it is well that before being exposed to the rude
gaze of the world he should moult his rainbow plumage in the Cimmeria
of the Rajas. Here we shall see him again, a blinking _ignis fatuus_
in a dark land--"so shines a good deed in a naughty world" thinks the
Foreign Office.--ALI BABA.

No. III

WITH THE COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF

[August 16, 1879.]

At Simla and Calcutta the Government of India always sleeps with a
revolver under its pillow--that revolver is the Commander-in-Chief.
There is a tacit understanding that this revolver is not to be let
off; indeed, sometimes it is believed that this revolver is not
loaded.

[The Commander-in-Chief has a seat in Council; but the Military Member
has a voice. This division of property is seen everywhere. The
Commander-in-Chief has many offices; in each there is someone other
than the Commander-in-Chief who discharges all its duties.

What does the Commander-in-Chief command? Armies? No. In India
Commanders-in-Chief command no armies. The Commander-in-Chief only
commands respect.]

The Commander-in-Chief is himself an army. His transport, medical
attendance, and provisioning are cared for departmentally, and watched
over by responsible officers. He is a host in himself; and a corps of
observation.

All the world observes him. His slightest movement creates a molecular
disturbance in type, and vibrates into newspaper paragraphs.

When Commanders-in-Chief are born the world is unconscious of any
change. No one knows when a Commander-in-Chief is born. No joyful
father, no pale mother has ever experienced such an event as the
birth of a Commander-in-Chief in the family. No Mrs. Gamp has ever
leant over the banister and declared to the expectant father below
that it was "a fine healthy Commander-in-Chief." Therefore, a
Commander-in-Chief is not like a poet. But when a Commander-in-Chief
dies, the spirit of a thousand Beethovens sob and wail in the air;
dull cannon roar slowly out their heavy grief; silly rifles gibber and
chatter demoniacally over his grave; and a cocked hat, emptier than
ever, rides with the mockery of despair on his coffin.

On Sunday evening, after tea and catechism, the Supreme Council
generally meet for riddles and forfeits in the snug little cloak-room
parlour at Peterhoff. "Can an army tailor make a Commander-in-Chief?"
was once asked. Eight old heads were scratched and searched, but no
answer was found. No sound was heard save the seething