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Rh among the old teachers of the indigenous schools, who, from interested motives, naturally did not fail to foment the apprehensions at first entertained by some, that he intended to convert them to Christianity. His wise and conciliatory measures, however, soon removed distrust from their minds, and satisfied them that he meditated no interference with their religious opinions. The objection of the school-masters did not long exist, for the extension of the Branch Schools on the new principle ultimately created a demand for additional teachers, who were in many cases provided from the class above mentioned. Although the opposition alluded to was ultimately overcome, it must not be supposed that the establishment of the schools was achieved without considerable difficulty: the introduction alone of a new plan of education among an ignorant people, notorious for their indolence, apathy, and attachment to established habits, involving frequent journies, visits, and conferences, effected in an hostile climate, and with very imperfect accommodation, required no common exertion of patience, self denial, fortitude and perseverance. Add to this the labour of superintendance, and


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148 indefatigable efforts, may be justly appretiated. The Branch Schools were situated, some of them, ten miles above, and some, six miles below, Chinsurah: nevertheless and his assistants contrived to visit 26 Branch Schools sixty times in three months.

success of, and his unexceptionable mode of intercourse with the natives, having been brought by to the notice of the Government, a monthly sum of 600 Rupees was granted to enable  to prosecute his undertaking,  being desired to superintend the detailed application of the funds.

the latter end of 1815, the attendance on establishments was somewhat diminished, by the formation of several Schools by natives, partly from motives of ostentation, and partly with views of opposition to, but it soon became manifest that his plan of education was as inoffensive to their prejudices, as it was superior to their own mode of instruction, and it’sits [sic] progress now exceeded his most sanguine expectation.

license: Creative Commons - Attribution Share-Alike - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/


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Rh The attendance of the children in the Fort being inconvenient, the Central School was removed to a short distance from Chinsurah, and, adverting to the increase of the Schools, and the great augmentation of the number of children on the books, which amounted early in 1816, to 2136, projected the formation of a School for teachers, as necessary to the extension of his plan, and the perpetuation of the means of instruction. A few youths were accordingly taken on probation, their education, food, and clothes, being furnished to them, free of expense. After performing for a time the duties of monitors at the Central School, and receiving more especial instructions from, they were sent to the Village Schools to learn accurately the plan observed there, and thus they became qualified to discharge the duties of instructors themselves. So popular was the latter institution, that a blind man performed a journey of three days on foot, for the purpose of securing a place in it for his nephew.

did the higher class of natives in the vicinity withhold their confidence from the general scheme of education. The Rajah of Burdwan,


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 After the formation of this brigade, the peace-officers and their agents, who bore me no love, cried out, "shame on't:" it was they who spread about the most absurd tales of me; they coined the phrase of the "band of Vidocq," which was applied to the persons composing the police of safety: they said that it consisted only of freed galley-slaves, or of skilful old pickpockets, who knew all the rigs of prigging a reader or fogle.

"Can," said they, "such a man be allowed to have such a band? Is it not placing at his control the life and money of the citizens?" At another time they compared me to the Old Man of the Mountain; "When he likes he will cut all our throats," said the respectable M. Yvrier; "has he not his Seids? It is infamous; in what times do we live!" he added, "there is no morality, not even amongst the police." The worthy old fellow, with his morality! But it was not that which disquieted him; these gentlemen, vulgarly called peace-officers, would willingly have forgiven us for having been at the galleys, if the préfet had not, when he wished to detect or apprehend a robber, had more reliance on us than on them. Our address and our experience had the preference with the magistracy: and thus, when it was shown to them that all their efforts to effect my disgrace were useless, they changed their batteries; they did not attack me more directly, but they assailed my agents, and all the means possible of making them odious to the authorities seemed good. If a robbery were committed, either at the doors of the theatre or within the walls, they drew up a report, and the members of the terrible brigade were designated as the presumed authors of it. It was the same every time there was any large meeting, the peace-officers did not allow one occasion to escape of attacking the brigade. Not a cat was lost but they were accused of the robbery.

Fatigued at last with these perpetual inculpations, I determined to put an end to them. To reduce these


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 respectable gentlemen to silence, I could not cut off the arms of my agents, for they were absolutely needful to them: but to conciliate all, I told them that in future they must constantly wear leather gloves, and I declared that if I met any one of them ungloved I would instantly dismiss him.

This entirely disconcerted the malevolents; henceforward it was impossible to reproach my agents for working in the crowd. The peace-officers, who well knew that the hand cannot act adroitly when covered, kept their mouths closed, remembering the proverb, "a cat in gloves catches no mice." One morning I gave this order to my agents as one which I had bit upon to put a stop to all the tattle of which they were the object.

"Gentlemen," said I, "they will no more credit your probity than they will the chastity of priests. Well, then, to prove how wrong they are, I have thought that nothing would be so natural as, in any case, to paralyze the limb which is the instrument of sin; in this instance, gentlemen, it is your hands; I know you are incapable of making improper use of them, but to avoid a shadow of suspicion, I expect that henceforward you will not appear abroad without gloves."

This precaution, I must say, was not called for by any conduct of my agents, for no robber, or galley-slave, whom I employed ever compromised himself as long as he formed one of my brigade; some have fallen again into evil ways, but their return to guilt was after having been dismissed from my band. Knowing the former course and situation of these men my power over them was arbitrarily exercised; to keep them to their duty, a will of iron and most determined resolution was required. My ascendancy over them arose from their not having any acquaintance with me previous to my entering into the police service: many had seen me at La Force or Bicêtre; but I had never been otherwise than a brother prisoner, and I could defy them to produce one affair in which I had participated, either with others or with themselves.


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55 nature becomes a moral teacher. Science conducts us through infinite paths; it is a fruitful pursuit for the most poetic imagination. We take the world as we find it, and endeavour to unravel its mysteries; but of the alpha and omega we know not. Enough for us to look at what is lying around us; it is a part we see and not the whole, but we can say with the poet, "we doubt not, through the ages one increasing purpose runs."

I will detain you no longer; what more can I say? What grander image, what more glorious picture, can I set before you than that which we have come to contemplate to-day--the king's physician searching out the secrets of nature?


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We meet here to-day to commemorate the name of Harvey. It is fortunate that the College has prescribed no rules and framed no restrictions as to the mode in which we celebrate this anniversary, but that its Fellows are left to refreshen his memory from springs of every source, hoping thereby, to derive some new inspiration from the contemplation, during a few minutes of the year, of one whom they may almost call their founder. Each Fellow may, therefore, in turn, endeavour to expound his theme in the manner which is most befitting his own powers and inclinations. Thus, at one time, we have pourtrayed before us the personal history and living picture of Harvey, at another, an exposition of his great discovery, and at another time, as at our last anniversary, we have a discourse by one of the


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 It must be stated that the majority of my agents were freed convicts, whom I had myself apprehended when they had been sinning against justice. At the expiry of their sentence they came to beg me to enrol them, and when I found them intelligent, I made use of them in my brigade of safety. Once in the brigade they became instantly reformed, but only in one particular,—they robbed no more: as to the rest, they were always debauched, addicted to wine, women, and play; many of them lost their monthly pay at gaming instead of paying their lodging, or the tailor who provided them with clothes. In vain did I devise means of giving them the least possible leisure, they always contrived to find time enough to indulge in their vicious habits. Compelled to devote eighteen hours per day to the police they were less debauched than if they had been entirely at leisure, but yet they committed various follies, which, when they were but trifling, I usually overlooked. To treat them with less indulgence would have been to show my ignorance of the old adage, which says, "it is impossible to stop the flow of the river." So long as their excesses were not connected with their duties, I confined myself to a reprimand, and those reprimands were frequently but so many strokes of a sword in water, but yet sometimes, according to the men I had to deal with, the due effect was produced. Besides, all the agents under my orders were persuaded that I watched them closely and incessantly; and they were not mistaken, for I had my spies, and through them learnt all they did: in fact, whether far or near, I never lost sight of them, and any infraction of the rules and regulations laid down for them was immediately punished. What will appear surprising is, that under every circumstance in which the service required it, these men, so ill disciplined in other respects, conformed to my will, even when there was a matter of danger to be performed. No man but myself, I may say, could have commanded equal devotion.


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 I insert my relations for the information of my readers, who may see that without mingling in politics I had occupation enough.

.

Regulations for the private brigade de sûreté.

Art. 1. "The private brigade de sûreté is divided into four detachments. Each of the agents commanding one detachment receives his instructions from his chief, and he receives his orders of surveillance and manœuvre from the chief of the second division of the prefecture of police; with whom he must consult every day, and whenever it may be necessary for the maintenance of order and the security of persons and property. He shall make a return to him every morning of the result of the surveillance of the preceding evening and night of his brigade, and every chief of a detachment shall bring his private report.

2. "The private agents shall exercise a severe and active surveillance to prevent offences; they shall arrest, as well on the public way as at the cabarets, and other public places, persons escaped from fetters and prisons; the freed galley-slaves who cannot show any permission for residing in Paris; those who have been sent away from the capital to their own homes, to remain there under the surveillance of the local authorities, conformably to the penal code, and who have returned to Paris unauthorized; as well as those apprehended in the very act of robbery. They shall conduct these latter before the commissary of police of the quarter, to whom they shall make their report, to inform him of the reasons for apprehending these suspected persons. In case this public functionary should be absent, they shall leave them at the nearest station, and carefully search them in presence of the commandant then on duty, that it may be correctly stated as to what property was found upon them. They shall always ask of these suspected persons their abode, to verify subsequently, and


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RV 389 (CANTO II.])


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RV 390 (CANTO II.])


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RV 391 (CANTO II.])


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RV 392 (CANTO II.])


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 the Cover of Liberty, and under the Plea of Law.

a Word, all such Marriages, or such Motions to Marriage, where the sensual Part is the essential Part, are so far liable to this Charge; when the Vice, I say, is the moving Cause, and the Ceremony is the Tool to introduce and colour it; that's what I call legal Wickedness; when the Law of Matrimony is made a Key to the Union of the Bodies more than of the Souls, opening the Door to the insatiate Appetite, and covering the Fire of Vice under the legal Institution. This I call Matrimonial Whoredom, and, I think, it merits the Name very well.

is a chast and modest Scheme of Living, 'tis a State, not a Circumstance of Life; the End and Meaning of it is the raising Families, procreating Children, to be brought up religiously; 'tis an Establishment contracted, or at least ought to be so, as an Appointment of Heaven; and for solid and substantial Enjoyments; it is durable as Life, and bounded only by the Duration of Life. If it be enter'd into upon other Foundations, and so far as it is so engaged in, so far 'tis abused; such are joined together indeed, but not according to 's holy Ordinance; 'tis debauching the Ordinance, corrupting the proposed End, 'tis a good Means made use for a bad End; and as 'tis pursued with wicked Designs, 'tis so far a wicked Engagement: Such do not come together like Man and Wife, but like W and R; in short, they come together to take their Fill of Crime, and that, made a Crime by the Manner of it, tho' not in the Letter of it.


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 vigable part of either creek within two miles, there need not be any hesitation in proclaiming their identity of origin, though now they live as separate tribes. The most distinctive features of the tribe are, lowness of brow, retreating backwards, from the superciliary ridge, a protrusion of the lower part of the face, not in the manner of prognathous tribes but by the acuteness of the facial angle, in illustration of this the profile of a boy of 12 years of age is appended, drawn from the living subject who possessed the distinctive type of the race in an exaggerated degree. When viewed from the front they are found to possess an obliquity of eyes and eye brows, the eye lids being much closed and only showing half the pupil. The general contour of the face, obtains a decided character, by great breadth of forehead, expansion of zygoma, and rapid tapering to the chin which is lengthy and narrow. The nose is depressed and mouth moderate. Such may be considered the distintive [sic] features of the race, though many were seen possessing the Malayan type strongly marked.

The Orang Sabimba now remain to be noticed, and as an apology for the paucity of remarks and the errors that may be detected, I must mention that the morning on which I visited them it rained in torrents, which entirely prevented my reaching their encampment. It was therefore in a miserable Malay hut that I collected several of their number who were accidently on the spot, and to whom I am indebted for the following notes and information, though I am by no means satisfied with the result.

Their pysiognomy [sic] is of an entirely different type from the tribe already discussed, and they also differ as much in habits and customs. They are forest nomades, being in possession of no boats or canoes of the most simple construction, and regarding the water with a degree of terror, as already mentioned in your notice of them. To the sumpitan as their principal weapon they owe all that they can obtain of the animals that live in the trees of the forest, and with their dogs (a species of Pariah) they hunt the wild hog. Their food consists of rice as the staple article, but they add to this the flesh of the hog, monkey, snake and ape, birds of all kinds excepting that of the fowl, for the reasons stated in your paper. They also abstain from


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 planting, and consequently their vegetables consist of the wild fruits of the jungle. This tribe is much more helpless than the Orang Slétar, being entirely dependant on the Malays for their arms and the greater part of their food. The sumpitan is the same as that used by the Dyaks of Sambas in Borneo from whence it is imported to Singapore, and from thence finds its way to Tambrau the river on which they are now located. The arrow of this is delicately fashioned, but the orang Sabimba make a ruder description themselves. The arrows are poisoned with the juice of the Upas tree, and is called ipoh. The tribe, consisting of 80 individuals young and old, are now employed in cutting rattans for the Malays who furnish rice, weapons and utensils in return; they hinted to me that they were a Boolang tribe, but appeared to have no distinct recollection of the period they had been deported from that island. The tribe is separate from all other tribes in the Peninsula, and the territory over which they now roam is unoccupied by others. They are unacquainted with the decoction of inebriating liquors, though they informed me that the tribe formerly possessed the art, their habits are therefore as temperate as the Malays. They do not intermarry with the Malays nor will they part with their offspring for any consideration; towards the Chinese they bear great detestation removing always from their vicinity; this fact may be accounted for by the smallness of their numbers and from the wish to avoid the extirpation of their race. Their Batin or chief is named Bintang, and they owe fealty to the Tomungong of Johore.

They are equally atheistical with the Oráng Slétar, nor are they imbued with any of the superstitions of the Malays; of ghosts and witches they were ignorant, a fact difficult to believe. Of marriage ceremonies I was told they had none;' the preparation of a shed, open on all sides, in size 6 feet by 4, covering a few sticks and leaves strewed on the ground, comprises all the bridegroom's care; the price of a wife was stated to be 10 needles, 3 hanks of thread, 16 cubits of cloth and 3 reals. On any of their tribe being near death they leave this hut until they think all is over; they then remove the corpse on a plank shrouded in its clothes to a grave in which are buried toge-


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 when a Set of Gentlemen make an Appointment for what they call a Drinking-bout, they make their Agreement to meet at such a Tavern on purpose: 'Tis certainly and literally lawful for them to meet. Society, and even Society for diversion, is lawful and good; but this is a Meeting meerly to be drunk, meerly to satisfy the Appetite or Thirst of Wine, and with an Intention, nay, with a resolved Purpose of being Drunk; and what is to be said then of the Meeting it self? It was a Wickedness in it self; 'twas a purpose to gratify a vitious Appetite; and so far the very Meeting it self was a Crime; 'twas an Act of Debauchery; 'twas founded on a thirst of Wine, and a Thirst not to be quenched but by Excess and Intemperance.

Parallel is exactly just, the Matrimony contracted in the manner I speak of is just the same; 'tis founded in Crime, the sensual Part is the Foundation and Original of it; and the Matrimony is only the help, the convenience to bring it to pass lawfully, as two resolving to go over a River to commit a Theft; the passing the River, and the Robbery, is the Intent; the Ferry-Boat is only the lawful Assistant to an unlawful Purpose.

neither is this all, for it is criminal to abuse the Ordinance, to turn the sacred Appointment of Heaven to a corrupt and vile Use, making it the assistant to Sensuality, and to gratifying the Flesh, to quenching a dishonourable Flame, which was very far from the meaning or design of the Institution. That was all pure and upright, singly and simply, honest and clean in every Part and Branch of it, and cannot without a Crime be


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 tion given us by Salviatus; yet do I not find that my Logick, whilst I have a regard to form, teacheth me, that that kind of argumentation affords me any necessary reason to conclude in favour of the Copernican Hypothesis, that is, of the stability of the Sun in the centre of the Zodiack, and of the mobility of the Earth under its circumference. For although it be true, that the said conversion of the Sun, and cirnition of the Earth being granted, there be a necessity of discerning such and such strange extravagancies as these in the spots of the Sun, yet doth it not follow that arguing per conversum, from finding such like unusual accidents in the Sun, one must of necssity conclude the Earth to move by the circumference, and the Sun to be placed in the centre of the Zodiack. For who shall assertain me that the like irregularities may not as well be visible in the Sun, it being moveable by the Ecliptick, to the inhabitants of the Earth, it being also immoveable in the centre of the same? Unlesse you demonstrate to me, that there can be no reason given for that appearance, when the Sun is made moveable, and the Earth stable, I will not alter my opinion and belief that the Sun moveth, and the Earth standeth still.

Simplicius behaveth himself very bravely, and argueth very subtilly in defence of the cause of Aristotle and Ptolomy; and if I may speak the truth, mythinks that the conversation of Salviatus, though it have been but of small continuance, hath much farthered him in discoursing silogistically. An effect which I know to be wrought in others as well as him. But as to finding and judging whether competent reason may be rendered of the apparent exorbitancies and irregularities in the motions of the spots, supposing the Earth to be immoveable, and the Sun moveable, I shall expect that Salviatus manifest his opinion to us, for it is very probable that he he hath considered of the same, and collected together whatever may be said upon the point.

I have often thought thereon, and also discoursed thereof with my Friend and Guest afore-named; and touching what is to be produced by Philosophers and Astronomers, in defence of the ancient Systeme, we are on one hand certain, certain I say, that the true and pure Peripateticks laughing at such as employ themselves in such, to their thinking, insipid fooleries, will censure all these Phænomena to be vain illusions of the Christals; and in this manner will with little trouble free themselves from the obligation of studying any more upon the same. Again, as to the Astronomical Philosophers, after we have with some diligence weighed that which may be alledged as a mean between those two others, we have not been able to find out an


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Author:Andrew Whyte Barclay

Works

 * The Harveian Oration 1881
 * A manual of medical diagnosis: being an analysis of the signs and symptoms of disease (1864)
 * Medical errors : fallacies connected with the application of the inductive method of reasoning to the science of medicine (1864)
 * Gout and rheumatism in relation to disease of the heart (1866)

title: Author:Andrew Whyte Barclay


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 answer that sufficeth to satisfie at once the course of the spots, and the discourse of the Mind. I will explain unto you so much as I remember thereof, that so you may judge thereon as seems best unto you.

Supposing that the apparent motions of the Solar spots are the same with those that have been above declared, and supposing the Earth to be immoveable in the centre of the Ecliptick, in whose circumference let the center of the Sun be placed; it is necessary that of all the differences that are seen in those motions, the causes do reside in the motions that are in the body of the Sun: Which in the first place must necessarily revolve in it self (i. e. about its own axis) carrying the spots along therewith; which spots have been supposed, yea and proved to adhere to the Solar superficies. It must secondly be confest, that the Axis of the Solar conversion is not parallel to the Axis of the Ecliptick, that is as much as to say, that it is not perpendicularly erected upon the Plane of the Ecliptick, because if it were so, the courses and exitions of those spots would seem to be made by right lines parallel to the Ecliptick. The said Axis therefore is inclining, in regard the said courses are for the most part made by curve lines. It will be necessary in the third place to grant that the inclination of this Axis is not fixed, and continually extended towards one and the same point of the Universe, but rather that it doth alwayes from moment to moment go changing its direction; for if the pendency should always look towards the self same point, the courses of the spots would never change appearance; but appearing at one time either right or curved, bending upwards or downwards, ascending or descending, they would appear the same at all times. It is therefore necessary to say, that the said Axis is convertible; and is sometimes found to be in the Plane of the circle that is extreme, terminate, or of the visible Hemisphere, I mean at such time as the courses of the spots seem to be made in right lines, and more than ever pendent, which happeneth twice a year; and at other times found to be in the Plane of the Meridian of the Observator, in such sort that one of its Poles falleth in the visible Hemisphere of the Sun, and the other in the occult; and both of them remote from the extreme points, or we may say, from the poles of another Axis of the Sun, which is parallel to the Axis of the Ecliptick; (which second Axis must necessarily be assigned to the Solar Globe) remote, I say, as far as the inclination of the Axis of the revolution of the spots doth import; and moreover that the Pole falling in the apparent Hemisphere, is one while in the superiour, another while in the inferiour part thereof; for that it must be so, the courses themselves do manifestly evince at such time as they are


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 dresses to her, without being favour'd with any thing that might give them Hopes. I could attribute my good Success to nothing, but that I had hit the critrical Minute, so much talk'd of in Ireland, when a Woman gives her Consent.

I was no sooner come to the Park, but two or three of my Acquaintance, told me that Fribbigghe had been there a long Time before, expecting me to fight him, and was resolv'd to post me for a Coward for not meeting him. I assur'd them I was come sooner than the appointed Time, and begg'd of 'em to assist me in looking for him, that I might use him as he deserv'd. After we had spent some Time in looking for him, we were inform'd that he went with some Ladies to walk in a Green adjacent to the Town; thither we went and found him; but I am confident that he would have given any Consideration to be remov'd some Miles from me when he saw me. He seem'd very earnest in Discourse with the Ladies, and wou'd fain not take Notice of me, but I call'd to him so loud, that he could not but hear me: Upon which he turn'd, and trembled. I call'd him aside; though I must own it was a little rude to take him from the Ladies; yet I conceiv'd so ill of them all, upon Blmmfl's Account, that I have never since paid them so much Respect as I did before. Upon telling him of some Truths, for which he saw I had Vouchers, he began to put them off with a Joke, and told me he would always esteem me as a particular Friend, since, he assur'd me, that I had something very engaging in my Countenance. The Offer he made me of his Friendship was as provoking to me, as any Thing he could have said to me. I told him that I could not be by any Means persuaded to keep such a Fool, as I was sure he was, Company, and that I was resolv'd to make him as ridiculous as I could. I then pull'd off his Wig, and shook all the Powder in it upon his


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 It is not the people who shine in Society, but the people who brighten up the back parlour; not the people who are charming when they are out, but the people who are charming when they are in, that are good to live with. It is not the brilliant men and women, but the simple, strong, restful men and women, that make the best travelling companions for the road of Life. The men and women who will only laugh as they put up the umbrella when the rain begins to fall, who will trudge along cheerfully through the mud and over the stony places,—the comrades who will lay their firm hand on ours and strengthen us when the way is dark, and we are growing weak,—the evergreen men and women, who, like the holly, are at their brightest and best when the blast blows chilliest—the stanch men and women!

It is a grand thing this stanchness. It is the difference between a dog and a sheep—between a man and an oyster.

Women, as a rule, are stancher than men. There are women that you feel you could rely upon to the death. But very few men indeed have this dog-like virtue. Men, taking them generally, are more like cats. You may live with them and call them yours for twenty years, but you can never feel quite sure of them. You never know exactly what they are thinking of. You never feel easy in your mind as to the result of the next-door neighbour's laying down a Brussels carpet in his kitchen.

We have no school for the turning-out of stanch men in this nineteenth century. In the old, earnest times, War made men stanch and true to each other. We have learnt up a good many glib phrases about the wickedness of war, and we thank God that we live in these peaceful, trading times, wherein we can—and do—devote the


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150 and two other individuals of consideration, each established a School, the former of whom subsequently transferred his School to English superintendance. From the earliest stage, one third of the children in attendance at the Schools were Bramins. At first a Bramin boy would not sit down on the same mat with one of another cast. The teachers also made the same objection, which has of late been voluntarily relinquished.

the preceding pages, the reader will be prepared to expect the rapid progress and full success of  experimental institutions, and it will not be necessary, therefore, to trace with minuteness, the further circumstances, which led to this happy result. In consequence of the great demand for the establishment of Village Schools, the Government was induced to enlarge it’sits [sic] monthly donation to 800 Rs. It was already evident, from the experience of three years, that the natives were eager to receive the benefits of knowledge, communicated to them on those principles of reason, discretion, and good faith, which the Government has uniformly inculcated, and that under a


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 whole of our thoughts and energies to robbing and cheating and swindling one another,—to "doing" our friends, and overcoming our enemies by trickery and lies,—wherein, undisturbed by the wicked ways of fighting-men, we can cultivate to better perfection the "smartness," the craft, and the cunning, and all the other "business-like" virtues on which we so pride ourselves, and which were so neglected and treated with so little respect in the bad old age of violence, when men chose lions and eagles for their symbols, rather than foxes.

There is a good deal to be said against war. I am not prepared to maintain that war did not bring with it disadvantages, but there can be no doubt that, for the noblest work of Nature,—the making of men—it was a splendid manufactory. It taught men courage. It trained them in promptness and determination, in strength of brain and strength of hand. From its stern lessons they learned fortitude in suffering, coolness in danger, cheerfulness under reverses. Chivalry, Reverence, and Loyalty are the beautiful children of ugly War. But, above all gifts, the greatest gift it gave to men was stanchness.

It first taught men to be true to one another; to be true to their duty, true to their post; to be in all things faithful, even unto death.

The martyrs that died at the stake; the explorers that fought with Nature and opened up the world for us; the reformers (they had to do something more than talk in those days) who won for us our liberties; the men who gave their lives to science and art, when science and art brought, not as now, fame and fortune, but shame and penury,—they sprang from the loins of the rugged men who had learnt, on many a grim battle-field, to laugh at pain and death, who had had it hammered into them,


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Rh continuance of judicious management, the want of means would oppose the only obstacle to its unlimited dissemination. On this occasion, and when the first allowance in support of the Schools was granted, the Government expressly enjoined the most scrupulous adherence to the long avowed and indispensible condition of not interfering with the religious opinions of the Natives, an injunction which was pointedly and wisely reiterated by the Court of Directors, when they sanctioned the pecuniary aid in question.

August 1818, course of usefulness was arrested by death: but this excellent man was not removed from the scene of his labors, until he had witnessed how complete was their present beneficial operation, to which satisfaction he might have added, had his modest and unassuming nature admitted of it, the anticipation that future generations would be indebted to his care, for their redemption from ignorance and degradation. At the time of his decease, the existence of 36 Schools attended by above 3,000 Natives, both Hindoos and Mohomedans, attested his zeal, his prudence and be-


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 with many a hard blow, that the whole duty of a man in this world is to be true to his trust, and fear not.

Do you remember the story of the old Viking who had been converted to Christianity, and who, just as they were about, with much joy, to baptise him, paused and asked:

"But what—if this, as you tell me, is the only way to the true Valhalla—what has become of my comrades, my friends who are dead, who died in the old faith—where are they?"

The priests, confused, replied there could be no doubt those unfortunate folk had gone to a place they would rather not mention.

"Then," said the old warrior, stepping back, "I will not be baptised. I will go along with my own people."

He had lived with them, fought beside them; they were his people. He would stand by them to the end—of eternity. Most assuredly, a very shocking old Viking! But I think it might be worth while giving up our civilisation and our culture, to get back to the days when they made men like that.

The only reminder of such times that we have left us now, is the bull-dog; and he is fast dying out—the pity of it! What a splendid old dog he is! so grim, so silent, so stanch; so terrible, when he has got his idea of his duty clear before him; so absurdly meek, when it is only himself that is concerned.

He is the gentlest, too, and the most lovable of all dogs. He does not look it. The sweetness of his disposition would not strike the casual observer at first glance. He resembles the gentleman spoken of in the oft-quoted stanza:


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 The first time I ever met a bull-dog—to speak to, that is—was many years ago. We were lodging down in the country, an orphan friend of mine, named George, and myself, and one night, coming home late from some dissolving views, we found the family had gone to bed. They had left a light in our room, however, and we went in and sat down, and began to take off our boots.

And then, for the first time, we noticed on the hearthrug a bull-dog. A dog with a more thoughtfully-ferocious expression a dog with, apparently, a heart more dead to all ennobling and civilising sentiments—I have never seen. As George said, he looked more like some Heathen idol than a happy English dog.

He appeared to have been waiting for us; and he rose up and greeted us with a ghastly grin, and got between us and the door.

We smiled at him—a sickly, propitiatory smile. We said, "Good dog—poor fellow!" and we asked him, in tones implying that the question could admit of no negative, if he was not a "nice old chap." We did not really think so. We had our own private opinion concerning him, and it was unfavourable. But we did not express it. We would not have hurt his feelings for the world. He was a visitor—our guest, so to speak—and, as well-brought-up young men, we felt that the right thing to do was for us to prevent his gaining any hint that we were not glad to see him, and to make him feel as little as possible the awkwardness of his position.

I think we succeeded. He was singularly unembarrassed, and far more at his ease than even we were. He took but little notice of our flattering remarks, but


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Works

 * The Harveian Oration 1882

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 was much drawn towards George's legs. George used to be, I remember, rather proud of his legs. I could never see enough in them, myself, to excuse George's vanity; indeed, they always struck me as lumpy. It is only fair to acknowledge, however, that they quite fascinated that bull-dog. He walked over and criticised them with the air of a long-baffled connoisseur who had at last found his ideal. At the termination of his inspection he distinctly smiled.

George, who at that time was modest and bashful, blushed and drew them up on to the chair. On the dog's displaying a desire to follow them, George moved up on to the table, and squatted there in the middle, nursing his knees.

George's legs being lost to him, the dog appeared inclined to console himself with mine. I went and sat beside George on the table.


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 Sitting with your feet drawn up in front of you, on a small and rickety one-legged table, is a most trying exercise, especially if you are not used to it. George and I both felt our position keenly. We did not like to call out. for help, and bring the family down. We were proud young men, and we feared lest, to the unsympathetic eye of the comparative stranger, the spectacle we should present might not prove imposing.

So we sat on in silence for about half-an-hour, the dog keeping a reproachful eye upon us from the nearest chair, and displaying elephantine delight whenever we made any movement suggestive of climbing down. At the end of the half-hour we discussed the advisability of "chancing it," but decided not to. "We should never," George said, "confound foolhardiness with courage."

"Courage," he continued,—George had quite a gift for maxims,—"Courage is the wisdom of manhood; foolhardiness, the folly of youth."

He said that to get down from the table while that dog remained in the room, would clearly prove us to be possessed of the latter quality; so we restrained ourselves, and sat on.

We sat on for over an hour, by which time, having both grown careless of life and indifferent to the voice of Wisdom, we did "chance it;" and, throwing the tablecloth over our would-be murderer, charged for the door and got out.

The next morning we complained to our landlady of her carelessness in leaving wild beasts about the place, and we gave her a brief, if not exactly truthful, history of the business.

Instead of the tender womanly sympathy we had


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 expected, the old lady sat down in the easy-chair and burst out laughing.

"What! old Boozer?" she exclaimed; "you was afraid of old Boozer! Why, bless you, he wouldn't hurt a worm! He ain't got a tooth in his head, he ain't: we has to feed him with a spoon; and I'm sure the way the cat chivies him about must be enough to make his life a burden to him. I expect he wanted you to nurse him; he's used to being nursed."

And that was the brute that had kept us sitting on a table, with our boots off, for over an hour on a chilly night!

Another bull-dog exhibition that occurs to me was one given by my uncle. He had had a bull-dog—a young one—given to him by a friend. It was a grand dog, so his friend had told him; all it wanted was training—it had not been properly trained. My uncle did not profess to know much about the training of bulldogs; but it seemed a simple enough matter, so he thanked the man, and took his prize home at the end of a rope.

"Have we got to live in the house with this?" asked my aunt, indignantly, coming into the room about an hour after the dog's advent, followed by the quadruped himself, wearing an idiotically self-satisfied air.

"That!" exclaimed my uncle, in astonishment; "why, it's a splendid dog. His father was honourably mentioned only last year at the Aquarium."

"Ah, well, all I can say is, that his son isn't going the


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152 nevolent perseverance; and surely if the consciousness of having done good can furnish consolation, at the dying hour, his reflections must have cheered him in his awful extremity, and soothed the pangs of dissolution. was succeeded in the charge of the Government Schools by, who assisted by , followed his footsteps, with equal ability and judgment. The endeavors of these Gentlemen were, at first, chiefly directed to the introduction of further improvements in Native Education, the plan of instruction approaching, as nearly as possible, to that adopted in the National Society’s Schools in England, with the modifications suggested by local circumstances, and some ingenious and expedient additions made by the new Managers.

system having now reached a stage of matured improvement, the superintendants were directed to impart it as a model in every practicable degree to the Schools supported by Natives. This plan of proceeding had been acted upon with great success by the Calcutta School Society (an Institution, the formation of which, and of the School Book Society will shortly be


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 6 for two centuries and a half has by almost universal consent been conceded to him, and to claim for the Italian Cesalpino (Latin, Casal- pinus) the credit of having anticipated Harvey in the discovery and demonstration of the circula- tion of the blood. These attempts to exalt Cesal- pino at the expense of Harvey have been referred to and refuted by the late Dr. R. Willis, in his admirable volume entitled William Harvey' (London, 1878). But the subject is so important and so full of interest for this college that it may well occupy all the time at my disposal to-day.

It will be remembered that Dr. Sieveking, in his interesting oration delivered in 1877, referred to the fact that a monument in honour of Cesal- pino had recently been unveiled in Rome. I am indebted to the kindness of Dr. Pantaleoni, the eminent Roman physician and senator, for a copy of the two orations which, at the inaugura- tion of that monument, were delivered in the presence of a large assembly of learned professors and other eminent and representative men of Italy. The orators were Professors Scalzi and

1 Inaugurazione della lapide ad Andrea Cesalpino; due discorsi letti in questa occasione dai Prof. F. Scalzi e C. Maggiorani. Roma, 1876.


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LL that Boley Drumgoole had gathered in his long grazing across the range of life was an armful of old white whiskers. They were not much to behold, small adornment to wear; for they were beginning to turn yellow, like a weathered marble tombstone, or wool that has a rust in it, or old, dusty whiskers, indeed, that have strained tobacco smoke for more than fifty years.

"Uncle Boley," he was called, and he was not troubled at all over the things which he had missed in this world while his talents were being bent to the production of that beard, the biggest ever seen between the Missouri and the Cimarron. It was his mantle and his comforter; it would be his shroud. He buttoned it under his vest to keep the pleurisy out of his chest when the wind stood northeast and the wintry days were gray, turning it out with the first warm sun of March, like a crocus, vain of its endeavor to make a dun world bright.

Uncle Boley had been an unwilling widower for

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 upward of eighteen years, a circumstance that vexed him and hurt his pride. He deplored the immorality of a society in which women laughed at long, white whiskers, and swore in the same breath that if matrimony demanded the sacrifice of them he would march on to the grave a single man. No woman in the world was worth it.

While he waited in hope for the reformation of society, Uncle Boley supplemented his pension by the manufacture of boots for the cowboys and cattlemen, who were thick on the Arkansas Valley range of Kansas in those early days. His shop was no larger than the front room of his little house in Cottonwood, and that was not much bigger than a bedstead; his only machinery the primitive tools of the bench-worker at his trade.

He had followed the frontier from Westport, on the Missouri line, where he began in the old freighting days, and had brought up in Cottonwood for his last stand. His fame as a contriver of high heels and quilted tops reached as far as New Mexico, borne up and down the cattle world by the far-riding vaqueros, who held him in the first esteem.

In those days Cottonwood was not so much of a town as in time it grew to be, for it was only the beginning, indefinite and broad-sown on the treeless prairie beside the sandy stream. There had

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 been a tree on the site of the town at one time, remembered for the hangings which had been carried to perfection by the assistance of its friendly boughs. From that tree, no trace of which now remained, the town had taken its name, and it was a new and altogether unlovely place, bleak alike under summer sun and winter storm.

Sod houses with sere grass standing on their roofs, as it had begun to grow with the spring rains and withered to sapless brown by the summer sun, stood in scattered irregularity, like a grazing herd, forming the outskirts of the town. Tin cans were sown thickly around them, but never vegetable nor flower sprung from the willing soil beside their walls.

In the business section the houses were arranged with more regularity, as if a future had been planned. Most of these buildings were of planks, with stubby fronts, appearing as if they had been slapped in the face and flattened for their threatened trespass upon the road.

There was no distinction in living in a sod house in Cottonwood, for anybody who could borrow a spade might have one. If a man was affluent or consequential in any degree, he bought lumber and built himself a more aristocratic abode. On this account there was a continual sawing and hammering going on in Cottonwood in those times, for

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 money poured into the place from the great herds on the rich prairie lands around.

The town had been built on cattle, and on cattle its hope of future greatness rested. The railroad had reached out to it across the sea of prairie like the needle of a compass to its pole, and was building on into the West to open new worlds for canned goods to overcome. Out of Cottonwood supplies went into this new country, and into Cottonwood the wild-eyed herds were driven for shipment, all combining to make it a busy place. No restriction had been put on the traffic in alcoholic liquor at that time in that part of the country, and in Cottonwood there was a good deal of lurid life, a right smart of shooting and slashing around. Uncle Boley Drumgoole had seven pairs of boots, standing on the little shelf at his back, which had been ordered and paid for by men who did not live to enjoy them.

So it was in this atmosphere, if you can sense it hurriedly from the little sniff that has been given to you here, that Uncle Boley was sewing a bootleg on a calm autumn morning, his beard tucked out of the way under his left suspender. He was thinking on marriage and taking in marriage, as he usually occupied his thoughts when alone, and of the correspondence that he had struck up with a lively widow in Topeka, when the frame of a man dark-

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 ened in the door between him and the bright, glaring day. Uncle Boley looked up from his seam, sighing as he relinquished the sweet thoughts of the distant widow whom he had never seen, nodded to the man, who had paused in his door as if for permission to enter, worked his chin rapidly in short chops to dislodge the chew of tobacco between his jawbone and his cheek. This operation gave an aspect of menace to the venerable bootmaker's otherwise placid face, which a stranger was very likely to interpret as a prelude to a volley of invective, in keeping with the customs of Cottonwood and the wild men who rode that untrammeled land.

"Come in," said Uncle Boley, a little thickly on account of the waxed-end that he held in his mouth. The man stretched out his arm and, with palm against the jamb of the door, stood as one does when he has been on his feet a long time, shifting his weight from leg to leg, and grinned dustily at Uncle Boley.

Telling about it afterward, when there was reason for it and distinction in it, Uncle Boley always said that grin reminded him of the way a strange dog stops to wag its tail and looks up at you. There was something half-timid, wholly uncertain, in the unspoken salutation, yet an appeal of friendliness that made a man want to shake

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 hands with him and push him out a cheer. That's the way Uncle Boley always told it; he had felt just like he wanted to shake hands with him and push him out a cheer.

"I wonder if I could get a shoe fixed here?" the stranger asked.

Uncle Boley looked him over before replying, the waxed-end hanging down his beard. He saw that the young fellow was tall and lanky, with steady, dark eyes which had a sparkle of humor in them, and dark hair that looked as if it needed cutting so badly that it must give him pain. But, Uncle Boley concluded in the same breath, they'd have to rope and hobble that chap to do it, more than likely, he looked so skittish and shy. He seemed a grave man for his years, which the bootmaker estimated at twenty-five or thirty, long-jointed, big-nosed, big-handed. Uncle Boley looked at his feet; they were made to carry a man.

"Shoe," said Uncle Boley, with plain disparagement of that sort of. "Nobody but the women and kids around here wears shoes."

"I'm a stranger; I'll get into the customs of the country when I learn them."

"Yes, you likely will. Now, if you want a good pair of boots, dog cheap"—Uncle Boley turned to the shelf behind his bench and took down a pair that he estimated might fit—"I can fix you up."

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 "I'd like to have a pair, but I haven't got the money to buy them."

Uncle Boley put them back without a word, an expression of loftiness coming over his hairy face.

"Well, I don't reckon I can fix your shoe. I ain't got time to fool with shoes."

Uncle Boley took his dangling threads and gave them the three little jerks which he always employed in tightening a stitch. "Where you from?"

"Topeka, and—Topeka, sir."

"Topeky?" Uncle Boley looked up with the word, a gleam of eagerness in his sharp, blue eyes. "Topeky, heh? Let me see that there shoe."

It had cast a heel, as a horse throws a shoe, and the stranger had it in his pocket. Uncle Boley said it was useless, for it was worn down to nothing but the shadow of a heel. He demanded to see the other one, and found it just as bad. He bent over his work again a little while, as if the case of the heels was beyond salvation and he had put it out of his mind.

"Take 'em off," said he, sewing away, not lifting an eye. "I'll fix 'em for you."

But the young man hesitated. He was concerned about the cost.

"Well, it won't make me and it won't break you," said Uncle Boley, with the largeness of a man to whom trifles are annoying.

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 "I'm not so sure about the last part of it, sir."

"Well, if you're that nigh busted, you can stand me off till you git a job. I never took the last cent out of a man's pocket in my life."

"It must be a comfortable reflection at your age, sir."

"Well, I ain't as old as some," said Uncle Boley tartly, "and I'm a danged sight better man 'n many a one not half my age!"

"I didn't mean to imply that you had reached your dotage, sir." The stranger's grave, sensitive face reddened at the old man's heat. The flush appeared to increase his homeliness. For he was undoubtedly homely, but with a good plainness, Uncle Boley thought, like a man who would be kind to a horse or a woman.

"I'm as good as any man of forty-seven you can find in this country!"

Uncle Boley jerked his threads a bit sharply as he spoke, watching the stranger's face with sly, upward glancing of his wise old eyes which belied his apparent ill temper.

"Yes, and most of them at forty, I'll bet you a purty, sir."

There was a softness in the stranger's speech, a drawl in his words, that had marked him from the moment that he opened his mouth as somewhere

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 from the South, primarily, even though Topeka just now. Uncle Boley nodded.

"From Texas, I 'low?"

"Yes, sir; I was bornd and raised in Taixas."

"What might they call you where you come from, son?"

"Why, they call me Taixas, sir—Taixas Hartwell, James or Jim christened, if you prefer it, sir."

"Texas suits me all right. Them two names goes together handy, too—easy to say—Texas Hartwell. Jimses and James is too thick already in this man's country; yes, and jim-jamses, too."

"Yes, sir."

Uncle Boley worked at the seam until he had used up the thread in the leather, then took the extra waxed-end out of his mouth and put the boot aside. He took up one of the crippled shoes, turned it, examined it, as if he had come across some curiosity in the shoemaker's art.

"You must 'a' done a sight of walkin' in them shoes."

"I have walked a right smart little stretch in 'em, sir."

"I don't reckon all the way from Topeky?"

"Not all the way, sir."

Uncle Boley hammered at the new lift of heel that he was laying on, brads in his mouth, a smudge

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 of neat's foot oil on his bald head. The stranger sat reading a bill that hung on the wall at the ancient bootmaker's back.

This poster was an advertisement of an event that was going forward in Cottonwood that very day—a three days' fair celebrating the annual convention of the Cattle Raisers' Association. It was a modest announcement, in small type, but it seemed to draw the stranger into it as if it held matter of the first importance.

"Don't reckon you know anybody name of Gertie Moorehead up there in Topeky, do you?"

Uncle Boley spoke in casual manner, as if he might be inquiring after a distant relative, or somebody who owed him money that he never expected to collect. He pretended to be altogether centered in fitting another lift on the heel, keeping his eyes on it, making a little hissing noise through his teeth.

The young man started, reddened, took his eyes off the advertisement of the fair, as if he had been caught stealing leather.

"Who, sir?"

"Lady name of Gertie Moorehead," Uncle Boley repeated, still too busy to lift his eyes.

"No, sir; I can't say that I do, sir. I'm not very largely acquainted in that city, scarcely acquainted at all, sir."

"Oh, I reckon you just passed through," said

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 Uncle Boley, plainly disappointed. He was, in a measure, indignant, too, having been taken in that way by the expectation, the hope, that this stranger raised in his breast. He had been all of a tremble in his eagerness to hear a first-hand description of the lady whose photograph was in the drawer right there in the shop that moment, and to learn whether her representation of property, real and personal, was true, or colored for matrimonial purposes. He had been drawn into mending a pair of shoes, and for a man who had no money, on that hope. But instead of being a resident of Topeka, this man had only passed through—tramped through, Uncle Boley was ready to bet money—and didn't know Gertie from Gilderoy's goose.

Uncle Boley knocked away at the heel with vindictive blows, his whiskers working from the anchorage of his suspender in his vehemence. He stopped to tuck them back again and roll his eyes sourly at Texas Hartwell, who sat there with his gaze glued on the bill advertising the fair as if he had discovered the rarest piece of literature on the globe.

"What kind of a job're you lookin' for?"

Another jump away from the poster, another swift flame of blood in the bleak and bony face of Texas Hartwell.

"Sir?"

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 "I said what kind of a job're you lookin' for, if you're lookin' for any?"

Most any kind."

"Can you tend bar?"

"Well, I never did, sir."

"Maybe you can deal faro?"

"I'm afraid I'd fail to give satisfaction at it, sir."

"Huh!" said Uncle Boley, in the manner of a man who had so little faith that it almost amounted to contempt. Presently he brightened a bit and looked up hopefully.

"Can you cook or carpenter?"

Texas smiled, a smile that illuminated his face like a light within. He shook his head slowly, fighting the smile back to the corners of his mouth, the corners of his dark eyes.

"No, sir. I wouldn't be a bit of good at either of them."

"Huh!" said Uncle Boley, with a little more stress on it than before.

He returned to his work with the air of a man who knew himself to be in for a bad job, and determined to have it off his hands as soon as possible. Uncle Boley had canvassed the list of possibilities in Cottonwood for a man who wore shoes. Outside of the arts and crafts named nobody went around in shoes; and if a man who wore them could

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 neither deal, tend bar, cook, nor carpenter, there was no place for him in the activities of the town. Even the lawyers and doctors wore boots like regular men.

"I was thinkin' I might get something to do around the cattle ranches, sir."

"Huh! Did you ever see a horse?"

"Yes, sir; I've seen 'em, sir."

"Well, was you ever on one?"

"I've had some little ex-perience around 'em, sir."

"In a livery barn, I reckon." Uncle Boley was at no pains to conceal his contempt.

"I was raised up on a cattle ranch, sir," Texas said gravely, rather loftily, "and I can ride a horse and throw a rope with any man between Taixas and Montana, sir. If it's the shoes—"

"Well, it was the shoes!" Uncle Boley smote the one on his knee a disdainful blow. "No man that ever rode after cattle ain't got no right to lower hisself down to shoes!"

"A man can't always choose what he'll put on his feet, sir, any more than he can select the road they're to follow."

Uncle Boley sat a little while, his eyes on the unfinished heel. When he spoke it was with a new note of respect, a gentleness and softness more becoming to the wisdom of his years.

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 "You're right; you're mighty right. A man can be a man and wear shoes, but"—forcefully—"he ort to git out of 'em as quick as he can!"

"I was just a readin' on that bill, sir, that they're goin' to have a ropin' contest for both men and ladies at the fair here this afternoon. I never heard of ladies bein' admitted to that rough sport before."

"This is the first time they've ever had 'em mixed up in it here. Ain't a woman's place to go straddlin' around on a horse ropin' and hog-tyin' steers. I had a wife or daughter tried it, I'd turn her over m' knee, that's what I'd do!"

"They're not to compete against the men, sir, it says."

"Don't make no difference; they ain't got no business competin' around at all. Well, I will make one exception—but I grudge that one."

"Is there any entrance fee for contestants, or do you know?"

"It's as free as air. Anybody that's got a horse and a rope— Why don't you try it, if you're a roper?"

"I've been sittin' here tryin' to study up some plan to do it. The bill says first prize for men is two hundred and fifty dollars. Do you reckon they mean it?"

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 "Well, I wouldn't advise you to go down there to the fair grounds and ask 'em that!"

"I was just thinkin' that if I had a horse I might try my hand."

Uncle Boley looked him over again, this time more carefully than at the first inventory.

Except for the shoes, he wasn't materially different from the general run of cowboys. He had the slender, pliant waist and lean hams of the saddleman; and long, strong arms, which looked as if they could swing and throw a lariat. Indeed, he wore the conventional hat of a cowboy, and the gray' laced flannel shirt. His trousers seemed to be a little odd, but that was, perhaps, on account of no boots. Boots to the knees make a great difference in a man's legs, as Uncle Boley knew.

"What kind of a job did you work at last?"

"I never had a job in my life, sir."

"I thought you said you was raised on a ranch?"

Uncle Boley looked at him sharply.

"My father's ranch."

Uncle Boley seemed to take a new and deep interest in his work. He pegged away for fully ten minutes with never a word, and scarcely a look in the direction of his doubtful customer. By pressure of habit he had taken up the waxed-end and put it in his mouth, and when he spoke, at length,

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 he mumbled around it, as if he communed to himself.

"I guess every man knows why he left and where he's bound for. I know I left Mezoury one time 'cause I killed a feller's dog. Yes, sir, that dang man was goin' to shoot me."

"I never killed anybody's dog in my life," said Texas.

He was looking out into the street, but with that in his eyes eyes which told the old man his thoughts were far away from the scene before him. People were passing, afoot and on horse, and the dust of their coming and going was blowing lazily on the soft, autumn wind; but Texas could not have told whether they were men or cattle, and Uncle Boley would have bet a handful of tacks on that.

"A man don't have to kill a dog," the old man suggested.

"Sir?" said Texas, with that peculiar start, that unaccountable mounting of color, to his brown, tough face.

"I said a man might run off with some other feller's wife," said Uncle Boley, very sarcastically, speaking loudly, as if to a deaf person.

"He might," Texas allowed, his all-transforming smile moving the corners of his eyes again, "but I assure you, sir, I never did."

Uncle Boley looked at him comically a moment,

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 bent over his work, and laughed, his old high-keyed, dry-leather laugh. It was no small triumph, if Texas had known it, to pull a laugh out of cynical old Uncle Boley. He didn't say a word more until he had the last tack driven, the newness of the repaired heels duly disguised by blacking, after the ancient custom of his craft. Then he handed the shoes over to their owner, shook his head, took the waxed-end out of his mouth.

"No, I'll bet a button you never did!" said he, and laughed again, with such deep gusto it made him cough.

Texas put on his shoes, stood to try them, stamped this foot and that, thrust his hand into his pocket, and inquired how much it was.

"Dollar," said Uncle Boley, turning his head as if ashamed of mentioning such a trifle.

Texas produced it, but Uncle Boley pretended to be absorbed in something transpiring in the street. Texas put it on the bench before him, apology in his movement, and started for the door.

"How much does that leave you?" Uncle Boley asked.

"Sufficient for immediate needs, sir, thank you."

"Yes, and I'll bet you couldn't match it if your neck depended on it!"

Which was true, and Uncle Boley knew it was

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 true by the signs that came into the lanky Texan's face.

"Here"—handing out the dollar—"I said I'd trust you till you struck a job. You take this money, and go and spend it over there at the Buffalo Waller café for something that'll stick to your ribs, and when you've done that, come back here and we'll see about a horse for that there ropin' doin's this afternoon."

"If you could help me to a horse, sir!" said Texas, brightening so wonderfully that he seemed like another man.

"Well, maybe I can."

"And if I win the purse—"

"Wouldn't be surprised if you did."

"I'll split it with you, sir!"

"Yes, an' you won't do no such a dam' thing! Go on over there and put something under your shirt to work on. It takes beefsteak and taters to give a man the stren'th to throw a steer."

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NCLE BOLEY was the proudest man on the fair grounds that afternoon when Texas came over from the office with the money in his hand. The old man was in the very first row of the grand stand, his whiskers combed out to their mightiest, his face glowing like a Santa Claus mask.

"It was as purty a piece of ropin' as I ever seen, Texas," he declared, going forward to meet the young man, as proud of the admiration in the ladies' eyes, the complimentary comment of cowmen and cowboys around him, as if the stranger were his son.

"It wasn't such a scan'lous hard piece of work with that horse of yours, sir. He's the finest cowpony I ever threw a leg over, sir, and the smartest."

The old man's eyes softened with a mist of tenderness at this praise.

"I raised that horse from a colt, but I didn't teach him them tricks, Texas. It was a girl that broke him in to handle cattle."

"Why, sir, you don't tell me!"

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 Texas looked at Uncle Boley with amazement in his face. Animated by his success he seemed younger and livelier by many years than when he had stood in the shop-door a few hours before, dusty and roadworn, hungry and downhearted.

"You'll see her purty soon—she's in this here ladies' contest that's comin' next. Well, if there's any excuse for any girl in Kansas bein' in it, that girl's Sallie McCoy. I would take down the bars for Sallie, for she's a lady, no matter what she does."

"I'm sure she is, sir; the actions of that little horse tell me as much."

"She'll ride him when she goes in. You'll have a chance to see his work."

"She'll ride him? Why, if I'd 'a' known it, sir—it wasn't fair of me to use him and tire him all out!"

"That's all right; he's able to stand it and never turn a hair."

"But if I'd 'a' known that you intended to let her ride him, I never would 'a' thrown a leg over him, sir."

"I ain't a lettin' her use him—it was her that lent him to us—she owns him."

Texas looked at him with fallen countenance most woeful to behold. Injured pride flushed his

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 cheeks, humiliation lurked in his eyes like the pain of a wound.

"But I understood you to say, sir—"

"That I raised him. I did; but I give him to Sallie five years ago. If you think runnin' down and ropin' one fool chuckleheaded steer's a goin' to wind that horse, then you've got another guess comin' to you, young feller."

"But I'm scan'lous sorry, just the same. I feel like I'd taken a mean advantage of a lady's generosity; I feel—just like—a whipped pup!"

Uncle Boley passed if off with a grunt, taking it all as a reflection on the endurance of the horse. He spread his big red handkerchief on the rough board seat for which he had paid two dollars, and nodded for Texas to compose himself beside him.

"Two dollars for a piece of board a foot and a half long!" he protested. "Might know it wasn't any bunch of cowmen that got this thing up. Keep a man pickin' splinters out of his britches for the next month!"

"Didn't the cowmen get it up, sir? I understood from the bill—"

"Yes, but it wasn't the association; the association didn't have nothing to do with the fair. They're holding the convention here, all right, but a crowd of Wichita men, and some of the light

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 heels of this town, got up this show to rastle a few more dollars away from folks."

"Well, they sure have succeeded," said Texas, sweeping a quick look over the crowded grand stand.

Uncle Boley nodded, but did not look about him. Instead, he was surveying Texas, with every evidence of satisfaction in his glowing face. He had insisted on boots, and had found a pair among the unclaimed ones on his shelf that fitted Texas as if they had been measured for him. It made a great difference in the young man's legs, Uncle Boley reflected; it gave him the shape and proportions of a proper man.

"Yes, and there'll be a heap of money put up on Sallie McCoy," the old man said, twisting his head to express magnitude; "scads and piles of it. Every cowman and puncher in fifty miles is here to put his money on Sallie. Pore as I am, I rolled up a little and put it on her, and if I had more, I'd resk it too, by Ned!"

Texas jumped to his feet, seeing here an opening to express his gratitude.

"I'll put up a hundred apiece for us!"

"I don't encourage gamblin'," said the old man sagely; "but when I run into a bunch of light-heels that's achin' to git rid of their money, I'm bound to help 'em all I can. Put it up for yourself, if

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 you want to, but I ain't a goin' to split that money with you, and I told you that at the start."

Moved by his sense of obligation to this unknown Sallie McCoy, Texas went down to post a bet on her. From what the old man had said, he expected to find the odds largely in her favor, and was not a little surprised to learn that it was the other way. There was no lack of money at two to one against Sallie McCoy, and the friends and supporters of that young lady were covering it as fast as they could count.

On all sides he heard it expressed that somebody was in for a shearing. The fact that strangers should come from Wichita and bet against the local favorite was hotly resented. It was being said that they had offered odds to bring out the money, and the challenge was working very well.

Texas crossed over to where a crowd stood round a pen in which the steers were confined, hoping that he might get a glimpse of Sallie McCoy among the contestants, who were waiting on the other side of the big corral gate. There were three girls looking over the animals, which were soon to fall before their cunning hands, making wise comments on the points of strength and speed which the steers presented. They were range-roughened girls, browned by sun and wind, dressed in divided skirts, with more or less savage trinkery and ornamenta-

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 tion on their hats and belts. He did not believe that Sallie McCoy was among them.

These were the kind of girls whom the cowboys flung heels-high in their rough dances; strongarmed, broad-chested, afraid of neither man nor beast. He believed Sallie McCoy must be out of a more delicate mold than these.

One of the judges rode into the arena to announce the rules governing this contest, which were somewhat different from those under which the men had competed.

Each contestant was to enter the arena alone, after having selected the steer upon which she was to practise her art from the number 'in the pen. The animal was to be allowed a running start before the rope was thrown. No assistance would be given, except in the event that the contestant became entangled or otherwise imperiled. A man with a megaphone would announce before the grand stand each contestant's name as she entered, and the time it took her to throw and hog-tie the steer, when she had accomplished that feat.

The first girl was mounting her horse as Texas turned to go back to Uncle Boley; but at that moment one entered the enclosure where the contestants waited whose appearance rooted his feet to the ground. Texas drew himself up to his toes to look at her as she swept past the other girls, giving them

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 an indifferent, rather superior, glance as she passed.

She was dressed in green velvet bolero and divided skirt, with silver buttons down the outside seams of this wide, trouser-like garment. Her little spurs were silver, a silver ornament held back the brim of her broad hat, showing the engaging sweep of her abundant dark hair over her dainty ear. Her skin was of a tender whiteness, reddened on cheek and lip by nature's own cosmetics, in fine contrast with her brilliant habit and dark eyes. She was handsome, and so well aware of it that there was a certain haughtiness in her carriage, near neighbor to disdain.

Texas thought she was the most superb human being he ever had seen. He did not believe that it was possible that she could sit a saddle against the shock of a roped steer, or leap to the ground, while her horse strained on the taut lariat, and run with rope in hand and secure the thrown creature's wild-striving legs.

Could this ripe beauty, this voluptuous creature, be Sallie McCoy? Texas was all of a-quiver to find out. He saw that the officials of the fair paid her the utmost deference, fairly jumping in their eagerness to make a place for her as she set her dainty foot on the plank of the stock-pen and climbed up to get a better view of the arena.

He hurried back to ask Uncle Boley about her,

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 arriving before the grand stand to find that the passage leading into the arena had been blocked completely by late arrivals, chiefly women. He was too timid, too considerate, to disturb them. Uncle Boley saw him, and waved his hand understandingly.

Texas took up his station in front of the grand stand with the fringe of favored ones who had been allowed to penetrate that far, and one came past on a horse to warn them back close against the wall, and to caution them that they would have to look out for themselves when things began to pop between the ladies and the steers.

Texas watched the work of the first three girls keenly. Two of them were ordinary; one was excellent. But none of them was Sallie McCoy. But he had not expected one of them to turn out to be Sallie McCoy. Surely it was the girl in the velvet dress who was Sallie; and yet—there was something deeper in his heart that denied this; why, he could not tell. Perhaps it was because she was grander than he had pictured Uncle Boley's friend to be, and bolder, perhaps, if that word might be permitted in the description of a lady.

The grand stand was going wild over the last girl. She was the comeliest of the three whom he had seen in the corral, and he thought that if she

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 was not one of the "queens of the range" which the poster had announced, then she was a princess, at least. The spectators appeared to hold the same opinion. They would not be satisfied until she had ridden past, modest and blushing, her hair in disorder from her struggle with the steer, her hat in her hand. Sallie McCoy would have to go a pretty good pace to beat that girl's time, Texas thought, and began to fear for her reputation.

He looked again toward the stock-pen. There another girl had appeared on horse-back, and—there was no mistaking it—the very horse that he had ridden to a winning finish not more than an hour before. So that would be Sallie McCoy, beyond a doubt, and it was not the gorgeous lady in the velvet dress and silver spurs.

Anything, indeed, but gorgeous this little lady appeared as she rode into the arena and came to a stop not a rod from the spot where Texas stood. She was dressed plainly in a loose, shirtlike upper garment, laced at the front in the cowboy style, a modest blue necktie tucked into the bosom. Her gray blouse disappeared under the broad belt around her waist, with a plain suggestion of a tail to it equal to any cowboy's shirt on the Arkansas Valley range that day. The skirt was of corduroy, divided into voluminous trousers, set with large

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 in case of a false residence being given, they shall inform the commissary of police, who will testify concerning the same. They shall point out also the witnesses who may be heard, and of whom they shall take care to procure the names and residences.

3. "The private agents can only confine in the stations the individuals before mentioned. They shall not take them thence without an order from the chief of the brigade, to whom they must give an account of their operations, or by virtue of a superior order.

4. "The police agents may not enter any private house to apprehend a person suspected of crime without being provided with an order, and without being accompanied by a commissary of police, if there be a search to be made in the house.

5. "The police agents must always walk alone, that they may the more easily observe the persons passing on the public way, and shall make occasional halts in the most populous thoroughfares.

6. "Circumspection, veracity, and discretion, being indispensable qualities for every police agent, any defection in these will be severely punished.

7. "The police agents are prohibited, day or night, from extending their surveillance to any other quarter of the city that that appointed for them by their chief, unless some extraordinary event shall imperatively summon them, and of which they shall give an exact report.

8. "The police agents are also forbidden from entering the cabarets and other public places, to sit at table and drink with common women, or other individuals who may compromise them. Those who tipple, have secret and habitual connections with female thieves or common women, or live with one of them, shall be severely punished.

9. "Gaming, being the vice which most particularly leads a man to commit base actions, is expressly forbidden to the police agents. Those who are found


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 mother-of-pearl buttons down the legs. She wore no spurs; her tawny, weathered hat was weighted by a heavy leather band.

The sun had turned to a reddish tint the ends and light-flying tresses of her heavy, brown hair and had set its little brown pigment spots in her fine-textured skin, like marks of kisses from the lips of an ardent lover. Her eyes were as brown as walnut, and sorrowful as a Madonna's, but in the sorrow of innocence, whose only grief is for a dream.

She saw Uncle Boley up there among the great crowd, and smiled. Texas felt a quiver leap through his body at the sight of her quickened face, as if she had come and laid her hand on his head. It was just like that, he thought; just exactly as if she had come and laid her hand on his bare head. And her smile was not for him at all; as far as he was concerned, her world was empty of men. But if a smile going over a man's head could make him quiver and tingle like that, how would he feel if she gave it to him, right square in the eyes?

That was what Texas wondered, the velvet lady in her glory dim in his thoughts that moment, as Sallie McCoy's name was announced by the man with the megaphone and the gate was opened to the wildest steer on the waiting list.

It was a white animal with a blotch of red across

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 its loins—the meanest color that a steer could be, and Texas knew it—long-legged, long-horned, and it carried its head high when it rushed out of the pen, as if it was bound for its native Texas and dared any man to stop it on the way. Of course there was a certain advantage in a fast one, Texas reflected, for the faster it went, the harder it would fall. But he had his doubts on the ability of this slender girl, with her small, brown hands, being able to do much with that native of the chaparral.

"He's a regular catamount!" said Texas aloud.

"You said it, pardner," agreed a short, bow-legged man, with a narrow face and long nose, and great black mustache drooping under it like a mourning wreath.

The three judges were mounted, waiting in front of the grand stand to dash out and time the contestant, time beginning the moment that the lariat was thrown. The contestant was allowed the preliminary maneuvering to warm up her horse, limber her arms, and work the steer up in front of the grand stand if she had that desire.

Texas saw from the start that this girl had no such intention. Her aim was to get it over with while her horse was fresh. But the steer seemed to have some crafty design of his own for making a figure in the world. Texas never had seen a swifter one, and few as wild. The animal dashed

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 around the arena in long leaps, like a deer, yet far out of reach of her lariat, and at every circle past the grand stand the enthusiasm of the spectators grew.

Here at last was the real thing; here was a show for your money, a thing to make you lift in your seat and feel a thrill up your backbone when that handsome girl went by, swift as a leaf on the wind, a whirl of dust behind her, her slender limbs holding her to the saddle as lissom as a sapling in a gale.

Accustomed as these people were to seeing men and women tearing about the town on, there was a quality in this girl's exhibition of riding that held their breath in admiration. There was no thought as to when it would end, or how, only the present wonder of her plastic figure and the moving appreciation of her grace and competence, as she went dashing across the dusty field.

Down in the front where Texas and the bow-legged man stood there was some concern lest the long-winded steer might outlast her horse.

"That feller's a wind-splitter from Arkansaw!" said the bow-legged man.

"He sure is built for speed," Texas replied, his anxious eyes on the whirl of dust through which pursuer and pursued were dimly seen.

"He's a racehorse, cuss him!" The bow-legged

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 man pushed forward a little as he spoke, and leaned as if concentrating his faculties to influence the steer. "Now! That's the girl—that's the girl!"

The encouraging exclamation had been drawn from him by Sallie's sudden maneuver. Quitting the pursuit of the steer, throwing her weight across the saddle to swerve her horse sharply, she cut across the arena and intercepted the flying animal directly in front of the place where Texas and the bow-legged man stood.

The steer stiffened his legs and slid in his surprised attempt to escape the trap, wheeled, snorted defiance, and made off on a back track. But his checked race had been fatal to his spectacular calculations, if calculations he had inside his wild, long-horned head. Before he could get back to his lost gait Sallie had swung and cast her reata.

It fell true to the mark. Her watchful horse stiffened in his tracks, braced himself, lunged back, as Sallie half flung herself from the saddle on the opposite side to set her weight against the shock. In a second there was a glimpse of wild-flying legs as eight hundred pounds of steer struggled against the tight-strung lariat to get to its feet again.

The grand stand started a cheer when the steer was thrown, but bit it off as if the door of its emotion had been opened untimely. There was not

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 the sound of a sigh as Sallie ran to the struggling, bellowing animal, her hobble in her hand. The rest of it was only a flash through a cloud of dust.

The grand stand stood to see, and did see, a deft movement of hand and rope, and the next breath, it seemed, the girl standing back out of the dust and confusion. The steer was lying there winded, its four legs gathered and bound like a hog trussed up for market.

Sallie's wise horse, knowing very well when the work was done, eased the strain on the rope, and the grand stand, freed of its tension at the same moment, outdid itself in cheering. The judges released the conquered steer, faced the shouting people, held up hands for silence. Sallie remounted and rode forward with them, and her friends came scrambling over the rail by scores to congratulate her.

The man with the megaphone announced her time. This was seven seconds better than the best made so far, and the opinion was confidently and freely expressed that it could not be beaten. The bow-legged man was so sure of this that he produced money which, he said, stood ready to back that belief against all corners.

Texas saw a tall, soft-shouldered, puffy man, whose black eyebrows were in sharp contrast with the scraped-hog whiteness of his skin, come for-

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 ward and engage the bow-legged man's money. The judges, as an escort of honor, rode with Sallie to the corral gate, where she continued in her saddle waiting to see the finish.

The man with the megaphone cleared the arena for the closing feature.

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was originally the intention of the Writer to confine his account of the several Establishments, which this Work professes to describe, to those in Calcutta, or in its immediate vicinity; but in tracing the varied and extensive course which the stream of education has lately taken, it has become indispensible to the completeness of the narrative, to deviate from that first purpose, and to point out an humble, though important source, at a short distance from the Capital, whence may be expected to flow the most essential benefits to the cause of moral improvement throughout India.


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EXAS worked his way round to where Sallie McCoy waited on her horse just inside the corral gate. The bow-legged man was talking with her, combing her horse's mane with his fingers.

"They'd just as well hand you the money right now, Miss Sallie," he said.

"You're too sure, Mr. Winch," she returned, laughing a little, all rosy through the faint brown of her face and neck.

Texas Hartwell drew a few slow steps nearer, something timid in his way, to hear again the vibrant music of her voice. What marvels the world held for him that day, he thought; what a vast amount of beauty and sensation it had been keeping from him here in this far-away place. First the one in velvet had taken away his breath, and now this one seemed to be calling the very heart out of his breast. In spite of his efforts to hold it anchored, he knew its peril was great.

"I don't know who this Wichita lady is," the man whom she had called Winch went on, "but I'll bet

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 seven dollars to one she can't come in half a minute of you."

"I hope you didn't bet any money on me," she said, a bit reproachfully.

Yes, the other one was handsome, with a disdainful, haughty lift to her white chin, thought Texas, but this one was good. A man could look right down into her eyes, he'd bet, and see the bottom of her soul all white like pebbles in a spring.

"Didn't we?" Winch wanted to know, with a large discount in his tone. It was as much as if he had asked her how any gentleman could stand aside with money in his pocket and fail to hazard it in the honor of his community, and the heart and jewel of that community, and hope to hold his head up in the eyes of men again. It was a feeling in which Texas shared, and warmed with the generosity of it, his heart applauding the little bow-legged man.

Miss Sallie smiled down to Mr. Winch. Appreciation honestly bestowed, thought Texas. There was not the girl to go about throwing smiles away as if they were trifles to be had for the looking. A man might well leap to catch a smile like that, and put it away in his heart to keep, like a rare poem that has moved his soul.

Mr. Winch did not appear to suspend his breathing on account of it. Texas wondered why. On

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 the other hand, Mr. Winch was doing some smiling himself, of a rather mirthless and sardonic kind, which lifted his great black mustache as a cat moves its lip before a spring. Peculiar teeth Mr. Winch had, slanting outward, giving his lips a bulge. They gave one the thought that he must have begun very early in his life gnawing, like a beaver, on some hard substance.

"We went the limit, Miss Sallie," he said, "and I've got just seven old bony dollars left that say Miss Fannie Goodnight, nor no other woman from Wichita or anywhere else, can come inside of thirty seconds of matchin' your time."

"I'd be sorry if any of you boys were to lose money on me. Maybe she'll beat me."

"Wait till she does," said Winch, in high confidence of security. "Well, here she comes, and sa-ay people! Look at that ani-mile!"

A bony red steer was passing from the cattle pen into the arena. It was so thin and flat that its ribs could have been counted at twenty yards. The creature was slow and spiritless, seemingly bowed under the weight of its great branching horns. It stopped a few rods beyond the gate and stood with its head down, as if its race had been run long ago and it hadn't the strength to carry it another hundred yards.

Sallie McCoy beheld the creature with amaze

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 ment, a flush of indignation burning in her face.

"That thing wasn't in the corral!"

The girl who had made the next best record to Sallie shook her head.

"They drove it in from back there," she said. "It's not on the square—they're goin' to let her rope a ghost."

Texas Hartwell looked hard at the lean and lifeless, desiccated, mangy steer. He stood as if paralyzed by amazement, incredulity in every line of his solemn face. Presently he walked back to the judges, taking the ground in immense strides, like a man who was either very angry or very earnest.

"Gentle-men, you're not goin' to permit this, surely?" He spoke in what seemed a gentle protest. The judges looked down on him indifferently. "Why gentle-men, that thing ain't an animal—it's a dead carcass!"

"We're judges of this game, young man," the eldest of the trio said.

He was a man of congested face and bleached-linen whiteness of hair which told of alcoholic curing. His purple lips were thick, his teeth black and broken, his eyes rimmed with red. A little line of scraggy white brows marked sharply the aggravated redness of his skin.

Texas marked him well, in slow and silent look,

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 as if gathering points of identification against the meeting of another day. The slow calm scrutiny nettled the man; he spoke sharply:

"We can take care of this without any of your help."

"I allow that, gentle-men," Texas yielded, respectfully, "but I tell you, sirs, I could stand off twenty feet and blow that pore old onery beast over with my breath! The young lady that just finished roped and hobbled one of the wildest animals I ever saw. I want to see her given a square deal, gentle-men; that's all I ask of you."

"Who in the Billy Hell are you?" the youngest of the judges sneered.

That sweeping flush which seemed the leaping pulse of his deepest emotion flooded the young man's face. He stood as if biting a nail, the hard muscles of his lean jaw swelling, holding himself in with an effort. His voice was steady and calm, soft and low, when he replied: "If it was necessary for you to know, to insure justice where justice is due, I could tell you, sir. I assure you that I'm as well known to you as to the young lady I'm speaking in behalf of, sir."

The man with the megaphone was announcing Miss Fannie Goodnight, of Wichita. Cheers greeted her name, but they were blurred by a ques-

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 tioning murmur, which broke into derisive calls here and there, and loud shrill questions from cowboy throats as to the family of the animal before them.

"You'll have to get out of here!" ordered the red-faced man.

"Clear out—get back over there!"

The youngest of the judges spurred forward, reined in short, brought his horse to its haunches two yards from where Texas stood. The lean, solemn cattleman did not give an inch, but looked the other such a challenge, eye to eye, as would have meant, under other circumstances, the slinging of guns. He turned slowly and went back to the corral gate, where Sallie McCoy was waiting, her face white, a shadow of terror in her sad brown eyes.

Winch looked at Texas curiously, but did not speak, for at that moment Fannie Goodnight started on her conquest of the apathetic steer. She was well mounted, and handled her long-legged horse with every evidence of much experience in the saddle.

As she rode into the field the steer lifted his sad head and trotted to the center, where he stood, entirely unmoved by the scene so widely different from the pastures of his youth. He displayed a little burst of kindling spirit when the velvet-clad beauty made a dash for him, her reata whirling over her

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