses, the one living in the larger house should be consequently
the greater man, when everybody knows that a large minded man may live
in a hut, and a fool be in a palace. Therefore it seems that size and
weight is no indication of quality.

Should not fineness of texture and quality give value to brains and to
everything else? But, say the scientists, no difference can be seen in
the composition of the male and female brain. Nor can any difference of
texture be seen in the brains of an educated man and a fool. Take two
rays of light of the same degree of brightness, no difference in
appearance is observed, yet the one ray is full of heat, and the other
of cold. Analysis by the spectrum shows a difference. My skeptical
common sense suggests that our scientists have not found the right kind
of a spectrum for brain analysis. Suppose we leave out the material
brain altogether and consider the mind alone as we would lose sight of
the house and think of the man separate from it. Is not the great mental
difference between the sexes, as between individuals of the same sex,
due to the training and development of that immaterial, subtle
something, that no eye can see, or scale can weigh, or mortal
comprehend, the mind itself? Why make the soul a clod of matter? Why try
to estimate mind only by the weight or shape or texture of the brain
matter it lives in and uses, any more than we should judge of the weight
or worth of a man by the size or value of the house he occupies?

It is said that a fool can ask questions that a philosopher cannot
answer, so I have ventured. Yet with all due respect to the philosophers
I cannot always accept their dogmatic assertions without protest or
questions. For instance, a great brain anatomist asserts, “Woman is a
constantly growing child and in the brain, as in so many other parts of
her body, she conforms to her childish type.” Suppose I assert “Man is a
constantly growing child, and in the brain as in so many parts of his
body, he conforms to his childish type.” What value has one assertion
over the other?




                              CHAPTER XXV.


In all my previous acquaintance with Mr. Jasper he had told me nothing
of his history. I had never made inquiries as I considered it
impertinent to pry into the secrets of people and preferred to remain in
ignorance unless they chose of their own accord to tell me. I knew him
to be a very reserved man, one who had traveled and seen a great deal,
read and studied much and was an independent thinker. His theory, was
that as he was responsible for his thoughts and deeds of this life and
for the life to come, he could not avoid the necessity of being free in
all things. He was most courteous in hearing all sides and diligent in
reading everything on every subject as an impartial judge, but at the
end he formed his own conclusions to which he adhered tenaciously for
himself.

One day he incidentally referred to his religious life. His parents were
devoted Christians and he was brought up in their faith. His mother was
the stronger willed of the two. She was of Dutch descent, of a hardy and
resolute race. She had an excellent mind, though not well educated. Her
good common sense answered in place of education. She exacted implicit
respect and obedience from her children. She laid down no rules, but
every one knew what she desired and not one dared act contrary to what
mother wished. There was no harshness, but a mother’s love shown in all
her acts towards her children. She did not lecture them or parley with
them, but “it is right my son and must be done,” and it was. She
demanded obedience first and afterwards, sometimes, would give her
reasons. She seldom made mistakes. Her good judgment so calmly acted
upon, impressed all that it was best to do as she directed.

One thing indicated her character. She was very particular about the
observance of Sunday. On Saturday the boy’s clothes were seen in order,
their boots were blacked and they had their baths and the Sunday dinner
was prepared as far as possible. On Sunday morning every one in the
household, even to the dogs, knew and felt it was a sacred day. All went
to church no matter what the weather might be and no Sunday sickness was
allowed. After the service came the dinner, not a cold water, dry
biscuit affair, but the best dinner of the week, smoking hot roasts,
tarts, pies and cream pudding in abundance, just what would please
hungry, growing boys and make them love the mother and give them a warm
regard for Sunday. After that, books and papers, no novels on that day,
with singing and pleasant conversations, the mother the center of the
household group; walking in the garden, orchard or fields, but no
visiting or making calls, nor did she encourage visitors on Sunday. It
was a day of quiet rest at home.

Outside the house the father ruled, but in the house the mother was
ruler and priestess. The parents never interfered in each other’s
domain. If anything was said about something outside the house, it was,
“Go to your father.” If about anything within the house, it was, “Ask
your mother.” The mother often counselled with her husband about the
children but never before them. Their matured decision was acted upon as
if they had never spoken on the subject. Such was the love and respect
and implicit obedience to the parents, that the boys never went away
from home without asking permission of the mother, for it seemed to be
within her province to know where her boys were. This habit clung to
them until they reached manhood or as long as they were at home, for
during school vacations and afterwards, before going out, it was always,
“I will ask mother first.” This may seem very rigid, but what could have
been better for a family of energetic boys than such a system of which
they were trained to venerate and love mother and home?

While Mr. Jasper was telling this I recalled what I had read in the
autobiography of George Ebers, where he writes of his mother’s
influence: “I had no thought, performed no act, without wondering what
would be her opinion of it, and this intimate relation, though in an
altered form, continued until her death. In looking back, I may regard
it as a tone of my whole development that my conduct was regulated
according to the more or less close mental and outward connection in
which I stood to her.”

And the sisters, for there were several, dear, good, noble girls, models
of the mother in every respect, a family group clinging together, the
interest of each belonging to all and never sundered except by death.
There was no separate purse among the children. If one needed a little
money he was free to help himself, and this continued even after they
had grown to manhood, each assisting the others and no account kept.

It was a sad, sad day when death suddenly removed the mother from her
privileged place in the home.

Mr. Jasper stopped suddenly with tears in his eyes and a choking sob in
his voice, while he sat in silence for some minutes, looking back over
the years as if he saw that home and the mother again.

I had known so little, almost nothing of my mother; yet such as she was
she was still my mother. It has always caused me deep, heartfelt grief
when others have told me of their mothers. Why could not I have had a
mother’s love and care? Why?

The loss of such a treasure is next to losing God, the greatest loss, it
seems to me, that can befall a human being. I had no father, not a real
one, and have no feeling about him except—I have often heard people
speak with great respect of their father, but the heart’s affection
always goes to the mother.

I was thinking to myself and did not realize the silence of Mr. Jasper.
He then continued: “Such was my home and early training. I was kept from
bad company, ‘tied to my mother’s apron string,’ as the boys said, but
it was a good string, one of the best that God ever made. One incident
occurred when I was in my sixteenth year that left a profound impression
on my mind and on my life. A neighbor’s wife and her son—he was just my
age to a day—had lately returned from a visit to a distant place where
he had met some young people with whom I was slightly acquainted.

“We were in their drawing room and the mother was sewing or reading.
Mention was made of a young man several years older than we were. At his
name the mother remarked, ‘How sad it was! He was a young man of good
family, fine ability and excellent prospects, but he had gone with bad
women, became diseased and so offensive that his family could not endure
his presence but had to provide him rooms outside the house.’ I do not
remember her exact words. She was a refined, educated, Christian lady,
and I know must have spoken on such a subject with as much delicacy as
possible. I was absolutely ignorant of such things. Some might say I was
a very innocent youth. I proudly bear the taunt. Such was the effect of
her remarks upon me, that I went home sick with disgust and could eat no
dinner.

“That feeling has never left me. Whenever in my travels I have seen a
prostitute, I have had the same feelings of disgust, and when meeting
men whom I knew to be licentious I would have as quickly taken a slimy
toad in my hand as to have shaken hands with them. Laying aside all the
morality of the subject, I never could appreciate the exquisite, refined
taste of a gentleman or any man who had any self respect, who could
associate with women common to everybody. And what puzzles me now is how
any man belonging to a Christian church and professing to be a follower
of Jesus, who was purity itself, can be guilty of sexual immorality.
They are foul hypocrites, and besides, traitors to Jesus as much as
Judas was.

“That lady’s talk gave me a shock that has lasted as a blessing all my
life. I have often wondered why parents, ministers and teachers, should
have such false modesty about these most important things to the young.
They say nothing until the youth falls into the mire and slime of the
ditches of sin, and then hold up their hands in holy horror and wonder
how it could have happened.”

These remarks recalled Mr. Percy’s earnest talk to me when he, with both
of my hands clasped in his, and tears in his eyes, gazing into mine,
begged me, for the love of God and for the sake of my own soul, to keep
myself pure and clean. And I remember, too, that never, in all the years
of my school days, did our burly principal or the teachers utter a word
on a subject that was of infinitely more importance, than all our
mathematics or history or our whole school course of study. When I have
thought of the ruin of some of my schoolmates, through their ignorance
of danger, I have bitterly blamed the whole false or deficient system of
education. Only the pure in heart shall see God, but purity is entirely
left out of our school education and mostly from the services in the
churches.

Mr. Jasper continued, “I joined the church of my parents during my
college life, and for years afterwards, I accepted the Bible as the
inspired word of God, and all that the church taught as direct from Him.
I never had a doubt about these things. I often wondered when others
spoke of their doubts. The fact was, that I never read or thought of
anything contrary to what I had blindly accepted as the truth. I was
happy in this state of mind or ignorance. This continued for years. To
be as brief as possible: I engaged in business and met with reverses
through the betrayal of some men professing to be Christians. What to do
I did not know. I was like a man shipwrecked on a desert island, or
rather cast away among savages, for those whom I supposed my friends
turned against me. Men whom I had assisted begged to be excused, ‘it was
not convenient,’ or ‘some other time,’ when I asked for a little
assistance. Men whom I had put upon their feet at a sacrifice to myself
hardly knew me when we met. Once it was ‘Harry,’ but then, ‘Mister’ of
the coolest kind. I was criticised and censured for becoming poor. When
a man is down everybody, even his former friends, are ready to give him
a kick. Mankind is very much like the vultures we see in India. Not one
of them in sight anywhere until a poor brute is wounded, when they are
seen coming in every direction to pull their victim to pieces and devour
him. The world can forgive anything but poverty.

“I expected to find some sympathy and kindness in the church where I had
taken a prominent part, but instead, I was told in effect that I had
better take a back seat. This seemed to me intensely cruel and unjust.

“To be excluded from the church of my parents, to be slighted by those
professing to be Christians, and by whom I was once respected and
treated as a brother, without any reason given, was unendurable. I was
grieved beyond measure, astonished and broken-hearted. My poor wife
nearly died from grief, and my children, though I tried to conceal it
from them, saw my agony. I tried to think what might be the reason of
such harsh treatment, until my head seemed ready to burst, and such was
the intense agony of my feelings that I was in fear that my heart might
fail me, for it sadly ached. At last the question came. How is it
possible for Christian men to act in this way? Are they followers of
Jesus, who can hurt me so much without giving any reason whatever? As I
have said, I never had a doubt about religion before, not one, but now
the question came, Can a religion be true, and of God, that can allow
men to treat me so unjustly and without mercy? I walked in my garden for
hours, many a time till late at night, to retire to a weary, restless
sleep.

“Then one night the crisis came. I had a fearful dream. I do not believe
in dreams, but this one, whether the fancy of a disordered brain or
whatever it was, had a terrible result. I thought I saw a great treeless
plain, in the center a low spot of ground from which arose a dense white
mist and I heard a voice saying of the mist: ‘This is your God and
beside it there is nothing else.’ I awoke in horror, bathed in a cold
perspiration. I tried to recover my senses, but for all I could do, I
felt myself a changed man. Completely worn out I fell asleep again. In
the morning I began to tell my wife my dream but she checked me saying,
‘It is too awful, don’t speak of it!’ But I could not get rid of it. The
mist was as real to me as myself. It overpowered me. I was a changed man
as much so as if I had been metamorphosed into another being. A thousand
times I have tried to analyze that dream and to account for it. I never
had a doubt in my life about the existence of God, for I had always
believed and trusted in Him implicitly, to my great comfort and peace.
The only doubting question I ever had was whether a religion could be
from God that could allow its believers to treat me as I had been
treated. Whatever caused the dream I was another being from what I was
the day before; I had no belief in a God whatever. My faith in the
divinity of Jesus and in the divine inspiration of the Bible had ceased
entirely. I had no feeling about the matter. I could not pray, for I had
nothing to pray to. I had no fear, none in the least. I had done nothing
to bring me into this condition and felt no responsibility for it. I had
not the least desire to go back into the church and would not have
accepted the highest place in it, if they had come on their knees
begging me to take it. Strangely enough, though the day previous and for
weeks and months I had been in an agony of distress, I was now serenely
quiet and at peace; all the old conflict had gone.

             “I lost breath in my soul sometimes
             And cried, God save me if there’s any God
             But even so, God saved me; and being dashed
             From error on to error, every turn
             Still brought me nearer to the central truth.”

“I am not trying to explain anything, but simply stating the truth as to
my condition. Some good Christians might say that I had become a
hardened sinner and God had withdrawn the light of His countenance from
me. This would be false, for I had committed no sin of which I was
conscious, that would cause such a terrible transition. All through my
life I had considered atheism an impossibility and looked upon any one
who professed to be an atheist with horror, and if any one had suggested
the day before that I would fall into this state I would have been
shocked. I yield to no living being in honesty of purpose. It was my
interest to be right and do right and to know why I was so changed in a
few moments and by a dream. I had no thought or desire to be without
God. Why should I, when all my life I had loved and tried to serve Him?
It was a wonderful strange feeling, as if I had just been born into a
new life, for not only my mind but my body seemed to have been
transformed.

“Weeks and months passed while I engaged in business with the greatest
peace and tranquility. Yet the thought was always present: ‘There must
be inevitably an Infinite Creator, God.’ My reason told me this and that
I ought to pray to Him. This belief gradually increased until one day,
like a sudden light, my faith in God returned, filling my whole being
with joy and peace that has never left me. He is now my life, my all.
Nothing gives me so much peace and happiness as prayer when I can talk
with God, to my Father who knows me infinitely better than I know
myself. But I never got back my old faith in the Bible nor in the
divinity of Jesus.

“I have a great respect for the Bible as a wonderful book, and a love
and regard for Jesus as a great man and teacher. Yet I cannot but
believe that the deification of Jesus was the most appalling blunder of
all time. I do not wish to offend you, but truly, when I go to church
and hear Jesus addressed as God I feel shocked more so than when I see a
heathen worshiping a stone image as a god. My reason, my heart, and all
my feelings rebel against putting anything in the place of the Infinite
God. I am as honest in this as it is possible for a human being to be in
anything, and if it is possible for any one to have a witness within
himself that he is right, I have that. I go direct to God. He can hear
me as easily as He can hear any one else, and I believe and know that He
is always ready to listen unto me when I come. I want no mediator,
nothing of any kind to stand between me and God. I know that if my
father were living and I should send any one to intercede for me he
would feel hurt and ask, ‘Am I such a father that my own son cannot come
to me instead of sending some one else?’ Why should we make out God to
be such an unnatural Father that He will not admit His own children to
His presence without being paid for it or through some one else as an
intercessor? ‘All’s love yet all’s law, in the star, in the stone, in
the flesh, in the soul and in the clod.’

“As to original sin and an atonement to satisfy a broken law, these to
me are mythological stories begotten from men’s fertile imagination. The
best atonement is a repentant heart, a contrite spirit and a pure life.
‘As a father pitieth his children so does the Lord love them that fear
Him. Who shall ascend unto the hill of the Lord? or who shall stand in
His holy place? He that hath clean hands and a pure heart. For thy
name’s sake, O Lord, pardon my iniquity for it is great. What man is he
that feareth the Lord? Him shall He teach in the way that He shall show,
his soul shall dwell at ease. The secret of the Lord is with them that
fear Him and He will show them His covenant. The eyes of the Lord are
upon the righteous and His ears are open unto their cry. The Lord is
nigh unto them that are of a broken heart and saveth such as are of a
contrite spirit.’

“There is scarcely a Psalm that has not a passage showing that God is
willing to forgive and receive all those who come to Him direct and in
the right spirit. Why mystify and muddle a thing that is so plain that
any one can easily understand? I cannot conceive how a holy God, and
more, a God of infinite mercy, could be willing to accept, much less
take delight in, any worship or sacrifice that would cause suffering to
even the most insignificant animal. No one can think of vivisection,
though for philanthropic purposes, without a sense of pain. I cannot see
the slaughter of an animal or bird, even when they are for food, without
a feeling of pity. How then can I, though a weak mortal, yet having such
feelings, bow down and worship a God who is declared to take pleasure in
the destruction of life and offerings of blood! May God forgive me if I
am wrong, but I cannot help thinking and feeling as I do. I would rather
believe that all mankind are in error than to hold such an idea of the
God I love and worship.

“Vicarious atonement is contrary to all the principles of justice. The
sufferings of innocent victims to appease the wrath of an angry God is
repugnant to the noblest instincts of the human race and a degrading
superstition of which only the lowest heathen should be guilty. Moral
justice can never be satisfied by the death or punishment of the
innocent for the guilty. Nowhere on earth is one allowed to suffer in
place of another. To buy off justice is bribery and to accept a bribe is
a crime. How then can people attribute to a just God what is considered
by universal mankind an act of infamy?

“Jesus is to the world an example of what a human being should be, and
not as a sacrifice to an offended God or to satisfy a broken law.

“Having escaped from the old theological dogmas, how was it possible for
me to go back to them? How could I accept such a horrible statement as
this, made by a very prominent divine, who wrote text books on theology
still used in the divinity schools? ‘The saints in glory will be far
more sensible how dreadful the wrath of God is, and will better
understand how dreadful the sufferings of the damned are, yet this will
be no occasion of grief to them, but rejoicing. They will not be sorry
for the damned, it will cause no uneasiness or dissatisfaction to them,
but, on the contrary, when they see this sight it will occasion
rejoicing and excite them to joyful praise.’

“Another equally prominent divine writes: ‘The happiness of the elect in
heaven will in part consist in witnessing the torments of the damned in
hell, and among them it may be their own children, parents, husbands,
wives, and friends on earth. One part of the business of the blessed is
to celebrate the doctrine of reprobation. While the decree of
reprobation is eternally executing on the vessels of wrath, the smoke of
their torment will be eternally ascending in view of the vessels of
mercy, who, instead of taking the part of these miserable objects, will
say amen, hallelujah, praise the Lord. When the saints shall see how
great the misery is from which our God hath saved them, and how great a
difference He hath made between their state and the state of others who,
by nature and perhaps by practice, no more sinful and ill-deserving than
they, it will give them more a sense of the wonderfulness of God’s grace
to them. Every time they look upon the damned, it will excite in them a
lively and admiring sense of the grace of God in making them so to
differ. The sight of hell torments will exalt the happiness of the
saints forever.’

“I have candidly and truthfully given you, Mr. Japhet, my experience for
what it may be worth to you, but my conclusions are all of life to me.”




                             CHAPTER XXVI.


Some business, as well as a desire for a change in the monotony of
station life, took me to Calcutta. I was the guest of a well-to-do
Eurasian family whom I had met. This gentleman, by inheriting some
property and by profitable investments, was able to live quite
independent and very comfortably. The family, on account of its wealth,
was on the verge of society, sometimes inside, but oftener on the
outside. “Society” has always been a puzzle to me. I can understand the
Hindu caste system, for that is something well defined and natural. All
the castes accept the position in which they are born. One caste is as
proud of its place as another, and there is no trying to pass from one
caste to another. There are strict rules for each, settled by immutable
laws and recognized by government, even among the criminals in the
jails. Everything is definite and satisfactory to everybody. As an
instance, among Hindu fishermen there are these castes: those who fish
from the rocks, those who fish from boats, those who catch turtle, those
who cast nets, and those who fish with a rod. There is no chance here
for mistakes, as each one knows where he is; but among Europeans
everything is higgledy-piggledy, no one knows who’s who or what’s what.
It is a sarcasm on western civilization to allow the heathen to be so
far ahead in such an important matter.

From the high caste English Brahmins down to the lowest caste of English
Shudras there seems to be no boundary lines or rules. No one knows where
he is, and is forever in danger of being snubbed and humiliated, except,
perhaps, the very high mucky-mucks, who assume a kind of divine air of
superiority and immaculateness.

It appears that a man who acts as wholesale agent for a firm in England,
occupying a little office only large enough to hold a table and chair,
is in “society” because he is a wholesaler. Another whose business takes
up a number of buildings, selling anything from a steam engine to a
hairpin, giving employment to a thousand or more people, is not in
society because he is a retailer. He is obliged to be a man of superior
ability, while the wholesale agent may be but a popinjay. The one can
draw cheques for lacs of rupees at a time, while the boarding-house
keeper and dhoby of the other have to wait months for their pay.

I was told of a case where a clerk in a large firm fell in love with a
daughter of his landlady, a bright, intelligent girl, the mother owning
considerable property. They were married. The next day his fellow
clerks, receiving each a couple hundred dibs a month, and often
overdrawing their wages to get tennis suits and neckties, drew up a
petition requesting the benedict to resign his clerkship, as they only
associated with gentlemen.

This miserable, degrading notion about caste or labor often inflicts the
greatest hardships. A Scotch lady, a neighbor of my hostess, called. She
was of excellent family, formerly in good financial circumstances, but
now greatly reduced by some misfortune. She had two grown up daughters,
well educated and in society. She was lamenting over the impoverished
condition of the family, and said, “I know how to take care of sick
people, and would gladly go out as a nurse and so earn some money to
help keep the pot boiling, but what would society say, and what would
become of my daughters? Their prospects would be ruined, and they would
always be spoken of as ‘the daughters of that old Scotch nurse.’ So I am
obliged to sit idle at home, when we need a little money so badly.”

As to shop-keepers, tradesmen, they are another breed or caste
altogether, and never taken into consideration by “society.” This is a
strange thing under the sun to me. When the English are a nation of
shop-keepers—and Napoleon knew what he was saying—when the very
substructure of England’s life and prosperity is commercial business,
buying and selling truck, I cannot see why they should so despise their
own trade.

In the “service,” why one man who receives a thousand a month is in
“society,” and a five hundred or a two hundred rupee walla is excluded,
though the latter may be superior mentally, morally and physically to
the other, is a conundrum to me. They are all naukars, servants, work
for wages, and are at the beck and call of others, and even the best of
them at times have to do a little shinning for the sake of a few paltry
rupees.

Evidently God has not formed me with intelligence enough to comprehend
these intricate society matters, so that whatever error there may be in
my questions, can be imputed to my imbecility and ignorance. I candidly
admit that I am sometimes a fool. I do this the more readily to escape
the major conclusion in the saying, “He that is not a fool sometime, is
likely to be a fool all the time.” Still I cannot forbear giving my
opinion that this blind running in respect to the unfixedness of
“society,” has gone on long enough, and in this advanced stage of
civilization such an important matter should at once be so well defined
that an outsider, though a fool, need not err thereat.

If St. Peter should make it a question of admission through the pearly
gates whether we had been in “society,” or to what caste or grade we
belong, too many might be puzzled for an answer, and so miss the
privilege of treading the golden pavements.

Another question is the status of gentleman. This has never been
settled. Some one has said that “a gentleman is one who does not have to
work for a living.” This might not suit India, as it would almost
exclude everybody, for all here have to work, or pretend to do so, and
most of them, from what they say, deuced hard to get their grub. I might
come in under this definition, for through the kind providence of Mr.
Percy I have never been obliged to do a hard stroke of work. Yet I would
very likely, judging from my experience, be objected to on account of
the color of my integument. So I am left in the dark as to my position,
under the shade of my skin—an undefined, crude, protoplasmic nonentity;
a very undesirable position. There are always so many little things to
upset one’s calculations. The slightest extraneous matter, as I have
read, will destroy the distinctive flavor of a vintage, or, as we well
know, the sight of a tiny fly in the soup will destroy our relish for
the dish, so the slight tinge that God or the Devil put into my face has
often offended the delicate sensibilities of colorless people.

As I have a personal interest at stake in this question, I would like to
know who I am and where I come in, anything to settle the matter, and
not for myself only, but for thousands of other unfortunates.

I am always curious to know the breed of my horses and dogs, and the
strain of my chickens, why not about my own status and that of the
different humanities I meet?

The world is so careful about the breeding and grading of every kind of
domestic animals, and the improvement of machinery, but the breeding of
humanity is left to luck, haphazard chance, and the devil to take the
hindmost. This ought not so to be.

I cannot refrain from giving another definition of gentleman: “A man
distinguished for his fine sense of honor and consideration for the
rights and feelings of others.” This suits me, as there is nothing in it
about color, lineage or wages, or whether one sits at table with
shop-keepers.

Lord Lytton makes one of his characters say, “I belong to no trade, I
follow no calling. I rove when I list, and rest when I please, in short
I know of no occupation but my indolence, and no law but my will; now,
sir, may I not call myself a gentleman?”

Some one says, “No one is a gentleman who has not a dress suit.” There
must be something in this, as every one knows the power of the tail of a
coat in social life; yet the statement is not more definite than the
definition of the word “network” in Johnson’s dictionary, “Anything
reticulated or decussated at equal distances, with interstices between
the intersections.”

A clearer definition of a society gentleman is, “One who can break all
the commandments genteelly and keep his linen scrupulously clean.”

Another word is often used, excellent when rightly applied, that of
“Christian,” “as to a person acting in the manner, or having a spiritual
character proper to a follower of Christ.” But is this the world’s use
of it?

I do not know just what started me on this gait, but I frequently find
myself going off on a tangent. I am no heavenly body, so have no fixed
orbit, and often take the privilege of a wanderer.

During my visit to the city I was greatly interested in looking at
“society” and upon the moving world. It was as good as a circus to see
the maidan of an evening. The very High Highs of natives in their
phaetons, followed by horsed spearmen, as if these swells were afraid of
bandits capturing their sweet selves, then a load of bareheaded,
barefaced babus, with a number of ragamuffins clinging on behind and
shouting at the top of their voices, while the driver was trying to run
down every one in front of him. In one of the grand phaetons was a swell
rajah, with a servant sitting near him, carrying a spittoon to receive
the royal spittle. He probably is one who is clamoring for
representative government. What would he represent? I never see such a
nest of natives but I think the government erred in not passing a law a
century ago restricting every native to his ancestral bullock hackery. A
native is by nature a squatter, and is as much out of his place in a
phaeton as he is among European ladies in a drawing room. A babu said to
me, “If you go to the houses of these fellows who appear in public in
great style, you would find the most of them living in mud huts
surrounded by filth and stinks, while everything they have is mortgaged
to keep up their appearance when they go on parade.” He knew no doubt
what he was saying.

Then the traps of the Europeans, the extremes could be seen at a glance.
A slender, six foot youth, wearing an enormously high collar and the
highest kind of a narrow-rimmed hat, seated on a six foot cart, while
alongside of him was a pompous porpoise of a man in a trap nearly
touching the ground, drawn by a limping, half-starved pony. Then the
people, scarcely one good looking, but ugly and so so, all kinds and
conditions as various as the crowd that once assembled in Jerusalem, not
omitting the painted bedizened females in grand style, flaunting their
characters before everybody—evidently in “society”—the whole scene a
vanity fair, fit for the pen of a Bunyan or a Thackeray.

The Bengalee is a study by himself. He has the reputation of being the
monumental liar of the world, and those who know him best, his own race,
say that truth is an absolute impossibility to him. This may be slightly
exaggerated, as I met some fine honest fellows among them, very few and
far between, as I wish to be truthful. One of his features attracted my
attention, and that was his stare, impudent enough to make a brass mule
hang its head. In this I think he takes the lead of all the world.
Always going bareheaded, he has become so accustomed to looking the sun
out of countenance that nothing on earth fazes him. It is said that as
each new statue was put upon the maidan the Bengalees stared so at it
that the image blushed all over with a blueish tinge. I have not the
least doubt of this, as I myself saw the cerulean color on all the
images. It is this arrogant stare that is so offensive to European
ladies, and characteristic of the educated babus, for it is said that
they are taught everything in the schools except manners and morality. A
writer in an English paper says of them, “They are a soft, supple,
quick-witted youth; utterly destitute of manly qualities, largely
without the Englishman’s truthfulness, equity and resource, good
subordinates but abominably bad superiors, and everywhere hated and
despised by their countrymen.”

Another says of him, “Though he may be dressed in the finest European
clothes, speak English fluently in the well finished style of Addison
and Macaulay, and have the superficial manners of a gentleman, yet
scratch him, as you would a Russian to find a Tatar, and in this native
of India you will always find the heathen.”

As to their religion, Macaulay says of it: “All is hideous and grotesque
and ignoble.” De Tocqueville: “Hinduism is perhaps the only system of
belief that is worse than having no religion at all.”

Another subject was brought to my attention. I did not desire to know
about it as in my life and the circumstances of my birth, I had been
compelled to know so much of the degradation of mankind in
licentiousness that any reference to it fills me with disgust and makes
me wonder how a just God or decent people could tolerate such iniquity.
I was informed that sexual vice was so prevalent that scarcely any one,
from the highest down to the lowest classes, was not blackened by it. It
was so foul a story that I soon stopped it with a request that I be told
no more. Zola could come to Calcutta and write a score of books, not
from his imagination, but of real facts, with names of living men and
women involved in seductions, intrigues and foul crime that would
astonish the world. Some one should do it, unmask these hypocrites as he
would report a den of thieves, reveal the sources of some fearful
epidemic or anything inimical to the well being of mankind. What
surprised me most was that the prominent actors in all this, are in
“Society,” and many or all of them professed Christians, pretended
followers of the pure and holy Jesus! They have, perhaps, such unbounded
faith in him that they dare revel in vice to their lust’s content, and
think that at the end of life his blood will wash all their guilty
stains away. What a delusive, deceptive, accursed belief!

One reflection of mine was, what a story the Monument on the Maidan
could tell if it only had a voice? It must have heard and seen so much
of wrong-doing that if it had any feelings it must have had many a heart
ache.

Professor Hitchcock, writing upon light in the formation of pictures,
says: “It seems then, that this photographic influence pervades all
nature, nor can we say where it stops. We do not know, but it may
imprint upon the world around us our features as they are modified by
various passions, and thus fill nature with daguerrotype impressions of
all our actions; it may be too, that there are tests by which nature,
more skillful than any photographist, can bring out and fix these
portraits so that acuter senses than ours shall see them as on a great
canvas spread over the material universe? Perhaps, too, they may never
fade from that canvas, but become specimens in the great picture gallery
of eternity.”

What if the monument has photographs and phonographs of all it has seen
and heard and some day, some acuter scientist than now living comes
along and reproduces all these scenes and voices in a historical
panorama! What a consternation it would produce! What worse hell could
there be to some people than the eternal possession of such a picture in
which they would appear in their real characters stripped of all
disguises and hypocrisies?

Omitting other things I was greatly interested in the Eurasian question.
It appeared that there were about twenty-two thousand in Calcutta. A
very few were in Government service, few others in shops, factories and
minor employments, the great majority living, no not that, but existing
when and how, God and the Devil only knew. I follow the religious
orthodox fashion in giving the Devil a place along with God in managing
the world.

I did some slumming, for it was to the slums I went, to the disgust of
my sense of smell, and the detriment of my boots and clothes. I had
never been to such places, and if any one had told me that Christian
human beings existed in such conditions, I would have thought he was
stuffing me. The little court in which I was compelled to see my first
daylight, with its mud-walled huts, yet clean, was a palace compared to
the filthy, odorous, dingy holes where many of the Eurasians stay. And
the poverty! That was hardly the name for it. Absolute want of rags for
covering their nakedness, and the total absence of the coarsest,
cheapest stuff that the lowest animals could eat. I was told that when
one went out to look for employment, or do a little work, he would
either go barefooted or borrow a pair of boots from one, different
articles of cheap apparel from others, and the lenders would have to
wait in their nakedness, or with a rag around them until he returned.
There were children, grown up young men and women, skinny old people,
all wan and cadaverous, as if they had never enjoyed a good meal in
their lives. Some of the poor children were packed off to some charity
school to spend the whole day, where an attempt was made to cram their
heads with knowledge, when there was not a particle of food in their
stomachs. What a farce is this kind of civilization and Christian
charity!

I could not help thinking of the comfort and happiness of my heathen
villagers compared to the condition of these so-styled Christians. The
longer I live the more I conclude that more food and less knowledge,
less religion and more justice, is what the world needs. Stop building
expensive cathedrals and churches, throw down the palaces of the
archbishops and bishops, and give them and their brethren a chance to
imitate Jesus, who had not a place where to lay his head, and let them
go about doing good as he did. Melt down the gold and silver of the
churches, the tiaras, crosses, amulets and jewelry of the altars and
idols, and lay up treasures in Heaven by taking care of the bodies of
the poor as well as trying to save their souls.

And the rooms of these wretches, holes, places in which grown up young
men and women were huddled together! What chance for modesty or virtue
to be retained under such conditions? Is it any wonder that many
Eurasians are not better than they are, brought up in such adverse
degrading circumstances? Of what use is prayer to them in Church, one
hour of one day in seven, when every day and hour of the whole week the
devils of poverty, misery and uncleanness reside and exist in their
homes?

What are the chances, the outlook for these people? The Government
refuses to enlist them as soldiers. The railway companies put up
notices, “No Eurasians need apply.” Few of them are in Government
offices. There are almost none in the banks. The mercantile firms will
have none of them. A very few are in the shops. The factories prefer
cheap labor. The Government provides schools for the natives, but leaves
the Eurasians to take care of themselves. The natives will not favor
them. They provide for their own, leaving the Christians to appear that
they are worse than the heathen in not providing for those of their own
households. These people are outcasts, accursed by the Europeans and
natives, placed between the Devil and the deep sea, and probably the
best thing for them to do would be to take to the sea, either to cross
it, and get into some country where they might get, at least enough to
eat, or else to go down into it, and end their misery and disgrace with
their lives.

The bone that sticks in my throat in all this is, that many of these
unfortunates are the descendants of lust and crime, as I was one, and
still am. They were begotten or their ancestors, of Christian gentlemen.
This is one of my reasons for wanting to know what the word Christian
means, and also that of gentleman, in connection with the wretched
condition of these people. They, who by no fault of their own, are in
this miserable existence, the children of Christian gentlemen, should be
the special proteges of the Government, of the Church and of the
European people, are cast out and despised as social dregs.

It may be said that these gentlemen were not Christians when they
sinned. This reminds me of the story of an English fox hunting priest.
When he was asked how he could reconcile such sport with his profession,
he replied that he did not hunt as a priest, but as a man. “But,” asked
his questioner, “when the Devil gets the man, where will the priest be?”
So one might ask, “When the Devil gets these sinners, where will they be
as Christians or gentlemen?”

One evening a young woman came in on her way from a shop where she was
employed. She was meanly clad, but evidently making the best use of what
she had. Her wages were sixteen rupees a month, out of which she had to
pay rent, purchase food and clothing. She was obliged to be in the shop
from eight in the morning till seven in the evening, with a little rest
for a scanty tiffin at noon. All the girls were obliged to stand on
their feet the whole time in the shop. If they sat down or leaned
against the tables they were fined. She seemed to be in great distress,
and had come to my hostess for sympathy. She said that it had been a
terrible hard day. She became tired, and her feet ached so that she had
to remove her shoes, and stand on the marble floor to cool her feet. The
European clerks had annoyed her by calling her “Eurasian,” and they
often called the girls “half castes,” “niggers,” “sooars” and such like
names. The assistant manager had found fault with her clothes; that she
looked too slovenly to be seen. Summoning up courage she went to the
manager, and asked him if he couldn’t increase her wages a little. He
asked what she was receiving, and then said it was considerable, and
with a bland smile he asked, insinuatingly: “Haven’t you some young
gentleman friend who could help you out a little?” As she told this she
fell to sobbing.

After a little my hostess said: “Mary, what did you tell him?”

She answered with much hesitation: “At first I could not comprehend what
he meant, and then I was so shocked that I seemed stunned, and turned
and left him without a word. Had I resented what he said, he would have
dismissed me at once, and then what would I do? How I wish I could end
this cursed life, I am tired of it!” She fell to weeping again, and no
wonder.

And this bland, smiling, Christian Mephistopheles, manager and part
owner of the big shop, was a member of the church and an official, and
probably often resting his hands on his fat paunch, talked about the
fearful unchastity and lack of honesty among the rising generation. I
don’t believe in a place of hell, but I think there ought to be a fiery
pen where such sleek hypocrites could have a good roasting. But he will
get all he deserves, else there is no use in having a just God or any
faith in justice.

I could fill a book with such stories of want, temptation and
wretchedness, but of what use? There must be a screw, or many of them,
loose in this inhuman social arrangement of life, or else I am a fool.

The first mistake, or rather crime, was in begetting this hybrid race to
be scorned and accursed as long as they live. The next crime is that the
Government and Europeans do not assist them, and the next is that the
better class of Eurasians do not look after these despised unfortunates
of their own race or caste. They in their pride try to appear what they
are not, and try to conceal the pit from whence they were digged. They
may powder as much as they please, but there is not chalk enough in the
world to conceal or remove the pigment in their skins. They may put on
style, live in wealth and luxury, and in their egotistical imbecility
ape the Europeans in everything; yet they will remain Eurasians still,
as I am one.

If these more favored ones would stand up for their rights and let
Government and everybody know that they had some pride and manhood left;
would organize, defend and help their unfortunate people, there would
soon be a change. The voluble babus have their representatives in the
legislative councils, and nearly every other tribe, no matter how
obscure, except the Eurasian. These get nothing, because they have not
the courage to demand anything.

In self-vindication I must say that I assisted the poor girl of whom I
have spoken by leaving some money with my hostess for her. I only
mention this to show that my practice corresponds with my theory. I have
always contributed with an open hand to assist Eurasians, as I
considered that they had a claim on me, or rather that it was my
privilege to assist them as far as I could; yet I prefer rather to leave
the recording of such things with the angel who keeps these kind of
accounts.

I had heard enough of evil, want and wretchedness to make me long again
for my quiet home, so I quickly hied myself thither.

An afterthought. It might be said that I am somewhat of a “kicker.” I
admit it. I always kick at the disagreeable, against imposition,
wrong-doing, hypocrisy, and if my mouth was filled with bitterness and
curses, they would not be sufficient to show my utter abhorrence of lust
and licentiousness, especially among what is termed “society,” by people
who style themselves Christians, ladies and gentlemen, for the reason
that I was accursed in my birth and have been accursed all my life by
the sin and crime of a Christian gentleman. Aside from this, I think I
am acknowledged to be one of the mildest and most kind-hearted of men.

It is said that if you wish to know the character of a man, ask his
neighbors. Well, one of mine told another that Japhet always built a
fire on cold mornings on purpose to warm the flies. Another said,
“Japhet never sees a lame cur on the road but he takes him in and puts
splinters and ointment on his legs.” If I know myself I think my chief
characteristic is to sympathize with the under dog in a fight,
particularly if he is a weak, helpless creature and the other a great
bull dog of a thing. Alas! there are so many big dogs in the world. I am
wicked enough, but do not like to be considered worse than I really am.

Another thought. I am not opposed to marriage between people of
different races, if it be a true marriage. If a European wishes to marry
an Asiatic or an African woman, by all means let him do so, and then let
him treat her as his wife in every respect. If he have children, let him
be man enough to acknowledge them as his, educate and take care of them,
so that they may love him as their father instead of despising and
cursing him.

Here beginneth another chapter of my life.




                             CHAPTER XXVII.


One day at some sports enjoyed by the public I was introduced to a Mr.
and Mrs. Wentworth, visiting at our station and just from “home.” The
lady, for I am sure she was a lady, from the grateful news she brought
me, said, “I have some pleasant words for you. At Brighton we met Mrs.
Beresford, a charming woman, and just as we were leaving she remarked,
‘When you return to India, if you ever meet a Mr. Japhet, give him my
kindest regards,’ and with a smile she added, ‘and my love.’ You know
what it means, I suppose; I don’t, and Mrs. Beresford hadn’t time to say
anything more.”

This was so sudden from a stranger, and so incomprehensible, as I could
not think who could send me such a greeting and in words so full of
meaning, that I felt a blush running all over me. I tried to be as cool
as possible, and calmly remarked that I was not acquainted with any Mrs.
Beresford, and could not surmise who she could be. Mrs. Wentworth
replied that she was formerly Miss McIntyre, that her husband had died
and she was now a widow.

At the mention of that name my heart commenced a thumping as if this was
its own affair entirely, as it certainly was. If ever I was grateful
that my color did not permit me to blush in the Caucasian fashion, it
was then. I replied in an off-hand manner that I remembered having met
Miss McIntyre somewhere. However, I was very careful to ask where she
was residing and to get her post address, and also requested Mrs.
Wentworth when she wrote to her to give her my kindest regards, and in a
joking way I added, “also my love.” It was no joke to me though. The
very mention of that name sent a thrill—but why should I pin my heart on
my sleeve for every daw to peck at?

A new chapter in my life was commencing. I felt it and knew it. I lost
no time in sending off a letter stating the great pleasure it gave me to
hear even her name again, and thanking her for the pleasant greeting she
had sent me; I hoped she was well and happy; this was about the gist of
it. The letter was according to my best ability, sufficiently expressive
to show my feeling, yet cautious enough so as not to appear intrusive. I
knew well enough what the response would be. How, I cannot explain,
except on the theory of mental telegraphy or spiritual affinity or
something. I also stated that I did not recognize her by her new name;
that I also had been married, but was now alone, my wife having died
several years previous. By a slip of the pen I was about to write that I
regretted she had become a widow, but my heart would not let the pen
tell such a lie as that.

The months seemed to be years before the answer came. She wrote that she
had often thought of me, if I was living, if I was happy, and wondered
if she would ever see me again; that she had been most unhappy in her
marriage, assumed to please her parents; that she was now a happy widow,
if to use such an expression was not improper, but as she was Irish she
had the privilege of her race in using such a phrase. The letter was
modest and courteous, yet expressive enough to be most satisfactory to
me. It is hardly necessary for me to state that I was in a great state
of mind, or heart, to be exact, after the receipt of this most welcome
epistle.

My plans were at once made. I wrote that I had often thought of seeing
Europe, which was the truth, and as I had nothing to keep me in India,
and I might have added, very much, just then, to take me out of it, I
proposed to leave at once, that I might possibly come to England on my
tour. Why I made such an indefinite, round-about statement I do not
know. It is a species of fencing that pertains to our human nature, I
suppose. The real truth is, I was going principally to England. I did
not care more about Europe than about last year’s crop of figs, or of
the trees in the valleys of the moon. I wrote that if I went to England
at all, my address would be at my banker’s, at such a number in
Leadenhall street, and that if she would allow me to call on her I hoped
she would kindly drop me a line to that address. That was another little
deception to which I plead guilty. I was going to Leadenhall street as
quickly and as straight from Bombay as steam could carry me, and I knew,
as well as I knew why I was going, that a note from her, the only object
of my voyage, would be awaiting me there.

I boarded an old P. and O. boat, far too slow to suit me. One day I
suggested to the captain that a little more speed would not hurt any
passenger’s feelings. He then coolly and deliberately began a
calculation, or rather a rehearsal of what he had probably told a
thousand times, of the amount of coal it took for a ten mile speed, and
the ratio of increase of coal for every mile of increased speed. What
did I care about his coal bill? It was heartless in him to talk in that
cold way about his coal. What did he know about Leadenhall street, or
why I was going there? Nor would I have told him for all his old boat
was worth. It is said that physicians, by their constant acquaintance
with suffering and grief, become as insensible to them as wooden men;
so, probably, these captains, so familiar with the heart longings of
their anxious human freight, become as indifferent to them as the dummy
at the bow of the boat is to the rush of the waters.

There was no help for it. So many days had to be consumed to save
consuming extra coal, while my heart was consumed by insatiate longings.
I had my doubts and my fears, for who has not in such enterprises?
though before I started I was so positive about the matter. I wished I
had not resorted to any tricks, as we always do in such cases; may be I
was making a fool’s journey, may be some luckier fellow would carry off
the prize while I was lagging along at a snail’s pace. But what gave me
a little comfort was, that there were others in a worse predicament than
I was, going at a venture, not knowing when and where, afraid that not a
girl in the United Kingdom would have them, so I consoled myself
somewhat. This is a strange thing in human life, that no one ever finds
himself in such a plight but he knows some other worse off than himself.
I have never yet found the last man in the line who could not look down
upon some one lower than himself.

It is not pleasant to relate what is derogatory to myself, but a strict
regard for truth compels me to state that my situation on board the
steamer was far from agreeable. There were a number of English, military
and civilians, as passengers, returning home. Nearly all of them shunned
me with a cold disdain, as if I was some outcast unworthy of their
notice or regard. I overheard several inquiries as, “That Eurasian; who
is he?” I had become so accustomed to this kind of treatment, hardened
to it, that I cared very little about it; as long as they dropped me and
let me alone, I did not care either for their smiles or their sneers.
This statement is only partly true, for I could not help thinking and
feeling on the subject. I could not, however, bear so easily their
treatment of another passenger. He was a very quiet, unassuming
gentleman, of fine appearance and well dressed. He was not an
Englishman; that was evident at first sight, nor did he belong to any of
the nationalities subject to Great Britain, but it soon appeared, by the
remarks of some of the English, that he was an American. He did not
intrude upon them, but several of the military officers seemed to take
special pleasure, even during the first day out, in making offensive
remarks about Americans. They continued this throughout the voyage.

This gentleman could not appear on deck anywhere near these swells but
they would address him with a sneer, and in a mimicking nasal tone,
about something connected with his country and its people. As I had
never met an American, I could not understand these allusions, and they
seemed to me most discourteous and unbecoming from a set of men who
pride themselves upon being gentlemen. He certainly gave them no cause
for such remarks, for in his language, voice, courtesy and intelligence
he was the superior of all on board. He bore all their banter and sneers
very quietly, and isolated himself as much as possible, as if he was a
pariah to these high-bred people, as I was. We naturally came together,
which was most fortunate for me, and we spent many an hour in some quiet
corner. That he was a man of fine natural ability and education was
self-evident. He had traveled much and seen most of the countries of the
world, and made good use of his observation. He could talk of history,
science, art, manufactures, agriculture and literature. He was an
all-round man and full of information in regard to the countries and
people he had seen, and abounded in anecdotes which whiled away my time
very pleasantly. What the rest lost I gained by his acquaintance. I am
not quite a misanthrope, for I have as much admiration for some men as I
have dislike for others. I am a good admirer as well as a good hater.

One day as we were seated in the shade of one of the boats several of
the cads came along, and one of them remarked, talking through his nose,
“Wall, stranger, I guess you don’t have such kind of weather in
America!” My friend made no reply whatever, and the trio left us. I
referred to his quiet way of treating these fellows. He said “I have
found that the much better way is not to notice the disagreeables.” This
hit me, but no matter. “If one was to notice every puppy that snips at
his heels, he would have little time for anything else. It is the
English nature to make themselves disagreeable to foreigners.
Everywhere, all over the world, the same story is told of them, that
they are always sneering at what does not belong to their country, their
people and their set. They are born grumblers. They have a special
dislike to Americans. Why, I do not understand. It is true that many
Americans have peculiarities, but so have the English, and even more
noticeable than those they ridicule in us. In fact there is not a man or
woman living but could be ridiculed and caricatured, so as to appear not
only amusing but offensive. Ridicule is a most dangerous weapon, and I
have known the best of friendships severed by it. I regret the English
use it as they do when they have so many weak places in their own
character.

“The English come to America and we receive them with the greatest
cordiality, and try to make everything pleasant and comfortable for them
as our guests. They take all that we do as a matter of course, a tribute
of an inferior people to them as a superior nation. They will not admit
that we have any manners, society, literature, art or science, or if
they make any concession it is that the little we have got is borrowed,
or as most of them plainly put it, stolen from them. They regard our
kindness as presumption and officiousness, and resent it, some by
ridicule and others by contempt.

“To give you an instance: when the great Dickens came to our country we
received him as no Englishman had ever been received. Every one was
ready to do him a favor, so as to make his visit as pleasant to him as
possible. At an inland city, where he was to give a reading, the
proprietor of the hotel where he stopped went to his room and said, ‘Mr.
Dickens, I am the proprietor of the hotel, and I come myself to say that
if there is anything needed to make you comfortable, if you will only
let me know what it is I will take great pleasure in providing it.’ The
proprietor did not send a servant, but went himself. This was his idea
of hospitality and kindness. The great man, without rising from his
chair, with a wave of his hand and a gruff, insolent voice, retorted, ‘I
wish you would not bother me; when I need anything I will ring the
bell.’ The landlord was a retired officer of the army, a gentleman. We
have no castes as in England. We have gentlemen in every kind of
business. A man is taken at his real worth, no matter what his
employment. Some of our best men are merchants—shop-keepers, as they are
styled and despised in England.

“They say we have no manners. A Duke came to see America. He did not
think it worth while to get any letters of introduction to such a
boorish people. The English accuse us of thinking a great deal of
titles. This is so, for we have an idea that titles mean something, and
that those who have them are somebody. In this we have been deceived,
but who were the deceivers? The Duke happened to make a few
acquaintances, and was invited to a dinner party by one of the best
families. He delayed his coming so long that the dinner was kept
waiting, and when he appeared it was in a tweed bob suit, such as he
would wear at home in a morning stroll with his dogs. All the guests
were in full dress, and at once noticed his neglige attire. The hostess,
after recovering from her surprise, sent him word by a servant that she
would excuse his absence, as it was evident that he did not wish to meet
a dinner party. He took his leave, probably cursing the impudence of
those upstart Americans.

“Another instance. When Lady Brassey came to the United States in her
yacht, the ‘Sunbeam,’ she went to call on General Grant, the President,
and asked to be shown into his private office. Mr. Fish, the Secretary
of State, who happened to be present in the ‘White House,’ suggested
that he would confer with the President and appoint a time for calling.
When the time came she appeared dressed in a riding-habit and bringing a
small dog, which she proposed to take in with her. Mr. Fish ordered a
man in waiting to remove the dog. At this the Lady protested.

“‘It is against the rules for dogs to be allowed to enter the parlor.’
And still she insisted. Said the Secretary, ‘Madame, you must choose
between the removal of your dog and your being admitted to the President
of the United States.’ She then very reluctantly consented to its
removal.

“I doubt if such an instance of ‘cheek’ has ever been equaled by any
‘green’ American in England. The English are never backward in showing
up the forwardness of Americans, but they can go us two to one to their
discredit.

“One time, going from Liverpool to New York, there was an Englishman and
his wife on board, both great burly, ruddy beef-eaters. They acted as if
they thought the steamer was for their special accommodation. On
reaching port, each passenger was presented with a printed form on which
to declare all dutiable articles, according to law. He refused to do
anything, declaring that he would not submit to such a bloody custom. In
consequence, their luggage was sent to the Custom House, and while all
the other passengers were off and away, this haughty Briton had to open
every package and display every article for inspection, and besides had
to strip himself of most of his clothes for a personal examination, and
the female Britisher had to go through the same operation, in another
apartment, before the Customs woman. Probably neither of them were much
pleased with their American reception.

“It is strange that there is such a difference between people, living
under the same government, and so near to each other, but the Scotch,
the Irish and the Welsh are another kind of people altogether. They are
unselfish, courteous and agreeable. Have you noticed that Scotchman who
is so ready to offer his chair to any one? Catch an Englishman doing
that! You saw just now that seasick lady on deck for the first time, and
was seated in a chair, when one of these English gentlemen came up to
her with, ‘Madame, if you please, this is my chair,’ and waited till he
got it, while an Irishman close by gave her his.

“Here is a paragraph I cut from an English paper: ‘It is curious to
watch on board a steamer how the men of different nationalities behave
to a lady, no longer young, who is traveling alone. The Frenchman is
absolutely rude, if he gets the chance; the German simply takes no
notice; the Australian is frigidly polite; the Englishman takes the
trouble to be kind if his aid is solicited; the American is kind from
habit and without effort; the British colonist is attentive because
women of any kind are scarce in his country.’

“As an old traveler, I am greatly interested in noticing these
peculiarities in different races. The English are a queer lot, not
really bad at heart, I think, but it is in their domineering, arrogant
natures to act as they do, and which has made them such a powerful
nation. They are dull and slow, and almost lacking in the courtesies of
civilized life. I seldom meet an Englishman, but he gets in some remarks
against Americans, and I scarcely take up an English paper, but I find
some slur, or carping criticism on the ‘Yankees,’ as they call us. Yet,
they have the cheek to say to me, ‘If, in the event of a great European
war, you Americans would certainly side with us, as we are of the same
race, speak the same language, and our interests are the same.’ They do
not seem to be trying very much to make us their friends. It may be only
their way, however. A hundred thousand or more Americans go abroad every
year, and all spend some time, as well as money, in Great Britain.
Except a few favored ones, all tell the same story about the arrogance
and sneers of the English. These travelers return and tell their
acquaintances their experience, and it is not surprising if our people
have a dislike to our ‘English cousins,’ a phrase they use when they
wish to give us taffy.

“But we Americans should not complain, for it is to this same
aristocratic bull-dog spirit that we owe our independence. Otherwise,
America would still be an English colony. The Puritans were persecuted,
and were glad to go anywhere, not for freedom only, but to save their
necks. Under George the First, large numbers received ‘royal mercy,’ by
being transported to America. Many, driven from their homes in England,
found a refuge in Holland, and then in America. King George the Third
hated the colonists, and was their bitterest enemy, mainly because they
escaped from his tyranny. He proposed to tax them for the benefit of
England. The first predominant idea of an Englishman is taxation. This
seems to be as necessary to him as the air he breathes. With a swarm of
non-producing royal drones, the emoluments of the aristocracy and the
interminable lot of highly paid office-holders, and the hangers-on of
the government, and their sitting commissions, this taxation may be
necessary. If they enjoy it, then it is just what they ought to have.

“Our forefathers hated taxation as a kind of tyranny, and were bitterly
opposed to the stamp act. We keep down our taxes, except on luxuries,
and have not a stamp, but for postage, and this stamp is more for
convenience than otherwise.

“Everybody knows the sarcastic description of English taxation by Sydney
Smith, but I lately met with something on stamps, by an English writer,
that I copied in my note-book, and here it is: ‘The Englishman was a
stamped animal; he was tattooed all over. There was not a single spot of
his body corporate, that was not stamped several times. He could not
move without knocking his head against a stamp, and before he could
arrive at any station of responsibility, he must have paid more money
for stamps than would have set him up for life. The stamp penetrates
everywhere, it seizes upon all things, and fixes its claws wherever
there is a tangible substance. Sometimes, indeed, it flies to the
intangible, and quarters itself upon the air, the imagination of man,
his avocations, his insanity, his hopes and prospects, his pleasures and
his pains, and does not scruple to fasten upon his affections. Even love
is stamped. A man cannot fall in love and marry a lady without an
acknowledgement of the omnipotence of the stamp. An Englishman is born
to be stamped, he lives in a state of stamp, and is stamped while he is
dying, and after he is dead.’

“No wonder the English are cross-grained with all this embarrassment of
stamps, and ever in fear of being caught delinquent by some excise
officer.

“To show you the difference of taxation in the two countries, I will
read you a note I have on that subject. In the United States the
government receives five per cent on the products of the country;
capital, in the shape of interest, rent and dividends, twenty-five per
cent; and labor the balance, or seventy per cent. In Great Britain the
government receives twenty-three per cent; capital thirty-six; and labor
forty-one per cent. Another item I have noted from an India paper,
‘England spends twenty-three pence, America one hundred pence, and India
seven-tenths of a penny per head of population for primary education.’
The paper says that India spends seven pice a head. A pice is such a
curiosity to me that I have one in my pocket, and a pound weight of them
in my trunk, taking them home as presents to my friends. Yet, I am told,
there is still a smaller currency, a cowrie, a glaring proof of the
poverty of the people. No wonder that Dr. Marshman wrote that ‘The
Bengalis reckoned in cowries.’

“You see from this that the two systems of government, the English and
the American, are the reverse of each other. The one exacts all it can
from labor, and deprives the poor of education, while we favor the
laborer in every possible way, and provide that every youth in the
United States can have a good school education, whether the parents pay
a penny of taxes or not, and in many states, school books are also
provided free of charge.

“We begin to build our social structure at the bottom with education and
the elevation of the poor; the English system begins at the top and
builds downwards.

“Our prevailing idea is that wealth obtained by extortion to feed the
pampered tastes of the few, while the poor may groan in their undeserved
poverty and ignorance, is contrary to the dictates of morality, religion
and sound political economy.”

Then we were interrupted by the excitement caused by a shoal of
porpoises racing alongside the steamer. This over, we resumed our seats
under the life-boat, and he continued, “The aristocracy favored this
taxation, as it would lessen their own contributions to Government. The
time serving church, to ingratiate itself with the king, encouraged it.
The court was notoriously composed of incapable men and pliable
flatterers most suitable to the nature of his majesty. The king, thus
encouraged, too arrogant and pig-headed to listen to the few sensible
patriots in his realm, took the best possible means—brute force—to
alienate the colonists, to compel them to rebel and fight to the death
or for independence, ‘a war,’ says an English historian, not American,
‘most disgraceful to a civilized nation. An army with its foreign
mercenaries desolating the country, giving no quarter and employing the
savages to outrage and massacre helpless women and children.’

“We still have an inheritance left us by that Hessian army, the Hessian
fly, that every year attacks our fields of grain and is said to have
been brought over by them, a perpetual reminder of those foreign
mercenaries. Among the war expenses laid before Parliament was a bill
for scalping knives that had been given to the savage fiends and paid
for by Christian England for the benefit of her exiled people.

“I am not talking at random for some of my ancestral relatives were the
victims of those barbarities, and horrible are the recitals handed down
to us, one of the survivors being fortunate in living years afterwards,
but with a scalp made of other material than that which nature had
endowed him. It was a war most unjust, atrocious in its ferocity and
horrible cruelties, inflicted upon a people, the kinsmen of the English
as they now call us, whose only offense was that they objected to being
robbed of their properties and their just rights; to taxation without
representation.

“They say, why bring this up now? If the English can gloat over their
victory at Waterloo and their various conquests, why should we not be
proud of our victory? If any American should forget the sufferings and
heroism by which the freedom he now enjoys was obtained, he should be
outlawed and kicked through the country and out of it. I said that the
church encouraged the war against the colonies. It did more. This is
what a clergyman of that church said in a sermon against the ‘rebels,’
as they were styled. ‘How will the supporters of this anti-Christian
warfare endure their sentence, endure their own reflections, endure the
fire that forever burns, the worm that never dies, the hosannas of
heaven while the smoke of their torments will ascend forever and ever?’
He now, poor fellow is where he can probably see what a donkey he made
of himself.

“Says an English historian: ‘In all ages of the world, priests have been
enemies to liberty, and it is certain that this steady conduct of theirs
must have been founded in fixed reasons of interest and ambition.
Liberty of thinking and of expressing our thoughts is always fatal to
priestly power, and to those pious frauds on which it is commonly
founded. Hence it must happen in such a government as that of Britain
that the established clergy, while things are in their natural situation
will always be of the court party.’”




                            CHAPTER XXVIII.


Another day I got my fellow passenger started on American history. He
said: “The greatest crime of England against the United States was the
introduction of African slavery into the colonies. There were fortunes
to be made in kidnapping the people of Africa and transporting them to
the colonies.

“Queen Elizabeth lent her own ship, the ‘Jesus,’ to Sir John Hawkins,
for the African slave-trade, and also owned shares in the African
Company. By these investments she made more than the Dutchman’s one per
cent to supply herself with pin-money and to provide those innumerable
court dresses we read of.

“When the ship ‘Jesus’ was near the equator the water gave out and the
four hundred slaves came very near perishing from thirst. The pious
Hawkins wrote in his log, ‘The Almighty God would not suffer his elect
to perish.’

“What a combination! The ship ‘Jesus’ named after the Redeemer of
mankind, not the enslaver, carrying kidnapped men and women to slavery;
this pious captain calling himself the ‘elect’ of God and the owner of
the ship ‘Good Queen Bess,’ as she is styled!

“If there was a meaner or more damnable business than capturing people
to sell them as slaves I have not heard of it. The horrors of the whole
business from beginning to end was awful. The details were sickening and
makes one ashamed of humanity. Such things are enough to make men
skeptical, whether God watches over the events of the world. The most
astounding part of it is that Christian people claimed it was for the
Glory of God! ‘O, religion! What crimes have been committed in thy
name!’

“Did you ever think of the power of profits in controlling the tastes,
judgments and consciences of mankind?

“Slavery was confined mainly to the southern states and created a
different kind of people and a different condition of society from that
of the northern states. These owners of their fellow men, traffickers in
human flesh and blood, claimed to be gentlemen, as they did not have to
labor for a livelihood. They assumed to be the aristocracy of the whole
country and so affiliated with the aristocracy of England. They
certainly had much in common. Both despised labor for themselves, but
enjoyed it in others for their sole benefit. These aristocrats of the
South, with plenty of money they never earned, could be educated, travel
abroad and acquired a kind of culture with pride and arrogance, while
they treated the poor whites among them as ‘trash,’ not much better than
their ‘niggers,’ just as the aristocracy in England treat the lower
classes. All was game to them within their reach. Nearly every boy over
fifteen had his wench and the owners of slaves, like a lustful
aristocracy, gave free reign to their fancies and desires, and did not
scruple even to sell their own flesh and blood in the auction slave
marts as they sold their cattle and cotton.

“It is not surprising then, that the aristocracy of the South and of
England should have similar tastes and a liking for each other. The
result was that in our civil war, waged solely on account of slavery,
our worst enemies were the aristocracy of England. They would have
swallowed African slavery, head and tail, with all its abominations for
the sake of aiding their fellow aristocrats. It is to the middle class,
the working people of England, that we are indebted for the
non-recognition of the southern confederacy as an independent
government. As it was, armed vessels were built and fitted out in the
ports of England to destroy our commerce and with the connivance of her
government. This was her way of being neutral.

“Many Englishmen made fortunes by sending blockade runners from England
to furnish supplies for the South. They have told me this, rubbing their
hands with great satisfaction at their skill in outwitting the
‘Yankees.’ Can they expect the ‘Yankees’ to forget these things when
sometime a nation or colony may give their lion’s tail a twist? The bill
for their little fun in being neutral was however settled, and the
bitterest pill probably that John ever swallowed was when he had to pay
fifteen millions of dollars for the destruction caused by his Alabama.

“All this is history and we would not refer to it but for the
over-bearing arrogance and assumption of these islanders. When they ever
treat us civilly it is with a patronizing air. If there is anything
which I think a true man dislikes it is to be patronized, for this
insinuates an inferiority in the one receiving the patronage. With this
spirit the English often refer to their colonizing America. We admit, to
the shame of England, that some of our earliest settlers were obliged to
leave that country to escape persecution and death but their settlement
in America was compulsory. Large numbers, ‘Puritans,’ as they were
styled, were deported, not for any crimes, but for their belief that
they had a right to worship God according to their own consciences. Just
one instance. A cargo of 841 human beings were sent to the West Indies
to be sold as slaves. These, mind you, were not negroes, but white
English people. They were not suffered to go on deck and in the holds
below all was darkness, stench, lamentation, disease and death. The
Queen of England had an interest in this shipment. The profits which she
shared in the cargo after making a large allowance for those who died of
hunger and fever during the passage cannot be estimated at less than a
thousand guineas. This is the statement of an English historian, not an
American.

“But the fact is that some of our best people were from Holland.
Manhattan Island, now New York, was settled by them, and for many years
there was not an English speaking person in that settlement, and many of
the old wealthy families now in New York are descendants of the
Hollanders. At the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, when fifty
thousand of the best people of France were exiled, many of them went to
the United States. Another large class are the descendants of the
Scotch-Irish who had to flee from the tyranny of England, while the
Irish now in America outnumber those in Ireland itself. The minority of
the people are the descendants of the English.

“At times, in a patronizing way to curry favor with us, the English
claim relationship, but none scarcely admit that we have anything except
what we borrow, that is stolen from her, and even that we do not speak
the English language. I have really been asked by educated Englishmen if
we speak English in America.

“Whatever we have from England we owe nothing to her aristocracy or her
government that should fill her with pride.

“I have lately read a book on the Ten Lost Tribes of Israel. The writer
claims that they are found in the English, his own people. He goes to
prophesy, which is convincing. There is such a similarity between Israel
and the English that there should not be a doubt hereafter on the
subject. The Jews believed in a God who belonged solely to them, looked
after their interests and fought for them. Their wars were always
righteous while those of their enemies were always wicked. The English
also have their God and believe He is always on their side. The Jews
consider all other people as Gentiles created for their benefit. Do not
the English the same?

“As long as the United States were colonies there was not a factory
allowed in them or the people permitted to make their own hats or shoes
or clothing. The raw products had to be shipped to England for the
profit of her manufacturers and the goods returned at a great cost to
the poor colonists. Here is an interesting note that I made a few days
ago; ‘To help their manufacturers of woolen goods a law was passed in
1678 that all dead bodies should be wrapped in woolen shrouds.’ One of
their writers says of England, ‘It formed colonies that the mother
country might enjoy the monopoly of their trade by compelling them to
resort only to her markets.’ It is only a few years since Ireland was
allowed to spin and weave her own flax or to manufacture anything. It is
not long since India was permitted to establish its first factory, and
is it not true to-day that although India has an abundance of iron,
coal, cotton, timber, everything needful, yet all the government
supplies must be indented for from England for the benefit of her
manufacturers and commission men? Is not England jewing India at every
turn for her own benefit? Did not the Jews believe in subduing the
nations for the glory of God and their own pockets? Do not the English
have the same belief? Moses and his band believed they were to spoil the
Egyptians by ‘borrowing’ from them and then claimed that their God had
taught them this trick of amassing wealth. Do not the English believe
also in spoiling the Egyptians? But they reverse the order and instead
of borrowing, they loan to the dwellers by the Nile at exorbitant rates
of interest like an uncle with brass balls, and then like a Shylock,
demand the pound of flesh and blood nearest the heart of their victims;
but unlike him they take the interest and on the plea of securing their
bonds, seize upon the government of that country with an army of
occupation, and further increase the burdens of poor Egypt by fostering
upon it a horde of English place-hunters to do nothing, at high
salaries, and besides make the wretched natives, groaning under an
intolerable burden of taxation support a theatre for the special
pleasure of the usurpers. Nero fiddled while Rome was burning; the
English make merry while the miserable Egyptians are toiling and
starving.

“The Jews believed in their divine right to live off the Gentiles, and
the English follow their example. In short, there is so much of the Jew
in the English nation I wonder that the Ten Lost Tribes were not found
long ago.”

After a pause and some conversation on minor matters, I asked a question
about the Republican form of Government. He said: “We believe in the
rights of man, that as an individual he should be free to act for
himself, for his own good, the only restriction that he should not
interfere with the rights of his neighbor. We believe that all men are
equal, with the same political and social privileges, that each should
govern himself, and all acting together, the majority to rule for the
good of all, or, as President Lincoln tersely put it, ‘a government of
the people, by the people, and for the people.’

“For ages it was supposed that mankind were not capable of
self-government. Thence came into life, chiefs, tyrants, kings, emperors
and monarchs. This was followed by the creed of the divine right of
kings to place their feet on the necks of humanity. Men were enslaved,
in accordance with divine laws, as it was claimed. They were made serfs,
bought and sold with the land, and kept like cattle. A strong-willed man
by intrigue, force and bribery, acquired an ascendency over his fellows,
became the chief of a tribe, or the head of a nation, and his
descendants claimed a right, by the grace of God, to what he had
obtained by the number of scalps he could hang at his belt, or the
number of human skulls over his gate-way; by the amount of cruelties he
had inflicted, by the cities he had burned, or the lands he had
devastated. The farce of it is that civilized, Christian people, appeal
to Heaven, and claim that all this is by divine right and the grace of
God. Is it not contrary to reason and common sense to say that any one
man or family has any right to rule over another against his will? Take
Napoleon? Who was he? How did he obtain his power? By what right did he
acquire a privilege to rule over his fellow men, and lead four millions
of them to destruction? Why should he make other nations food for his
powder?

“It is passing strange that vast numbers of people, many of them very
intelligent, will submit to be used by tyrants for their aggrandizement,
and to gratify their personal and vain ambition! It is also strange that
intelligent men, will like sycophants, toady to these self-made gods,
worship and bow down before them, and consider it one of the greatest
favors to be admitted to their presence and receive but a word or a look
from them. They say that ‘Britons never, never never will be slaves,’
but they are the worst of toadies to those above them. This toadyism to
royalty or aristocracy is one of the conundrums of modern life. Another
is the cheek or impudence with which these royal aristocrats receive the
homage of men, not only of the illiterate, but of those who are far
superior to them in every respect. For almost without exception these
ruler gods have been noted for their immorality and vices, that would
make the lowest peasant blush. But few of them have been men of
intellectual power, or known by their virtues, and history tells us that
few of them came to their thrones like gentlemen, without violence,
plundering of the public treasury, and other such refined acts.
Inheriting their positions, they have been kept in their places by men
of ability, whose interest or vanity it was to surround these state
figureheads with an aureole of kingly glory to dazzle the masses. There
is not a monarch to-day, but is in his place by might, rather than by
right or by the will of the people. With all of them it is always the
sword of the Lord and of Gideon, but the Gideon part of it is always to
the front.”

With this interesting voyager, whatever the others thought of him, he
was so breezy and full of good things, the days were very short to me.
He became so well acquainted with me that he related a little incident
touching that old subject which could not be dropped, though far away
and out of India. He said that when walking alone the morning previous,
one of the English officers accosted him with the remark, “You have
become quite intimate with that Eurasian.” “With whom?” my friend
inquired, not quite understanding the word. “O, that half caste,” said
the gentleman. “Why, what about him?” asked the other. “He seems to be
very much of a gentleman in his manner, thoughts and education, so I
have taken quite a fancy to him and find him very interesting. What have
you against him?” Replied the gentleman, “Nothing against him
personally, but he is an Eurasian, a half caste, you know, and in India
that class of people are not in society, and we never meet them in a
social way, you know.”

This much my friend told me, but he said that they had quite a talk on
the subject, in which he did not butter his words in denouncing such an
unjust social custom and the crime that produced it. He said it was own
brother to the deeds of the slave owners of the southern states of
America, begetting children by their slave women, and then selling their
own offspring as slaves. He remarked that one evening in a hotel at
Calcutta, a planter told him that many of the planters led the freest
kind of a life; that few of them were married, as they did not care to
be bothered with families of their own. He mentioned a number of
prominent planters by name, all of them connected with well known
families in England. The planter said there were a number of titled men
among them, living the most riotous, lustful lives; that nearly all
these men had children by coolie women employed on their plantations;
that it was customary for these planters as they went about during the
day to make their selections and then order their peons to bring the
women selected to their bungalows at night. He said this was so common
that nothing more was thought of it, than if a man had ordered some
grain for his horse. One of them, of a very aristocratic family in
England, who would blush with shame if they knew his manner of life,
when asked if he was married, replied, “Married! No. What the devil do I
want with a wife?” Yet he had a number of children by his coolie women.
When asked what would become of his children, he carelessly answered, “I
have nothing to do with them. When I leave I shall give the mothers a
few rupees and let them scratch for themselves.”

Continued my friend: “A man is a hardened wretch who will treat his own
flesh and blood in that way. And probably all these planters call
themselves gentlemen and Christians. The Turkish or oriental harems are
places of virtue and honor compared with such a system of lust and
injustice carried on, not by heathens, but by educated Englishmen.”

It appeared from this and other remarks, that my American friend had not
traveled through India with blinkers on his eyes or cotton in his ears;
yet who has not heard of such things?

I could have told him the story of my own life, that, alas! I knew too
well; but self respect or prudence or something restrained me.

One day as I was standing beside the captain, looking down upon the
lower deck, he asked me if I noticed a man walking there. Said he, “I
doubt if you can imagine what his business is.” I replied that I had no
idea of it. He said, “It is marrying and selling his wives.” I expressed
surprise at that kind of a trade new to me. He continued, “He and a
number of men like him go to Europe, get acquainted with some innocent,
pretty peasant girl, makes love to her, marries her, and then takes her
to Bombay as his wife, where he goes with her to what he calls a hotel,
and after getting a big fee from the landlord, deserts her and goes back
to marry again and bring out another wife to sell. This is their sole
business.” “But,” I inquired, “why don’t you or your company do
something to prevent this fraud and crime?” “What can I do?” he replied.
“This man buys tickets for himself and wife as passengers, and he
returns alone as a passenger. They conduct themselves very properly, so
how can I interfere?” “But,” said I, “why don’t the English government
in India prevent such outrages on innocent women and punish these
degraded wretches of men?” He turned quickly towards me with an
inquisitive look, as if he thought me a simpleton, and asked, “Were you
born yesterday? Hadn’t you better go home to your mother?” These
questions were so abrupt that they nearly knocked me off my pins, and I
could only wait in silence for his explanation. He asked, “For whom are
these brought out? Not for natives, but for Europeans. Who are the
Europeans? Mostly officers of government. Do you suppose they are going
to interfere and break up a business that is for their sole pleasure?”

The captain was an old, grey-headed man, and knew the ways of the world
and of wicked men, and well acquainted with the seamy sides of life,
while I was fresh, very fresh, on my first voyage away from home. I
could say nothing, and beside was afraid that he might again suggest
that I go back to my mother. I kept silent, except to utter a few
denunciative adjectives. I several times noticed the betrayer of
innocence and wife-seller along with his companions, from my place on
the upper deck. Did I not recall the infamous betrayer of the governess,
and did not I remember how I felt when I found that she was mine and not
somebody else’s sister, and alas, seduced by my father and by her
father? Yet these betrayed innocent women are some mother’s daughters,
and may be some one’s sisters. Ye gods! How I hated those men and wished
that in some way they could be thrown into the sea, and thus their
despicable, villainous traffic be ended with their corrupt lives.

Then my reflections came. What a sin-cursed world this is, I thought.
When there is so much sublime beauty in the heavens above us, and in the
pure sea around us, and on land, so much in nature to charm the eye and
delight the ear, yet one cannot go anywhere, even far away at sea, from
the wretched abodes of mankind, without being afflicted with the
knowledge of the filthy deeds of men. The earth may be cursed with
briars and thorns, and man may have to toil and live by the sweat of his
brow, but what is all this compared with the degrading sins of men? What
a virtue is the chastity of brutes in comparison to the lusts of those
who are said to have been created in the image of God? Blessed is the
innocent, ignorant man who knoweth none of these things. Surely, it is
folly to be wise when ignorance is bliss. Far better and happier for my
heathen villagers to live, and toil, and die in their ignorant
simplicity, than to have their souls scarred by the vices and knowledge
of a corrupt world and of society.

“And bitter shame hath spoiled the sweet world’s taste, That it yields
nought but shame and bitterness.”

As everything comes to an end some time, so did my voyage. The only
regret of it was in parting from my American friend, for without him I
would have been alone and my trip most monotonous.




                             CHAPTER XXIX.


I soon found Leadenhall street, and sure enough, the warmest kind of a
letter, just as I had expected and was so sure of, bidding me come at
once to her home in the country. Delays are dangerous, so I delayed not,
and soon the object of my voyage was accomplished. If I were writing a
novel, and wished to make it a two or three volumed one, I would enter
into the details, but the story I can tell is so simple and well known
that it is better to save time, as the captain saved his coal, by not
using it.

To be sure, after the first greetings were over, and the serious part of
our business was settled, we told to each other the story of our lives
since we parted. Mine I have related. She had objected to marriage,
though she had had a number of offers, for her heart had been given away
and had not returned. During our conversation she quoted these lines
from some author, “A woman may marry this man or that man; her
affections may shift and alter, but she never forgets the man she loved
with all the wonder and idealism and devotion of a girl’s early love.”

One of her suitors was a Mr. Beresford, of a family of rank and wealth.
This was about all he could boast of. Disagreeable in appearance, though
he was polished in all the ways and style of society, with much of the
affectation of a man of the world. He was persistent in his attentions,
and used all his arts of fascination, and was so obtrusive that she
hated the sight of him. She knew that he was heartless, and by instinct
that he was very far from being above reproach. Her parents became angry
with her for throwing away such a chance of marriage into a family of
name and rank. Did I not remember their anger? She defied them at first,
but the incessant worry day and night continued, until from sheer
exhaustion, she yielded by giving her hand but not her heart. There was
a marriage of ceremony, but not of hearts or lives. He had won and there
was no further need of disguise or dissimulation. He taunted her with
never having cared for him; that because she was so proud and haughty he
had only married her to break her in, just as he would have subdued a
spirited horse. He had inherited the profligacy of his ancestors and
maintained the reputation of his family by his vices. He returned at
once to his dissolute life and made her, as she said, wish for her own
death or his. Her parents saw, when it was too late, that they had
driven their daughter to a life worse than death, for the sake of name
and rank. Her only relief was when he was away with his sporting
friends. One day, riding to the hounds, he was thrown from his horse and
killed. He had been drinking heavily and could not sit the horse.

Said she, “I could not shed a tear. That is an awful thing for a wife to
say when she loses her husband, but it was impossible for me to be so
false as to express even a regret, so I refused to see any one. I had
never loved him nor had the least respect for him. It was a marriage
only in form. I put on mourning, but that was a black lie to keep
society tongues from wagging. And now as we are united again I can say
frankly to you that I have often thought of the different life I would
have had but for the interference of my parents.”

Concluding her narrative, she said, with one of her most loving smiles,
“So, Charles, I shall not keep you awake nights talking about the
virtues of my first husband.” This remark was of infinite comfort to me,
for I had often wondered how a man must feel after marrying a widow
whose husband had been noted for his excellent traits. If she was
careful not to mention them, yet he could but think at times that she
was making comparisons between himself and the departed. Another thing
gave me great satisfaction, that I was getting no second hand article of
a heart, as hers had been always and only mine. Yet I could but feel a
tinge of remorse that I had once given part of mine to another, though
under necessity, as I supposed the object of my first and only real love
in life had gone forever from me.

There was love but no love making or giddy flirtation between us, so I
have no foundation for a thrilling story, even if I wished to make one.
Marriage has always seemed to me such a sacred thing as to be a solemn
matter rather than something to be treated in a joking manner. It is
next to birth and death, the most important event in a person’s life,
and I never could understand how a young woman or a man could talk about
their marriage as triflingly as they would about their chances in a
lottery or a game of cards.

No wonder there is so much marital disagreement and unhappiness, when
the married life is entered upon with so much thoughtlessness and
frivolity. I had received an impression from Mr. Percy, when he talked
so sacredly of his affianced, and this never left me. How much I have to
thank him for the good influence he made upon my whole life. I try to
keep my heart grateful and ever mindful of the favors I receive from
others. It seems to me that one of the great sins of humanity is
ingratitude. It may possibly appear greater than it really is, because
people take so little pains to show their gratitude. I have, at
considerable sacrifice at times, granted favors, and those to whom they
were given, took them as a matter of course, very indifferently, thus
injuring themselves, and depriving me of considerable pleasure. But I am
running wild again. This is a habit of mine, as those acquainted with me
well know, and my wife, later in life, often laughed at me, for always
wanting to point a moral, or adorn a tale with some of my practical
remarks. But as there are many worse habits than this, I am content.

I returned to London as light-hearted and happy as if I had won a
kingdom, and I was to be crowned its king. My business was finished, but
I had much to see in that great kaleidoscope of the world. The top of an
omnibus was my point of observation at first. What a collection of
moving things, hurrying, scurrying, joggling and jostling each other,
apparently without any purpose, except to keep going! I thought if I
were able to write a book I would make one on, “What I saw from the top
of an omnibus in London.” All sorts and conditions of men, the staid men
of business, the “crows” in long black gowns, the obsequious shopmen,
the swells, the cabbies, the bewildered countrymen, the beggars ready to
carry your cane to get “a penny for a bite to eat for a poor man,” the
sweepers, the cat’s meat men, and the fellows on the corners crying, “a
penny a shine, sur,” castes, castes, no end of them. One day an
Englishman remarked to me, “You have a great many castes in India?”
“Yes, I replied, about as many as you have in England.” He looked at me
with a stare, as if he thought I was guying him, and then said, “I think
you are about right.”

There is something so peculiar in that stare, a concentration of the
negation of intellect and intelligence in appearance of an Englishman’s
face, when listening; a dull, cold look, as expressionless as the
countenance of a heathen stone idol, that freezes one, and makes him
feel that he is saying something foolish or impudent. Whether it is from
lack of quick comprehension, or considered good form, I do not know. The
English, I should judge, are not a smiling nation. They are as solid and
substantial, even in the expression of their faces, as their heavy meat
and drink can make them. They are slow-witted, and their jokes, except
what they import, are so ponderous that they reminded me of our
perfunctory religious exercises on a cold morning at school, and of our
tasks in reciting the Litany, only that the jokes lacked the response,
“Good Lord deliver us.”

I had purchased some books for light reading in my off hours, and among
them was “Pelham” by Lord Lytton. I was greatly surprised to find this
passage, a severer criticism on his countrymen than I am capable of
making. This was probably written on the view that a man may call
himself a dog, but let another beware of saying it of him. “The English
of the fashionable world make business an enjoyment, and enjoyment a
business; they are born without a smile; they rove about public places
like so many easterly winds—cold, sharp and cutting; or like a group of
fogs on a frosty day, sent out of his hell by Boreas, for the express
purpose of looking black at one another. When they ask you ‘how you do,’
you would think they were measuring the length of your coffin. They are
ever, it is true, laboring to be agreeable, but they are like Sisyphus,
the stone they rolled up the hill with so much toil, runs down again,
and hits you a thump on the legs. They are sometimes polite, but
invariably uncivil; their warmth is always artificial—their cold never.
They are stiff without dignity, and cringing without manners. They offer
you an affront, and call it ‘plain truth,’ they wound your feelings, and
tell you it is merely to ‘speak their minds,’ at the same time, while
they have neglected all the graces and charities of artifice, they have
adopted all its falsehood and deceit. While they profess to abhor
servility, they adulate the peerage; while they tell you they care not a
rush for the minister, they move heaven and earth for an invitation from
the minister’s wife. Then their amusements! The heat, the dust—the
sameness—the slowness of that odious park in the morning, and the same
exquisite scene repeated in the evening on the condensed stage of a rout
room, where one has more heat with less air, and a narrower dungeon,
with diminished possibility of escape! We wander about like the damned
in the story of Vathek, and we pass our lives like the royal philosopher
of Prussia in conjugating the verb, ‘je m’ennuie.’”

I wanted a Sunday in London to hurry about alone without any “sweet
encumbrance.” That I obtained on the promise to her who had already
assumed the right to have a good share of my attention and time, that it
should be the only one I should have alone.

Some one has said that the best form of government is a monarchy, if the
monarch be a perfect one. I had chosen my monarchess, and was not all
disinclined to obey her sweet will.

On this privileged day I took a cab, and went from early morning into
and out of a number of churches. In one of them I lingered longest, for
there was to me a grand tamasha on the boards, so to speak. There were a
number of priests dressed as gorgeously as clowns in a circus. They were
processioning, genuflecting, beating their breasts, and rolling their
eyes, as if in great distress from an inward pain. There were
innumerable candles, though it was broad daylight, an indication of
their religious darkness, or a reflection on the Almighty that He had
not made light enough for them, or else that He was not able to see what
they were doing without the aid of their flickering dips. There was
incense burning, floating everywhere, in the stifling air, that brought
tears, not of contrition, but simply of water, to my eyes. It was a show
worth seeing, yet it made me think of the story of the boy, who, when
making his first flies for fishing, impatiently asked his mother, if God
made everything? “Yes, everything.” “And flies as well?” “Certainly,”
she said. “Then God has horrid fiddling work to do,” replied the boy. I
thought if the Infinite God could be pleased with such a performance,
styled a religious service, then He is interested in horrid fiddling,
trifling matters. But, as I am only a heathen, my opinion may not be
worth the breath spent in giving it.

The contrast to this was in a place really named a “circus,” where there
were a lot of paradings, shoutings and groans accompanied by a band of
base drums, base horns, base viols, base voices and a base crowd. The
people shouted and tooted as if their god was deaf or asleep, or had
gone on a journey. I could not help asking myself, “Is it possible that
God can be pleased with all this noise and confusion?”

The other performance had something æsthetic about it, that while I
could admire it as quite a decent Sunday show, there was nothing to
grate upon my physical senses though much to disturb my religious sense,
but the other was so bombastic and horribly discordant that I delayed
not in leaving it.

Then to other churches. To be really truthful, and that is what I aim at
in all things, even if I tell the truth to mine own hurt, I did not care
so much about my own religious welfare as to see how other people took
theirs. I think it is a feature of human nature that we all are anxious
that everybody else should obey the laws, whether we do or not. Many
people though unjust themselves, dislike injustice in others. Probably
most people go to church more to see that their neighbors are there,
than to repent of their own shortcomings and sins. I think this
statement, however, would not be quite true about that Sunday as only a
few people were present in any of the churches.

Here I wish to observe that it has always appeared very strange to me,
that since Christian people insist so much on the vital importance of
religious duties, they should be so indifferent in the performance of
them. One would naturally suppose then in a Christian city like London,
every mother’s son and daughter would go to church. They perhaps believe
that the priests or the church in some vicarious way can get them
tickets for heaven, so they need not bother themselves to work out their
own salvation. Yet, I cannot help liking to see a man honest, though he
be a Christian, and practice what he professes. This may be a stupid
idea of mine, still I cannot get rid of it.

I was told that one of the Sunday sights was Vanity Fair in Hyde Park,
so after a hasty tiffin I directed my cabby thitherward. He was a jolly
good fellow, rotund as a beer barrel, and red in the face as if he had
lived on boiled lobsters all his life and their complexion had gone into
his. I had liberally tipped him on starting in the morning and remarked
to him that there was nothing like food and drink for either horse or
man, and he agreed heartily with me.

There is nothing so omnipotent in London as shillings, except it be
sovereigns. With them in sight, I think my cab would have driven me to
the devil, if not back again. One day I wished to see the houses of
Parliament. The six foot guards were shooing the people away as if they
were chickens bound to depredate in a garden. I walked up towards one of
these stalwarts, putting on all the dignity I could command, with my
hand in my pocket making a very significant movement of drawing out my
purse, asking, “Do you ever show any one about this place?” He replied,
“Come this way, sur,” and we went behind a big pillar where I dropped
some shillings into his hand. He then took me anywhere and everywhere,
and showed me Lord’s this and that Lord’s gown and wig and told me all I
wished to know. He got the money, and I the money’s worth, so we were
both agreeable. Nothing like shillings, unless it be sovereigns. A man
might as well be without them in London, as to be without rupees when he
has a case in court in India.

I cannot refrain from quoting what the greatest poet of the world says:

           “Money—This yellow slave
           Will knit and break religions; bless the accursed
           Make the hoar leprosy adored; place thieves
           And give them title, knee and approbation
           With senators on the bench.”

“Money is more eloquent than all the poets, preachers or philosophers,
and has the only tongue that, strange to no one, needs no dictionary to
explain it to the simplest unlearned soul.”

Columbus in a letter to Ferdinand and Isabella says, “Gold is an
excellent thing. With gold one forms treasures. With gold one does
whatever one wishes in this world. Even souls can be got to Paradise by
it.”

          “’Tis gold that buys admittance, oft it doth,
                              and ’tis gold
          Which makes the true man kill’d, and saves the thief
          Nay, sometimes hangs both thief and true man,
          What can it not do and undo?”

The cabbies are a strange caste—a kind of wandering mendicants always on
the go, and high caste enough to look down on all their fares. I rather
liked them, so good-natured when well tipped, but probably like other
humans, the other thing when squeezed and why not? Some one told me this
story. An old timer just returned from India going from a station,
thought his cab was taking him round about to increase the mileage. Not
thinking where he was, he shouted up in his India patois, “Turn sooar ka
batchcha kidhar ko jaoge?” You son of a pig, whither are you going?

Cabby with as much force hurled down, “Tum gaddha ka bhai, ham khub
jante hain.” You brother to a donkey we know very well; showing that he
had also been in India.

We were soon at Vanity Fair and such it really was, a fair of vanity. I
doubt if the sun anywhere else shines on such a scene. It was an after
service aristocratic parade. “Miss Vavasor went to church, as it was the
right thing to do. God was one of the heads of society, and his drawing
rooms had to be attended,” so it seems to be good form as an adjunct to
divine service to have this assembly. It was a big show to me, but I
could not see the reason of it. It was a dumb performance, as very few
appeared to talk,—a kind of pantomime. There may have been lots of fun
in it—as it is said the English take even their pleasures very
sadly—which my lack of education prevented me from seeing. It was
probably a divine dress parade, as all seemed to wear clothes of the
newest kind of cloth and the latest cut, especially the guanty jaunty
young men who paraded back and forth. They may have been hired by some
fashionable tailor to show his latest styles. There were castes, the
high Brahmins on a certain set of chairs and so on, each set by itself.
A profane low-class man outside the ring pointed out to me a dowager
with the wise remark, “She’s taken many a nip by the looks of her mug.”
Another of a duchess, “She’s a rum un.” This was as bad as the cabbie’s
reply when I asked him on the way, “What is that building?” “Buckingham
Palace, sur.” “Who lives there?” I queried. “The old cat,” he answered.
I don’t like such talk. It’s “deucedly vulgar, you know,” and as bad as
swearing. The fact is, I often needed an interpreter. The language and
pronunciation were so peculiar, and yet they would have taken it in high
dudgeon if I had requested them to speak to me in English.

At length the show dissolved or rather moved away as silently as it
came, and without any one saying “To your tents, O Israel.”

The next scene was in another part of the Park, a meeting of strikers or
the victims of “Sweaters” in some trade. The crowds! They came from
every direction. There were also castes in numbers, each with a style of
its own, but all evidently of the lowest grade, most of them in the
cheapest clothes, rags and tatters, a wonderful contrast to the Vanity
Fair party.

There were carts in different places from which speakers bawled out
their grievances and made their demands. The hucksters, with their
baskets and little stands, offered shrimps, winkles, pop, roasted
chestnuts and other cheap stuff, with little success, as the crowd
appeared as anxious to keep their pennies, if they had any, as these
fellows were to get them. There were many strong, robust men, probably
willing to labor, but compelled to idleness, their garments stitched and
patched, yet not sufficient to conceal their nakedness. Such able-bodied
men begging people to buy a pen’worth of something!

I cannot stomach the nakedness of a white person. There is something in
it so leprous-like. I have heard travelers remark that a half-naked
black or dark skinned person, is not at all repugnant compared to one of
a white skin. Naturally I am inclined to a dark skin, and cannot but
think that God knew what He was doing when He gave colored skins to
people living in the tropics where clothes are a burden, that their dark
complexions might take the place of clothes, and they be protectively
colored.

On the same principle nature clothes animals and insects with the colors
of their surroundings. Still, I think, human animals ought to get their
color as well as their being in a legitimate way. I know this reflection
is to mine own detriment.

All this poverty showed this one thing, at least, that the present
organization of society is at fault, or that God had made a failure in
creating these people. It may be, as Alexander Knox says, “The mass of
these people in our towns are spawned upon the world rather than born
into life.” Or as another has said: “Born into the world only to be a
blight to it.”

Their very existence as they are, plainly declares that there is a fault
somewhere by somebody.

This poverty plead for itself. It reminded me of the story of a beggar
sitting silently by the wayside. A passer-by asked, “Why don’t you beg,
man? Why don’t you speak?” “Speak!” said the beggar, “when every rent in
my clothes is a mouth that proclaims my wants with more eloquence than I
could with my tongue!”

Going from Vanity Fair to this crowd, was like going from heaven to
hell, only a short distance apart; the one a picture of the arrogance of
the rich, the other the debasement of the poor. I do not like to compare
the church parade to heaven, as it was only a show, a mock heaven at
best, but there was no hunger there, nor rags, though, no doubt, plenty
of lust, vice and crime under those rich clothes. Yet the outward
contrast was very great.

Should it not be a subject of serious reflection that after six thousand
years of the world’s progress, and nearly two thousand of the teachings
of Christianity, a few people in the world should live in exuberant
luxury, and the great majority in squalid poverty, the world a hell for
millions of poor, in order to create a paradise for the very few rich?

 “Famine gnawing at their entrails, and despair feeding at their hearts,
 Gropes for its right with horny, callous hands,
 And stares around for God with bloodshot eyes.”

“Let us be patient, lads,” said a pious weaver, “surely God Almighty
will help us soon.”

“Don’t talk about your goddlemighty,” said one, “there isn’t any, or he
wouldn’t let us suffer as we do.”

Why all this poverty and misery? There must be an adequate cause for it,
some powerful disorganizing element to produce such a condition of
things.

A tract-man handed me several leaflets, from which I culled the
following:

“The drink bill of Great Britain annually amounts to one hundred and
forty million pounds sterling. This is about five pound sterling per
head of the inhabitants. It is estimated that sixty per cent. of this,
or eighty-four millions, comes out of the wages of the working classes.
There are one million six hundred thousand acres in England cultivated
for barley and fifty thousand for hops. Seventy million bushels of grain
are worse than wasted in manufacturing drink. Allowing forty pounds of
flour to a bushel, and sixty pounds of bread, the total would be one
billion and fifty million, four pound loaves, or one hundred and seventy
loaves for each family of five persons throughout the United Kingdom. In
twenty-five years there have been four million two hundred and
sixty-eight thousand and twenty-two arrests of drunk and disorderlies,
and probably not one in twenty of the drunkards arrested. There are one
million forty thousand, one hundred and three paupers in England and
Wales, or one in nineteen of the whole population, nine-tenths caused by
drink. There are one hundred and forty thousand criminals, mostly owing
to drink, and twenty-five thousand policemen required to keep public
houses in order and protect life and property; forty-three thousand
lunatics in the asylums. In England, one in every one hundred and
seventy of the total population is convicted of drunkenness.”

Lord Chief Justice Coleridge states that nine out of every ten gaols
would be closed but for drink. Justice Fitzgerald says that drunkenness
leads to nineteen-twentieths of the crimes; Mr. Mulhall, that
forty-eight per cent. of the idiocy in England arises from the
drunkenness of the parents, and one-third of the insanity in the United
Kingdom is the effect of drink; Sir James Horner, that seventy-five out
of every hundred of the divorce cases are brought about by drink; Mr.
Gladstone, that drink has caused greater calamities than the three great
historical scourges, war, famine and pestilence.

A distinguished English writer says that, “the poverty of the poor is
the chief cause of the weakness and inefficiency which are the causes of
their poverty, dire poverty and the frequency of public houses act and
react upon one another, poverty increasing public houses, and public
houses increasing poverty.”

A Government report shows that it costs five and three quarter millions
sterling a year for the repression of crime in England, and while they
spend one hundred and forty millions sterling a year for drink, the
British spend only two millions a year on books.

With such facts, showing the waste of food, the unnatural bill of costs
and the inevitable losses caused by the demoralization of the people,
can any one doubt the cause of the squalid poverty of the masses of
Great Britain?

And it is a civilized Christian nation that tolerates and encourages
such things!

Further, it found heathen India sober, and it is doing its best to make
it a nation of drunkards like itself, by means of liquor and opium. An
Archdeacon who has spent thirty years in India makes the statement that
for every convert to Christianity made by the missionaries, the
Government makes one thousand drunkards.

Another item. The United Kingdom has 330 packs of fox hounds, at a
yearly cost of £414,850. The 33,000 riders and 99,000 horses cost
£3,500,000, or the whole hunt maintenance at £4,000,000 a year, to keep
up a cruel, inhuman, degrading sport. Most likely all who uphold this
waste of money and cruelty were confirmed in the church as Christians,
and partake regularly of “holy communion” as followers of Jesus, while
several millions of their fellow beings go naked and hungry. What a grim
satire on profession and practice!

While I hate the opium business in India, I cannot but think that with
such an appalling record as the above, that the people “at home” would
better cleanse their own filthy door-yards before criticising those of
India. Would it not be more consistent, more honest, more commendable,
if the English people would do away with their greatest curse, their
liquor traffic, and look after their paupers, criminals, and the
brutally oppressed innocent victims, the wives and children of
drunkards, and all this damnable encouragement of vice, before they send
out junketing commissions at an enormous expense on the poor, overtaxed
serfs of India, to investigate the opium traffic?

It is so easy and gratifying for some people to meddle with the affairs
of others while they neglect their own, and to condemn those far away,
but quite overlooking their own immediate vices and sins.

While I was in Glasgow a request was made upon the Provost to call a
public meeting to protest against the Tsar of Russia for expelling the
“scurvy Jews” who rob and demoralize his people by their usury and
promotion of drunkenness, and at the time I was astounded at the poverty
and squalor, the numbers of deformed, debauched people, and shocked with
the fights and brawls of drunken barelegged women and brutal men on a
Saturday afternoon on one of the main streets of that city.

Consistency may be a jewel, but it is a very rare one. The people of
Great Britain should get it as quickly as possible. It would be of more
honor and credit to them than that stolen Kohinur.

I spoke to a man near me about the great crowd of poor. He replied,
“This is only a handful, only a few drops. Let the degraded poor of all
London come out and they would more than fill the whole park.” I asked
him about their morality. “Morality,” said he; “they do not know what it
means.” And he told me such tales of misery, vice and crime that would
make, not only angels, but the very devils, weep to know that humanity
had fallen so low.

Are civilization and religion failures, that they cannot provide a
remedy for such ulcers on the social body that must affect the very life
of the nation?

For very shame’s sake the Christians of England should heal their own
sores before they damn the heathen, for I doubt from what I saw and
heard if there is any city in all heathendom so sunken in degradation
and vice as this famous metropolis of a so-called Christian country.

This question is not only for the Christian, the philanthropist, but for
the statesman or politician, if it be true what Mr. John Bright says:

“I believe there is no permanent greatness to a nation except it be
based on morality. I do not care for military pomp or military renown. I
care for the condition of the people among whom I live. There is no man
in England less likely to speak irreverently of the crown and monarchy
of England than I am, but crown, coronets, mitres, military displays,
pomp of war, wide colonies, and a huge empire are in my view, all
trifles light as air, and not worth considering unless with them you can
have a fair share of comfort, contentment and happiness among the great
body of the people. Palaces, baronial halls, castles, great halls, and
stately mansions do not make a nation. The nation in every country
dwells in a cottage.”




                              CHAPTER XXX.


I was not surprised to find castes in England, high castes, middle
castes, low castes and also outcasts, as I had personal experience of
these among the English in India, but what seemed strange was that among
these civilized Christian people, there was such a deep-rooted prejudice
against tradesmen. A story was told me that illustrates this. A tailor,
who had plenty of money as well as brains and education, often assisted
a young lord, and quite an intimacy sprang up between them. The lord
took his friend to Scotland for the shooting season, where they were the
guests of a laird, and met a number of distinguished people. In his cups
the lord was quite abusive, and his friend, the tailor, had to suffer.
His best whip was merely to say, “Well, my lord! to-morrow morning I
shall introduce myself to your friends here as your tailor.”

“For heaven’s sake,” begged the lord, “don’t do that or I shall be
disgraced forever.”

What also surprised me was that there were two kinds of justice; one for
the rich people of rank and another for the poor.

It appeared that there was a Mary Joyce in the city. Her husband was a
mechanic, a good workman, temperate and industrious. She was a careful,
prudent woman. They lived well upon his earnings. One day he was killed
by an accident. It took all the wife’s savings to bury the body of her
husband. Then, to sustain herself and child, the articles in her rooms
were sold, one after another, until nothing was left but the clothes on
her body, a tattered quilt, some straw on the floor, an iron spoon and a
dish or two. She had tried to get work time and again, but failed. She
had asked for help, but was refused. One night, hungry herself, but
thinking only of her starving child, she wrapped it in the quilt and
placed it upon the straw and went out into the darkness. She came to a
baker’s shop. Without a thought but of her dying babe, she seized one of
the loaves and rushed away. A cry was raised, a policeman caught her and
took her to prison, and the next morning at the Mansion House Court she
was sentenced to six months’ imprisonment. She was placed in a foul
smelling cell, given the smallest allowance of the coarsest food for
herself and babe. By day she had to be in the company of the vilest
humanity, and submit to the insults and cruelties of the gaolers, and
all this for taking a loaf of bread to keep her child from starving.

The other case was of a duchess, a woman of intelligence, position and
wealth. She knew better than to do wrong. There was no need for her to
violate the laws. She committed a crime, and the judge stated his regret
that he was obliged by law to convict her. If he could possibly have
found an excuse he would have released her on account of her rank and
wealth, as he expressed himself, so he gave her a sentence of six weeks,
and all “society” stood aghast to think they should be attacked in that
way. She was allowed two large, airy rooms in a prison. The floors were
carpeted. Fine furniture was placed in them. She was permitted two
attendants of her own. Excellent food was prepared outside and brought
to her. She had books and papers, and was allowed to receive visitors,
and to have her daily walks without seeing the other prisoners. She was
an aristocrat, a lady in “society,” and it would not do for a judge to
place her on a level with a poor woman of lower class blood! What would
“society” say?

But is there an aristocracy in crime? Is not a thief a thief? Did not
the higher rank and intelligence of the duchess entitle her to a greater
punishment? Poor Mary Joyce, obeying a God-given instinct to save her
starving babe, took a loaf of bread. The duchess, to gratify a whim of
her haughty nature, committed a greater crime than the other and was not
punished at all but slightly disgraced, which society readily condones
and regards her as a martyr. Such is impartial English justice!

We have, however, something like it in India. A rajah has amassed wealth
by oppressing his ryots and taking usury from the poor. On account of
some paltry gift to the Dufferin Fund or subscription to some begging
paper to raise a monument to some man whom the people would not care to
remember, he is granted the privilege by Government of not obeying a
summons to appear as a witness in court. He could be driven there every
day and it would be only a pleasure nor would there be any loss to him
in any way.

Another, a ryot of this man, is obliged to go from twenty to fifty miles
on foot. He is compelled to hang around from a week to twenty days or
has to go several times. While away from home his fields are neglected
and the crop on which he and his family depended for the year’s food is
lost. What recourse has he? None whatever. What is the difference in the
two cases? It is this. The one is a wealthy rajah and the other a poor
devil of a ryot. Such is justice in India so like that in England.

My best argument for immortality is this, that there must be, in all
justice, some other place or some future when the accounts of this life
shall be balanced, for there is no equity here.

These were my reflections in my room at my lodgings at the close of my
privileged leave.

However, in vindication of myself, that to make some atonement,—as I am
not without good impulses at times—for the misdemeanors of the morning,
if such they may be called, in going to see the ranks of the city, high
rank and low rank, the latter of the rankest kind,—I went to a church in
the evening where there was a very quiet unpretentious service in which
there was a real sincere worship of God. I felt better for it, thanking
God that while there was so much of vanity, vice and want in the city,
there were also some righteous people, truly noble, belonging to the
nobility of heaven.

Our wedding day was fixed at an early date and we were to try “the
terrible test of wedlock” as Carlyle hath it. We were married already in
heart and mind, but to conform to the usages of society there was an
outward ceremony required. The father and mother were invited from their
home in Ireland. I had not yet met them in this new phase of affairs and
had some considerable curiosity about our first meeting. I had no fear
of them as I had outgrown that. To be really truthful I had but little
regard for them such as a man should have for his prospective
parents-in-law. They had cruelly treated me as well as their daughter.
Worse still, they had insulted me and deliberately. However it may tell
against me, I must confess that I can never forget an insult. I can
forgive it, and treat the offender with civility and all that, but I can
never regard him as if he had not injured me. This lapse of propriety
shows the nature and make-up of the man and I am always on my guard lest
he should wound me again. My former respect and friendship has gone and
I doubt if anything he might ever do would restore him again to me as he
was. I know that some say they can forget as well as forgive and act as
if nothing unpleasant had ever occurred, yet I doubt if they have really
analyzed and understood their feelings. I have not been made of that
elastic kind of material and each one must act for himself.

The parents received me most cordially and made no reference to the
past. Very prudent in them, as I was in a position to first throw down
the gauntlet or to take up their’s at the slightest hint from them. It
was not long before the wedding was referred to and I do not know just
why, but I could not help suggesting that I hoped there would be no
shooting or burying this time. I would have rather lost a year’s income
from my villages than to have missed the blushes and confusion of the
pair at this remark. “O no,” said the mother. “I have left my pistols at
home, Mr. Japhet.” “And I,” said the father, “have no intention of
becoming a sexton.”

The daughter enjoyed this intensely, and when the laughter had subsided,
remarked, “I married once wholly to please you, now I am going to marry
to please myself.” No reference was ever made to this subject again.

We were married and the bonds duly ratified by some sovereigns to the
high priest of the occasion. For further particulars read the society
papers in which it was stated that an Indian Prince had made a captive
of one of Albion’s fairest daughters. I could not help forgiving and
blessing the ignorance of the penny-a-liners, for if they had told the
truth that I was not an Indian Prince but only the son of a —, and my
wife was not of Albion, but of the Emerald Isle, the paragraph would
have appeared with a different kind of aurora about it.

If the real truth were known and told about people and things, what a
different appearance they would make! The gloss of the world is like the
apocryphal mantle of charity, covering a multitude of defects and sins.

We were extremely happy, as might be supposed, and everything wore a
roseate hue as is usual in such cases, so there is no need of going into
any ecstasies of description. I recall what a great English writer has
said, “Of all actions of a man’s life his marriage does least concern
other people, yet of all our life ’tis most meddled with by other
people.” So I will act upon his suggestion, be wise for once, and not
give people a chance to meddle with what does not concern them. We had
passed the giddy stage of life and had not reached that, when it could
be said of either of us, “There is no such fool as an old fool.”

Of course we had to visit the parents and they treated me so kindly that
I was tempted to forget, as I had forgiven them, their former outburst
of anger towards me. What rather modified my feelings was the remark of
the mother to her daughter in the privacy of her bed chamber, that if
she had known Mr. Japhet was such a fine man, a real gentleman, indeed,
she would never have objected to him. This my wife related to me with
much satisfaction, as it was a compliment to her former good judgment,
as well as to myself. They accepted the inevitable with such good grace
and kindness that I almost fell in love with my mother-in-law, and that
is saying all that is necessary.

We visited various places of interest, in “Ould” Ireland and I was
delighted with the quaint manners, and charmed with the open hospitality
of its people. One incident I will relate. One day at Larne I took a
stroll alone and then fell in with a couple of foreign gentlemen from a
steamer for New York that was laying to for the day. We sauntered out
towards the country and passing by a field where there were some
beautiful cows grazing in clover, I suggested that we go to the house
and ask for a cup of milk. The gentlemen expressed surprise that I
should think of such a thing. I saw no harm in it as I proposed to pay
for what we received, so we would not be beggars, and as I persisted,
they said they would follow me. I accosted a man raking the yard and
made my request. He replied that he would see the maister, and soon the
latter appeared and invited us by the front door into his drawing room,
beautifully furnished. He then called a maid and she soon brought a
large glass pitcher of creamy yellow milk, that was a sight to me from
India where we have to be happy with dudh pani, but with more pani than
dudh. She also brought a large plate of biscuit and glasses. Our host
handled the pitcher and served us with generous hospitality. We meantime
had a delightful chat. He had just returned from the continent and was
full of fresh incidents of his trip and asked many questions about
India. He then took us into his garden where he showed, and also gave us
some of his ripe gooseberries large as pigeon eggs, that he was
reserving for the Annual Fair, stating that the year previous he had
taken thirty-two prizes for various exhibits. All this greatly
interested me. He then took us to his raspberry bushes laden with ripe
fruit and bade us help ourselves while he picked liberal handfuls for
us, we all the while keeping up a running talk. On leaving we thanked
him again and again, and especially I, who had been the leader in this
foray. I handed him my card and received his, when he informed us that
the place was the Manse and he was the Presbyterian minister. He pressed
us to call again when we came that way and stated that he would always
remember us with pleasure. I could not help making a comparison between
him and our Indian padris. It is true they have no gooseberry or
raspberry bushes or such cream, and yet—but as comparisons are odious to
those on whom they reflect, I will cease my mental meanderings. My two
foreign comrades, the one from Vienna, the other from Berlin thanked me
most courteously for the treat I had given them. I doubt if they knew
that I was an Eurasian and do not believe it would have made any
difference to them as they were real gentlemen.

My wife and I went to the huts of the poor, as I was anxious to see this
phase of life. The status of a country is shown by the condition of its
poor people and not by that of its few grasping rich. The glamour of
India in its great cities and scenery in the cold season, seen by the
racing globe-trotters, no more conveys an idea of the real condition of
its vast millions, than a peasant’s holiday attire does of his everyday
clothing and impoverished life. We heard the stories of poverty and
oppression, and they were not Irish exaggeration for the one fact alone
of the exorbitant rents they had to pay, was proof sufficient of the
truth of their stories. Yet with all their poverty, ignorance and
superstition, the Irish are said to be the most virtuous race on the
earth. This to me will atone for all their other sins.

We never entered a hut, however poor the inmates, but they offered us
some token of their kindness, even if it were only a roast potato raked
from the ashes. If there is anything that makes tears come into my
heart, it is the generosity of the poorest poor, sharing their needed
mouthfuls with others. How often have I thought with moistened eyes, of
those famine stricken people in that old court of my childhood, sharing
their scanty grains of rice with me and my little sister, and of that
old faqir.

What delighted me most was the courtesy and grace, the sparkling
witticisms of these people when receiving us, so natural and free from
any of the snobbery and formalities of society. We were entertained by
the rich and they were polished and educated and I can speak in the
highest praise of them, and yet I think I felt more grateful when eating
a potato from the bare board-table in an Irish hut with the good dame
pressing me to take just another one, than I did with my feet under the
mahogany of some wealthy host, the table loaded with silver and served
with the richest viands. This may be strange in me, yet I cannot help
it, for God has made me up in that way.

We visited Scotland, the “land o’ cakes,” as well as “the land of the
leal,” and I was delighted with the brusque, frank manners of its
people.

They are an honest, manly race, careful to keep all they have and to get
as much as they can, but honestly. One of them said: “We are sair strict
in making a bargain, but when it is closed we abide it, aye to our ain
loss.” They are all aristocrats by nature, of the manly kind, and the
mechanic with grimy hands and greasy clothes at work, will look one in
the eye, and talk as nobly as if he was the chief of some Highland clan,
to doff his cap to no man.

They were a study to me in many ways. A little incident I recall. One
morning, going out of the hotel, my boots rather tarnished with the
everlasting mud—for as they told me that it always rains there except
when it snaws, there is always mud—I hailed a boy boot-black with cheeks
as red as ripe cherries. While he was doing his job, I asked a policeman
near by how much I should give him. “A penny,” he said. On handing this
to my little friend, he, raising his cap with all the politeness of a
polished courtier said, “Wad ye no gie me the other wing o’ that?” My
hair was so thick that his meaning did not penetrate my understanding
until he had bowed and gone, and I then realized his idea of the
necessity of two wings for anything to fly properly. One great mental
fault of mine is nearly always being a little behind time. My best
thoughts often come just after their opportunity. I was pleased with the
rosy cheeked lasses, so full of health and purity, and I think I rather
offended my wife by saying that if I was not already wifed I would try
to win one of Scotia’s fair daughters.

Then back to England, in a round of sight-seeing and visits among the
Britons, where, led by my wife, I was well received, though inwardly I
felt with some questioning as to my rank and station. This is the great
characteristic of the English. Their first question is, not what you are
as a man, in ability, attainments or morals, but what is your standing
or caste in “society.” And probably the newest made, the fledglings in
society, with the thinnest kind of blue blood in their veins, would be
the most exacting, whose pedigree would be greatly damaged by the
slightest investigation.

This society fad notion of the English, is worse than their oppressive
fogs, and, like the sight of a black pall at a funeral, making one tread
softly and speak in whispers. Some one, remarking of this, said that
when out calling the lady of the house came up close to her without
bowing, with a prying, inquisitive look, saying, “I really don’t know
who you are,” but after learning the rank of her caller she became
amiability itself. To give them their due, when once you are inside
their ring, and are acquainted, you know, they are very kind and
agreeable.

I had often read of the Arctic regions, and traveling to my humor
inclined, I suggested to my traveling companion that we go to the
extreme, or as far as we could, and see the contrast, if not of
Greenland’s icy mountains, then those of Norway, with India’s burning
sands. And a contrast it was, so much so that my oriental bones ached
with the cold, and I was glad when our steamer turned its prow southward
to come under the sun again.

Yet I shiver even now as I think of that indescribable, penetrating
cold, for the blood under my tropical skin seemed to stagnate and
congeal. I thought of Dr. Johnson’s remark about his visit to the
Hebrides, “worth seeing, but not worth going to see.” But he was such an
old egotistic exaggerator that I do not accept everything he says as
gospel true.

Yet one saying of his I could heartily endorse, remembering the tips I
had to make in England, worse than the baksheesh among the natives in
India. “Let me pay Scotland one just praise—there was no officer gaping
for a fee; this could have been said of no city on the English side of
the Tweed.”

The constant tips to every one at every turn is a real nuisance. England
may boast of her freedom, yet all her people are in the bonds of slavery
to the tipping custom. I fell in with a couple of young English
gentlemen just starting for China to spend their holidays. They said
they could better afford a foreign tour than to accept invitations from
their friends, as it would be less expensive, for at each house they
might visit, they would have to tip everybody, not with shillings, but
with sovereigns. My American friend spoke of this as one of the fads
that the Anglo-maniacs were trying to introduce into his country,
because it was good form, “like the English, you know.”

Anent this, I must mention a couple of incidents, though not about
“tips,” rather of sharp tricks, which reflect on myself.

On our steamer reaching port I was approached by a well-dressed man, who
handed me his card, saying that he was connected with Grinder & Co., my
bankers, and that he would be pleased to assist me in every way. I told
him that I had only a small amount of luggage, that I myself could
easily look after, but as his offer was so friendly I could not abruptly
decline his services, so he gave an order to a porter to carry my
baggage to a cab. A few days afterwards, when I went to look over my
account at the Grinders & Co., I found that I was charged twenty-five
shillings for the distinguished services of this very plausible clerk. I
do not recall the items exactly, but I think there was a shilling for
the bit of card he offered me.

Another. Just after arriving at my first lodgings in Craven street,
Strand, and had dressed to go out to some restaurant for dinner, the man
of the house, with the most saccharine smile and tone of voice, said
that they were just about to sit down to a family dinner, and he would
be pleased to have me join them. An uncle or aunt, if I had either,
could not have invited me with more grace and suavity. It was a very
good dinner, and I tried to do the agreeable in conversation, telling
them about India, as it seemed I ought to give some return for their
kindness, but I had a different feeling when I came to settle my bill,
and found myself charged with four shillings for the dinner.

I was cutcha in the ways of the civilized world, that is, green, unripe,
and am so still, even in my old age, and doubt if I ever shall be ripe,
for I am often taken in by the plausibility of men and also women. After
some such experience a kind of mental gloom comes over me, and I feel
like repeating Hamlet, after his grandest eulogy of man, “And yet to me
what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me, no, nor woman
neither.”

Talking about tips, one day my American fellow voyager told me this: “A
Yankee, standing on the stern of a steamer leaving Liverpool, held up a
shilling and cried out, ‘If there’s a man, woman or child in this island
I’ve not tipped, come forward now, as this is your last and only
chance.’”




                             CHAPTER XXXI.


Returning, we soon thought of setting our faces toward the east, though
first to the Continent, to see which, I had said I was leaving India,
but had forgotten it for something else, and yet would have obtained
forgiveness of that something for this slip of my pen had I asked it. I
had seen Great Britain, England, the home of my Government, yet not my
home, as some Eurasians style it, or as I have heard some Europe-clad
natives speak of England, as if they had been born there. The fact is, I
was so badly mixed up in my make-up that I hardly knew where my home
really should be. I am in somewhat of the quandary of a man who was born
of an English father, a Scotch mother, on an American ship, in African
waters.

I had made good use of my time in seeing England. I had studied the
solid, smileless, arrogant Englishman, who acts, particularly in India,
as if he felt that when God had finished making him and his set, He had
but little earth from which to make the rest of mankind. He is born a
grumbler and a grasper. He is ever finding faults in other people. He is
always reaching out to get something, and ever kicking when others try
to get a little wealth or a small share of the earth’s surface. In one
of my rural tours I saw some swine—and a noble breed of hogs they were,
such as we never see in India. When they were fed, one fat old fellow
stood sideways to the trough to keep the others away, and when he had
got his fill, what did the brute do but lie down lengthwise in the
trough to prevent the others from getting anything. Why the very hogs
seemed to be characteristic of England. She has more than half of North
America, the richest part of Asia, all the Antarctic continent, many
islands of the ocean, and while she keeps all she has got she grasps for
more. Without conscience as to her own methods of acquisition, she kicks
when poor old Russia wants a few barren frozen steppes of central Asia,
useless to anybody else, and unmindful that she has just absorbed
Burmah, she kicks when France wants a little slice of Siam; she holds
Egypt for the benefit of a lot of usurers, and took Burmah on the plea
of protecting a sharp trading company. It is curious to note that all
the annexations and usurpations of England have been preceded by some
trading company, and yet her society folks and aristocracy have such a
dislike to trade and tradespeople.

Whether it is the climate, the rain, the fog, the sticky mud, the solid,
half-cooked food, and the heavy beer that has made England what she is,
yet she is a great nation in her way, the power of the world, with very
grand, noble impulses.

              “Is not their climate foggy, raw and dull,
              On whom, as in despite, the sun looks pale,
              Killing their fruit with frowns?”

I am a great believer in climate and food in the making of men. A man is
what he eats, and, according to the climate he lives in, robust or
feeble. Go from the Arctic or colder regions, toward the equator, and
every few hundred miles there can be seen a physical degeneracy of
mankind, and the mental qualities must also be affected. Italy is an
approach to India, and Egypt more so. The ready memorizing people of
tropical Bengal are as exuberant as the vegetation around them, and like
the vegetation, they are watery, without strength or firmness. How
different from the sturdy hardwood forests of the north and its hardy,
brave people! Take a Hindu, a Bengali, with his slender worm-like
fingers, and transplant him to Norway. What would he do with an axe
trying to fell a sturdy pine? It would be a sight worth going to see.
What would those rice-eaters do in stemming the stormy blasts of a
northern winter? I once saw a fight in the streets of London, of men
with brawny arms, and fists that came with sledgehammer force upon each
other! Some day, when I can get leisure, I am going to write an article
on fists, and the people who can make them. There is so much of human
character in a fist.

I never saw a native of India make up a fist for a fight. When they do
not attack each other with their tongues, at which they are experts, the
bamboo lathi, native to the climate, is their natural weapon, and then
it is not a face to face, but a behind the back attack, a sure sign of
weakness and cowardice. I am an admirer of the Anglo-Saxon in the
English in this, that they have such a steady, stolid pugnacity, never
knowing when they are whipped, and fight for what they think is right
till there are none left to fight; always keep their backs behind them
and their faces toward their foes, and it never need be asked of them
when they return from battle, “Have they their wounds in front?”

Take another country. Where would the grim theology, philosophy and
metaphysics of the German people be without their cold, sluggish
climate, the black rye bread, the beer, the rank cheese, the sauerkraut,
the sausages, and everlasting pipe? It is a wonder they can think at
all, so clogged and befuddled their minds must be, and the results of
their thinking is just what might be expected, heavy and cloggy. We went
to Germany, and it was among her people that I got this impression.

We spent most of our time, nearly a year, in France, that paradise of
the world, neither too hot nor too cold, and would ever have remained
there if possible; the land of bright skies, of fruit and flowers, with
its happy, contented, courteous people. Better a dinner of herbs in
France, with its sunshine, than roast beef in England and fog therewith.
No wonder that the French think so little about heaven when they have
such a beautiful country to live in on earth.

What shall I say of the lively, entertaining, vivacious, polite people?
They were another kind of human animal, altogether different from any
that I had met. They are native to their own climate, light and airy. We
were constantly reminded that we were in a land of epicures, among a
people of good taste, for whom exquisite cooking was a necessity as well
as a pleasure. I could well understand the remark of a Frenchman about
England, as a country of a hundred religions and not one good soup.

It may be heathenish in me, but I have always had a liking for good
food, probably because there was such a fearful lack of it to me as a
child. In the first part of our lives we are mostly growing animals, and
think more of provender than we do of piety, or many other good things.
I might have swallowed the Athanasian creed, and all like it at school,
if only our grub had been a little more palatable. I recall Mr. Jasper’s
remark that the boys in his father’s family were more obedient, and so
more religious, because of the good Sunday dinners the mother gave them.
I also remember that my villagers were very indifferent about the
improvements I suggested, or to anything I told them, until they got
enough to eat, and then I could have led them with a hair. But I am
wandering again.

I do not wonder that the sea-girt isle envies France the richness of her
possessions and the prosperity and happiness of her people, yet I cannot
understand why she should antagonize her and carp at everything she
does, except it is in the nature of an Englishman to do so. He tries to
speak French but fails egregiously. The attempt of a grumpy Englishman
who speaks his own language as if he was afflicted with chronic catarrh
trying to use that sprightly spirited tongue, is as grotesque as it
would be to see an elephant trying a sword dance. Some one has said that
if he spoke to God it would be in Spanish, to his mistress in Italian,
to angels in French, to butchers in English and to hogs in German. I am
not scholar enough to discuss this statement, yet I think he is correct
in regard to French and English.

Not only in their cookery, but in their homes, the French have fine
taste. They are great admirers of the beautiful in art, and cultivate it
in nature, even among the poor. As to their dress, especially of the
women, even the servant girls, however cheap the material, had their
clothing fitted with such grace that they might have stood as fashion
models for the rest of the world. But as I am only an outside barbarian
I may be mistaken. I can only tell of the way it appeared to me.

I was struck with the extreme courtesy and kindness of the French. Once
in London I wished to ask the direction to some place and stepped into a
counting-house and with all the politeness I possessed, made my request.
The pompous little god of the establishment, with no more expression in
his face than in that of a marble statue, looked at me as it seemed for
some minutes and then blurted out, “Do you take this for an intelligence
office?” I was so completely whipped that I had not a word to reply and
got out of the door as quickly as possible. In France, whether from the
blue blouses or the exquisites, I never received anything but the most
delightful courtesy. They not only directed me, but more frequently
offered to go and show me the way. Manners make the man, and as the men,
so will the nation be.

While in Europe we went everywhere with our guides and guide books until
we were weary and surfeited with sight-seeing. I am no artist, still I
do not like to be considered quite a muff in regard to art works. Some
artists are so conceited as to think that manufacturers of art alone are
capable judges of it. A man can have an excellent idea of a well-fitting
suit though he never touched a pair of scissors or a needle, why not of
painting, though he never smelled paint or handled a brush?

I know this, however, that we saw enough of the old masters to last us
for this world and the next, flaming daubs of color, plump madonnas, fat
babies and gorgeous fleshy angels with wings. I never could understand
why angels should be provided with wings, unless their excursions are
confined to our atmosphere, and they never get beyond our earthly
region. Christians attack materialists for their lack of the spiritual,
but if there is anything more materialistic than is found in the
Christian religious descriptions of heaven and heavenly beings, then I
have been too much of a heathen to discover it. There is, however, this
difference in the two kinds. The one is solid and real, based on facts,
the other is fluorescent, fantastic, built of dreams.

Another thing we had enough of and that was church museums, and my wife
begged of me not to mention church this, or church that, to her again.
We were constantly asked, “Have you been to such a church, seen such a
painting or piece of sculpture? Did you hear the music in such a
church?” Not a word about the worship. Some ancient writer has said that
the churches were first adorned so as to attract the heathen. That may
be the case still, as probably many Christian heathen now go to them,
but as I am only a Barbarian heathen I certainly was not attracted or
pleased. Why the house of God, the place of prayer and spiritual
worship, should be turned into a curiosity shop, art gallery, a museum
for relics, or as a charnel house be profaned with dead men’s bones, is
something I am too ignorant to explain. There seems to be a blasphemous
incongruity in all this to my untrained mind. Religious worship seemed
to be but a showy performance and the churches, places of amusement, all
to please the senses. Frequently as we entered a church a priest would
be having some service before an altar, paid to mumble by the hour, with
a few old women or crippled men in front or rather at his back. These
seemed to be the only people in church except on gala days. Our guide,
also a priest, would take us from chapel to alcove and point out all the
curious things, and passing within a few feet of the performer chatted
as gaily as if he was chief showman expecting a pour boire, as he was.
It all went on as a matter of business and reminded me of a Hindu temple
where the priest is muttering prayers before an idol, while the people
are chattering, buying and selling around him. The only difference, the
one was in Europe and the other in India; the one more grand and
beautiful than the other. The spirit and show of idolatry was the same.
Is it any wonder that men become irreligious, infidels, when they see
all this insincerity, hypocrisy, the heartless form and ceremonies in
pretense of worshiping the Almighty? It is impossible for thinking men
to be such fools as to suppose that God is pleased with all this parade
and show.

A Frenchman summed up the matter thus: “The people, that is the masses,
need some serious amusement and there is nothing so innocent and
harmless as religion, so let them enjoy it.” An Italian said: “If you
want to find real religious life in the Catholic church, Rome is the
last place in which to seek for it. Religious faith has died out of the
Italian mind.” The French as a people have thrown away their religious
performance, not faith, as they probably never had any faith in it, and
could not have done otherwise as thinking beings with the spurious
article offered them, but the Italians are head over ears in their
religious galas and carnivals as a pleasant pastime. There is not a more
idolatrous, religiously frivolous nation on earth than the Italian.

They prove the truth of the statement that where religious ceremonials
predominate there is an absence of morality and the highest spiritual
life.

Newman in 1832 wrote: “Rome, the mightiest monster, has as yet escaped
on easier terms than Babylon. Surely, it has not yet drunk out the
Lord’s cup of fury nor expiated the curse. And then again this fearful
Apocalypse occurs to my mind. Amid the obscurities of that Holy Book one
doctrine is clear enough, the ungodliness of Rome, and further its
destined destruction. That destruction has not yet overtaken it;
therefore it is in store. I am approaching a doomed city.” Did he tell
the truth, or did he afterward fall into error when he became a cardinal
of that same Rome?

The Roman church is but a huge excrescence, an abnormal fungus,
supported perhaps by an unseen slender stem of truth. Its greatness
compels our wonder and astonishment. Strip this church of its grand
architecture, its fine art, its beautiful music, its gorgeous
ceremonies, and there would be little left of it, and that little, its
creed and outrageous assumption, would command scant respect from a
rational intelligence.

I could not help asking myself frequently: What would Jesus say if he
were to visit these churches? If he drove the changers of money and the
sellers of doves from the ancient temple, what would he not do in these
modern places of luxury, show and tips?

He never built a church or gave a hint about one. He had nothing to do
with reliquaries, feretories, calices, crosiers, crosses, pyxes,
monstrances, chasubles, capes, embroidered stoles, altar antependiums or
silk banners. As a philanthropist, a lover of men, he went about doing
good among the poor and needy. What would he say to the vast expenditure
of money on immense structures, receptacles for statues, idols,
paintings, ornaments, relics, when the poor all around them are
starving, not only for the bread of life but for crusts for the body?
What about the high salaried church officials, from the Pope and
archbishops down, when Jesus had not where to lay his head? Are all
these followers of Jesus? They may be, but a long way behind.

The best of the sermons Jesus ever preached was from a fisherman’s boat
at the water’s edge to a multitude seated on the ground of the shore. He
had no vestry into which to retire, no clerical garments, no ornamented
pulpit, no pompous processions, no trained choir, no incense or
perfumery, but an abundance of good things for the souls of men. He
evidently was not a caterer to the sight or senses of the people, but
aimed to reach their hearts with the truth.

Let any one read the advertisements of what is to occur in some of the
big churches. No mention is made of the religious part, but of the
selections from some famous operas, the performance of a brilliant mass,
the presence of some noted opera singers, who, from the play houses on
week days, take their parts in the churches on Sundays—are the main
objects of attraction. The worship of God seems to be a secondary
affair, as entirely unworthy of notice. The church busies itself with
architecture, painted windows, vestments, surpliced choirs, splendid and
impressive services, which appeal to the senses of the flesh, while it
becomes dulled to the great pressing sins of the individual and the
great wrongs of society.

Let there be museums, art galleries, opera houses and music halls, but
there should be no mixing up of the services of God with the pleasures
of the world, so that when a heathen like myself happens to go to
church, he need not become confused and have to ask the guide if he has
not come to the wrong place.

The inconsistency is not all, but the outrageous, sinful incongruity to
an honest man, of all these forms and shows, is that the people taking
part in them appear as if they were playing a sharp trick on the
Almighty in trying to make Him believe they are worshiping Him, when all
they are doing is to please themselves. This reminds me of the Romish
priests in southern India substituting an image of the virgin for that
of Krishna. When remonstrated with, the priests replied that the people
did not know the difference, and the virgin would get all the worship. I
cannot help thinking that there is no necessity for a man to be a
trickster or a hypocrite, even if he be a Christian.




                             CHAPTER XXXII.


At last we were homeward bound, having “done” Europe, Turkey, Egypt, and
seen various objects of interest in Bombay.

It gave me the greatest satisfaction that my wife was delighted with my
home, our home. We had made many purchases, and for several months, as
we were in no hurry to end this great pleasure, we were busy in
unpacking and arranging our treasures. One of our chief delights was in
the large stock of excellent books added to my already quite extensive
library. I had always delighted in books, and those of the best authors
on every variety of subjects. It is a gratification to find so many
different views, even on the same subject, and one can appreciate the
wise saying, “It is one of the special dispensations of an all-wise
Providence that every plank has two sides, and that no man is able to
see both sides at once.”

When in trouble enough to crush life out of me, I resorted to my
library, and when despised and shunned by those around me I found
never-failing friends and companions in my books, and pleasure in my
flowers, so that I could well appreciate the beautiful lines of Lander:

            “The flowers my guests, the birds my pensioners,
            Books my companions and but few besides.”

I have been an omnivorous devourer of books, and cannot enumerate them.
Sydney Smith, when asked of the books he had read, replied, “I cannot
tell you a thing about them, neither can I catalogue the legs of mutton
I have eaten, and which have made me the man I am.” What now greatly
pleased me was that my wife also was a great reader, not of the
flippant, superficial stuff, but of the more substantial sort, so that
with our mutual tastes and an abundant supply of books, we were a world
to ourselves, and society was not a necessity to us. She knew enough of
India to be aware that those not in the ring or clique of the civil or
military services were tabooed as not in society. This prejudice or
class pride is something I never could comprehend.

This is a queer, mad, man-made world though Providence has provided the
materials.

It is amusing to watch the antics of society. Once, on a train, two
young officers traveling third-class to save money, at a station just
before they reached their journey’s end, slipped into a first-class
compartment to save appearance, and make their friends think they
traveled first-class. This was but an innocent deception compared to
that of an officer in high position who always went second class, yet
signed a declaration on honor, that he traveled first-class, and so got
his first-class allowance.

Society has a horror of anything not first-class in India. It will pinch
and pare in private, that it may spread its tail feathers like a peacock
in public. The Stoics had a belief that the peacock was created solely
for its tail, and these society folk may have the same notion about
themselves. I have known a woman, a lady, cut down the wages of her
half-starved servants, and squabble over the price of some cheap
vegetables, who would put down a large subscription for a testimonial to
some swell whom she had never seen or cared a pin about.

We, that is, my wife and I, had never spoken of my Eurasian descent, yet
I could but feel that she was conscious of its disadvantages. Who could
be in India, among its Christian people, only for a few months, without
seeing the upturned noses of refined, Christian ladies and gentlemen,
when a reference was made to any one who had been touched with the
racial tar brush?

“But why the——do you always bring this up?” some one may ask. I don’t
bring it up, for it is always up with me.

                          “For that dye is on me,
                  Which makes my whitest part black.”

I might as well be asked why I carry my nasal organ about with me, or if
people should ever be hitting this facial protuberance of mine, why
should I take offense? Even a worm will turn if trod upon. When we were
on our train in the railway station in Bombay, a lady looked into our
apartment, and remarked to her friend: “There’s an Eurasian in there, we
will find another place.”

At one of the stations where we stopped for breakfast, as soon as I took
my seat at table, a man, I only knew he was a padri by his clothes,
arose and went to the other side. He probably, the next Sunday in his
service, read, “Since God hath made of one blood,” etc., but this was in
his prayer-book, and what he did at table was of a weekday color. In
company, at times when others were introduced with a smile and a shake
of the hand, some were so afflicted with frigid faces and stiffness in
their necks that I scarcely got a smile or a nod.

I would not lisp a word about this if it were not for their passing as
people of culture and refinement, and more, or worse, as Christians.

While away from India, I almost forgot that I was born under a curse,
but I was so forcibly reminded of it on the steamer, returning, and on
reaching Bombay, that my old feelings came back with renewed vigor, more
so on account of my wife. I endeavor to act like a man. I will not say
gentleman,—as that seems to be a special society made article of which I
think God is ashamed and disowns—and with courtesy and kindness, but I
am instantly and always in India, made to feel that I am an intruder, as
I really am. But who was the author of my intrusion and the cause of my
confusion? Therein is the sting and bitterness.

Instead of asking why I, or we, cannot let this subject drop, should not
you, high-toned merchants, ladies, gentlemen, teachers, preachers,
Christians, followers of Jesus, all of you, show that your practice has
some relation to your creeds and professions? My experience had taught
me what to expect, and I was prepared for anything that might happen,
even the worst, and this nearly always did occur. A man may rough it and
bear any amount of brunt for himself, but if he has a particle of soul
of manhood in him, as a husband, he cannot bear the thought of a slight
or a snub to his wife without taking offense, especially when he is the
innocent cause of it.

We were a kingdom by ourselves, and supremely happy, yet I knew we must
see people and I was in constant dread. The time soon came.

There were to be some sports, and all the station were expected to be
present. Even society likes a crowd to look on, though the unregenerate
residuum are kept outside the ropes. I thought this a good opportunity
to make our first public appearance, so in our phaeton, drawn by a pair
of the best steppers in the station, we were driven to the parade
ground. I saw that our coming excited considerable curiosity, and to
tell the truth, I was not the least displeased at this. A number of my
acquaintances came up to greet me, for I had some friends, and don’t
wish it to be understood that because there are lots of cads and snobs,
that I think all the better class of people belong to these grades. I
was proud of this recognition. I have always had pride as every one
should have, and mine, myself being the best judge of it, was an honest
kind, based on my good intentions and self respect as a man. I never
forgot the saying of Mr. Percy, “Charles, be a man.” He was a man who
hated any false way, a manly, noble man, pure and clean, true as steel,
and one in whom Jesus, or any other good person, would have been
delighted as a companion, a friend without guile. To be a man, to have
subdued all the baseness that pertains to the flesh, and to have the
honesty, purity, courage and nobility that belongs to real manhood, is
what it seems to me to be Godlike. When one has reached that condition
he has obtained what the religious call “salvation,” and is prepared for
the life to come. There are so many pigmies—no that is not the word—as
they are only pigmies in goodness, but giants in evil—coarse-minded,
foul-worded, sordid and base in everything, deceivers and seducers,
living in the slime and filth of vice. They are the eels and slugs of
humanity, living in the mud, while the pure and good are like the
delicate trout that can live only in the springs at the source of the
streams, but here I am going astray again.

I said that I had pride. I was proud of my wife and the way she received
my friends. There was not a woman present who was her superior in
appearance, manners or dress, and I knew, with her spirit, she could
hold her own with the best of them, and I was not mistaken. As others
came up to our company a white-haired, white-faced, flashily dressed
swell, with an air of self-importance, putting his one-eyed glass to his
eye, bowed to my wife with the remark, “Pardon me, but doncher know, I
think I must have met you before.” This was said with a bold,
patronizing air, with a London cockney tone and accent. My wife not at
all disconcerted, with a laugh in her voice, replied, “Oh, yes, Mr.
Smith, I remember you well. It was years ago, in Roorki, at a croquet
party, when you told me that if I preferred that Eurasian I could do so.
And to show you that I made use of the liberty you gave me, allow me to
introduce you—Mr. Smith, Mr. Japhet, my husband.”

I would rather have lost the value of my best horse than to have missed
that scene. It was so sudden—a flash of Irish wit. Mr. Smith scarcely
nodded, though I made as graceful a bow as I could. His white face
turned scarlet, and he seemed to be stricken dumb with all eyes upon
him. I think he would have blessed his stars if the stand had broken
down at the risk of killing a score of people, if a woman had fainted or
a horse had rushed among us, but nothing happened.

I think it was not her words alone, but the sight of me, “That
Eurasian,” one who had claimed to be the son of Mr. Smith, the
Commissioner. This seemed to give a paralysis to his mentality. For a
few moments, an age it seemed, he stood gazing as if trying to get the
remnants of himself together, he, slightly bowing, turned away with his
blushes thick upon him. I saw at a glance of the company that my wife
had made her first innings with great eclat. There is nothing like
winning at the start. It gives courage to the winner and commands
respect from others. I need not say that I felt intensely pleased with
my wife, not only for the independent, capable spirit she showed, but
for her brave recognition of me, her husband. How else could I feel? I
must also say that I was greatly pleased with the utter discomfiture of
my white-faced brother, Mr. Smith. Some very goody-good people might say
that such a feeling was wicked, but I cannot help that. I confess to
being a little wicked at times, but my wickedness is not of the low,
debased kind. I despise stealing, and yet I would delight in tripping up
a thief who was trying to escape. In the same spirit, I am delighted
when impudence and arrogance takes a tumble. The theory is, that when
you are smitten on one cheek you should turn the other also for a smite,
but when is it ever put in practice? I doubt if it is practicable. I
know that if I had acted in that way, I would not only have had both my
cheeks knocked away, but would have lost my head as well. I have a
theory of my own, which is this, especially in dealing with Christians.
They always teach the turning the other cheek doctrine, though they
never act upon it. Yet, as a man of honor, I am bound to take them at
their word, that they always do as they wish to be done by. So, when any
one of them hits me on the one cheek, I must logically believe that, as
a gentleman and a Christian, he wishes me to do unto him as he did to
me, and I give him as good in return, and, to show my generosity, go him
a little better as interest on his investment. How am I to do
differently?

If, when he states his doctrine, I should doubt his word, he might say I
was no gentleman, so when I take him to mean just what he says, he
certainly should not find fault with what he gets.

I know there is much of preaching that becomes extorted, tired out,
completely exhausted before it reaches practice. It is strange what
different notions there are. Once a prominent Christian defrauded me out
of quite a sum of money that I had loaned to assist him. He was not
poor, or I could have overlooked the debt. After waiting, running and
dunning him until my patience was exhausted, my temper raised to welding
heat, and I was on the verge of using, not the Queen’s English, but
rather that of King George the Fourth, this very religious debtor of
mine said, “Mr. Japhet, I am afraid you are not showing a Christian
spirit.” The cheek of this pious cheat and thief, talking “Christian
spirit” to me! I scarcely need say that I gave him a little of his
personal biography that he probably did not relate to his family or
friends. There is a great deal of what the English call “rot” in all
this pious twaddle among some religious people that is repugnant to my
taste, heathen though I be.

I accept what the noble Lord Tennyson has said, “I am Calvinist enough
to have a willingness to be damned for the glory of God, but I am not
willing to be damned to satisfy the hatred, pride and hypocrisy of men
no better than I am.”

One morning one of the headmen of my villages came to my house in a
great state of excitement. It appeared that an ofiun walla sahib had
come into the district and had sent his police to take away a number of
the cultivators. To understand the matter myself, I went without any
delay, and found that some of the best men had been taken, for what
purpose the people did not know. I went several miles further, where I
found a large tent under a tree. In front, at a table, sat a European
surrounded by a number of policemen. Before him were several hundred
natives seated in rows upon the ground. I sent my card and asked for an
interview, which was granted. I explained who I was, that I was the
owner of some villages, that as some of my ryots had been taken I had
come to make inquiries. He replied that he was the agent of the Opium
Department, and had been ordered by Government to come into the district
and arrange for the cultivation of opium. He said it would be a good
thing for the people, as he would make contracts and give advances on
the crop. I made no objection to his statements, knowing well the
absolute and despotic power of a Government officer, and that any
argument in opposition from me would defeat my purpose; that it was the
best policy for me to be as docile as possible. I wished to get my
people released, and I well knew that if I showed any fight he would
exercise his power and I would inevitably be defeated. The Hindu proverb
is a good one. “Soft words are better than harsh; the sea is attracted
by the cool moon, and not by the hot sun.”

After hearing all his statements, I replied that I was trying some
experiments with new kinds of seeds, in the rotation of crops, deep
ploughing, and in the introduction of imported cattle, and that it would
greatly interfere with my plans if the people were diverted from them.
He at first demurred, because his men had told him that there was very
rich land in the villages best suited for opium; that he would like also
to experiment in his line. This he said with a smile, as if taking me on
my own ground, that a few patches of poppy would not interfere with my
purposes. I then went on my knees, metaphorically speaking, and begged
him as a special favor that he would grant my request. My earnest
pleading as a suppliant must have touched him, for he at once said, “Mr.
Japhet, as a special favor, under the circumstances you have stated, I
will release your men, though it may make discontent among the people of
other villages.” He then gave an order for my ryots to be called, and
they went away greatly relieved, and as they afterwards told me, were
very grateful for what I had done. After thanking the officer for his
kindness, I took my departure.

I have often thought of this incident, and to tell the truth, have been
ashamed of my cringing attitude in order to carry out my purpose. But
what else could I have done? When one, unarmed, meets a brigand who
points a pistol at his breast, even the bravest of men will deem it best
to surrender and deliver the contents of his pockets, expressing thanks
to his assailant for his courtesy in not discharging his weapon. It is
very easy to talk about courage when there is no danger in front of you.

The natives of India are accused of being cringing and truculent, of
being invariable liars and deceivers. How could they be anything else?
They have been subjects of tyranny and deception for a thousand years or
more, when not only their little property, but their lives, were at the
absolute disposal of their rulers and the robber minions of Government,
so they have become inevitably what they are.

As I left the presence of the Sahib and had reached the road, a rather
elderly Hindu of fine appearance threw himself on his knees in front of
me, and putting his arms around my legs, he touched his forehead upon my
boots several times. This was done so quickly that I had not time to
check him. Then lifting up his head and still on his knees, he held up a
paper in one hand and five rupees in the other. He said that the ofiun
walla sahib had made him sign a contract by which he was to cultivate a
certain amount of land for opium, and had given him five rupees as an
advance on the crop. He said that it was contrary to his religion,
against his caste and his dastur or custom to raise opium; that he
wanted to raise food for his bal batchas, children, and begged of me to
intercede with the sahib and get his contract annulled. He pleaded most
piteously. I lifted him up and talked with him. I told him that the
sahib was a Government officer, while I was only a zemindar, and that if
I went to him he might become angry and double the contract. I certainly
was disposed to help him, but I knew that if I interceded for him I
would have hundreds of others at my feet, and there would be no end of a
hullabaloo, and the sahib would have his own way in the end and make it
even worse for the people. “Why awaken sleeping leopards?” “It is no use
to sharpen thorns,” are common Hindu proverbs.

I learned afterwards that numbers went to the Collector of the District,
who was as much of an autocrat and a despot in his way as was the other.
He always resented any one foraging in his pasture. He wrote an
indignant letter to the opium agent, and the latter replied that if the
collector would attend to his own business he might find enough to do.

Such was the commencement of opium growing in that district. There were
about a million people in the district, and I doubt if any one of them
had ever seen a poppy head until it was raised under the forced
contracts of the opium agent. I was well acquainted with the district,
had traveled everywhere in it, and had never seen a sign of opium either
among the people or in the fields; and I question if there ever had been
an ounce of opium used unless in medicine given by the doctors. The
people did not want it in any shape, either for use or cultivation.

Why then was its cultivation forced upon these heathen, as Christians
delight to call them? Simply and solely for revenue, for the money there
was in it. The contracts were of the strictest kind, and the slightest
violation of them would make a man a criminal. The plots of land were
measured and recorded, the methods of preparing the soil, the time of
sowing the seed, the collection of the juice and the saving of the
refuse, were all minutely detailed. Every particle of the plant worth
anything had to be delivered to Government under pain of fine and
imprisonment, and for all his labor and anxiety the ryot got only a
pittance, while the Government received a profit of nine hundred per
cent. No one ever raised opium under these contracts but at a loss
compared with what he could have received from his usual crops.

There was no local market for the opium when produced. Probably not a
pound a year would have been purchased by the inhabitants if left to
themselves. In order to facilitate the use of a drug of which the people
were happily ignorant and did not want, the Government licensed men in
different places to sell it, and even then there were no sales. To begin
the trade these licensees were then ordered to give away samples, and so
by degrees the people were educated in the opium habit. In a few years
quite a number became confirmed opium users, and the evil, like the
virus of a disease inoculated in the blood, spread over the district
with its usual demoralizing effect.




                            CHAPTER XXXIII.


It was the same with liquor. For years I never saw a drunken man in the
district. There were no spirits made, none to be obtained and none used.
It is contrary to the religion of the better classes of Hindus to have
anything to do with liquor in any manner, and the Muhamedan religion
prohibits its use entirely. The people were in blissful ignorance of the
use and effects of liquor. Along came the abkari agent of the Revenue
Department of Government who saw a great field for his operations and he
at once arranged for the erection of four distilleries. Natives in the
Government service, both Hindu and Muhamedan were placed in charge. At
first the distilleries were idle, but by sending out agents to offer big
prices for sugar cane refuse, the natives were induced to bring the
stuff for sale. Then the liquor was not used and the same methods were
employed as for the introduction of opium. Places were licensed and
liquor at first given away for the encouragement of trade and the
benefit of the Government revenue. The result was that in a few years
there were drunkards, and the nights were made hideous by their revelry.
Idleness, poverty and crime increased. Broils destroyed the good order
of the communities. The Muhamedan officer in charge told me that every
year there was a large increase in the amount of spirits produced and
the annual reports of Government were exultant over the increased
revenue from this department. One of the members of the Board of
Revenue, an Englishman, in one of his tours of examination boasted of
the increasing success of the liquor traffic among the natives and the
consequent advantage to Government. A man might as well boast of his
seduction of innocence, of his robbery of widows or of defrauding the
simple-minded. But what of the officers of Government, intelligent men,
calling themselves Christians, representing a civilized Christian
people, deliberately planning a scheme with the all-powerful, despotic,
brute force of Government to debauch and degrade the ignorant,
simple-minded people of India? The devil himself, if there be one, as
the Christians devoutly believe, must have made hell ring with laughter
when he saw what these Christian officers of a Christian nation were
doing to help him damn the world.

It may be asked why did the people submit to such tyranny and raise
opium? Only an innocent, unacquainted with the power and methods of the
Indian Government would ask such a question.

What else could these helpless people do but to go when seized by the
policemen of the opium agent, and to take the contracts forced upon
them? The Collector of the District was snubbed by the agent for his
interference and when he referred the matter to the Government of the
Province, he was told in polite, but very emphatic terms, that he was
not to meddle with things outside his own department. As this is a true
story I could name the place, the year, and give the names of all the
officers concerned, but as such methods of raising revenue were no
secret, why be personal? A European, writing of the Eskimos, says: “Our
civilization, our missions and our commercial products have reduced its
material condition, its morality and its social order to a state of such
melancholy decline that the whole race seems doomed to destruction.”
Would not this be applicable to India, especially as regards the
introduction of European vices?

Why did the natives continue to cultivate opium after the Government
pressure had been removed? Because there was a little ready money in it.
They are so desperately impoverished that the offer of money is a
temptation not to be resisted. Nothing is so attractive to a native as
an advance of money, peshgi. He will often make a ruinous bargain or
take a losing contract if he can get a prepayment, trusting to fate to
help him out in the end. Though heathen, they are not more able to
resist temptation, when money is in question, than their Christian
fellow men. I learned when in England that the business of a publican
was considered degrading and disgraceful, yet there were many church
members, both Catholic and Protestant, engaged in it.

Such is the power and worship of wealth that even Her Majesty, the
Queen, and her eminent advisers make peers of brewers and distillers,
and it is not wholly a concealed secret that some prominent
ecclesiastics hold shares in breweries and distilleries. If such things
occur in the civilized Christian light of England, is it to be wondered
at, that the wretched natives of India are tempted by money?

I frequently took pleasure in tantalizing the natives connected with the
distilleries for having to do with a business contrary to their religion
and customs. They replied that it was utterly hateful to them in every
way, but as servants of Government they had to obey orders or lose their
situations, and this would be poverty and starvation to them and their
families. A Tahsildar was in charge of one of the distilleries. I said
to him, “You are a strict Mussalman, you say your daily prayers, you
rigidly fast during all the Ramazan, and yet you superintend the
manufacture of spirits forbidden by your Koran.” He replied, “I have
been in the Government service over thirty years, and have to obey its
orders. Should I refuse, I would receive my dismissal and this would
greatly reduce my pension on which I retire soon. I am helpless in the
matter and compelled to have charge of a business, of which I am ashamed
and more than that, every day when I go to the distillery I am afraid
that the curse of the Prophet may come upon me for doing what is
contrary to my religion.”

If the natives of India were asked about the liquor and opium business,
nine-tenths of them, heathen as they are, would say “abolish it at
once.” Why then is it continued? For the sake of the revenue. Were there
no gain from it, the Government would not tolerate it for a day. The
most detestable feature of the whole matter is the philanthropic,
for-the-glory-of-God air, that the Government supporters assume, when
they try to uphold this crime against a conquered and helpless, ignorant
people. One can have some respect for an outspoken, frank man, though he
be wicked, but I have yet to learn that a truckling hypocrite has ever
been regarded with anything but contempt. If the Government of India
would frankly say that it didn’t care a blanked ha’penny about the
morals, happiness or eternal welfare of the people of India or China,
but what it wanted was revenue from opium and spirits, it would be
telling the truth and one might respect its frankness, though detesting
its principles. When it claims that it is cultivating opium and
fostering the liquor traffic out of pure philanthropy, it is presuming
too much on the capacity of human credulity. The statement that if India
does not raise opium, China will do it for herself, or that India should
supply the pure drug, otherwise the Chinese would get it badly
adulterated, is simply twaddle of the thinnest kind, such as any villain
might use as an excuse for his wrong-doing and none but a knave or an
idiot would accept.

Being such as I am, I have great sympathy for these poor, oppressed
people. I have seen the constantly increasing degradation of India,
through opium and liquor. Year by year it is becoming worse and worse
through the fostering help of this so-called Christian Government. Years
ago, one might travel through the length and breadth of the country, and
not see a man drunk with opium or liquor, now he can see and hear them
everywhere, and the end is not yet. The seed has been sown, and the
harvests are coming.

Every native, and all Europeans, who are not in the service, and have
not their own selfish interests at stake, will lay the blame where it
properly belongs, on the Government. All the blessings that England has
conferred upon India, will never outweigh this curse of drunkenness,
directly caused by Government authority.

As I had an experience in regard to the cultivation of opium, so I had
to thwart a plan for the introduction of liquor. Anyone could see, at a
glance, that these villagers of mine were prosperous, and had money to
spend; so the greedy eyes of the agents of the Abkari Department did not
overlook them. One of these men, in one of the villages, by his oily
tongue, and the offer of a big rent, had nearly obtained the lease of a
house, for the sale of liquor and opium. This was at once reported to
me, and I was soon upon the ground. The opportunity afforded me a chance
for a temperance lecture. The people were all collected one evening
under the big tree in front of the school-house. I explained to them
that their ancestors had never used opium or liquor; that their religion
was opposed to the use of these things; that it would be a violation of
their caste and custom, to degrade them all, and make them mlecchas or
outcasts; that the use of them would be a waste of money. I portrayed
all this with explanations, and begged of them that they would not
degrade themselves, and destroy the good name they had got among the
surrounding people. I wanted to touch their pride, as well as to
encourage their feeling of moral responsibility. I saw that I had gained
my point, and might have rested, but I reminded them of what I had done
for their improvement and happiness, and as they well knew that I had
never done anything to their hurt, they should trust me still, but if
they should allow the sale or use of these injurious things, contrary to
my wishes, I would have less interest in helping them in the future.
Instead of this method, I might have given an order, forbidding the
sale, and it would have been obeyed, but it was not my way of treating
these people. I wanted them to take the responsibility, and to make them
feel they had done the work, not I, by an order.

After the assembly broke up, the man who had lost his chance of getting
a big rent for his house, stopped to ask some questions. “If the use of
opium and liquor were so bad, why did the Sircar, who was the mabap to
all the people, urge and compel them to raise opium, build distilleries
and license places for the sale of sharab? Was the Sircar so bad as to
be willing to injure the people? He had heard in the bazar of the
station, that all the sahibs drank liquor, and that the khitmutgar of
one of the Collectors had said that his sahib would often be drunk after
dinner. All the sahib log were Esai log, Jesus people. If the Christian
religion was the true one, then how could these Christians make opium
and liquor for sale, and use them if it was wrong to do so?” A great
question, as difficult to answer, as it is to excuse Jesus for making
wine; and make an apology for Paul, recommending Timothy to take wine
for his stomach’s sake. It is an unpleasant task to have to apologize
for the wrong-doing of Christians. I explained that the sahibs were only
men, and many of them often did wrong, which was no excuse for others.
If other people should steal, it was no reason why he should become a
thief, no matter who they were.

Why should he not ask such questions? They are asked daily throughout
India. The occurrences in the European households, the tiffs between
husbands and wives are freely discussed in the bazars, and are as well
known as if they had been performed in the street in open daylight. The
people may be heathen, and uneducated, yet they know a great deal more
than they are credited with.

There was no more trouble after that about the culture of opium, or the
sale of liquor in the villages. The people saw enough of the evil
effects in the communities around them, where the government had
established liquor and opium dens, to convince them that they had
happily escaped a great calamity and nuisance.

Not long after this, one of the villages had an object lesson, when I
happened to be present. A sweeper had been away to a village, attending
some festival among his brethren, and returned in a great state of
hilarity. At first he was only amusing, then began to take liberties,
which the people resented. In return he gave them gali, pouring upon
them the foulest abuse. I suggested, they tie him to a tree, and drench
him with water, which they did till he was sober, a great crowd in
attendance, to whom I gave a temperance lecture, with the subject before
me. The next day the village committee came to me to inquire what
punishment should be given to the man for his foul, abusive words. I
suggested they put him on a donkey, with his face tail-wards, and as a
dead vulture had been brought to me, from under one of the trees, that
the skin of this stinking bird should be put on the sweeper as a
headdress. He was soon in position, with his regalia upon him, and the
donkey was led up and down the streets for an hour, while the crowd,
including many from the other villages, for the report of the coming fun
soon spread, made all possible sport with their victim, while the boys
pelted the sinner with bits of earth and rotten vegetables. This I
considered sufficient for the time, but the committee decided, that if
he, or any one else, should commit a like offense, they should be tied
up, drenched with water until sober, and then be flogged. I never heard
of a case of drunkenness in any of the villages afterwards. The people
became a law unto themselves in opposition to the philanthropic
government that tried to make them drunkards.

Life with us went on with the monotony usual in an India station. From
month to month scarcely anything, not even the unexpected, happened. The
military officers were longing for a break out somewhere, no matter with
whom, the French on the south-east, the Russians on the north-west, or
with the border tribes, so long as it would give them something to do in
their line. Their trade was war, and war they wanted, something to take
the place of the everlasting drill, and to break up the tiresome routine
of cantonment work. The members of the civil service had their daily
grists to grind, and like toilers on a tread-mill, were glad when the
days were ended. Though excluded somewhat, I could hear the murmurs of
discontent. Few seemed to have any real interest in their work. They
considered themselves as exiles driven away from home by necessity, to
become naukars, and their great hope was in furloughs and the prospect
of retirement. As I was at home I made the best of it, and my wife
joined me heartily in promoting our mutual happiness. We had our books,
magazines and papers, which gave us an abundance of enjoyment. Our large
garden gave us recreation and pleasure, while our villages gave us work.

We often spent days with our friends, the villagers. My wife became the
mama to all the women and girls and they were very quick to profit by
her teachings. She visited them in their houses, criticised their ways
of keeping house, and advised in regard to making their homes pleasant
and comfortable. She showed them how to make various cheap articles.
Soon all hands were busy in trying to excel each other in having the
cleanest and best furnished house. There were no zananas, and the women
had become so accustomed to seeing me at our assemblies that they freely
welcomed me in company with my wife. It may appear very insignificant,
but it has been one of the delights of my life to recall the great
improvements made in the habits of these simple-minded villagers. The
cost was so little and the results very great, showing what a little
teaching and encouragement can do. Cleanliness became a pride, as well
as a habit. If some kept their houses clean, others did not dare to do
otherwise, if not from choice, for fear of remarks.

The houses were, however, not satisfactory, and my wife suggested that
we build a model house. I selected a spot in a central place, and built
one upon it as cheaply as possible, with a view to substantial use and
comfort. It had two rooms, a small veranda in front, and an enclosed
yard at the back, where the cooking could be done and various articles
be stored. The walls were plastered with clay by the women with their
skill at such work. Then came the furnishing. This model house, matted,
charpoyed, stooled and cupboarded, with pictures cut from illustrated
papers upon the walls, was good enough for a king, and probably much
neater than what some of the lords in England not many years ago
enjoyed. When completed, at one of our evening assemblies I called
attention to it, and promised to give ten rupees to every one who would
build a house like it. I explained to them that by joining together they
could mould the brick, thatch the roofs, and do all the work themselves,
without any outside help—all to work together like busy bees.

I suggested to the committee that the ground plot of the village should
be enlarged, so as to allow of back yards, with alleys between the
yards. This done, the work went on apace, and soon a number of houses
were built. There was an abundance of grass on the borders of the
fields. I engaged a mat-maker from the city, and set him to instruct the
women as well as men to make mats. At first some hesitated, as it was
not according to their caste to do such work, but they soon fell in, and
it was not long before every house had mats for its floors. Many of the
people had slept on the ground from sheer laziness or custom. I had a
carpenter make same cheap charpoys and then thick mats were made for
them. It was a mat-making community for a while, as no one wished to be
outdone by his neighbor. Then came the making of rude shelves, on which
they could place their trinkets, and soon every house had such a
cupboard. Then little low stools, with twine grass bottoms, on which
they could sit cross-legged if they chose, instead of on the floor as
formerly. The desire for these new things became contagious, and their
eagerness gave us great amusement.

My wife had offered to give the twine for the mats, the wood for the
shelves, and the pictures for the walls, and still better than all that,
she would give a looking-glass like the one she used, for each house
when it was complete. This last offer took the cake, as every Eve’s
daughter of them was bound to have a looking-glass, and gave her men
folk no rest until they had built a house. I might have planned for days
and nights together, before I could have caught on such a trick as
effective as that. It was a woman’s instinct that did it. My advice and
offer of ten rupees were nowhere compared to the looking-glass for the
erection of new houses.

The result of our model house suggestion was that within a year there
was not an old house in all the village. Each one was in line, matted,
shelved and pictured, and last but not least, judging by the expressive
faces and appearance of the women, each house had its looking-glass.

My other villages, seeing what was going on, became extremely jealous,
and their committees called on me and asked what they had done to turn
the hearts of the sahib and mem sahib away from them—to favor one
village and not the others. I was greatly pleased with this sign of
life, and after letting them talk a while, as each member of the
committee had to tell his story of their regard for me, how anxious they
were to please me, and how heartbroken they were to think that I had
forgotten them.

I asked what they wanted. Were they willing to build new houses? And
they all responded yes, as with one voice. I then promised to do the
same for their villages as I had done for the other, when they fairly
embraced me, and departed with protestations of love for me and the mem
sahib. They had not left her out, for they had probably been well
instructed before they left home, as they very politely asked, “And the
looking-glasses too, mem sahib?” She responded, with a laugh, “Yes, to
every house a looking-glass.” Soon we had a model house in each village,
and for days I was occupied in staking out the ground for houses, alleys
and yards.

Before another year all the old houses had disappeared, the rubbish
removed and everything was spick and span new and clean, a wonderful
change compared to the filthy places formerly occupied.




                             CHAPTER XXXIV.


One evening my wife came into our rest house, from the other villages
where the houses were nearly finished, and I saw that she was greatly
pleased at something that had occurred. She said that the women had all
come to her and almost their only question was about the
looking-glasses. She asked, “Suppose there are no looking-glasses in
Calcutta, then what am I to do?” Almost a wail of despair went up from
the crowd. “O mem sahib, mem sahib! you must not say that, you promised
and we know you won’t break your promise.” “All right,” she replied, “I
will get you the glasses if I have to go to Wilayat for them,” and they
were all as happy as some little girls would be at the promise of dolls
from Paris. Bundles of twine, loads of pictures and boxes of
looking-glasses were duly given and all were happy for many a day.

The greatest aid to me in making improvements was the village
committees, each composed of five men, the majority ruling. For the
selection of these committees I had appointed annual election days when
all the men over twenty years of age, were each allowed to cast a ballot
for the man they wanted. On the morning of the election days the school
teachers took their places apart and the men one by one went to them and
got a ticket written, of the names they chose. These tickets were folded
and the men slipped them into a closed box, a teacher checking the names
of the voters in a list that had previously been made. The only
collusion possible was with the teachers and they were strictly enjoined
not to utter a word of suggestion but only to write the five names given
to them. There was probably considerable electioneering beforehand and
many an hour’s talk as they smoked their hookas, about the make-up of
the new committee. There was considerable excitement over these
elections and it increased year by year and made everybody feel that he
was somebody, though he was only the village sweeper. There was great
interest among the crowd at the close of the polls when the names of the
candidates were read off and counted.

The committees thus chosen were clothed with authority and felt their
responsibility. They acted with such discretion that I never heard a
word of dissent against any action of theirs. This may be accounted for
that there were no ranting babu pleaders among them and they had not
learned the tricks and bribery of civilized people. They were very
deliberate and assumed such a magisterial air and dignity, that could
not be excelled by the judges of any High Court, and I do not doubt that
their rulings were just as equitable. There was no Court of Appeals
though the committees often came to me for advice and suggestions, but I
never interfered after they had given their decisions, so that it became
a saying amongst the people “The Committee has spoken,” as if nothing
further was to be said or done. I had formed a set of rules which the
committee executed. They settled all disputes, had charge of the tanks
and fishing, looked after the drains and saw that the houses and streets
were kept clean and in order. The system was one of self-government, and
made the people think and act for themselves.

I had built only one tank near one of the villages. One day not long
after the new houses in the other villages had been completed their
committees came to me in a body. Their spokesman said that I had been
very kind to them, that they did not wish to make any complaint and
hoped I would not be angry with them for making another request, but as
I had built a tank for one village from which its people had water for
their fields and plenty of fish for food, they hoped that I, as their
mabap, would also supply them with tanks. I asked if they would give the
land. Certainly they would do this as they would make allotments of
other fields to those occupying ground where the tanks would be placed.
I gave them a favorable answer and received their hearty thanks. The
tanks were soon dug, the people of the different villages, coming with
their cattle and carts making gala days in helping each other. After the
rains the tanks were stocked with fish which in a few years became very
plentiful.

The villages were now in a most prosperous condition. I had insisted on
their saving all the refuse and the soil became rich. My theory was that
the man who impoverishes his land steals from his own pocket. There was
an abundance of fuel from the trees that had been planted, so that the
manure was not burned as formerly. There was a rotation of crops with
different kinds of grain and vegetables. Every third year new seed was
imported or got from other parts of India. Grass was grown which with
the green stuff was preserved in silos so that there never was any
scarcity of fodder. The silos were for the preservation of feed, what
the manure pits were for the preservation of manure. The cattle were
from imported stock and excellent, quite a contrast with the poor
half-starved beasts of the surrounding villages.

I had quite a tussle with my friends on the milk and cow question. It
was formerly the custom for them to let the calves run with the cows and
no milk was procured. I insisted that the calves should not be allowed
to go to their mothers even for a day after their births. The people
said this was not the custom with their forefathers, that it was not
possible, the cows would not give milk or allow themselves to be milked
unless the calves were present. There was very near a rebellion. After
reflection the committees quieted the rest, by saying that the sahib
knew everything and should have his own way, which he had, with the
result that the cows became as good milkers as on any dairy farm in
Europe.

It was the custom when a calf died to stuff its skin with grass and
every time the cow was milked this imitation calf was placed beside her.

I learned indirectly that I was extolled as a wonderful sahib, that I
not only knew how to make lightning with a machine, but all about cows
and how to make butter. I had thoroughly studied this latter subject
during my foreign trip as well as about silos.

There was plenty of fruit from the trees that had been planted. The
committee passed a rule that those appointed to gather the fruit should
bring it to the Chibutra where at evening it was counted or weighed by
the committee and each family given its portion.

The new houses were abodes of neatness, health and comfort, and each
family took pride in keeping everything in good order. My wife
instructed the women in various industries, among them making articles
to adorn their houses and themselves, so that they were most willing to
accede to her wishes. She gave them flower seeds and every house had its
pots of flowers. The women instead of idling, were very busy in their
household duties or carrying water for their flowers. The people from
the surrounding country for miles came to see my villages as to a fair.
It was something strange for them to see common natives enjoying so much
health, comfort and pleasure and their admiration was a stimulant to the
people.

I could but pity those around them living in poverty, squalor and filth,
with constant sickness, whilst their landlords lived in cities, grasping
everything they could from their miserable half-starved ryots.

There were several things from the absence of which we were blessed.
There was not an accursed opium den, liquor shop or money-lender within
our boundary, and I might add no oppressive, grasping zemindar. I had
prevented these evils from the first and the committees insisted that no
one should use opium or liquor; that no one should borrow money outside
of their own circles, and passed a usury law that no one should charge
more interest than six per cent per annum on pain of forfeiture of the
amount loaned, so that these village committees, unlettered heathen,
were considerably in advance of the great Government of India, that next
to the twin curses of opium and liquor, fosters the other curse, the
robbing of the poor by tolerating the incredible percentage of the
money-lenders.

The Collector of the district in his cold weather tour, once encamped
not far from one of the villages. The committee concluded to make up a
present for the Barra Sahib. They collected vegetables, fruit, flowers,
fish, milk and butter, quite a cart load. When well dressed they
appeared before him, to his surprise and astonishment, as he afterwards
told me, for he could not have got as good supplies from his own house
and garden. This reception greatly pleased them, and he promised to pay
them a visit on the following morning. Bright and early every one was at
work. The clean streets were sprinkled, and all put on their gayest
apparel. Nearly all went to the boundary to meet him, and followed him
in procession with the village band in the lead. This band was quite a
feature at our evening assemblies, melas and fairs. The instruments were
all native, and the music was not such as is heard in the Grand Opera
House in Paris, but it suited the people, so what more could be asked?
The Collector was completely taken aback at the sight, and still more
astonished when he saw the well built houses, every veranda adorned with
flowers and the clean sprinkled streets. They escorted him to the
Chibutra under the big tree, when he told them how pleased he was, and
thanked them for the presents they had sent. The women were particularly
happy when he complimented them on their appearance, the neatness of
their houses, the beauty and variety of the flowers on their verandas. I
was not aware of his going near the village, or I would have been
present, but I was glad that the people had acted of their own accord
and pleasure.

I have great faith in nature, that if man was not distorted by beliefs,
traditions, customs, education and society, he would be as virtuous,
honest and good as other animals; but that is another subject.

The committee sent me word of the Collector Sahib’s presence, so I went
out to show him due respect as a loyal zemindar. The committee had a
reason for my coming. The collector’s servants and camp followers had
raided the gardens, fields and fruit trees, taking what they chose and
refusing payment, as usual with them. Besides, some of them had nets and
were catching loads of fish of all sizes. To excuse themselves they said
they were the Barra Sahib’s servants, and wherever they went they took
what they wanted and paid nothing. This was the truth, but did not make
their robbery and insolence any more palatable to my people. On hearing
this I told the committee to come with me to call on the sahib. I had
not met him, as he was a new arrival in the station, and had not called
on me for the probable reason that the cantonment magistrate—somewhat of
a cad, always in debt to his servants and shop-keepers, having a lot of
gambling IOU’s against him in the club at the end of every month—had
dropped my name from the calling list which was in his charge, giving as
a reason to some one that newcomers might not care to become acquainted
with Eurasians. But then he was the second generation from a London
tailor, and as some society expert has observed that it takes seven
generations to make a gentleman, he was only two-sevenths of one, so no
matter.

The Collector received me with great kindness. He told me of his public
reception, how surprised and pleased he was, that the village was a
paradise compared with others, that it was the model village of all he
had ever seen. When about to take leave, I told him that the committee
were outside the tent. We went out. They hesitated, expecting that I
would talk for them, but I preferred to let them tell their own story.
Their leader began by saying how glad their hearts had been made by his
honor coming to them, that they were all his servants, that everything
in the village was his, and they hoped his highness would not be
offended if they said that some worthless fellows in his honor’s camp
had gone into the fields and taken vegetables and fruit and had caught
fish from the tank with nets which was against the rule, and given
nothing in payment except gali, and threatened if they were reported to
take much more. He told this with great effect in his own eloquent
village language which would lose all its force by translation.

The Collector at once became very angry and calling his servants
denounced them for committing robbery and disgracing him, and threatened
that if any of them dared to go near the village again he would have
them brought up and flogged. He offered to pay for the stuff stolen but
the committee refused payment as they did not care for the value, but
did not like the insolence and abuse. The Collector then thanked the
committee for reporting the matter. He remarked to me that this probably
happened wherever he went, and no one dared to report to him for fear of
ill treatment. I replied that I had heard of men boasting that they
liked to travel with Government officials, as it never cost them
anything to live. He asked me about the villages and I gave him their
history, of the fish supply in the tank and the rules about taking fish,
not omitting the committee compelling Gulab, as a punishment, to eat the
fish raw that he had caught, at which he was greatly amused. He
afterwards made several visits to the village, calling upon me. We had
some excellent fishing in the mornings at the tank, for he was one of
Izaak Walton’s followers. On his return to the station he and his wife
called on us, and we became the warmest friends, dining with each other
frequently, in spite of the fellow who had charge of the calling list.

I had another experience soon after, that was not quite so pleasant. The
time for the settlement or re-assessment of the village lands arrived,
and I went out to look after my interests while the Settlement Officer
was present. I had never met this man, but I knew all about him from a
to zed. I called at his tent and sent in my card, when it came back
written upon, “Please state your business.” Had I not known it before,
this would have shown me at once that he was English, for this is one of
their ways of showing their self-importance and of snubbing, as I never
met it in any other class. I wrote that I was the zemindar of the
village, and left him to infer what he chose. Had I stated that I wished
to become acquainted with him, he would likely have replied that he did
not wish my acquaintance, or some similar remark to show that he was a
gentleman; or if I had stated my business he might have sent word that
he would send for me when he wanted me; and this would also have been
English, you know.

I was admitted to the august presence, with scarcely a nod from him, nor
was I offered a seat. “Well,” said he with a brazen stare, “what can I
do for you?” treating me as if I were some itinerant beggar. I was
flustered and angry, for he had brass enough in his face and insolence
in his manner to upset the temper of a saint. I mildly replied that as
zemindar of the village I had come out of courtesy to him. “Well,” said
he, “as I am about to take my bath, I will bid you good morning,” and
out he went into another apartment.

I concluded to remain at the village, come what would, without expecting
the pleasure I enjoyed with my Scotch friend, the Collector. The village
committee took the Settlement Officer a fine present, but he treated
them with such contempt that they never went near him again. His
servants robbed the gardens and fruit trees, but I suggested to the
people to say nothing. He every morning fished at the tank and made
large hauls, while his servants came with nets and took away loads of
small fish as well as large. This was done daily, until it became
irritating beyond endurance. The committee came to me with complaints,
and I saw that I must do something or lose my position in their
estimation; so I concluded to beard the lion or jackass, whatever might
happen. I saw him seated in front of his tent. He did not rise or even
nod, or say anything. I did not know why he should have treated me with
such insolence, unless it was in the nature of the beast to do so.

“Well, what is it?” he finally asked. I replied, “I hope you will excuse
me for troubling you, but your men have gone into the gardens of the
villages and taken vegetables and fruit and abused the people when they
objected.” He stopped me with, “I don’t believe a word of it;
Chuprassi!” and up came a sleek villain whom I had seen in the gardens.
“Did any of the servants go into the village gardens and take
vegetables?” “Khudawand!” said the fellow with his hands together.
“Lord, why should we become bastard thieves when we have all we want in
his highness’ camp?” “There!” said the Khudawand, “I told you that it
was not so.” “But,” I remarked, “I saw this very man in the garden with
his arms full of vegetables.” He made no reply. I continued, “The people
do not mind the loss of the stuff, but they don’t like the abuse they
receive.” He only listened. Have you ever remonstrated with a man when
he only stared? Is there anything more irritating? I went on, “I built a
tank and stocked it with fish at considerable expense, and the rules are
that no outside natives shall fish in it, and the villagers themselves
shall not take fish under a certain size, and that no nets shall be
used; but your servants are daily using nets and carrying away loads of
small fish.” At this he sprang to his feet, blustering out, “I have had
enough of this. That is a public tank, and my servants shall fish there
if they want to.”

“No,” I said, “that is my tank,” when he cut me short, saying, “I have
had enough; I want to hear no more. It seems to me that you are putting
on a good deal of side for a damned Eurasian, if I must tell you so.”
“Eurasian or not,” I replied, “my father was and is H. J. Smith of
Jalalpur, and as you are his nephew we are cousins; and it comes with
bad grace for you to twit me of being an Eurasian when it was from no
sin of mine, but at the pleasure of your own virtuous, Christian uncle.”
This all came out in a volley before he had time to interrupt me. He
sprang to his feet, for he had taken his seat, his face all aglow with
anger, and shaking his fist at me while he stamped upon the ground, he
fairly shouted, “It’s a lie; all a damned lie! Do you wish to insult me?
You must leave at once. Chuprassi!” But I was off and away before his
minion could come around the tent.

It was some minutes before I recovered from my terrible anger, and then
I cursed myself by the hour for being such an ass, such an extra
long-eared one, for making a stupid blunder as to quarrel with a
Settlement Officer who had the valuation and taxation of all my lands in
his power. Though I had the satisfaction of telling the truth and
getting rid of some of my bilious indignation, it would have been better
not to have gone to him after the repulse of the first call; rather to
have lost all the fruit and vegetables, all the fish, both small and
great, before angering a settlement officer.

It is said that there are two parts in a man, right and left, to
dominate the brain in turn. When one part had spoken as above, the other
said, “Who cares what such a man can do? Is it not better to be a man
and stand up for your rights than to cringe like a coward and quietly
submit to the oppression of a tyrant? Was not the heavy blow that you
gave that insolent bully’s head worth more than all the increased
assessments he can make?” Thus the two parts of me alternately held the
floor, the one lamenting the probably increased taxation, the other
pleading for the rights of my manhood.

The officer did not depart for some days, and though I could do nothing,
I also remained. The whole of the camp followers, taking their cue from
their master, ravaged the gardens and fruit trees. Their delight was in
fishing with nets, a score of them, taking loads of small fish, out of
sheer sport. I remonstrated with them, but they replied with the
insolence of their master that their sahib had told them to catch all
the fish they wanted. The result was that there was not a minnow left in
the tank. The villagers were terribly wrought up. They proposed to
attack the thieves, but this would only have increased the trouble, as
my party would have got the worst of it, not in a fight, but in the
courts, where they would have been brought up for riotous conduct. Many
or all of them would have been taken away from their work or their
homes, kept in jail awaiting trial, and then likely be imprisoned for
years as criminals, for the sahib and his whole camp would have sworn
that my people were the aggressors. “He should hae a lang-shafted spune
that sups kale wi’ the deil,” and I knew that our “spune” had a very
short shaft compared with that of the English gentleman and his crew.

To vindicate myself, I explained to the villagers what I had done, and
was obliged to let them know what I thought of the sahib. The whole
village was intensely agitated, and nothing was talked of but the
tyranny of the settlement officer, comparing him with the collector
sahib, who was so kind and pleased.

It happened just as I anticipated, the assessments were increased twenty
per cent. Great stress was laid on the rich productive land, compared
with adjoining villages, on the valuable fruit trees, the comfortable
houses, on the tank yielding a large amount of fish.

On hearing of the officer’s report I wrote to the Government in the
Revenue Department, making a long statement, showing in what condition I
had found the villages, a lot of dilapidated huts; that I had
contributed several thousand rupees for the construction of houses; that
the soil had been very poor, which I had enriched with fertilizers and
judicious cultivation; that many acres were absolutely barren, usar
land, which I under-drained and fertilized with lime and manure, and
after years of labor and much expense, had changed it to productive
soil; that I had built drains for the streets, and made the villages
healthy; and lastly, I had built the tank and stocked it with fish,
employing men to go a great distance, and bring the best kinds. I might
have told how the tank had been robbed by the camp of the Settlement
Officer, but caution controlled me to say nothing that would irritate,
as I was now a supplicant for mercy, since I knew I could not get
justice. I prayed that under the circumstances, the assessment might
remain as formerly, or at the same rate as of the villages in the
vicinity.

My application was denied, on the plea that the Revenue Department could
not upset a report of the Settlement Officer who had been upon the
ground and thoroughly understood the whole matter.

I went to the Collector and laid the whole subject before him, asking
for justice, omitting all mention of anything unpleasant that had
occurred. He wrote to the Department stating that he had spent some days
at these villages; that they were models, not only of the district but
of all India; that he had never seen any to compare with them; that they
were like villages at home; that he was surprised and delighted to find
that such improvements could be made in India; but it was all due to the
energy and personal attention of Mr. Japhet, who had spent large amounts
of money in the improvements. He hoped, therefore, that the Board would
reconsider its decision, as it would only be just to Mr. Japhet to make
some concession. The reply was that in view of the representations of
the Collector the assessment would be reduced to ten per cent. above the
former rate, but “further than that it would not be advisable, etc.”

This was a gain, and somewhat satisfactory. If a robber waylays you, and
empties your pockets, it is better to accept a sovereign that he
generously offers you out of your own purse, than go without supper and
bed.

I had then the pleasure of re-stocking my tank with fish and in the
evening after it was finished, at our assembly, we had a kind of a
jubilee meeting, thanking our stars that another settlement officer
would not come again for thirty-three years.




                             CHAPTER XXXV.


This arbitrary assessment of lands without regard to the expense of the
improvements, is one of the greatest drawbacks to the prosperity of
India where there is not a permanent settlement. I have been told by
many zemindars that any improvement of their villages would only be to
their detriment, that the digging of wells and tanks, the planting of
trees and the enrichment of the soil, would only increase their
assessment. I have known of villages where lands were allowed to remain
idle, and become barren several years before the settlement, so that
they might be assessed as waste land. As soon as the settlement was made
these lands were again cultivated. The Government forces the people to
become deceivers. My experience showed me that the zemindars were
correct in their statements. That if one did not wish to be punished for
making improvements he should do nothing. It is a pitiable condition in
which to place the people by a civilized government that is continually
appointing commissions to formulate voluminous reports and getting the
opinion of scientific book farmers on the improvement of the
agricultural condition of India. What is the inducement for any one to
plant a tree, dig a well or tank, or improve the soil, when he knows as
sure as the sun rises, that the Government will fine him for all he
does?

If I had not an income aside of that of my villages, I could not have
done what I did. As it was I was rewarded by an increased assessment. I
could afford to pay the fine owing to the kindness of the friend of my
boyhood, but what about the millions of poor wretches who have no income
but from their daily toil?

It is now all passed with me except the taste of the bitter pill that I
was compelled to swallow, and still this is not satisfactory considering
that the pill never did me any good. Let it go, as there are so many
bitter pills in life, it is best to forget them if we can, yet I trust
and hope that at last there will be a permanent settlement of all of
life, whether for good or ill, so that we may know that everything is
settled, finished for ever.

One incident occurred that I do not like to mention, yet it comes along
with my story. One night the gentleman in camp sent his head servant as
a panderer to the village to get a woman. No sooner was his errand known
than the women rose in a body, flogging him with sticks and pelting him
with dirt. The fellow got away with his life, but not with a whole skin,
nor with scarcely a rag on his body. This greatly pleased me, as I was
aroused from sleep to hear what had occurred. This attitude of the women
was a recompense for all the robberies that had been committed. Here
were these heathen women, who had never heard the name of Jesus, and
knew no more about the creed and the theology of the Christian Church
than they did about the differential calculus, fighting for their virtue
and their sacred rights of womanhood, while there was that English
Christian gentleman who probably had been taught to pray at his mother’s
knee, and often rattled off the services in church, as I had seen him
do, waiting in his tent, with his thoughts bent on lust.

I was once in a dak bungalow when in the room adjoining mine was this
same gentleman with an officer of a regiment, a gentleman also, as all
officers in her majesty’s army are so ranked. As I was about to retire I
heard the chaukedar of the bungalow inquire, “Who goes there?” A woman’s
voice replied. “What do you come here for?” he asked. She answered that
the sahib’s bearer had come to the bazar for her. The watchman
indignantly told her to leave at once, as she had no business there for
any one. Is it a wonder that the heathen do not rush to embrace
Christianity when they see such worthy examples of Jesus people? I well
know that this same gentleman once intrigued with the wife of a
magistrate, and while the two were out riding and driving, billing and
cooing, the broken-hearted husband, left alone, sought the company of
the brandy bottle and killed himself with drink within a month, leaving
his wife a happy widow. Was not my cousin a worthy nephew of his
virtuous uncle, my distinguished paternal parent?

To show another phase of the character of this man. On one of his
morning rides he had gone through the main street of a large village. He
then sent back his sais to summon all the men he had passed. When they
were assembled before him, sitting on his very high English horse, he
said, “When I came through your street not one of you made his salaam.”
Brandishing his long riding whip at them and standing up in his
stirrups, he shouted, “If, when I come again, you do not salaam, I will
flog every one of you.” They all salaamed profoundly to the ground, and
very likely they did not forget his threat. Why should not these people
respect and love their conquerors?

Home again, with its quiet and rest, was a paradise after the unpleasant
scenes in the village. There was a stillness that at times was
oppressive, such as happens in an up country station when there is
little business; the bungalows situated in large compounds away from the
roads, and where for days in the cold season scarcely enough breeze to
rustle a leaf. We were seldom interrupted with callers. We did not seek
them, and by most of the society circle we were on the taboo list. Yet
we had a few special friends with whom we spent delightful hours.

We sometimes went to church as a diversion or as something required by
good society. The Chaplain had never called. He was no doubt an
excellent man in his way, and performed all the duties required of him.
He was an official paid by government to minister to the members of the
service, and the government, knowing how badly these people needed a
religious guide and teacher, did wisely in making this provision for
their wicked souls. Jesus looked after the poor, the outcasts.
Discarding society, he went into the by-ways and hedges, among the
lowly, but his modern followers, keeping step with the age, have
reversed his practice. Perhaps the modern rich society people are the
biggest sinners, so it is well, and why complain? Yet I could not help
thinking at times, that as one of the outsiders I had to pay taxes to
provide these reverend gentry with gowns, bread, butter, carriages and
wines, we might have received a little attention out of courtesy, if
nothing more. An outspoken native once suggested that if the Europeans
wanted a guru or priest and fine churches, why should they not pay for
the support of their religions, and not from public taxation? But he was
only a heathen, and what better could be expected from him? The
simplicity and ignorance of these people at times is astonishing.

One day we had a call from a missionary, a very little, pawky sort of
man, yet in the gelatine stage. He wore a black stuffy coat reaching to
his feet as to make up by it, what nature had stinted him in stature,
and it was buttoned close to his throat, reminding me of the scabs in
London who follow a similar fashion to conceal their lack of shirt. His
face and head were not as good a recommendation as his clothes. He
certainly was not the survival of the fittest, only an exception to it.
My wife, after seeing and hearing him for a few minutes, remarked
afterward, with the instinct of a woman, that he would never die of
brain fever.

After seating himself he said that he had often heard of me. I felt that
this was something in my favor at least, for what can happen to any
mortal man worse than not to have been heard of? He said that he had
never called because he had heard that I seldom attended church, and
that I was, well, to state it plainly, not quite orthodox. Such a
statement from such a popinjay was amusing. I gravely suggested that if
he considered me the lost sheep he should have left the ninety-and-nine
safe in the fold and sought after me. “Well,” said he, “I hope it is not
too late, and I trust you are not as bad as they make you out to be.”

This was encouraging, and I was hopeful. I inquired in what respect I
was said to be bad. I was becoming interested, as if in the presence of
a fortune-teller. He did not seem to know what to say, so I asked, “Do
they say I lie, steal, commit murder, gamble, slander, defraud, get
drunk or run after women?” “No,” he quickly replied, “nothing of the
kind. You have the reputation of being about the most upright man in the
station, and very kind to the poor; that no one comes to you but finds a
friend.”

He would have seen my blushes at these compliments to my virtues if
nature had not enabled me to hide them. I made up my mind at once to
give him a subscription to the paper I felt sure he had in his pocket.

Here let me observe that I am not at all opposed to subscriptions, for I
believe a thousand times more in paying than in praying, and if I were
to make a church catechism I would place as the first question, “How
much do you pay?” and the very last one, “Do you pray?” In most people
the nerves of the pocket are more sensitive than those of the heart, and
should be touched first. I said, “I am greatly obliged to you for so
good a character, though I do not see where the badness comes in.”

He replied, “That is not it. It is not what you are, or what you do, but
what you believe. They say that you do not believe in Jesus.”

“That is a great mistake,” I answered. “I do most profoundly believe in
him, that he was the best man that ever lived, the wisest teacher that
the world has ever seen, and in that respect the light of the world, the
Savior of mankind if they follow his example.”

“That is it, you do not believe that Jesus was the son of God.”

I replied, “That is another error, for I believe that he was the beloved
son of God, for the reason that so far as we know, he was the best man
ever born, and lived the nearest to God, and so was His well beloved
son; that as we are all the offspring of God by creation, and by pure
and upright lives all become the sons of God, but as Jesus was the best
of all, he was the son of God, our elder brother in the great human
family.”

He asked, “Do you not believe that Jesus is God?”

“Most certainly not. I would feel that I was an idolator, and committing
sin in accepting such a belief. There can be only one infinite God,
without body or parts, one and indivisible.”

“Do you not then believe that Jesus was conceived of the Holy Ghost?”

“Positively not. It is absolutely impossible for me to believe that the
Infinite God could be born of a woman, or have a son by a woman. Such an
idea was born of paganism, and is a degradation of the Almighty to the
notion that the pagans had of their gods.”

“Mr. Japhet!” he exclaimed, “I am really shocked that you should say
such things. It is too serious and sacred a subject for such remarks.”

I answered: “There is nothing too sacred for examination by honest
reason, and a devout common sense. I was afraid, when this conversation
commenced, that something might be said to displease, if not to offend
you, but you asked me straightforward questions, and I have told you in
reply what I believe and do not believe. I know that such expressions,
as I have used, might shock many, and they might wonder that I was not
killed instantly by fire from heaven, or be stricken with paralysis, for
uttering them. Yet, I have no fear of either. I have weighed these
subjects, and thought of them for years with the utmost reverence and
fear of God, and with devout prayer to Him for light and help, so I do
not speak lightly or in haste. I am just as jealous of my faith in the
God I worship, and try to obey, as you can be of yours. As to one of the
expressions I used, do you not make as strong and plain statements
against the heathen notion of gods, when you are preaching in the
bazars?”

“Yes,” he answered, “we do use strong expressions when we are speaking
against idolatry, for ours is the only and true God.”

I replied, “Your own conception of God, you believe to be the true one,
but what about those of other men? Can they not also have their ideas
about God, and be as honest as you are? The trouble is that Christians
‘reduce their God to a diagram, and their emotions to a system,’ and
then demand that everybody else shall believe and feel as they do, or be
considered not orthodox, heretics and infidels.”

He did not reply to this, but said, “I am sorry that you do not know
Jesus as your Saviour, and feel that his blood washes away your sins.”

I answered, “I do know Jesus, but I prefer to trust the Infinite God, my
Heavenly Father, as my Redeemer and Saviour. I want no one, not even an
angel from heaven to come between me and God. If my father, God over
all, cannot, or will not save me, who else can? As to the blood. Blood
of any kind is offensive to me. I shudder at the sight of it. And the
idea of washing or cleansing anything with it is so contrary to my
reason, and repugnant to my feelings, that I cannot think of it without
repulsion.”

“But, it was shed as an atonement for us,” he suggested.

“Take it in that light,” I replied, “It is assumed that God, the Creator
and Preserver of men, is a pitiless tyrant; that his wrath must be
appeased, or bought off by sacrifice. At first the fruits of the field
were given to Him, then the blood of animals. Then the notion grew until
the blood of something higher than that of a common animal was deemed
necessary, the blood of men, and then the blood of a god. How was it to
be got? It must come from heaven, of course, and finally resulted in the
notion of an incarnation of God in a woman, a horrible thought to me.
The whole idea is heathenish, brutal and debasing. Everything of this
kind, whether in the Bible, or elsewhere, is of man’s own invention,
degrading the Infinite God to a creature like to their own depraved
natures. Take the better thoughts of the Bible, and God is a spiritual
being, delighting in spiritual worship, and caring only for the intents
and purity of the heart, but this was not satisfactory to mankind. It
was too pure and simple to suit their coarse, corrupt natures, but they
must put in a lot of mysterious rubbish of their own, to suit a god of
their own devising, and with tastes like theirs. It was more pleasant
for the ancient Hebrews to atone with hecatombs of burnt offerings for
their transgressions, than to practice purity and justice. It is far
easier for people, at the present time, to accept the creeds, perform
the sensuous, pleasant ceremonies of the church, and believe their
salvation, however sinful they continue to be, will be obtained in some
vicarious way, than to save themselves by living pure and upright lives.

“Men are never satisfied, unless they reach the extreme, always
delighting in the mysterious.

“What do these notions of men teach? That God created men, with power to
violate His laws, and then became vengeful and full of wrath, that they
did just what He gave them power to do, and was ready to damn them all,
for doing just what they could not help doing? Man’s explanation of the
matter does not correspond with the character of God, as given by these
same men. They describe Him as omniscient, omnipotent and omnipresent, a
God of infinite wisdom, love and tender mercy. It is stated that God
made man, and pronounced him good, but the creeds teach that God
afterward found out that He had made a mistake, that His work was evil.
He discovered, when too late, that man, whom He had made good and
upright, would violate His laws, which was a surprise to Him, and He
must find out some excuse, so as to avoid the execution of His own laws.

“The whole story is a muddle, evolved from superstition and ignorance,
in fact, the whole scheme is of man’s invention, not from the highest
ideals of mankind, but from the lowest instincts of the human race. It
degrades the character of the Almighty, and places Him on a level with
the most ignorant human brute of a tyrant. They make their god, not
mine, in the likeness of sinful men, fashion him, giving him their hates
and revenges, and in their arrogance, assuming that they know all about
him, demand that all the world should bow down and worship this image of
their own manufacture.

“I had rather be an infidel, and take my chances, than accept the
blasphemous nonsense that many people believe about God. I cannot
believe that an infinitely all-wise God could be guilty of the mistakes
attributed to Him, or that a God of love and tender compassion could be
propitiated, and delighted with blood from the slaughter of innocent
animals, or the blood of men, or as they call it, ‘the blood of the Son
of God.’” The little man was greatly excited, and would have interrupted
me, but I kept on.

After a pause, he said, “Our belief is founded on the Bible as the
inspired word of God; don’t you believe that?”

“Yes,” I replied, “as the production of men, some of it the grandest
truth ever given to mankind, and other not fit to be put in the same
book.

“First, as to the authenticity of the Bible. The authors were men, not
differing from other men, with limited faculties, fallible as all men
are, and liable to mistakes. They may have been honest, with the best of
intentions, yet this is no warrant that they could not be mistaken. It
is evident that they were affected by the times in which they lived,
were influenced by their surroundings, and directed by their education,
though very meager. It is well authenticated that the writers never
wrote all that is attributed to them; that many things were interpolated
by others, several centuries later, to make up a creed for the church to
suit themselves. It is not known just when the Bible was written, nor
the authors of the different parts, or whether any one part was written
wholly by the one to whom it is ascribed, or afterward compiled from
various sources. It is well known that there were many writings, and
that those now composing the Bible are selections from them all. If any
were inspired, why not all? If all were from God, why should some be
chosen and others rejected? It was a daring, sacrilegious thing to do,
men becoming the judges of the revelations of God, that is, if they
believed they were from God. There must have been doubts about the
authenticity of them. If there were doubts about some, why not about
others, about all? If men in ancient times, no better or worse than we
are, could have their doubts and make their choice of what they supposed
to be the word of God, why should we not have the same right to use our
judgments? In fact, the knowledge of every kind that the world has
acquired, the distance from the events recorded, uninfluenced by the
prejudices and associations affecting the writers of the books of the
Bible and those making the selections, make men of modern times more
capable of considering what is truth and what might be considered the
word of God. Scientists of all kinds do not accept all the ancient
theories, not because they are indisposed to do so, but for the
indisputable reason that these theories or dogmas do not harmonize with
the truth or demonstrated facts.

“If any beings higher than men had composed the writings and made the
selections then all questions of mankind would be idle. Or if the
writers and selectors were proved to have been of a superior class,
above the weakness and limitation of ordinary men, then there might be
great hesitation about expressing any doubt, and no desire to
investigate or criticise. But as they all were only men, sinful, weak
men, all of them, why should any one hesitate to think or act for
himself as to what they wrote? They have given no authority or proof of
any superiority, or power delegated to them to dominate the beliefs and
actions of mankind. God is our God, just as much as he was the God of
the Jews, and He is just as near to us as He was to them, and we cannot
admit that He is not as willing to reveal Himself unto us as He would do
to them, nor can we allow that He selected a certain number of men,
several thousand years ago, from an obscure and inferior race, and made
them the depositories of all His truth and laws to suffice for all the
rest of the world, for all ages, and that He then retired from the
spiritual vision of mankind. This is so inconsistent with His constant
watchful care over every other interest of the world that such a thought
cannot be entertained for a moment.

“If one supernatural revelation, why not another, and many? Or why
restrict it to one people, or to one period of the world’s history?

“The conclusion is, mine at least, that the writers of the Bible, and
those who selected it and interpolated the different parts, were men,
and did the best they could, according to their ability and the light
they had, and being only men, they and their works are to be estimated
and judged by men, as all other things are judged. We read the works of
ancient or modern authors, we criticise the style, admire the knowledge
and truth, expose the errors, and value the books for what they are
worth according to our best honest judgments. Why then should we not
pursue the same course with the books of the Bible, written also by men?

“I know that it is claimed that the writers of the Bible were inspired.
How do we know this? There is not a particle of proof of this except
their own say so; that God favored them any more than other men, or that
they had any more knowledge of the secret councils or purposes of God
than other seekers after truth and lovers of righteousness. All truth is
hidden for our search, as are the precious things of earth, of science,
art, philosophy, and those who seek most diligently attain their rewards
in finding the best things that God has provided for those who strive
and search.

“You asked me questions and I have given you my best answers. They are
my sincere convictions and honest beliefs.”

“Well, I must go,” he said very sadly. “I think you are an honest man,
but badly deceived, and hope you will pray for light on these great
subjects.”

In return, I suggested that I would gladly help in his work if he needed
money, so his subscription paper came out, and he left, probably happier
in his pocket than in his mind.

After he left I had some such thoughts as these with my books: All
religions start with remarkable personages, gradually elevated into gods
and semi-gods. A distinguished English writer says of Buddha, “It has
almost invariably happened that the later followers of such a teacher
have undone his work of moral reform. They have fallen back upon
evidence of miraculous birth, upon signs and miracles and a superhuman
translation from the world, so that gradually the founders in history
become prodigies and extra natural, until the real doctrines shrink into
mystical secrets, known only to the initiated disciples, while the
vulgar turn the iconoclast into a mere idol.” Would not this apply to
Christians as well?

Another says, “All popular theology, especially the scholastic, has a
kind of appetite for absurdity and contradiction. If that theology went
not beyond reason and common sense, her doctrines would appear too easy
and familiar. Amazement must of necessity be raised, mystery affected;
darkness and obscurity sought after and a foundation of merit afforded
to the devout votaries, who desire an opportunity of subduing their
rebellious reason by the belief in the most unintelligible sophisms.”

Ignorance begets superstition. Then easily comes a belief in the
miraculous, and from this, creeds are formulated and faith placed in
them. People have but little sense where their hearts are concerned, in
religion as in love. There has never been a proposition so absurd or
outrageous but has had believers in it. The more impossible and
mysterious a thing can be made, the more readily it will be accepted.
Mystery not only fascinates many people but makes them its devotees.

One of the strange things is, that people who demand a reason for
everything about them, become dupes of that which is afar off, which
they cannot know and which no mortal can explain. Objecting to that
which is reasonable, they rush to accept that which is absurd and
incredible. Human nature is fascinated by the mysterious. The clergy
have to perform and preach something, and that something would lose all
its awe and force if there were no mysticism in it. What would jugglery
be if every one understood the tricks of the juggler?

If human testimony could establish anything, there has never been an
error but could be made an apparent fact by any number of witnesses.
Probably hundreds of thousands could be found to testify to miracles at
Lourdes, and to any number of so-called miracles elsewhere, and here in
India millions of people could be got to affirm the reality of events as
improbable. Before science was known every mystery was a miracle.
Miracles are not required to prove a truth. Facts need no authority. Yet
a belief in a personal devil and a literal hell seems to be a necessity
to restrain and influence those who could be reached in no other way. As
ghost stories are used to frighten children to be quiet, so a belief in
hell seems to be required for a certain class of people of infantile
mental capacity, or of vicious propensities and habits, that no refined,
moral instruction could reach. They are below philosophy, art or
science, and must be cudgeled or frightened into decent behavior.

To the poor, who have never had a shilling ahead in their lives, a
heaven paved with gold is the greatest thing to be desired. To those who
have spent their lives in a one-roomed hut, a heavenly mansion of many
rooms is their notion of comfort. To those whose lives have been filled
with weeping and sorrow, a hereafter, where there shall be no more
trouble or tears, is a hope of greatest bliss. To a Greenlander, a hell
of fire would be heaven. One who has no intellect or capacity of
thought, and hence no conscience, could not appreciate a spiritual
condition of the soul as heaven or hell, and must be reached through his
body, his material nature, which makes up ninety-nine hundredths of his
being. He can realize no other than a hell of fire, a gehenna of
physical torture. For such people a real, live demon of a devil, and a
real hell fire, is an ecclesiastical necessity. Uneducated people, like
children, must be kept in order by bugbears.

Said Dr. Johnson, “Sir, I would be a Catholic if I could, but an
obstinate rationality prevents me.”

Strip Christianity of its mythology and its doctrines are simplicity
itself. The moral law is as plain and simple as the multiplication
table. Tell a child that two and two make four, and it needs no argument
to make him believe it. The laws of God, either in the religious, moral
or scientific world, are self-evident. Thou shalt not commit sin.
Everybody, even the most illiterate savage, knows what it is to sin. The
soul that sinneth, it shall die. This every one can readily comprehend.
These two facts are enough, without any of the mumble of mysticism or
any ecclesiastical trickery.

Says Savonarola, the martyr for freedom and truth, “God is essentially
free, and the just man is the free man after the likeness of God. * * *
The only true liberty consists in the desire for righteousness. * * *
Dost thou desire liberty, O Florence? Citizens! would you be free? Love
God, love one another, seek the general welfare. We despise no good
works, nor rational laws, albeit they proceed from the most distant
places, from philosophers or pagan empires, but we glean everywhere that
which is good and true from all creeds, knowing that all goodness
proceeds from God.”

To be good and to do good is the highest aim of man. It is to know the
physical, moral and social laws and to obey them. A good man, from the
necessity of his nature, will do good. To be good and do good, is good
or Godlike, and to be Godlike is to be saved. This is the sum total of
life. O God! help me to be good and do good, that I may be saved.




                             CHAPTER XXXVI.


The years were passing and very little occurred to break the humdrum of
our life. We never were idle, for if not occupied in the duties that
succeeded each other, as the night the day, we were engaged in our
mutual studies. I had never told my wife of my father, or of Mr. Smith
being my half brother. Somehow, I never could muster up courage enough
to do this. Not only that, but I felt that if I should once begin, I
should have to go through the hateful story from a to izzard, and I
shrank from the task. The longer I delayed the less inclined I was to do
it. There was so much in it that was awful and disgusting, that I would
have given much to have blotted it from my own memory, and did not wish
to soil her pure mind with its recital. Somewhere, I have read of a
painter who said that he never looked upon a bad picture but he carried
away a dirty tint. My wife was to me as a priceless painting by the
greatest of masters, and I wished to preserve her in all her loveliness
and purity. I tried constantly to cultivate this feeling, and with this
thought uppermost, I very often restrained myself from saying or doing
what might soil her mind. I may be peculiar in this, as I am in so many
things, yet I am what I am, and what else should I be?

I am reminded of something Mr. Jasper told me in one of his interesting
conversations. It was about one of his visits in Paris. One evening,
looking at a shop window on one of the boulevards, he was approached by
a young man who presented his card and offered to be his guide. “What
have you to show me?” asked Mr. Jasper.

The proposed guide enumerated a list of the most disreputable sights and
places, and then Mr. Jasper interrupted him with “Who goes to see these
things?” And the reply was in a list of prominent men, distinguished
divines from London, a prominent minister from Brooklyn, some from New
York and Chicago, and other noted men. He had a long list of those he
had shown around to these stys of vice and pollution, and as Mr. Jasper
questioned him about the characteristics of the different men, they were
so correct it was evident that the guide had not made up his story.

Said Mr. Jasper to me while relating the story: “I wonder if these men
ever thought that their names would be quoted as recommendations to
future visitors. They probably thought, as they were away from home,
their salacious doings would never be known, but if so they were greatly
mistaken. The world now is very small, only a large neighborhood in this
age of fast travel, and there is no concealment of anything from your
fellow men, much less from yourself and the all-seeing eye of God, yet
people fool themselves that it is otherwise. When the guide had
completed his descriptions of the sight-seers, I asked: ‘For what
purpose did these men go with you?’ He was somewhat taken aback by the
question, and then with hesitation replied: ‘Some of them for scientific
purposes, but the most of them to see, and they seemed to enjoy the
sights.’ Then I said, ‘Young man, you see my clean clothes, should you
throw any filth on them I would knock you down, yet I could easily have
them washed, and it would be only an offense, but here you deliberately
propose to take me around and show me foul sights that would make filthy
stains upon my mind to remain for life and throughout eternity, that
neither I nor God himself could ever remove. You are an infamous dirty
dog, and the sooner you leave me the better, or I will give you
something to remember,’ and the guide shrank away like a dog that had
been kicked.”

I have often thought of this lesson taught me by my friend and further
added my own reflections. Suppose I had some valued painting by one of
the great masters that I was protecting with the greatest care and some
one should soil it, if only just for a joke, what would I think of him
or do to him? Yet I have heard of men, and I regret to say, some
Christian men and clergymen too, and of women in society, who take
special pleasure in gathering up all the obscene bawdy stories they can
find and pride themselves on being racy raconteurs of these unsavory
bits to their fellows. They are the devil’s best agents in corrupting
humanity, that is if they are not each a devil himself. What puzzles me
is that some people passing good at home, should take special pleasure
in hunting up the nasty things when they go abroad.

What affects me more than all, is what relates to myself, for it has
always been a habit of mine to bring everything to a personal test, to
weigh it upon my own scales. These questions I have often asked, “Why
was I created as I was, in a condition where I had to come in contact
with vice in my earliest years? Why was I thrown on to the dirt heap of
the world? If the all-wise, loving God, intended me to be pure in heart,
why did He not with His almighty power create me where I could have had
the best opportunities for a noble life?” My questions have never been
answered.

Another question might be asked that would be personal and from which I
do not shrink. Why do I tell the story of my life that has so much of
evil in it? If I told anything, what else could I tell but the truth? A
man can only paint what he himself has felt. I have not told it with
pride, but with the deepest humiliation. I have not rolled my story as a
sweet morsel over my tongue. I have had a motive of good in the telling,
to show up the wrongs I have suffered and to reveal the infamies of
others who have made me suffer, as a warning, or as the theologians say
when they excuse the scripture descriptions of the frailties and sins of
the Bible worthies, that these are given as warning lessons to mankind.
So I am on safe ground. But I have wandered again.

I think I was speaking of my wife as my choicest treasure, the priceless
painting of my life and home, which I wished to keep from every evil
touch or injurious thought. This is why I never told her of the worst,
the meanest parts of my life. With her I always followed the Hindu
proverb, “Tell your troubles to your own mind, tell your happiness to
the world.” An incident occurred to remind me again of the old subject.
I tried to forget it and to do this more effectually, became absorbed in
various things, yet doing our best we cannot always avoid the
disagreeable. Even the best of roads will have holes in them. There is
an irony in fate, something in our destiny that ever upsets our wisest
endeavors, plan them as we will. I have frequently noticed that when I
have congratulated myself on the smoothness of my life, the success of
my plans, something suddenly came to upset them all. “The best laid
plans of mice and men gang aft aglee.”

That sister of mine, no longer little, but the mother of several
bouncing boys had, with her husband, paid us several visits. They were
leading a busy, happy, prosperous life. She had been well educated, so
my wife found in her a genial companion, and their coming to us made a
kind of festival in our home. On one of these visits an uncle and aunt
of my wife’s had come to see us on their tour through India. Our
Collector and this gentleman were old acquaintances, so we were all
invited to a large dinner party at the Barra Sahib’s. On entering the
drawing room we found quite an assembly of the society people of the
station. As we went up to greet the hostess, to my consternation there
stood my venerable father and my distinguished half brother. They were
so placed that they could not escape if they had desired to, and we had
acquired such momentum that we could not retire. There was no
alternative but to face each other. My heart beat at a thumping pace,
and every one of the seven hundred thousand pores in my body became an
aqueduct, and in a moment I was in a glow of heat and perspiration. This
was not from fear, far from it. Had I not been dared by this parent of
mine, and had I not met him and thrown his insults back into his own
face? I had no fear of him whatever, nor did I fear that white-haired,
white-faced half brother of mine; he, too, had fallen before my well
barbed shafts. It was not of myself that I thought. Had I been alone I
would have risked my soul, but I would have given them each something to
keep as a memento of our meeting. I truly confess that I would have
hugely enjoyed this, let others say what they might about such a
feeling.

There was my wife. She knew nothing of my relation to this couple, nor
would I for the life of me have revealed a word and I knew she could
hold her own in any tilt with them, but my sister, the daughter of the
one, the half sister of the other, to meet her own father who had
betrayed and seduced her! Since that fearful time when I had rescued her
from his baneful power, we had never mentioned his name. We would have
erased and annihilated from our thoughts and lives every remembrance of
him if we could. I know this was my feeling and I am sure it was hers.
She was beautiful, as my little sister, as I think I have said before,
but now developed into a very handsome matron. As she had been educated
in the best schools in France and England and been polished by travel in
different countries, she could appear in any society with dignity and
grace.

But to my story. We were in a tight place, at least I was. I doubt if
ever I thought so quickly in my life as then. The thoughts came like
flashes. I had the most anxious solicitude to shield this beloved
sister. Our hostess received us most graciously, and then began to
introduce us. At first to those nearest her, who were Mr. Smith and his
son. I bowed. Then my wife acquitted herself nobly, as if the two, sire
and son, had been members of the royal family, and if this had been her
first meeting with Mr. Smith, Jr. I was proud of her, for she was a
queen to me, then as always. Then Mrs. Edwards, my sister, the daughter
to her father who had been mistress to him.

There was a scene. Not a word was said, only a bow, but I saw from the
flushes of paleness to red on the old man’s face that he was conscious
of all the past. He no doubt had his turn of nervous thinking as I had
mine. I certainly would have prevented this meeting had I had any
suspicion of it, but as it was I had—call it a wicked pleasure if you
will—a delight in thus facing my enemy and giving him something to
remind him of his sins. All this took place in a moment, for others
coming up, we passed on and into another room. Then I saw my sister
greatly agitated. She did not utter a word, as if she was conscious that
I understood as well as if she had told me all with her lips. I led her
to a seat, and my wife remarked about the crowd and the heat in the big
room. Such a relief to always have that to which we can attribute our
troubles as well as our sins. Every heart knows its own sorrows, and
what a blessing it is that every one else does not know them. So far so
good, but I still had my anxiety. I was fearful that our hostess in her
ignorance might arrange that another face to face encounter would take
place at the dinner table. I was in a quandary and probably in a greater
state of excitement than was Napoleon at Waterloo. Our hostess soon came
up, saying, “Mr. Japhet, you are to take Mrs. Shanks to dinner.” “And my
wife and sister?” said I, interrupting her. “O,” she replied, “Mr.
Smith, Sr., will take your sister, and Smith, Jr., your wife.”

This gave me a shock as from a battery, and I broke in, “Why not let my
wife go with Mr. Smith, Sr. She would like to meet him.” This was a lie,
unintentioned, as I was at my wit’s end, and on the impulse of a moment
did what most, even the best of people might do in such a case, told the
smallest, whitest lie I could. “It is well,” she said; “I will arrange
it at once.” And she did. So my father took out his daughter-in-law, my
wife; and my half brother his half sister. The two couples were seated
some distance apart, so I was somewhat at ease. Nothing further occurred
to disturb me, and I made some excuse to take away my company soon after
dinner. I never wanted such another encounter. Life is too short to have
many such excitements that set the heart going like a runaway engine
under an extra pressure of steam.

On our return home my wife and sister seemed to have enjoyed their
company. The one certainly never suspected that her consort was my
father, her father-in-law. Though now aged, he was an accomplished man
of society. I say it, though he was my villain of a father, he could
pose anywhere with the outward grace of a gentleman. Outwardly in
“society” he observed the decencies of life, but his hypocrisy was a
sufficient cloak to conceal his immoralities. The other did not realize
that her escort was her half brother and mine as well. Why tell them?
This question often came to me during years afterward. Why did I allow
them to go out with these men? I cannot tell. We are not always able to
give a reason why we do thus and so. Another question. What would these
ladies have said and done had they known who their gentlemen were? I can
surmise about my wife. Had she learned at table who he was, my venerable
parent would have thought himself in a hurricane storm off the Irish
coast, as she would have given him such cutting strokes of her native
wit that he would have preferred a dish of bitter herbs to the elaborate
spread before him, so her ignorance was bliss to him.

It appeared that my sister in her agitation at seeing Smith Sr. did not
catch the name of the other man when she was introduced, so after our
return home she asked his name. I quickly replied Smythe, Smithers, or
some other name commencing with S. She asked no further and I was
content. Now comes a question in morals, whether it is ever right to
deceive. One of the maxims of the Roman church is that “it is an act of
virtue to deceive and lie when the church might be promoted.” If the
church can do this by a pious fraud, why not an individual mislead
another for his good? But I will not discuss the subject. Had she
suddenly become aware that she was seated by her half brother, the son
of her father, she would have fainted or rushed away in fright and
disgust.

It is well we do not know everything about others, nor in fact all about
ourselves. Any one will loathe his own skin when seen through a
microscope. A traveler once dined well and heartily, praising the roast,
but on being informed that it was monkey, was suddenly afflicted with a
mal de mer, and was ill for a week afterward. To make him turn pale it
was only to say “monkey.”

But how did the gentlemen feel? I don’t know. The one I think was so
blasé in sin that he would have bluffed either an angel of light or the
devil himself, and without a blush. I have often imagined a little
scene, a catastrophe that I might have made by some introductions, as
“Mr. Smith, my father, your daughter-in-law, my wife,” or “Mr. Smith,
your daughter, my sister,” or “Mr. Smith, my brother, this is your
sister.” I am glad now that I was not fool or rogue enough to have done
it. Yet there would have been lots of fun to me in the doing of it, and
lots of misery to two of them at least. We get pain and trouble enough
without trying to make it.

I ought to state that the Smiths were unexpected visitors in the
station. It seems that the senior, then an old man, had retired from the
service and was living in a hill station and had gone on a holiday visit
to his son. The latter concluded to take a run up to our station, and
brought my father with him. The old man had probably a desire to look
over his old stamping ground, but did not expect to run against his son,
that is me, or to see his daughter, the once governess whom he had met
years ago on the parade ground, and whom he had betrayed under promise
of marriage. I might have invited him to visit Lucknow with me, to go
out through that old gully to the little court where my mother, his
wife, had lived, but why surmise any further?

The above was my last meeting with those two relatives of mine. I never
cared to know where they were or to trace them, and would most willingly
have ascribed to their memory the Romish letters R. I. P.




                            CHAPTER XXXVII.


There is always plenty of work if one is inclined for it. I was always
busy. My wife once remarked to a neighbor that if Mr. Japhet had no work
he would invent some. I could never understand why any one having common
sense, any strength or energy should be idle. I took great pleasure in
setting people to work. I was not always successful, who is? Charity is
often more hurtful than otherwise, unless the recipients be in ill
health or incapable of labor. It degrades the one who receives it,
lowers his manhood, deprives him of that self respect so necessary in
every vocation of life.

My duty and pleasure was especially to help Eurasians, those of my own
unfortunate caste or race. I knew them so well, for was I not one of
them, yet so highly favored? From the time I had met my unfortunate
schoolmates repulsed from many a door of the mercantile Christian
gentleman in Calcutta, I felt a special yearning towards this class. My
experience at that time was a life lesson to me. From that time never a
poor wanderer came to me searching for work or food but I thought of
what I might have been but for that dear friend of my childhood.
Further, it seemed to me that I was in a measure his steward, having in
trust his wealth to use for him. I never forgot his often saying, “Now
Charles, let us go to our religious service in feeding God’s poor.” He
never talked about religion and I never knew from his lips what his
creed was. His life was a creed in itself, and it might be put in these
words: “Be good yourself and do good to others.” What more can man do or
God require? This little simple creed seemed to permeate his whole
being, his thoughts, his soul, all his actions. I recall now his intense
earnestness, his tearful eyes, and the prayerful expression of his face
when he gave out the money or the food. He did this with such devotion
as if it was a sacred religious act in the presence of God, and was it
not? I have said something of this before but it will bear repeating
again and again. Was not this truly following Jesus? Canon Farrar says:
“Religion does not mean elaborate theologies, it does not mean
membership in this or that organization, it does not depend on orthodoxy
in matters of opinion respecting which Christians differ, but it means a
good heart and a good life.”

Jesus never made a creed or said anything but what the simplest mind
could understand. He went about doing good, giving his life for our
imitation, following which we may become pure in heart and see God, his
Father and our Father. Mr. Percy was a follower of Jesus. Often when I
was about to turn some one away without relief, the question would come,
“What would Mr. Percy do if he were here?” The answer at once came, a
gift was bestowed and I enjoyed many a blessing in this sacrament of
giving.

I think we may often be too careful in our charity as if we knew
everything and bore the whole responsibility. Some never give because
they were once “taken in” by some unworthy one. This is simply an excuse
for their own selfishness and stinginess. Better be deceived half the
time, than fail to help the real deserving, the other half. It is our
duty to give with the best discretion and then leave the responsibility
with God. Surely He will regard us as having done our duty to the best
of our ability. The world has no use for a man who never helps another.
He is only a useless part of humanity and the sooner he dies and is put
out of sight the better. Let him go, who cares? The man who has no poor
or distressed to mourn over his death has failed in life, a sad failure.

I remember of reading an incident that, somewhat hardened as I am,
brought tears to my eyes. A little girl, the daughter of a poor woman,
going up to the coffin of her mother took hold of one of the cold hands
saying: “This hand never struck me.” It was a simple childish saying and
I don’t know why it should have affected me so.

What better epitaph could one have than that made by a crowd of poor
around a coffin pointing to the lifeless hands saying, “Those hands were
always ready to help us.”

“Not he that repeateth the name, but he that doeth the will,” is worth
remembering. “As long as thou doest well unto thyself, men will speak
well of thee” is a worldly maxim, but a heavenly one might be added:
“When thou doest well unto others then God will regard thee with favor.”

But I am moralizing again.

As I said, all during my life I had been giving assistance especially to
the Eurasians, but these favors were desultory, scattered like the floss
from the ripe pods of the semul tree, blown no one knows whither. The
angel above, no doubt has a record of them, and I in the consciousness
in having tried to do good, and so far it was well, but I wanted to see
some tangible results.

There was a large number of these people in the station. Only a few of
them had employment. The rest were like sheep without a shepherd, or
rather, to use a truer expression, they were like mongrel pariah dogs,
owned by no one and kicked by every one, and like such dogs getting a
living by picking up any stray bones they could find. They were not
inside anywhere. At the sports, races or any festivity they hung around
the outskirts. If they went to church they were seated in the tail end
of it and got only the drippings of the sanctuary. Only a few ever went
to church. They felt they were not wanted even in the so-called House of
God. Is it any wonder that they lost all ambition, all energy, lacking
faith in everything good and noble, despised and cursed their own abject
condition and helplessness? Tell a boy constantly that he is going to
the dogs or devil and the chances are that he will make your words
become true. The devil comes when he hears his name often called. The
seeds of ill once planted will grow and come to maturity no one knows
when, where or how. These people slunk away to their dens, where they
lived in idleness and squalor and became acclimatized to evil. Not all
of them I am glad to say, but too many of them I am sorry to admit. Some
of them indulged in vice of the most degrading kind. Their worst enemy
was the cheap liquor, provided for them by a benevolent Government, and
every one who has visited this class of people in their huts, not
houses, knows what the curse of drunkenness is to them.

To remedy this condition of idleness I got together a number of this
class, and after talking over the situation, suggested that we start a
factory of some sort in which only Eurasians would be employed. The idea
was accepted at once. It was made a joint stock company with the shares
so small that any one could get an interest in it. One proviso was that
when any one wished to buy a share, the one having the largest number
would be obliged to sell his extra shares at their first cost, and so
on, until no one would own more than one share if there were buyers. The
object of this was to get as many as possible to have a personal
interest in the factory. All the stockholders were to vote according to
the number of shares they held, for the officers and direction of the
business. There were no paid directors to meet whenever they chose for
the sole purpose of getting their fees, nor any agents to get a
commission on the product without doing anything. We had a long
discussion on this latter topic, and it was repeatedly iterated that the
great curse of every business in India, is the agents or middlemen, who,
with the directors, take the largest share of the profits. We would have
none of them. We would sell our goods at low prices direct to the
purchaser and consumer.

The project was soon successful. Every workman soon had a share or
shares, as it was considered an honor to be a shareholder. There was to
be a meeting once a month, or oftener, if the manager or any ten
shareholders deemed it necessary, when each shareholder had a right to
give his opinion and a vote was taken, the majority to rule. At these
monthly meetings it was customary to have a lecture or discussion on
something connected with the business. One was given on the proper use
of tools, another on machinery, one on the saving of material. The
speaker on this latter topic referred to Samuel Blodgett, called the
“Successful Merchant.” This gentleman, who knew every part of his
business, from cellar to garret, was one day watching a boy do up a
package. When it was finished he said: “My boy, do you know that if
every one in the house doing up a parcel should use as much paper and
twine as you do, it would almost ruin us?” Then he untied the package,
and made a much neater one with half the paper and half the twine.
Turning to a clerk he asked how many packages they sent out a year. He
then computed the waste of paper and twine, amounting to quite a sum.
“There, my boy, you see what a waste there would be, so don’t let such a
mistake occur again.” Then the lecturer urged the workmen to be very
careful in saving every bit of wood, iron or any material, and then
appealed to them that if each only wasted a quarter of an ana a day
during the year, it would be a great loss to all, giving the amount. The
speaker on tools and their use, went into all the details, showing the
value of a good implement over a poor one, and the benefit of keeping it
in the best condition. Another talked on the value of time, of being
punctual, and showed the loss there would be if any were late or
indolent or had to run around the shop looking for tools.

These lectures had a very beneficial effect. Besides, there were others
on subjects not immediately connected with the business, such as health,
temperance, morals. In brief, the project ceased to be an experiment, as
the business became a means of livelihood to many, and better still,
made them men.

This business was exactly in line with my theory. That in order to
reform men, to lift them up from a level with the brutes, you must first
give them a means of earning a living, give them enough food to eat,
clothes to wear, and a decent place to live in. Until this is done, what
is the use to talk to them about their souls, or preach to them about
sin, or unfold to them the glories of Heaven, when they are sunken in
the mire of earth up to their necks, and cannot get out of it? Why teach
them how to fit themselves for Heaven, and not how to live on earth
unmindful that the latter comes first? “Why fence the field when the
oxen are within devouring the corn?” Man is first an animal, and what he
needs first is food. Feed him, and then preach to him, if you choose.
Poverty destroys honor and self respect, and so long as a man is
tortured by cold and hunger, he cannot be reached by moral forces. The
best way to prepare mankind for a home in Heaven, is to make it decently
comfortable for them on earth. Says a distinguished writer, “Give to a
man the right over my subsistence and he has power over my whole being.”

Our success in this matter was all we could expect. Still there was
something wanting. Outside of the business the men were left to
themselves each to wander in his own way.

At times I had invited them all to my house with their families, and my
wife joined me heartily in entertaining them, but this was not quite
satisfactory. There was naturally restraint. There was no place of
public resort for them. I could sympathize with them, for I had been
excluded from the club, yet had my pleasant home, my garden, my books,
and far above all, my wife. We could have our daily drives, and often
pleasant company, but where could these people go? I had resources
enough and it has always been in my nature to be independent, for I had
rather sit down on a pumpkin, and have it all to myself, than to be
crowded on a velvet cushion.

One night, as I lay awake or half dreaming, my guiding angel gave me a
suggestion. Years agone, the magistrate of the station, my paternal
relative, though I was not aware of the connection at the time, had
forbidden me to proceed with a building I had commenced. From that time
this ground had been unused except as a pasture for my cows. The
suggestion was, why not use this ground on which to erect a hall or
building of some kind where the Eurasians could resort? I was willing to
devote the ground, but the building, who was to erect it?

At our chota hazri the next morning I had no sooner mentioned the
suggestion than my wife exclaimed: “The very thing! Let’s do it at
once!” If it might be allowed me to use the words of a great man, I
would quote the remark of Edmund Burke about his wife, and apply it to
mine: “She discovers the right and wrong of things, not by reasoning but
by sagacity.” She never opposed any good proposal of mine, and when she
differed from me, it was with such a sweet reasonableness and loving
persuasion that I took real pleasure in yielding to her suggestions.
Never once did I have to ask like the Scotchman, “Wha’s to wear thae
breeks, the day, you or me?” Carlyle says: “The English are torpid, the
Scotch harsh, and the Irish affectionate.”

My wife was the latter, and if she ever guided me, it was through her
affections, but this is beside the story.

My next thought was to see Mr. Jasper, not only to get his opinion, for
I had determined on my plan, but more to hear myself talk on the
subject, and to judge from his manner on hearing me, if the thing was
feasible and best. There is something in hearing one’s self talk over
his own plans, but I must check myself, or I shall be dreaming again.

He heard me all through very calmly, and replied:

“Yes, it is a good scheme, but can you carry it out?”

“Will you help?” I asked quickly in my enthusiasm. He did not reply at
once, but sat silently, looking towards me or away beyond me, for some
moments, and then said, “You have asked me a very important question.
You know how I feel towards you, Mr. Japhet.”

“Yes,” I replied, “I know and wish to say that there is not a man living
whom I respect more for his good judgment and kindliness of heart
towards me than I do you.”

I said this because it was the truth, and I wished him to know it, not
that I intended to bait him with any sugared words. Had he declined to
help me even with a rupee, I would have said what I did.

He continued, “You know me too well to take offense at what I am going
to say. You know the Eurasians, what they are?”

“Don’t I know?” I exclaimed. “Am I not one of them to my sorrow and
shame?”

Without regarding my remark he said, “The natives are bad enough in
every way, just what their ancestors and circumstances have made them.
They are born deceivers and liars. They are capable liars, and can tell
a lie with a semblance of truth in it, and then to protect the first
will thatch it with another, and so on indefinitely as they build their
roofs, one thatch upon another. The Europeans are not noted for lying.
They will stave off everything they don’t like to admit, with a bluff,
or a ‘mind your own business.’ They are licentious. I think this is
their greatest and worst vice in India, if not at home.”

“Do I not know this?” I asked. “Do I not carry the proof of this in my
face every hour I live?”

Said he, “To come to the point. The Eurasians, not all of them, but
many, have all the vices and scarcely any of the virtues of both races.
They will tell lies of the weakest, flimsiest kind, with not the shadow
of a leg to support them. They make promises and break them without any
hesitation whatever. They are indolent and indifferent, without any of
the stamina of manhood. They are weak-minded, soft-hearted and careless.
They are lacking in courage and manly character, destitute of ambition,
easily offended, and will throw up a position because some little thing
does not please them, when they know it to be almost impossible for them
to get another situation. When one leaves his place, if unmarried, he is
most likely to take some little silly young fool for a wife to starve
with him. And then they breed like rabbits, as is the case all over the
world; the poorer a people, the more children they have. I have seen so
many of them, and you know I have assisted them; yet they have so often
abused my favors and kindness, that I sometimes question if they are
worth saving.”

I interrupted, “This is a very severe indictment, yet I cannot help
admitting that there is much truth in it, for have I not also had
experience with them? But who made them such as they are? Are they not
the effect of a sufficient cause? Am I to blame for what my father, a
Christian gentleman, made me, an Eurasian? Are not these poor people
made what they are by no fault of their own, and to be pitied rather
than cursed and shunned? Do they not of all people in India need
sympathy and help? Would it not be the will of God that we should give
them assistance and lift them out of the pit into which they have been
cast?”

“Yes, yes, Japhet, you are right, and I am pleased to hear you talk as
you do. Your reference to God reminds me of a story. A street urchin who
had just lost his mother was sitting on the kerb-stone, sobbing as if
his heart would break. He began to pray to God for help, when one of his
chums sneered at his praying. He retorted out of his sobs, “What is God
for if not to help a feller when he needs Him most?” So I suppose if we
are to do the will of God we should assist those who need our help the
most, and I don’t know of any people who need our help more than the
Eurasians. Mind you, I don’t promise anything, but will think it over,
and will let you know to-morrow if I can do anything.”

I took my departure, believing in my soul as surely as I expected the
sun to rise the next morning, that he would help me. He was that kind of
a man, though he had given a very poor opinion of some of the Eurasians,
yet I knew that not one of them ever went to him in distress without
receiving help of some kind.

The rest of the day and night my head was full of plans and schemes. I
could think of nothing else. And my wife was as excited as I was. Why
should I not give way to my enthusiasm? Why should one made of flesh and
blood, with feelings, appear like a man carved out of wood or stone?

Early the next morning a chuprassi brought a note from Mr. Jasper. It
said: “My dear Japhet: I like your scheme, and will do this—double every
rupee you expend from other sources, until it is fully carried out. I
am, &c.”

As I read this I sprang to my feet with a bound, and my wife, who had
been looking over my shoulder, fairly danced. I know that tears of
gladness came into my eyes, not only for the princely munificence of his
offer, but for the magnanimous character of the man I then esteemed as
my best and truest friend. I like to give way to my joys, as I have too
often had to yield to my sorrows.

I replied to the note in unbounded thanks, expressing a hope that he
might never have occasion to regret his magnificent proposal.

The ground was already provided, and now half of the expense was
secured, so the project was assured of success. I at once drew up a
sketch for a building, the foundation to be four feet above the ground,
so as to be no down-in-the-mud affair; a large carriage way in front, an
entrance hall, a library and lecture hall to be separated by purdahs,
curtains, to be used as one room in case of necessity, a billiard and
smoking room, and a refectory.

My wife, looking on, remarked, “That is all very well for you men, but
where do we women come in? Have you forgotten us? I have some money to
invest in this enterprise, as well as an interest in looking after the
rights of the women.”

I might say here that she had considerable money, over which she had
entire control, and with which I never interfered except to advise her
about it when she asked me, which she often did. I believe in the equal
rights of a woman with a man; that she should have an absolute control
over her own property, and an equal share with her husband in all wealth
acquired after marriage. They both should be equal partners in the
marital firm.

“Certainly, my dear,” said I, “the women must have their rights and
privileges, and to show our appreciation of them we will place them over
us, give them the story above, where they can look down on us, for this
is only the ground plan.” And she was satisfied.

My next move was to draw up a prospectus, or a statement of what was
proposed, and the necessity for it. I made no mention of Mr. Jasper’s
offer, or what my wife and I would do. I wished to get every Eurasian in
the station to have an interest and share in the affair. I had no idea
of leaving any one out, no matter how poor they were, even if they could
only subscribe a rupee. I do not believe in one or two, or a few,
bearing all the burdens for the many. Besides, it was not so much for
the money as a personal interest, to develop the manhood of even the
poorest, and make them feel that when they came among us that they had a
right there.

I started out with the paper to get subscriptions. The first I went to
was the personal assistant to the Commissioner of the Division. I knew
he resented being classed as an Eurasian, and kept aloof from them,
claiming that he was of French descent, but if he was not a dusky son of
the sun then his color lied. Everybody knew that his grandmother was as
puckhi a native woman as ever sat cross-legged and ate dhal bhat with
her fingers. He never associated with Europeans, and had only two
intimates of a like grade as himself. He declined very abruptly, as he
had no interest in the matter. He held himself very lofty and reserved,
as if he had been made chief toe-nail cutter by appointment to the
Viceroy. I did not waste any time on him or upon his two friends, who
made the same excuse. I was rather glad of their refusal, and only went
to them to prevent their saying afterward that I had not applied to
them. They were very important personages in their own estimation. Their
money was not needed, and their manhood had no basis on which to
develop.

Among all the others I had great success.

The plan was settled and the building commenced and pushed on as fast as
possible. I wanted everybody to see that we meant business. All seemed
to acquiesce in feeling that I should manage the affair. In fact I never
had a thought about this but went ahead. Then my engineering education
came into use. I assumed the whole responsibility, and whether the
subscriptions were few or many, I concluded that my wife and I, if
required, would balance every rupee of Mr. Jasper’s with one of ours.
What I wanted most from the subscribers was their personal interest.

As the building progressed it became quite an object of attraction.
Every morning and evening, numbers would come to see how their building
was going on. Not the least interested was Mr. Jasper, for he seemed to
be always there, watching and anxious with pleasure. He greatly admired
the plans, and gave many valuable suggestions. He had great taste and
pleasure in gardening, and one day proposed to lay out and prepare the
grounds. I suggested that he keep an account of the expense, to be
deducted from his subscription. “No,” said he, “you go on with your
work; do not mind me. This is my affair entirely.” I did not object, as
I was not willing to deprive him of the pleasure this would afford him.

It was not long before the building was finished. It was a work of art,
and would have been the pride of any station or city. It was as
substantial as lime, brick, stone and iron could make it, with the
finest of wood work and marble floors. The grounds were very ample, and
by the time the building was completed they had been, through Mr.
Jasper’s efficient supervision, converted into a park, with flower
gardens.

In the meantime we had a number of meetings of all the subscribers at my
house, and various suggestions received as to the furnishing. The upper
apartments were left entirely to the women, with my wife in lead. There
sprang up a great rivalry between the sexes as to which should have the
best furnished rooms, and various were the questions asked of us men
about our plans. My wife put on her sweetest smiles when interrogating
me, but I was dumb except to say that we would not interfere with their
arrangements, and she would reply, “If you think you will get ahead of
us you are very much mistaken.” And I knew we would be.

I had frequently observed our non-subscribing Eurasian fellows driving
by on the road and looking at our work with a good deal of interest. One
morning the one of French descent came to me where I was superintending
some work, and greeting with a good morning, said, “After all, Mr.
Japhet, I don’t know but what I ought to help you in this.” I cut him
short by replying, “Thank you very much, but we have now got all the
money we need, and so do not care for any more subscriptions.” He seemed
quite taken back by the reply, and began praising the building, but as I
was very busy he soon left. I took a perhaps wicked pleasure in giving
him this rebuff, more so, that he had received me with such haughtiness
on my going to him.

Several had expressed their pleasure that this man and his two friends
had declined to subscribe, as from their position as head clerks they
imitated their English examples, and had presumed to be of a higher
class than the other Eurasians in the station; that had they come in
they would have had a great deal to say. They never ceased to regret the
attitude they had taken after seeing our success, and were probably very
much chagrined that we could get along without their advice or money.
They never came to us, except by special invitation to some of our
entertainments, and then were only invited to see what a pleasant place,
and the enjoyable times we had. This may not have been the best of
motives, but let those who are without fault in such matters, hurl
stones at us.

In an up country station, where everybody’s business is known, and
inquired into by everybody else, such a building as ours, two-storied,
when there was not another of this height in the station, a very large
puckha one too, with large, ornamental grounds around it, could not fail
to excite attention.

The station club-house, frequented by all the civil and military swells
and their families, was a low down, mud-walled, tawdry affair, with a
dingy, thatched grass roof, the building having been erected during
years by additions, so was without form or comeliness, becoming more
disreputable in appearance in proportion as our building grew in size
and beauty. Through some of my acquaintances in the club, I learned that
our enterprise was a subject of daily talk at their evening gatherings.
They had discovered that it was to be for an Eurasian club, as they put
it, though we had not yet named our infant. One, who lived in a
two-roomed, cheap bungalow asked, “What do the half castes want with
such a building as that? It is a blanked sight too good for them!”
Another remarked, “Why did the Collector allow them to put up such a
building just opposite to ours?” Then one replied, “It is no matter,
they will not be able to keep it, and then we’ll get it for ourselves,
as it would just suit us.” One made a remark that hit me home. “That
Japhet is the leader in it, and it seems to me that he is putting on a
good deal of side.” “Why the devil shouldn’t he, when he has got the
money to do it with?” asked an impecunious sub, whom I had favored with
several accommodations.

This, and much more, was the line of their daily conversation, but
little to our credit, taking their words at their full meaning, but
greatly to their discredit, judging from the motives of the speakers.




                            CHAPTER XXXVIII.


One morning, as I went to look at the work, I saw a well dressed
European walking about, and examining the building, with the air of a
Lord Moses at the head of the public works department. I paid no
attention to him. He came up to me, and without a nod, or salutation,
asked in an authoritative tone, “What is this building for?” as if I was
some native mistree. I replied that it was for a library and reading
room, with a lecture hall to be a resort for the Eurasian community. He
asked, “Is it not too large for them? Could they not have done with a
cheaper building? It is a very fine building, too good for them, it
seems to me. In fact, I have not a very good opinion of the Eurasians.”

I interrupted, “You are talking to one now, and I do not think your
remark very becoming, at least, it is not pleasing to me, for you, a
European, to speak so of a class of people, who are here, or the most of
them, through the lusts and licentiousness of your Europeans.”

I was angry, and he saw it. He reddened up and said, “Excuse me, but I
did not know you were an Eurasian, and you know that present company is
always excepted.”

Either he was guilty of dullness, in not perceiving my complexion, or
else of lying, and either was the same to me. I turned, and went to look
at some work, and thus began and ended my only interview with the
Commissioner of the Division. This little matter quite upset me for the
day, for this reason. This man of pink eyes, white eyebrows, and yellow
complexion, in appearance, manner and insolent words, was so like that
paternal ancestor of mine that the sight of him, with his insolence,
brought all those black, hateful scenes of my earlier life to my mind
again, not that I cared so much for the name Eurasian, as applied to
myself and others, for I had given him the word, but on account of his
insolence and insulting remarks.

On another morning came the Collector of the District, quite a different
type of man altogether from the Commissioner. He was very courteous,
praised the building and grounds, hoped our undertaking would be most
successful, as it was just what was needed. “By the way,” said he, “why
didn’t you send your subscription paper to me, for I would gladly have
subscribed.” I thanked him, saying that except two, all the subscribers
were Eurasians, as we preferred to have them own the building, and feel
that it was theirs. “A very good idea,” he answered. “As you will not
let me help you with money, I will give you my best wishes for your
success, and bid you good morning,” and shaking my hand, he left. There
was such a wide contrast between this man and the Commissioner, that I
enjoyed as much pleasure from his call, as I felt angry and disgusted
with that of the other.

Still another caller, and he the Chaplain. Though he had been more than
a year in the station, he had never called on us. We had never met until
he appeared that morning, at our house. He introduced himself as the
Chaplain. He need not have done this, as he had the padri marks all over
him. He excused himself for not calling, on account of his many duties.
Considerable of a lie for a padri to tell so early in the morning, I
thought, for I had often seen him going to the club to idle away his
time.

After some thoughtless conversation he hemmed and hawed, as some men do
when they are in a quandary, or destitute of ideas, but finally said,
“Mr. Japhet, I have noticed for some time past that very few Eurasians
come to church, and as you have great influence over them, I trust you
will use it for their good, and get them to attend divine service.” I
replied that I had no influence over them in that respect, that if the
church could not draw them, I certainly could not, and would not drive
them to it, even if I had the power to do so; that I always reserved my
right to decide for myself in all religious matters, and conceded to
everybody else the same privilege. He left this tack, and began praising
the building, inquired its object, and then suggested, “You will soon
have the opening, I suppose, and as the Lord Bishop will soon be here on
a visitation, would it not be well to invite him to preside.” I saw
through his scheme at once. It was to get his fingers into our pie, or
in other words to make a grand affair of us for his own eclat, with pomp
and procession by the help of the Lord Bishop. Certainly, I did not give
him a hint of my thoughts, but replied that we did not know just when
the building would be finished; that we had formed no plans about the
opening.

Others seemed to be suddenly afflicted with an intense desire to have
the opening in good form. Among them my courteous caller, the Collector
wrote, suggesting that the Commissioner be invited to preside on the
occasion. I silently passed the note to my wife who viewed it for a few
moments and then exclaimed, “The idea! Should he dare to preside after
making such insulting remarks to you about the Eurasians, I would hiss,
and every woman present would follow me. If you men have not spirit
enough to stand up for your honor, and are too cowardly to resent
insults, we will show you what we women can do,” and she would have done
just as she said, for like a good and true wife she was very quick to
resent anything that disparaged me. Then she laughed, one of those
joyous inspiriting laughs, “Wouldn’t it be fun, though! Do it, Charles,
do it; get him to preside, and I’ll give you a thousand rupees for a
piano. It would be the best scene at the opening when all we women stand
up and hiss until His Highness should retire.”

I wanted no such fun as that, though I would like to have pleased my
wife and wanted the thousand rupees, so I calmly wrote to the Collector
describing the call of the Commissioner and his remarks against the
Eurasians; that some or all had heard of what he had said, and that it
would be impossible for them to treat him with respect. I think the
Collector was not at all displeased with the result, as there was not
much love between the two men, and I mistrusted that the Commissioner
had given a hint of the subject of the note to me.

Then there was a lull for awhile in regard to the opening. At length the
building was finished, not a touch more needed anywhere and all as neat
as a pin. I think that is the phrase to use, as good as any other. Our
furniture was of the best kind, a goodly number of new books were on our
library shelves, and the tables in our reading room were covered with
magazines and papers, and best of all, everybody was delighted and
happy.

I feel like moralizing on the new life that had come into our people.
They seemed to be endowed with a new energy and inspiration, as if
they felt they were somewhere and somebody. They carried themselves
with an air of independence, and had thrown off that limp and
God-and-man-forsaken appearance that they formerly wore. They had
become proud, and that is one of the necessary elements in the making
of manhood.

“Independence is the rarest gift and the first condition of happiness.”

We had a general meeting, or several of them, in the lecture hall, of
the women and men, for the women had an equal share in everything, and
woe to the man who should have dared to propose anything else. I think,
and am proud to say, that my wife was probably the instigator in this
equal rights matter.

At our meeting it was voted that our building and association should be
called “Our Club.” A constitution and by-laws were adopted, a committee
of management elected for one year, consisting of an equal number of
women and men who were to elect their own president.

At another meeting came the question of the opening or dedication of the
building. Then there was an excitement. Some one not quite in the inside
who had not heard of the insulting remarks of the Commissioner, proposed
that that gentleman be invited to preside on the occasion. He had no
sooner uttered the words than he was silenced by a storm of noes, those
of the women the most emphatic of all.

There was a little fellow so retired and diffident that I had never
heard him make a remark in any of our meetings, though he was always
present. He sprang to his feet, lost sight of himself and rose to the
occasion. Said he, “I am utterly opposed to inviting any outside
Europeans. If we get one of the swells to preside he will look down on
us and talk to us as if we were children, fools or outcasts. We have
been patronized long enough. We are always put in the background,
crowded into the outskirts, treated as scum or menials, except when the
Europeans can use us for their own advantage. Then they fawn on us as if
we were dogs, to do their bidding. They do not want us anywhere, and
always treat us with contempt. Even a blatant Babu is treated with more
respect than we are. They will not allow us to enlist as soldiers. They
insult us when we ask for employment in the Government offices. The
Government Railway Companies and the merchants stick up notices ‘No
Eurasians need apply.’ When they advertise for clerks they add, ‘No
Eurasians wanted.’

“In the mutiny they made all the use they could of the Eurasians. They
were then considered good enough to help them fight and to protect their
families. But if another mutiny occurs, the Babus or the Russians may
take the country for all the help these haughty aristocrats will get
from me.

“Don’t I know what I am talking about. My father was a shopkeeper in
Lucknow at the time of the mutiny. All of his stores he took into the
residency and gave them out to be distributed among the officers and
their families. While the stores lasted he was patted on the back. It
was Mr. Evans here and Mr. Evans there; let us see Evans! He was put in
the most dangerous places of defense. What a favor! When the mutiny was
over and others received medals and honors, his name was not even
mentioned. He was only a shopkeeper and worse, an Eurasian. When he
suggested payment for his stores he was told that he must submit to the
usages of war, so he was left without a rupee for the support of his
family, and died almost a beggar, though he had taken many thousands of
rupees worth of goods into the entrenchment. Officers who had drunk many
cases of his wines, and whose families had been kept from dying through
his supplies of canned goods, afterwards did not know him when they met
him face to face on the road. I could tell of the rebuffs and insults he
received from them when he applied for honest work, but what is the use?
Everybody knows the story and everywhere it was the same. It is time we
stand up for ourselves and demand our right to live. If we are so
lacking in energy that we cannot do this, and are so degraded as to be
willing to be insulted and patronized as inferiors then the sooner we
die the better.”

These are only a few of his sentences. He was greatly excited and each
sentence came out like the puff report from a Gatling gun. His remarks
had a great effect and it was some minutes before the audience became
quiet, for he was cheered again and again.

Then some one arose and very deliberately said: “I heartily agree with
every word Mr. Evans has said. It is time we cease to be patronized. We
have been made slaves, menials, and been done to death by patronage, as
if we existed only through the mercy and favor of these haughty
over-bearing Europeans who are the sources of our being and the causes
of our degradation. Without any further remarks I would suggest that we
have no occasion to go outside to solicit any one to honor us with his
presence. We have one among us, of our own class, who is our best friend
as we all know, and but for whom we would not be assembled here
to-night. Need I mention his name—Mr. Japhet—”

At this I sprang to my feet, for I had been silently enjoying, listening
to the various speakers, thinking that from the independence in their
remarks they had already mounted several rounds of the ladder towards
liberty and manhood.

“My friends,” said I, “kindly allow me a few words. We have one among
us, though not of us, and as he is not present I can speak freely of
him. He is our truest and best friend, and has done more for us than all
the rest put together. Therefore I move that this our sincere friend,
Mr. Jasper, be invited to preside at our opening and give us an
address.” As I spoke his name, there was such a cheering that the rest
of my sentence, was completely drowned. It showed such a unanimity that
it was not necessary to put the motion to a vote.

I had never told any one except my wife, of our friend’s most generous
aid, as he had requested me not to do so, but all knew him well and
esteemed him as their friend and one of the noblest of men.

Thus this long mooted question was settled and the other part of the
programme was soon arranged. We were to have music by some in our own
circle and by some other musicians, the best we could get, besides we
had our grand piano, and paid for by my wife, though she did not do it
at the expense of the Commissioner Sahib’s discomfiture.

Some one asked if it would not be proper to have the Chaplain make a
prayer? For a few moments no reply was given, then one with the fervor
of little Evans burst out, “Who is the chaplain? Where is he? What is
he? What have we got to do with him? What has he done for us? We do not
even know him. We were born without him, have lived without him and
shall have to die and be buried without him, unless he can find it
convenient to leave his croquet or billiards and rattle a prayer over
our graves.”

Nothing more was said about this, not even a motion offered, and the
little chap did not so much as receive an invitation to our opening. Why
should he? He had never called on any one of them, never noticed them
and so was nothing to them. What else could he be? His time was so
occupied in “Society,” at the grand dinners, at the lawn parties,
gossiping with the women about the latest fads in church decoration and
millinery, preparing sermons on the wearing of surplices, the position
at the eucharist, or the sign of the cross at baptism, the training of
his surpliced choir, his postures and intonations, his daily visits to
the club; so engrossed with the silly sheep and the follies of his flock
that he had no time or inclination to look after the poor outcasts, the
goats outside, so why should these run after him?

I think this was the milk in the cocoanut in regard to the opinion and
feeling about the Chaplain.

There was a disposition not to have any Europeans present except Mr.
Jasper and my wife, but I proposed that the Collector and a few others
be invited and no objection was made. I had a sinister motive in this
which was to have enough of this set present to see what we did and to
circulate the report in “Society.” There was a Mrs. Grundy, a terror,
not to evil-doers, but to everybody else, on account of the wagging
facility of her tongue. She resembled a busy bee in this, that she was
always busy and carried a sting in her tale. Her husband was an
homunculus of a man, so counted for nothing. As I knew she would be
excessively flattered by an invitation when all the others were left
out, and as she would make an excellent substitute for a night reporter
on a morning paper, she got one of our engraved cards highly perfumed.

The women took charge of the refreshment part of the ceremony, and
assisted with their good taste in the decorations, and it is not
necessary to say that everything they did was worthy of them.

Mr. Jasper at once consented to preside and to deliver the address, as
it was a pleasure as well as a duty he felt he ought to perform. The
time came. There were a number of Eurasian friends from other stations,
besides those who had aided us with their subscriptions. “Our Club” was
crowded to its fullest capacity. It was a rare entertainment. The music
with several recitations, the refreshments and the after social visit
were very enjoyable, but the creme de la creme of the occasion was the
address of Mr. Jasper, so characteristic of the man, eloquent in its
rhetoric and delivery, but still better because he spoke the thoughts of
his soul, with such kindly, yet severe criticisms of the Eurasian
character as to make us all wince under them, and with such tender
urgent appeals as to bring tears into the eyes of everyone.

The main idea was the development of true manhood and womanhood, first
in purity of thought. “For you are what your thoughts make you, and
remember that every thought you have and every word you utter are
immortal and will effect your souls forever.” While he was describing
his highest ideals of character the audience seemed lifted up above
themselves with holy aspirations, and when he showed the failure of many
and the causes of them, every one could see himself as in a polished
mirror and feel that he himself was being described. As several said
afterwards, Mr. Jasper could not have given a better description of
themselves had he known every secret of their whole lives. There was not
an objection to any of his criticisms as all knew they were true to the
strictest line. He took an hour in the delivery of the address though it
seemed not more than half that time as all were entranced by his earnest
thoughts. The address was printed to be kept as a creed or a Bible among
us. Why not as a Bible or Sacred Scripture as good as any other man or
set of men could make for us? All truth is true, no matter who utters
it. “Precepts and promises from the lips of Jesus are not made true
because he uttered them, because they were eternally true in the
beginning with God.”

A little incident occurred during the social part of our opening that
greatly affected me. Among our guests were a woman and her husband from
a distant station. She was of fine appearance and address. She came to
me and taking my hand, asked, “Mr. Japhet, do you remember me?” I could
not for the moment recall her, and she remarked, “Do you remember once
at night rescuing a young girl from two policemen? I was that girl, and
many a thousand times have I thought with tears of joy of what you did
for me! And I have prayed for you almost daily that the richest of
heaven’s blessings might descend on you. Where would I have been taken
and what would have become of me, if you had not saved me from what
would have been my fate infinitely worse than death! I owe my life here
and my eternal life, all I owe to you. You were indeed my savior, and I
want to thank you with all my heart and all my soul.”

She wept for joy, as the contrast, of what she might have been and her
present position, overcame her. I would belie myself and not be true to
my manhood, if I did not admit that I also wept. What could give me a
greater joy than to have been the means of saving a soul, and she an
innocent helpless girl, from the jaws of a monster vice, and from a life
of the foulest degradation, misery and eternal death? Better this than
to be a hero in the greatest battle of the world. Such a deed, I can but
think it, has an eternal record of good, while even the destruction of
one fellow mortal in war, bears with it an everlasting stain and
remorse, though it may win a medal or an empty plaudit to perish with
this life. Some one has said: “He that saveth a soul from death shall
hide a multitude of sins.” I trust this may be true for me.

She introduced me to her husband, a fine looking man. I heard afterwards
that they were well-to-do and highly esteemed. She had heard of “Our
Club,” and they came of their own accord, as she wished to see me and to
express her gratitude for her salvation, as she called it. They were
introduced to my wife and invited to our home where the whole story was
retold and again she expressed her thanks with tears. There was joy not
over a sinner that repented, but over an innocent one saved from sin and
death. Is it not far better to keep people from sinning than to redeem
them from sin?

“To prevent the commission of crime, prevent the manufacture of
criminals.”

The Collector was one of our delighted guests and could not be lavish
enough of his praise, and ever afterwards was one of the best friends of
the Eurasians, giving employment to a number of them. Self help leads to
other help, and the gods help those who help themselves. He was often a
welcome visitor to Our Club and did not hesitate to make his tiffin of
our soup, excellent bread and butter, and to praise our coffee, better,
he said, than he could get at home and asked the privilege of getting
his supply of bread and butter from our kitchen.

I need scarcely say that with our opening began a new era among the
Eurasians. They took upon themselves a self reliance, an independence
and an ambition to make themselves, what Mr. Jasper called in his
address, true men and women. Even the very poorest of them walked more
erect, when they could think of being members of the club, having a
place they could call their own, and not live in a perpetual fear of
being snubbed and scorned where they were not wanted. Not the least of
the incitements to their energy and ambition was the interest “Our
Club,” excited among the outsiders. Many sneered at what they called the
“airs,” the Eurasians were putting on. Many were the insulting remarks
that came to our ears. The lash of envy is often a greater stimulant
than words of praise. A very few spoke well of our enterprise, though
all seemed to feel a chagrin that we had such a grand building and much
finer grounds than theirs.

Our work was not finished with the building. The management was yet to
come, though as there was such an unanimity, there was little trouble.
We had made our laws and rules. One of the most prominent matters was
temperance. No intoxicating drinks were to be allowed on the premises.
This was one of the laws fundamental and ever to remain unalterable. Mr.
Jasper urged this with all his force of words. Another was that there
was to be no gambling or betting of any kind, though there were fine
billiard tables and other games for recreation and amusement, but no
money to be involved in any game; no profanity, indecent stories and
remarks, or improper behavior. Any one violating these laws was to be
excluded from the privileges of the club at the discretion of the
managing committee. No one was to be admitted without the payment of a
fee, so small as to be within the means of the poorest. Nothing was to
be donated by the club, as it was not to be a pauper asylum or a free
soup kitchen, but it was assumed that the members might and should pay
the fees of any they chose and purchase tickets for food. This would
maintain the integrity of the club, stimulate benevolence among the
members and tend to create independence in all. It was accepted as a
part of our Gospel that all were to help each other, and especially
those the most in need. Mr. Jasper made a point that the degradation of
only one individual would affect the whole community as surely as that
the smallest pebble thrown into the biggest ocean would make a ripple.

Our Club was for the development of manners, morals and mental growth,
not for one day in seven, but every day in the year.




                             CHAPTER XXXIX.


I had a chance to indulge in one of my fads. I always respect a man who
has a good fad, for there are so many aimless, jelly fish, fad-less
people in the world. One of my notions that has strengthened with my
years is—that much of the lack of energy in many people, the great cause
of drunkenness, and of much of the crime, is the want of good,
wholesome, stimulating food. “Pain is the prayer of a nerve for healthy
food.” “A man is what he eats,” or as the Hindus put it, “The milk of
the cow is in her mouth.”

It may seem absurd to some great lordly persons who know everything for
others and little for themselves, for me to have such a thought, yet I
do not know why I should not have my opinion about things as well as
other people. The views of even the wisest and best men are attacked, so
why need I hesitate or fear? Even the lean Cassius dared ask about the
great Cæsar,—

“Now, in the name of all the gods at once, upon what meat doth this our
Cæsar feed—That he is grown so great?” and it is allowed by common
consent that even a cat may look at a king.

I have always known from my own introspection that I had more energy to
work, more charity for the poor and been less inclined to meanness, when
I had good nourishing food, than when as in my school days, I was hungry
and faint on watery soup and half-boiled vegetables.

With these views I determined on trying an experiment in “Our Club,” as
I was sure it would be for good and certainly do no harm. We engaged an
excellent manager of the cookery and refectory in an Eurasian widow.
Eurasian, as we had decided to employ only our own people, except for
the most menial work. It is not a very good commentary on the native
Christians of India, that Christian families, padris, missionaries,
church committees or even the Bible and Tract Societies will not employ
them, but take heathen servants to their exclusion. If Christianity in
two hundred years has not been able to produce a servant that a
Christian might employ, is it—but what is the use of talking?

Apropos of this is a statement made by a prominent clergyman at a Church
Missionary Congress. “After a century of effort, the expenditure of many
noble lives, as well as of some millions of money, the Church of
England, extraordinary to say, has signally failed to establish one
solitary or single native church in any part of the world—that is to
say, a church self-governed, self-supporting and expanding, or
exhibiting any true signs of vitality as a church. This is a tremendous
indictment, I know, but for long, my heart has been hot within me and at
last I have spoken, not without, however, having weighed well my words.”

This woman was a model of cleanliness. One of the mottoes on our walls
was “Cleanliness is next to Godliness,” and under it printed in large
type was the remark of Sir B. W. Richardson: “Cleanliness covers the
whole field of sanitary labor. Cleanliness, that is purity of air;
cleanliness, that is purity of water; cleanliness in and around the
house; cleanliness of person; cleanliness of dress; cleanliness of food
and feeding; cleanliness in work; cleanliness in the habits of the
individual man and woman; cleanliness of life and conversation, purity
of life, temperance, all these are in man’s power.”

It is in man’s power, God-given always, as all good things are, to make
his own moral destiny for this life as for that to come. He can best
answer his own prayers by putting his own shoulder to the wheel, instead
of praying to the gods. There was a world of instruction in the reply of
Lord Palmerston to the Scotch elders of Glasgow, when they requested him
to appoint a day of fasting and prayer to avert the cholera. He replied
that it was useless to do so until they had cleaned the streets of the
city. He relied more on scavengers’ shovels than he did on Bishops’
prayers.

We made cleanliness one of the articles in our unwritten creed, for may
it not come that cleanliness of life and living will some day be the
universal creed to fit us not only for this life, but for the future
life?

The next step was to have our manager understand just what we wanted and
a number of us formed ourselves into an experimental catering and
cooking committee having first secured an excellent range for our
cook-house. This cooking really belonged to the women, but we men
assumed the right to examine into it, whether it was ours or not. We saw
to the procuring of the food, and therefor felt empowered to know that
it was properly served. I have always felt great sympathy for Xantippe
who is generally written down as a scold, for it is recorded that
Socrates would often, unawares to her, invite a number of his friends to
dinner when he had not provided a scrap for the larder. What true wife,
though she had the temper of an angel, would not give it recriminating
voice and action under such circumstances?

We provided, and so had our rights.

Our first effort was with various kinds of good substantial soup. I had
enough skimmed broth in my school days to last me for life and the very
recollection of it causes in me a kind of water brash.

We succeeded and made out a list of soups to be prepared in a wholesale
way of the best materials, at such a price that any wayfarer or
aristocrat coming to our club, could relish a bowl of it, and also that
families belonging to the club, could send in their orders the day
before for what they wanted. The price just above the cost, was so much
below what they could be made for in their homes, and so much better,
that we had many orders. We also had the best of bread, cake and
biscuit, made in the cleanest possible way. If the Europeans in India
could see how their bread is made by the natives in the bazars, they
would eschew it forever, and diet on fruits and vegetables. It is
scarcely credible the methods of the native cooks. I once at table
gravely asked my khansaman, if they really strained our soup through
their turbans? Putting his hands together in front of him, with a slight
bow he replied: “What else can we do if their Honors do not give us
towels?”

Once, as a guest, eating food provided by a zemindar, he placidly
looking on, I turned and noticed two of the servants, the one pouring
milk through the shirt-tail of the other, straining it for me to drink.
A sahib blaming his khansaman for boiling the roly poly in one of his
master’s socks, the fellow gravely replied: “Sahib! it was not one of
the clean ones!”

A friend of mine eating his mutton chops and finding some cottony shreds
in his mouth questioned his cook standing by, when the latter replied,
that as he had no tallow, he had used the waste ends of the burned
candles. The sahib at once seized his chef and holding him by the neck
forced all the remaining mess down his throat, for which he was summoned
before the magistrate and had to pay a fine of twenty-five rupees.
“But,” said my friend, “I would willingly have paid five times that
amount for the satisfaction I got in making him swallow the rest of the
stuff with the burnt wicks.”

We wanted none of that kind of cooking in our club. Our next experiment
was in the making of tea and coffee, and after a number of trials
succeeded in producing articles that few of our people had ever tasted
the like before, a nectar like coffee not to be paragoned anywhere in
the world. “And they in France of the best rank and station are most
select and generous,” in making this delicious drink.

Anent the native coffee-making is this told by a khansaman. His Sahib,
an English doctor, was always complaining that he did not get good black
coffee, such as they made in France. His cook at his wit’s end, finally
took some charcoal and grinding it to powder mixed it with the coffee.
His Sahib was highly delighted, and boastingly invited his friends to
drink his real French coffee. The servant very considerately never told
the story until after his master’s death.

Our manager fell in with our ways and suggestions and took great pride
in the science as well as the art of cookery, and in having everything
in the best possible condition.

It is a saying among the Europeans in India, “If you wish to enjoy your
dinner never look into the cook-house.” We reversed that order to “If
you wish to enjoy our food see how it is cooked.” Our restaurant was
well patronized, and it was of great benefit, morally as well as
physically. It was not for the poor alone, though the prices were so
low, for the better class, that is, the better well-to-do, did not
disdain to favor us, as everything was better than most of them could
get in their homes, and I doubt if the great Commissioner Sahib, or the
Commanding General, had near as good.

The only vice we tolerated was the smoking of tobacco, and this was
confined to the smoking-room or to the grounds outside. In respect to
this habit, we thought it best not to stretch the bow of restraint too
far, lest it break with its own tension, or we be like “The man that
once did sell the lion’s skin while the beast lived, was killed with
hunting him.” “We may outrun, by violent swiftness, that which we run
at, and lose by overrunning.”

The upper apartments were reserved entirely for the women, and reached
by a wide, marble staircase from the lower entrance hall. They had their
dressing-room, reading and other rooms richly furnished. They had more
than an equal share, for besides their own, they had the right of our
lecture hall, the library and refectory, but we were pleased with all
their encroachments, for they assisted us in every way. The walls of the
lecture hall and refectory were bare until we selected some mottoes,
which our feminine members, with their skillful taste and hands,
ornamented, making them works of art. This was done, not in a day, but
during many months of most laborious work, with rivalry and pride as to
which should produce the finest work. Some of the mottoes were these:

 “We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths;
     In feelings, not in figures on a dial.
 We should count time by heart throbs.
 He most lives who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the
    best.”—_Bailey._

  “There is no religion higher than truth.”—_Oriental Proverb._

  “I would rather that men should say there never was such a man as
  Plutarch, than say that Plutarch was unfaithful.”—_Plutarch._

  “Sin makes us pay toll, if not along the way, surely at the end of the
  road.”

               “Not he that repeateth the name,
               But he that doeth the will.”—_Longfellow._

  “Every rifle should have its own bullet mold.”

  “Everything is bitter to him who has gall in his mouth.”

  “Truth is not drowned in water or burned in fire.”

  “A fool may throw a stone into a pond; it may take seven sages to pull
  it out.”

  “Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.”—_Jesus._

  “Purity, even in the secret longings of our hearts, is the greatest
  duty.”—_Xenocrates._

  “A good man sees God reflected in his own soul; the cleaner the soul
  the more vivid the image.”

  “Only through the highest purity and chastity we shall approach nearer
  to God, and receive, in the contemplation of Him, the true knowledge
  and insight.”—_Porphyry._

  “The doctrine of our Master consists in having an invariable
  correctness of heart, and in doing towards others as we would that
  they should do to us.”—_A Disciple of Confucius._

  “The thoughts and intents of the heart are deeds in the sight of God.”

  “As a man thinketh in his heart, so is he.”—_Bible._

  “All lovers of truth are lovers of God.”

  “He only truly lives who lives for others.”

  “We must do one of two things—either learn to control the conditions
  of our lives, or let them control us.”

  “The more one lives for his kind, the less need he fear to
  die.”—_Kabalist Proverb._

  “The highest service one can do is to serve himself in the highest
  manner.”

  “Whatever good betideth thee, O man, it is from God, and whatsoever
  ill, from thyself is it.”—_Koran._

  “There is only one road to Heaven—obedience to the Golden Rule.”

  “So long as every man does to other men as he would that they should
  do to him, and allow no one to interfere between him and his Maker,
  all will go well with the world.”—_Ancient Pagan._

           “A man obtains a proper rule of action
           By looking on his neighbor as himself.
           Do naught to others which, if done to thee,
           Would cause thee pain; this is the sum of duty.”
                                             —_Hindu Maxim._

  “I will set my camel free and trust him to Allah.” Mahomed answered,
  “Tie thy camel first, and then commit him to God.”—_Arabian Saying._

We soon had everything in good working order. A committee of
entertainment was appointed; one evening of each week was devoted to
instruction and practice in singing, for which an excellent teacher was
secured. Another evening was for the literary society, when essays were
read and subjects discussed, the members appointed in turn, so as to
give every one a chance, and all to take an interest and have something
to do. This compelled them to read and think, which took up all their
leisure hours from work, formerly spent in idleness and folly. We had no
idea of having any one or a few do all the work and receive all the
benefit, but every one, no difference who they were, was urged, assisted
and required to do their part, not so much for the benefit they might
give to others, but what they would do for themselves. Ours was a mutual
improvement association, the weakest to be helped the most.




                              CHAPTER XL.


Every Sunday morning there was a lecture or a sermon read, prayers and
singing. We gleaned in all fields, gathering the ripest grain we could
find. For our needs the library was increased by the addition of
valuable books as works of reference, for investigation of subjects for
discussion. There were only a few novels, and by the best writers. We
always had plenty of music and singing, and in a few years our club
became quite a musical society. We had no castes, as in “society,” to
prevent Mrs. Smack, the clerk’s wife, from sitting beside Mrs. Grimsby,
the wife of the railway guard.

The intention was to vary the exercises, even the religious, so as to do
away with that everlasting monotony prevalent in the churches; to make
all of moral benefit and intellectual profit, as well as attractive and
entertaining. The subjects of the lectures, articles and sermons, took a
wide range from earth to heaven, from the physiology of plants and
animals to astronomy, the care of the homes, the health of our bodies,
the welfare of our moral natures, temperance a most prominent topic, the
restraint of our passions and the immortality of our souls, everything
that might make us cleaner, healthier, wiser and nobler. We believed in
useful work to make people happy, to fit them to live on earth, more
than in worrying them about what they might be hereafter, or in
troubling them about “the ineffable relations of the Godhead before the
remotest beginnings of time;” in making a heaven for them in this life
and trust to God and their own fitness for the one to come; not so much
in trying to penetrate the mysteries and glories of heaven, as to
realize the facts and realities of every day life on earth; less in
describing the many mansions and the golden pavements of the new
Jerusalem, but caring more about improving the homes and cleaning the
alleys of the poor, giving them good bread for which they were hungering
daily, instead of wasting time on dilated descriptions of the imagined
joys of the blessed, so very far away. It seemed to be a settled
conviction among us that if we could get our people to live good, clean,
honest, happy lives here, they would run no risk of enjoying the life to
come.

Who dare say that we had not the right to try the experiment, and to do
as we pleased in the matter?

Why should we not start our society, found our church, if we choose to
call it such, as any other set of men to found theirs?

If the church of Rome, the church of England, the Presbyterian or any
one of the other thousand heterogeneous sects could set up for itself,
why should we not do the same? They did not ask us or anybody for their
privileges, why need we ask anything of them? We were not responsible
for them as they certainly would deny any responsibility to us. Should
they say that they had divine authority, could we not make the same
claim for ourselves? Since God our father created us, as we believe He
did, as He created them, why could we not have a share in His divine
rights as well as they? We conceded to all others the same privilege,
the right to do as they deemed best, and claimed the same right for
ourselves.

If that libidinous, much-wived and wife murderer, Henry the Eighth,
could set up for himself in founding a church, why cannot other men of
better morals and less exceptional tastes start a society, a church, a
denomination? To go further back: If Constantine, who “drowned his wife
in boiling water, butchered his little nephew, murdered two of his
brothers-in-law with his own hand, killed his own son Crispus, led to
death several men and women and smothered in a well an old monk,” and
yet was the distinguished patron, and one of the founders of the
Christian church, cannot others whose hands have never been stained with
blood dare to think and act for themselves?

Much might be said of the bigotry and assumption of some classes of
people who claim like the egotistical, over-bearing Jews of old, that
they are the elect, the chosen people of God and all the rest of mankind
are to be subdued, exterminated, unless they fall into the ways and
accept the creeds and ceremonies of these self-assumed religious rulers
of the world; claiming that “God’s actual grace is limited to those who
are within the church and have the faith,” meaning thereby their little
church and their very doubtful faith, and boldly inscribe on their
portals, “Beware of imitations; here is the only genuine article;” that
there is no truth, except what is seen under their little ecclesiastical
microscopes.

What of the wisdom, justice and mercy of God in creating fifteen hundred
millions of people now living, not to consider the infinite number
passed away, if He only saves the few poor unworthy Christians, as they
style themselves, and hands over the vast majority to some omnipotent
demon to torture forever and forever, as the Christians teach?

Has God so badly bodged His work, or are these people mistaken? What
gods some of these little ecclesiastics would be if they could have
their own way! Their assumption of divine authority and wisdom reminds
one of the remark of a French critic, “The fact is, only I and my
friends possess any real knowledge, and I am not so sure concerning
them.”

I have got somewhat ahead of my story. These thoughts were prompted by a
conversation with the Chaplain. We had not met since his first and only
call. At his approach he greeted me very respectfully with a
condescending air, and I saw from the frigidity of his manner that he
had a purpose in coming. I was not left long in doubt what it was. He
said, “Mr. Japhet, for some time past none of the Eurasians have come to
church.” He waited for a few moments, as if he expected me to say
something, but I remained silent. This rather disconcerted him. Then he
continued, “Since the opening of your club these people keep entirely
aloof from us.” I said nothing, and this annoyed him, as I saw by his
fidgeting and the reddening of his face. Then he struck me hard by
asking: “Do you think, Mr. Japhet, as an Eurasian, with an influence
over these people, you are doing right in keeping them away from the
church and from participating in the divine ordinances, without which
there can be no salvation? The church was ordained of God, He
established its ordinances. Is it not wrong, then, to interfere and
prevent people from attending that which is for their eternal welfare?”

He stopped for my reply, which was: “You are making a very severe
accusation against me. I have never uttered a word to them against your
church. They have been entirely free in the matter. As for God ordaining
the church, my belief is that He has ordained it as He has everything
else, no more no less. All that we know about it is what some men say,
and what some can affirm others can deny; the statement of one set is as
good as that of the other.”

“But,” he interrupted, “did not our Lord Jesus Christ establish the
ordinances and command us to use them?”

“What ordinances?” I asked.

“Why, baptism and holy communion.”

“No,” I replied, “not at all. Baptism was an old rite used at the
initiation of men into some society, or to signify their attachment to
some leader or principle. Only to mention two instances: Were not people
baptized unto Moses, and were they not baptized by John, the forerunner
of Jesus? Jesus only continued the old rite, or custom among his
followers with the same significance. The church, assuming to know more
than Jesus did, has changed this rite into a regenerating and saving
ordinance. Let me read what one of the Bishops of your Church says about
it:

“‘In this church, the body which derives life, strength and salvation
from Christ its head, baptism was instituted as the sacred rite of
admission. In this regenerating ordinance, fallen man is born again from
a state of condemnation to a state of grace. He obtains a title to the
presence of the Holy Spirit, to the forgiveness of sins, to all those
precious and unmerited favors which the blood of Christ purchased.
Wherever the gospel is promulgated the only mode through which we can
obtain a title to those blessings and privileges which Christ has
purchased for his mystical body, the church, is the sacrament of
baptism. Repentance, faith and obedience will not, of themselves, be
effectual to our salvation. We may sincerely repent of our sins,
heartily believe the gospel; we may walk in the paths of holy obedience,
but until we enter into covenant with God by baptism and ratify our vows
of allegiance and duty at the holy sacrament of the supper; commemorate
the mysterious sacrifice of Christ, we cannot assert any claim to
salvation.’

“Every man of common sense will reject such a statement as false, no
matter who made it. It is the teaching of priests to clothe their
performance with power and mystery. It is utterly opposed to the plain
statements of the Bible and contrary to what any true man must believe
of the character of God. I would rather accept the sentiment of the
poet:

          “Leave polemic folios in their dust,
          But this point hold, howe’er each sect may brawl,
          When pure the life, when free the heart from gall
          What e’er the creed, Heaven looks with love on all.”

“As to the communion. This was a ceremony observed among the heathen
long before Jesus was born, signifying friendship and a devotion to each
other’s interests, and it is observed even now by the wildest tribes of
men as a sign or proof of kindness and friendship. Among some people it
is customary at their funerals for a cup of wine to be passed, and each
one present to take a sip in memory of the dead. At first it was only a
simple custom, a rite in memory of friendship, but how it has been
transformed and degraded! At a Roman Council, Berengar, who had denied
transubstantiation, was compelled to swear that ‘the very body and blood
of our Lord Jesus Christ are not only sensibly in the sacrament, but in
truth are handled in the hands of the priest, and broken and crushed by
the teeth of the faithful.’

“What can be more sacrilegious and disgusting than such a doctrine? Is
it strange that thinking men become infidels when such stuff is forced
upon them? or that a Muhamedan sage remarked: ‘So long as Christians
worship what they eat, let my soul dwell with the philosophers.’

“Baptism and communion are only rites, with a meaning, and well to be
observed, but have no power in themselves, and are no more divine than
are the various ceremonies among men. I claim that all forms and
observances that tend to elevate and bless mankind are in a sense
divine, good or Godlike, the one as another. We might say that the light
of the sun, or the rain, or the cooling winds, are among the divinest
gifts to mankind. So any good impulse in the hearts of men, and every
noble deed, is a divine gift ordained or given from God, our Heavenly
Father. Why restrict His divine gifts or ordinances to two mere
ceremonies, and not include all that is good? The universe is alive with
God. The thing that is natural is none the less divine and worthy of our
love and reverence. Every scientific fact, or we might say, everything
good, all is of divine origin.”

He asked, “Don’t you believe that the Church was specially established
by God?”

“No,” said I, “not more than any other good society. In fact, I have
more faith in the divinity of an association that would establish a soup
kitchen to feed the starving poor, or one that would clothe the naked,
or another that would help them to a means of livelihood, or for the
education of their children.”

“Does not the church do this?” he asked.

“Yes,” I answered, “in a great measure, to its credit, but does this
prove that it has the only and exclusive right to help mankind, or by
doing so that it was established by God to the exclusion of all other
good societies? Just so far as it performs good deeds it is of God, as
any society or an individual that does the same kind of work.”

He replied: “Then you degrade the church into a mere human society?”

“Yes, it is only a society founded by men, but there is no degradation
if it does the work of God. It is to be judged as any other human affair
by its works, as your Scripture says: ‘the tree is known by its fruits,’
or as Jesus said, ‘not every one that saith Lord, Lord, but he that
doeth the will of my Father which is in heaven.’ When God sends His
sunlight equally upon all mankind, are you going to confine His
spiritual light to any one society, called by men a Church? We should
have more liberal views of God’s justice and loving mercy than that.

“One of the beautiful expressions of Charles Kingsley is this—“God
demands not sentiment, but justice. The Bible knows nothing of the
religious sentiments and emotions, whereof we hear so much talk
nowadays. It speaks of duty. Beloved, if God so loved us, we ought to
love one another. We must live nobly to love nobly.”

            “God sends His teachers into every age and clime
            With revelations suited to their growth.”

“I want to admit the fact that the Church in its principles, as
indicated in the teachings and example of Jesus is the grandest society
on earth for the amelioration and salvation of mankind, but what is it
in practice? Go into the large, fashionable churches in any country,
where are the poor? In many of them not there at all. If a few of them
happen to be present, they are on the back seats, in the corners, while
the rich and influential are on the best seats in front. Take your own
church. The highest of rank in the station are honored with cushioned,
carpeted pews in front, where they get the first draughts of the
unskimmed milk of the word and so on down, caste by caste to the doors,
where the poor may find a few plank seats if they can. Have I not seen
some of the poor who have gone early into the front seats, ordered into
the rear? Are there not ranks and castes in the House of God, as you
call it? Did not the first missionaries in India for many years, as may
be some do now,—have different cups for the communion, some for high
castes, and others for low castes? Was this following Jesus in the true
spirit of the communion? Jesus did not establish a church; then why
should any of his followers do what he did not even suggest, and
besides, claim infallibility for what they have done? Certainly in human
affairs organization is essential, but principles should be first of
all, and instead of wasting time over dogmas and trivial rites and
ceremonies, the church, as a society, should follow and imitate Jesus in
doing the work he did.”

I went on rapidly, and my caller did not seem disposed to interrupt;
whether he thought my remarks worthy of his notice or not, I did not
know or care.

He said, “I will not answer you, but come to the subject again,” putting
on a humble, unctuous, clerical manner. “I am sorry that through your
club these people are kept away from the church.”

I replied: “Let us see how far this is the case. There is a large number
of Eurasians in the station. How many of them ever went to church? Not
more than a score. Why the others did not attend is not for me to say,
only to mention the fact. Where were the rest? Some out shooting; others
at their games; the most of them in their miserable homes, spending
their time in idleness, frivolity and vice, drinking the wretched cheap
liquor that Government has provided for them. You have never been to
their homes; you know nothing of their poverty and squalor; you have no
idea of the social vice and drunkenness among them, unfitting them for
any work. They seemed to be forsaken of God, as well as by their fellow
men.

“I am one of their race. I know their condition. I have been down among
them, and for years have seen their degradation, and have assisted them
in various ways. Seeing that the church did not attract them, and did
little for them, and that they were going from bad to worse, I started
this club, believing that I had as much of a divine right and commission
to do so, as any man or men had to start a society called a church. I am
most happy in believing that if God ever sanctioned anything, He has
bestowed His blessing upon us. I have no doubt of this. The change
already seen in the condition of these people is wonderful. They have a
clean, beautiful place, which they can be proud to call their own, to
which they can resort without fear of being considered intruders—a home
to them where they can be free from degrading influences. There are
plenty of good books and papers, music to attract them, and in which
they are instructed. There is the best of food and drink that the
poorest can afford to purchase. Their ambition is stirred, their energy
increased, their pride and self respect stimulated, and every tendency
given to lift them up and make them better. What is this but God’s work?
Besides all this help is not for one day in the week, but for every day
and night.

“We go further than the church in many things, but especially in this,
ours is a strictly temperance association. Every one among us is urged
and required to be a total abstainer from all intoxicants. This is one
of our chief principles, and is lectured, practiced and talked about,
until it has permeated every life. If our enterprise has done nothing
more than this, it is worth all it cost. You cannot talk in favor of
temperance when you take liquor yourself, nor can you preach on total
abstinence to your people in church, so how can you reach these people
on that subject?

“Shall I tell you what was said in regard to you? Several of our younger
men thought that our rule about drink was too rigid, and one of them
said, ‘Why, the Chaplain takes wine and beer.’ I told them that we were
to govern ourselves regardless of what other people did.”

He winced under this, for it was a common report that he was more often
under the spirituous, than under spiritual influence. As from his office
he should be a seeker after truth, I thought best to give him a little
of it. I was surprised that he made no answer to this, but asked, “Would
it not have been better for you to have worked with the church and had
its influence to aid you?”

“When—how?” I quickly asked. He said, “I would have been delighted to
assist you, and some of my people would have done the same.”

“Yes,” I replied, “they would have favored us with their presence, to
direct our affairs, domineer over us, patronize us and give us advice as
if we were a lot of paupers in an alms house, or charity school
children. There has been already too much of this. No, the better plan
is to let these people be separate and govern themselves.”

Then he inquired: “Is not that creating a class feeling and a spirit of
caste?”

This touched my tenderest spot. I instantly grew hot, and abruptly
asked: “Who began this class feeling? Who created this caste? It ill
becomes you, one of the dominant race that is responsible for the
creation of these people, who always sneer at them and oppress them in
every possible way, to ask such a question. Take myself, for you called
me an Eurasian. I am one, a half caste, but who made me such? An
Englishman, a member of your church, took a Mussalmani, my mother, not
as his wife, but as his mistress, deceiving her with a promise of
marriage. When he saw fit, he threw her aside to die of a broken heart,
and left two of us, his children, to starve for all he cared. Who made
me a half caste, who started this class feeling in me, but that
distinguished gentleman, my father?”

He stopped me suddenly by saying that he had no intention to be personal
or cast any reflection by using that word. Such gentlemen are always
innocent after the mischief is done. “’Tis like a pardon after
execution.”

I concluded to say nothing more. He had listened to me with that bland
suavity of manner, that assumed superiority of race, as if he was
dealing with a simpleton, or a truant school boy, or that anything I
might say was not worthy of his notice. I waited with repressed scorn
while he continued to talk of the church, its divine origin, its divine
ordinances, as if God was shut up within its walls, and nobody could
have access to Him except through its doors or through the mediation of
its priests. It was the church, and nothing but the church, as if it was
the only divine infallible thing on earth, and he was one of its
infallible popes.

Had he been a really spiritual, noble-minded man, working among the
poor, my feelings would have been somewhat different. He was high
church, so very high that he never came down to common humanity, a
ritualist of the rankest kind, and cared more outside of the church
walls, for good living, and inside of it, more about his intoning, the
singing of his choir, the folds of his gown, and for the order of his
services, than for the moral or eternal welfare of anybody. Could he
have got our association to be as a tag in the tail of his church kite
for his own glorification, he would have been a happy man, not that he
cared the value of a pin for the soul of any of us. He went on with his
church rhetorical parade until my breakfast bell rang, when he took his
clerical hat and himself away, to my great relief.

This was the last I ever saw of the Chaplain.




                              CHAPTER XLI.


The years passed. Mr. Jasper was like a patriarch among us, revered and
loved by all, his advice and friendship sought by young and old. He was
a frequent guest in our home, and we loved him for his gentleness, with
a reverence for his purity, and admired him for his wisdom. Our children
ran to him on his entrance, often watching for him at the gate, sat upon
his knees, clung to his neck, and made him their confidant, as he made
them his companions and friends. I say our children, for there had come
to us, two boys and a girl to the joy of our hearts and the delight of
our home.

There was one thing in them that lifted a burden from my life; they
resembled their mother in complexion. Before they came, I was in an
agony of fear lest they should bear upon their faces that Cain-like
curse that had blasted my happiness and been my constant torment. I
prayed, yes, I prayed day and night, pleading, beseeching God if He had
the power that He would avert that terrible stain from these innocent
ones. I reasoned with Him, begged for justice and mercy, that He would
not let the sin of my father be visited upon them; that I had suffered
enough and made sufficient atonement. I know that my wife also prayed
for this, though she never hinted a word about it. She was too good and
true a wife for that. Alas! What a sad thing for a father to pray that
his children might not resemble himself! I have often felt a sting when
people would say to a father, “How much your boys take after you!” I
never had the pleasure of such a remark, but I had more, a profound
satisfaction in knowing that my own dear children had not inherited that
accursed brand of shame from their father to carry through their lives.

Our prayers were answered. Whether by God or our mutual desires and
ardent wishes, I would not assume to say, for having such a firm belief
in God’s immutable, established laws, I am inclined to believe that we
answered our own prayers, as most, if not all our prayers, are answered
by ourselves.

Prayers are most essential and are answered best when we give them life
and reality by our practice.

In our community we had our annoyances. What else could we expect when
there were so many “taints of blood and defects of will?” These were
endured as thorns among the roses, the fairer the flowers the less we
thought of the thorns.

But a great calamity and grief came upon us. Mr. Jasper fell ill. He
knew it was unto death. He lingered for a few days, and every one went
to receive his blessing. The shadow of a great cloud hung over us.
Everybody spoke in whispers. Surely death is the king of terrors, as
well as the terror of kings and of everybody. Death is terrible,
anywhere and always, but infinitely so when we are watching, waiting,
when one we love as part of ourselves is about to leave us, and start on
that eternal unknown journey,

          “For none has ever returned to tell us of the road,
            Which to discover we must travel too.”

No religionist or moralist, has ever, with all their fine theories, been
able to prevent this dread, this indefinable, choking pain at the heart,
when our loved ones are going, O so far away!

I could neither eat, sleep or rest. It seemed as if a part of myself was
dying, going away from me. Under all the hardening influences of my life
I have made a constant endeavor to keep my heart tender to the ennobling
influence of real friendship. I have had bitterness enough, and it is
well there was something to keep me from utter hardness and despair.

Our dear friend received our unremitting attention. The last moment was
approaching. My wife and I, with others, were around his couch, while a
crowd was outside, waiting with bowed heads, in solemn silence, his
departure. Opening his eyes, with a smile upon his face, he pressed my
hand, and whispered with gasping breath: “I’m going—God—bless—you—all,”
and he had gone. As the sorrowful word was quickly passed outside, some
one on the veranda started the hymn, “Abide with me, fast falls the
eventide,” and all joined in it with sobbing, weeping tones.

This was the great second death in my life. Need I say that the first
was that of my best friend, the one of my youth, Mr. Percy. Never had
any one lost two better friends. My mother? Yes, my darling mama had
gone. She had never died to me, only gone away, and I had not seen her
go, too young to realize what it meant, however bereaved I was.

At evening time we laid his body to rest in the garden, in front of the
building he had done so much to erect. Every one, from the oldest to the
youngest, had gone into the garden, his garden, and plucked flowers that
he had cultivated for us, and now for his own burial, and one by one,
they came up and strewed them upon the coffin with sobs and
lamentations. Then we all sang, as best we could through our tears, his
favorite hymn, “Nearer my God to Thee, Nearer to Thee.”

The shades of night fell on us, while we lingered at the sacred,
hallowed spot.

On the next Sunday morning, we had a solemn remembrance service in our
lecture room, which was festooned with flowers that our friend loved so
well, intertwined with mourning cloth to signify our love and joy in
him, as well as our great sorrow.

It seemed to be conceded by mutual consent, that I should give a
eulogy—no that would not have pleased him—an address or talk, in
remembrance of him. This was a service of devotion, of joy, that we had
known such a man, and of the deepest grief that we had lost him, for
each could truthfully say

                   “None knew thee but to love thee,
                   None named thee but to praise!”

I portrayed his life, the nobility of his manhood, his devotion to
purity and truth, and then I told for the first time what he had done
for us in erecting our beautiful structure, and ornamenting our grounds,
and his heartfelt interest in the welfare of every one. In closing the
lessons of his life to us, I urged all, especially the younger men and
boys, by all the powers of their being, to imitate him, and make
themselves pure and noble.

His life, his purity, his kindness, and his beautiful death, made such
an impression upon every one, as never to be effaced, and he knows now
in part, and will know all in the great hereafter, the good he
accomplished, and his heaven and our heaven will have a brighter glory
for his having lived. In closing, I pointed to one of the mottoes as
most appropriate to him, “Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall
see God.”

We erected a beautiful marble monument over his grave to be a perpetual
remembrance, and a daily lesson to all, of his life and character.

Mr. Jasper, as might have been expected, left all his books and many
mementoes to “Our Club,” besides quite a sum in government bonds for the
annual increase of the library, so his good deeds did not die with him.

Somehow, after this, the ties connecting me with India, seemed to have
been sundered. One thing that greatly added to this, was the destiny of
our children. I lived in perpetual dread, that if they remained in the
country, they might be humiliated, if not cursed, with the sneering
epithet: “The children of that Eurasian.” I was determined, if there was
a place on God’s earth, where they might escape this, I would try to
find it. This may seem to some a trivial matter, yet I could not help
feeling intensely about it, for I am very human after all. I have
suffered, only God knows how much agony, and how often, from being
taunted with that accursed name, more especially when it was uttered by
Christian gentlemen and ladies, from whom I might have expected better
things, so it ought not to appear strange to any one if I should wish to
save my own dear, innocent children from the degrading stigma of their
father’s birth.

It was decided that my wife, with the children, should make their
residence in southern France, where the mild climate was best suited to
them, on leaving the heat of India, and where she could superintend
their education, thus realizing in some degree the day dream of my
youth, inspired by the reading of a most delightful book, and which I
have given at the commencement of this sketch of my life.

After their departure, I sold all my property, except two villages,
which I placed in the hands of trustees, for the benefit of “Our Club,”
having first drawn up rules of control, so that the villagers should
never be oppressed. I left many of my books and pictures to the club, to
be for the good of the members, as well as a token of my regard for
them.

It was not the least of my sad pleasures to visit my friends, the
villagers. Poor heathen, as some might call them, had hearts to feel.
Some clung to me with tears, and others threw themselves upon the
ground, with loud lamentations. One of the expressions that touched me
most, was from one of the old widows, who, in her sobs exclaimed, “What
will become of the poor widows, when the Sahib has gone?”

                                   ⁂

The day of my departure has arrived. As I am writing these last lines my
boxes are all packed, and I am only waiting. We had a farewell meeting
last night at “Our Club,” and the memory of the kind words spoken, will
be to me a joy forever.

                                   ⁂

The hour has come. A crowd of friends are waiting outside to say the
last farewell words, and I must go.

                                   ⁂

India! The land of my birth, and the land of my degradation, of some
joys and pleasures, but always embittered with fear and despair, that
cannot be told, but must be felt to realize their depth. Good-bye, never
again to see thee, forevermore, and I hope and pray, though I cannot
forget the miserable past, that I may never again meet people, mean
enough to taunt me with that miserable blasting phrase of contempt,
“That Eurasian.”


                                THE END.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




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                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES


 1. P. 185, changed “you have got hear it” to “you have got to hear it”.
 2. P. 336, changed “what can happen any mortal man” to “what can happen
      to any mortal man”.
 3. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
      spelling.
 4. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
 5. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.



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