, we pinch ourselves. We are hardly fit to live
in this beautiful world, with its laughing girls and grapes, its
summer seas, its sunshine and flowers, its Garnet Wolseleys and
bulbuls. We go moping through its glories in green spectacles,
befouling it with our loathsome statistics and reports. The sweet air
of heaven, the blue firmament, and the everlasting hills do not
satisfy our poisoned hearts; so we make to ourselves a little tin-pot
world of blotted-paper, debased rupees, graded lists, and tinsel
honours; we try to feed our lungs on its typhoidal effluvia. Aroint[T]
thee, Comptroller and Accountant-General with all thy grisly crew!
Thou art worse than the blind Fury with the abhorred shears; for thou
slittest my thin-spun pay-wearing spectacles, thrice branded varlet!
[There is a lily on my brow with anguish moist and fever-dew, and on
my cheeks a fading rose fast withereth too, and for these emblems of
woe thou shalt have to give an answer.]

Dear Vanity, of course you understand that I do not allude to the
amiable old gentleman who controls our Accounts Department, who is the
mirror of tenderness. The person I would impale is a creation of my
own wrath, a mere official type struck in frenzied fancy, [at a moment
when Time seems a maniac scattering dust, and Life a Fury slinging
flame].

Let us soothe ourselves by contemplating the Planter and his generous,
simple life. It calms one to look at him. He is something placid,
strong, and easeful. Without wishing to appear obsequious, I always
feel disposed to borrow money when I meet a substantial Planter. He
inspires confidence. I grasp his strong hand; I take him
(figuratively) to my heart, while the desire to bank with him wells up
mysteriously in my bosom.

He lives in a grand old bungalow, surrounded by ancient trees. Large
rooms open into one another on every side in long vistas; a broad and
hospitable-looking verandah girds all. Everywhere trophies of the
chase meet the eye. We walk upon cool matting; we recline upon
long-armed chairs; low and heavy punkahs swing overhead; a sweet
breathing of wet _khaskhas_ grass comes sobbing out of the
thermantidote; and a gigantic but gentle _khidmatgar_ is always at our
elbow with long glasses on a silver tray. This man's name is Nubby
Bux, but he means nothing by it, and a child might play with him. I
often say to him in a caressing tone, "_Peg lao_";[U] and he is
grateful for any little attention of this sort.

I