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 When I was doin' it he called to me to look at the clock on the mantel and tell him what time it was. He said his watch had stopped and he wanted to set it.

What did he say then?

Nothin' much. He told me not to ring his bell, no matter who called up. He said he wanted to sleep, and didn't want to be woke up.

Was he emphatic about it?

Well—he meant it, all right.

Did he say anything else?

No. He just said good-night and turned out the light, and I came on downstairs.

What light did he turn out?

The one in his bed-room.

Could you see into his bed-room from the parlor?

No. The bed-room's off the hall.

How could you tell the light was turned off then?

The bed-room door was open, and the light was shinin' into the hall.

Did you pass the bed-room door when you went out?

Sure—you have to.

And was the door still open?

Yes.

Is that the only door to the bed-room?

Yes.

Where was Major Benson when you entered the apartment?

In bed.

How do you know?


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 (mildly indignant): I saw him.

(after a pause): You're quite sure he didn't come downstairs again?

I told you I'd 've seen him if he had.

Couldn't he have walked down at some time when you had the elevator upstairs, without your seeing him?

Sure, he could. But I didn't take the elevator up after I'd took the Major his cracked ice until round two-thirty, when Mr. Montagu came in.

You took no one up in the elevator, then, between the time you brought Major Benson the ice and when Mr. Montagu came in at two-thirty?

Nobody.

And you didn't leave the hall here between those hours?

No. I was sittin' here all the time.

Then the last time you saw him was in bed at twelve-thirty?

Yes—until early in the morning when some dame 'phoned him and said his brother had been murdered. He came down and went out about ten minutes after.

(giving the boy a dollar): That's all. But don't you open your mouth to anyone about our being here, or you may find yourself in the lock-up—understand? . . . Now, get back to your job.

When the boy had left us, Vance turned a pleading gaze upon Markham.

"Now, old man, for the protection of society, and the higher demands of justice, and the greatest good

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 for the greatest number, and pro bono publico, and that sort of thing, you must once more adopt a course of conduct contr'ry to your innate promptings—or whatever the phrase you used. Vulgarly put, I want to snoop through the Major's apartment at once."

"What for?" Markham's tone was one of exclamatory protest. "Have you completely lost your senses? There's no getting round the boy's testimony. I may be weak-minded, but I know when a witness like that is telling the truth."

"Certainly, he's telling the truth," agreed Vance serenely. "That's just why I want to go up.—Come, my Markham. There's no danger of the Major returning en surprise at this hour. . . . And"—he smiled cajolingly—"you promised me every assistance, don't y' know."

Markham was vehement in his remonstrances, but Vance was equally vehement in his insistence; and a few minutes later we were trespassing, by means of a pass-key, in Major Benson's apartment.

The only entrance was a door leading from the public hall into a narrow passageway which extended straight ahead into the living-room at the rear. On the right of this passageway, near the entrance, was a door opening into the bed-room.

Vance walked directly back into the living-room. On the right-hand wall was a fireplace and a mantel on which sat an old-fashioned mahogany clock. Near the mantel, in the far corner, stood a small table containing a silver ice-water service consisting of a pitcher and six goblets.

"There is our very convenient clock," said Vance.


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 "And there is the pitcher in which the boy put the ice—imitation Sheffield plate."

Going to the window he glanced down into the paved rear court twenty-five or thirty feet below.

"The Major certainly couldn't have escaped through the window," he remarked.

He turned and stood a moment looking into the passageway.

"The boy could easily have seen the light go out in the bed-room, if the door was open. The reflection on the glazed white wall of the passage would have been quite brilliant."

Then, retracing his steps, he entered the bed-room. It contained a small canopied bed facing the door, and beside it stood a night-table on which was an electric lamp. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he looked about him, and turned the lamp on and off by the socket-chain. Presently he fixed his eyes on Markham.

"You see how the Major got out without the boy's knowing it—eh, what?"

"By levitation, I suppose," submitted Markham.

"It amounted to that, at any rate," replied Vance. "Deuced ingenious, too. . . . Listen, Markham:—At half past twelve the Major rang for cracked ice. The boy brought it, and when he entered he looked in through the door, which was open, and saw the Major in bed. The Major told him to put the ice in the pitcher in the living-room. The boy walked on down the passage and across the living-room to the table in the corner. The Major then called to him to learn the time by the clock on the mantel. The boy looked: it was half past twelve.


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 The Major replied that he was not to be disturbed again, said good-night, turned off this light on this night-table, jumped out of bed—he was dressed, of course—and stepped quickly out into the public hall before the boy had time to empty the ice and return to the passage. The Major ran down the stairs and was in the street before the elevator descended. The boy, when he passed the bed-room door on his way out, could not have seen whether the Major was still in bed or not, even if he had looked in, for the room was then in darkness.—Clever, what?"

"The thing would have been possible, of course," conceded Markham. "But your specious imaginings fail to account for his return."

"That was the simplest part of the scheme. He prob'bly waited in a doorway across the street for some other tenant to go in. The boy said a Mr. Montagu returned about two-thirty. Then the Major slipped in when he knew the elevator had ascended, and walked up the stairs."

Markham, smiling patiently, said nothing.

"You perceived," continued Vance, "the pains taken by the Major to establish the date and the hour, and to impress them on the boy's mind. Poor show—headache—unlucky day. Why unlucky? The thirteenth, to be sure. But lucky for the boy. A handful of money—all silver. Singular way of tipping, what? But a dollar bill might have been forgotten."

A shadow clouded Markham's face, but his voice was as indulgently impersonal as ever.

"I prefer your case against Mrs. Platz."


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 "Ah, but I've not finished." Vance stood up. "I have hopes of finding the weapon, don't y' know."

Markham now studied him with amused incredulity.

"That, of course, would be a contributory factor. . . . You really expect to find it?"

"Without the slightest diff'culty," Vance pleasantly assured him.

He went to the chiffonier and began opening the drawers.

"Our absent host didn't leave the pistol at Alvin's house; and he was far too canny to throw it away. Being a major in the late war, he'd be expected to have such a weapon: in fact, several persons may actu'lly have known he possessed one. And if he is innocent—as he fully expects us to assume—why shouldn't it be in its usual place? Its absence, d' ye see, would be more incriminatin' than its presence. Also, there's a most int'restin' psychological factor involved. An innocent person who was afraid of being thought guilty, would have hidden it, or thrown it away—like Captain Leacock, for example. But a guilty man, wishing to create an appearance of innocence, would have put it back exactly where it was before the shooting."

He was still searching through the chiffonier.

"Our only problem, then, is to discover the custom'ry abiding place of the Major's gun. . . . It's not here in the chiffonier," he added, closing the last drawer.

He opened a kit-bag standing at the foot of the bed, and rifled its contents.


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 "Nor here," he murmured indifferently. "The clothes-closet is the only other likely place."

Going across the room, he opened the closet door. Unhurriedly he switched on the light. There, on the upper shelf, in plain view, lay an army belt with a bulging holster.

Vance lifted it with extreme delicacy and placed it on the bed near the window.

"There you are, old chap," he cheerfully announced, bending over it closely. "Please take particular note that the entire belt and holster—with only the exception of the holster's flap—is thickly coated with dust. The flap is comparatively clean, showing it has been opened recently. . . . Not conclusive, of course; but you're so partial to clues, Markham."

He carefully removed the pistol from the holster.

"Note, also, that the gun itself is innocent of dust. It has been recently cleaned, I surmise."

His next act was to insert a corner of his handkerchief into the barrel. Then, withdrawing it, he held it up.

"You see—eh, what? Even the inside of the barrel is immaculate. . . . And I'll wager all my Cézannes against an LL.B. degree, that there isn't a cartridge missing."

He extracted the magazine, and poured the cartridges onto the night-table, where they lay in a neat row before us. There were seven—the full number for that style of gun.

"Again, Markham, I present you with one of your revered clues. Cartridges that remain in a magazine for a long time become slightly tarnished, for the


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 catch-plate is not air-tight. But a fresh box of cartridges is well sealed, and its contents retain their lustre much longer."

He pointed to the first cartridge that had rolled out of the magazine.

"Observe that this one cartridge—the last to be inserted into the magazine—is a bit brighter than its fellows. The inf'rence is—you're an adept at inf'rences, y' know—that it is a newer cartridge, and was placed in the magazine rather recently."

He looked straight into Markham's eyes.

"It was placed there to take the place of the one which Captain Hagedorn is keeping."

Markham lifted his head jerkily, as if shaking himself out of an encroaching spell of hypnosis. He smiled, but with an effort.

"I still think your case against Mrs. Platz is your masterpiece."

"My picture of the Major is merely blocked in," answered Vance. "The revealin' touches are to come. But first, a brief catechism: . . . How did the Major know that brother Alvin would be home at twelve-thirty on the night of the thirteenth?—He heard Alvin invite Miss St. Clair to dinner—remember Miss Hoffman's story of his eavesdropping?—and he also heard her say she'd unfailingly leave at midnight. When I said yesterday, after we had left Miss St. Clair, that something she told us would help convict the guilty person, I referred to her statement that midnight was her invariable hour of departure. The Major therefore knew Alvin would be home about half past twelve, and he was pretty sure that no one else would be there. In any event,


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 he could have waited for him, what? . . . Could he have secured an immediate audience with his brother en déshabillé?—Yes. He tapped on the window: his voice was recognized beyond any shadow of doubt; and he was admitted instanter. Alvin had no sartorial modesties in front of his brother, and would have thought nothing of receiving him without his teeth and toupee. . . . Is the Major the right height?—He is. I purposely stood beside him in your office the other day; and he is almost exactly five feet, ten and a half."

Markham sat staring silently at the disembowelled pistol. Vance had been speaking in a voice quite different from that he had used when constructing his hypothetical cases against the others; and Markham had sensed the change.

"We now come to the jewels," Vance was saying. "I once expressed the belief, you remember, that when we found the security for Pfyfe's note, we would put our hands on the murderer. I thought then the Major had the jewels; and after Miss Hoffman told us of his requesting her not to mention the package, I was sure of it. Alvin took them home on the afternoon of the thirteenth, and the Major undoubtedly knew it. This fact, I imagine, influenced his decision to end Alvin's life that night. He wanted those baubles, Markham."

He rose jauntily and stepped to the door.

"And now, it remains only to find 'em. . . . The murderer took 'em away with him; they couldn't have left the house any other way. Therefore, they're in this apartment. If the Major had taken them to the office, someone might have seen them;


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 and if he had placed them in a safe deposit-box, the clerk at the bank might have remembered the episode. Moreover, the same psychology that applies to the gun, applies to the jewels. The Major has acted throughout on the assumption of his innocence; and, as a matter of fact, the trinkets were safer here than elsewhere. There'd be time enough to dispose of them when the affair blew over. . . . Come with me a moment, Markham. It's painful, I know; and your heart's too weak for an anæsthetic."

Markham followed him down the passageway in a kind of daze. I felt a great sympathy for the man, for now there was no question that he knew Vance was serious in his demonstration of the Major's guilt. Indeed, I have always felt that Markham suspected the true purpose of Vance's request to investigate the Major's alibi, and that his opposition was due as much to his fear of the results as to his impatience with the other's irritating methods. Not that he would have balked ultimately at the truth, despite his long friendship for Major Benson; but he was struggling—as I see it now—with the inevitability of circumstances, hoping against hope that he had read Vance incorrectly, and that, by vigorously contesting each step of the way, he might alter the very shape of destiny itself.

Vance led the way to the living-room, and stood for five minutes inspecting the various pieces of furniture, while Markham remained in the doorway watching him through narrowed lids, his hands crowded deep into his pockets.

"We could, of course, have an expert searcher


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 rake the apartment over inch by inch," observed Vance. "But I don't think it necess'ry. The Major's a bold, cunning soul: witness his wide square forehead, the dominating stare of his globular eyes, the perpendicular spine, and the indrawn abdomen. He's forthright in all his mental operations. Like Poe's Minister D, he would recognize the futility of painstakingly secreting the jewels in some obscure corner. And anyhow, he had no object in secreting them. He merely wished to hide 'em where there'd be no chance of their being seen. This naturally suggests a lock and key, what? There was no such cache in the bed-room—which is why I came here."

He walked to a squat rose-wood desk in the corner, and tried all its drawers; but they were unlocked. He next tested the table drawer; but that, too, was unlocked. A small Spanish cabinet by the window proved equally disappointing.

"Markham, I simply must find a locked drawer," he said.

He inspected the room again, and was about to return to the bed-room when his eye fell on a Circassian-walnut humidor half hidden by a pile of magazines on the under-shelf of the center-table. He stopped abruptly, and going quickly to the box, endeavored to lift the top. It was locked.

"Let's see," he mused: "what does the Major smoke? Romeo y Julieta Perfeccionados, I believe—but they're not sufficiently valuable to keep under lock and key."

He picked up a strong bronze paper-knife lying


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 on the table, and forced its point into the crevice of the humidor just above the lock.

"You can't do that!" cried Markham; and there was as much pain as reprimand in his voice.

Before he could reach Vance, however, there was a sharp click, and the lid flew open. Inside was a blue-velvet jewel-case.

"Ah! 'Dumb jewels more quick than words, said Vance, stepping back.

Markham stood staring into the humidor with an expression of tragic distress. Then slowly he turned and sank heavily into a chair.

"Good God!" he murmured. "I don't know what to believe."

"In that respect," returned Vance, "you're in the same disheartenin' predic'ment as all the philosophers.—But you were ready enough, don't y' know, to believe in the guilt of half a dozen innocent people. Why should you gag at the Major, who actu'lly is guilty?"

His tone was contemptuous, but a curious, inscrutable look in his eyes belied his voice; and I remembered that, although these two men were welded in an indissoluble friendship, I had never heard a word of sentiment, or even sympathy, pass between them.

Markham had leaned forward in an attitude of hopelessness, elbows on knees, his head in his hands.

"But the motive!" he urged. "A man doesn't shoot his brother for a handful of jewels."

"Certainly not," agreed Vance. "The jewels were a mere addendum. There was a vital motive—rest assured. And, I fancy, when you get your report


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 from the expert accountant, all—or at least a goodly part—will be revealed."

"So that was why you wanted his books examined?"

Markham stood up resolutely.

"Come: I'm going to see this thing through."

Vance did not move at once. He was intently studying a small antique candlestick of oriental design on the mantel.

"I say!" he muttered. "That's a dev'lish fine copy!"


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On leaving the apartment, Markham took with him the pistol and the case of jewels. In the drug store at the corner of Sixth Avenue he telephoned Heath to meet him immediately at the office, and to bring Captain Hagedorn. He also telephoned Stitt, the public accountant, to report as soon as possible.

"You observe, I trust," said Vance, when we were in the taxicab headed for the Criminal Courts Building, "the great advantage of my methods over yours. When one knows at the outset who committed a crime, one isn't misled by appearances. Without that foreknowledge, one is apt to be deceived by a clever alibi, for example. . . . I asked you to secure the alibis because, knowing the Major was guilty, I thought he'd have prepared a good one."

"But why ask for all of them? And why waste time trying to disprove Colonel Ostrander's?"

"What chance would I have had of securing the Major's alibi, if I had not injected his name surreptitiously, as it were, into a list of other names? . . . And had I asked you to check the Major's alibi first, you'd have refused. I chose the Colonel's alibi to start with because it seemed to offer a loop


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 hole,—and I was lucky in the choice. I knew that if I could puncture one of the other alibis, you would be more inclined to help me test the Major's."

"But if, as you say, you knew from the first that the Major was guilty, why, in God's name, didn't you tell me, and save me this week of anxiety?"

"Don't be ingenuous, old man," returned Vance. "If I had accused the Major at the beginning, you'd have had me arrested for scandalum magnatum and criminal libel. It was only by deceivin' you every minute about the Major's guilt, and drawing a whole school of red herrings across the trail, that I was able to get you to accept the fact even to-day. And yet, not once did I actu'lly lie to you. I was constantly throwing out suggestions, and pointing to significant facts, in the hope that you'd see the light for yourself; but you ignored all my intimations, or else misinterpreted them, with the most irritatin' perversity."

Markham was silent a moment.

"I see what you mean. But why did you keep setting up these straw men and then knocking them over?"

"You were bound, body and soul, to circumst'ntial evidence," Vance pointed out. "It was only by letting you see that it led you nowhere that I was able to foist the Major on you. There was no evidence against him,—he naturally saw to that. No one even regarded him as a possibility: fratricide has been held as inconceivable—a lusus naturæ—since the days of Cain. Even with all my finessing you fought every inch of the way, objectin' to this and that, and doing everything imag'nable to thwart my


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 humble efforts. . . . Admit, like a good fellow, that, had it not been for my assiduousness, the Major would never have been suspected."

Markham nodded slowly.

"And yet, there are some things I don't understand even now. Why, for instance, should he have objected so strenuously to my arresting the Captain?"

Vance wagged his head.

"How deuced obvious you are! Never attempt a crime, my Markham,—you'd be instantly apprehended. I say, can't you see how much more impregnable the Major's position would be if he showed no int'rest in your arrests—if, indeed, he appeared actu'lly to protest against your incarc'ration of a victim. Could he, by any other means, have elim'nated so completely all possible suspicion against himself? Moreover, he knew very well that nothing he could say would swerve you from your course. You're so noble, don't y' know."

"But he did give me the impression once or twice that he thought Miss St. Clair was guilty."

"Ah! There you have a shrewd intelligence taking advantage of an opportunity. The Major unquestionably planned the crime so as to cast suspicion on the Captain. Leacock had publicly threatened his brother in connection with Miss St. Clair; and the lady was about to dine alone with Alvin. When, in the morning, Alvin was found shot with an army Colt, who but the Captain would be suspected? The Major knew the Captain lived alone, and that he would have diff'culty in establishing an alibi. Do you now see how cunning he


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 was in recommending Pfyfe as a source of information? He knew that if you interviewed Pfyfe, you'd hear of the threat. And don't ignore the fact that his suggestion of Pfyfe was an apparent afterthought: he wanted to make it appear casual, don't y' know.—Astute devil, what?"

Markham, sunk in gloom, was listening closely.

"Now for the opportunity of which he took advantage," continued Vance. "When you upset his calculations by telling him you knew whom Alvin dined with, and that you had almost enough evidence to ask for an indictment, the idea appealed to him. He knew no charmin' lady could ever be convicted of murder in this most chivalrous city, no matter what the evidence; and he had enough of the sporting instinct in him to prefer that no one should actu'lly be punished for the crime. Cons'quently, he was willing to switch you back to the lady. And he played his hand cleverly, making it appear that he was most reluctant to involve her."

"Was that why, when you wanted me to examine his books and to ask him to the office to discuss the confession, you told me to intimate that I had Miss St. Clair in mind?"

"Exactly!"

"And the person the Major was shielding"

"Was himself. But he wanted you to think it was Miss St. Clair."

"If you were certain he was guilty, why did you bring Colonel Ostrander into the case?"

"In the hope that he could supply us with faggots for the Major's funeral pyre. I knew he was acquainted intimately with Alvin Benson and his


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 entire camarilla; and I knew, too, that he was an egregious quidnunc who might have got wind of some enmity between the Benson boys, and have suspected the truth. And I also wanted to get a line on Pfyfe, by way of elim'nating every remote counter possibility."

"But we already had a line on Pfyfe."

"Oh, I don't mean material clues. I wanted to learn about Pfyfe's nature—his psychology, y' know,—particularly his personality as a gambler. Y' see, it was the crime of a calculating, cold-blooded gambler; and no one but a man of that particular type could possibly have committed it."

Markham apparently was not interested just now in Vance's theories.

"Did you believe the Major," he asked, "when he said his brother had lied to him about the presence of the jewels in the safe?"

"The wily Alvin prob'bly never mentioned 'em to Anthony," rejoined Vance. "An ear at the door during one of Pfyfe's visits was, I fancy, his source of information. . . . And speaking of the Major's eavesdropping, it was that which suggested to me a possible motive for the crime. Your man Stitt, I hope, will clarify that point."

"According to your theory, the crime was rather hastily conceived." Markham's statement was in reality a question.

"The details of its execution were hastily conceived," corrected Vance. "The Major undoubtedly had been contemplating for some time elim'nating his brother. Just how or when he was to do it, he hadn't decided. He may have thought out and re-


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 jected a dozen plans. Then, on the thirteenth, came the opportunity: all the conditions adjusted themselves to his purpose. He heard Miss St. Clair's promise to go to dinner; and he therefore knew that Alvin would prob'bly be home alone at twelve-thirty, and that, if he were done away with at that hour, suspicion would fall on Captain Leacock. He saw Alvin take home the jewels—another prov'dential circumst'nce. The propitious moment for which he had been waiting, d' ye see, was at hand. All that remained was to establish an alibi and work out a modus operandi. How he did this, I've already eluc'dated."

Markham sat thinking for several minutes. At last he lifted his head.

"You've about convinced me of his guilt," he admitted. "But damn it, man! I've got to prove it; and there's not much actual legal evidence."

Vance gave a slight shrug.

"I'm not int'rested in your stupid courts and your silly rules of evidence. But, since I've convinced you, you can't charge me with not having met your challenge, don't y' know."

"I suppose not," Markham assented gloomily.

Slowly the muscles about his mouth tightened.

"You've done your share, Vance. I'll carry on."

Heath and Captain Hagedorn were waiting when we arrived at the office, and Markham greeted them in his customary reserved, matter-of-fact way. By now he had himself well in hand, and he went about the task before him with the sombre forcefulness that characterized him in the discharge of all his duties.


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 "I think we at last have the right man, Sergeant," he said. "Sit down, and I'll go over the matter with you in a moment. There are one or two things I want to attend to first."

He handed Major Benson's pistol to the fire-arms expert.

"Look that gun over, Captain, and tell me if there's any way of identifying it as the weapon that killed Benson."

Hagedorn moved ponderously to the window. Laying the pistol on the sill, he took several tools from the pockets of his voluminous coat, and placed them beside the weapon. Then, adjusting a jeweller's magnifying glass to his eye, he began what seemed an interminable series of tinkerings. He opened the plates of the stock, and drawing back the sear, took out the firing-pin. He removed the slide, unscrewed the link, and extracted the recoil spring. I thought he was going to take the weapon entirely apart, but apparently he merely wanted to let light into the barrel; for presently he held the gun to the window and placed his eye at the muzzle. He peered into the barrel for nearly five minutes, moving it slightly back and forth to catch the reflection of the sun on different points of the interior.

At last, without a word, he slowly and painstakingly went through the operation of redintegrating the weapon. Then he lumbered back to his chair, and sat blinking heavily for several moments.

"I'll tell you," he said, thrusting his head forward and gazing at Markham over the tops of his steel-rimmed spectacles. "This, now, may be the right gun. I wouldn't say for sure. But when I saw the


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 bullet the other morning I noticed some peculiar rifling marks on it; and the rifling in this gun here looks to me as though it would match up with the marks on the bullet. I'm not certain. I'd like to look at this barrel through my helixometer. "

"But you believe it's the gun?" insisted Markham.

"I couldn't say, but I think so. I might be wrong."

"Very good, Captain. Take it along, and call me the minute you've inspected it thoroughly."

"It's the gun, all right," asserted Heath, when Hagedorn had gone. "I know that bird. He wouldn't 've said as much as he did if he hadn't been sure. . . . Whose gun is it, sir?"

"I'll answer you presently." Markham was still battling against the truth—withholding, even from himself, his pronouncement of the Major's guilt until every loop-hole of doubt should be closed. "I want to hear from Stitt before I say anything. I sent him to look over Benson and Benson's books. He'll be here any moment."

After a wait of a quarter of an hour, during which time Markham attempted to busy himself with other matters, Stitt came in. He said a sombre good-morning to the District Attorney and Heath; then, catching sight of Vance, smiled appreciatively.

"That was a good tip you gave me. You had the dope. If you'd kept Major Benson away longer, I could have done more. While he was there he was watching me every minute."


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 "I did the best I could," sighed Vance. He turned to Markham: "Y' know, I was wondering all through lunch yesterday how I could remove the Major from his office during Mr. Stitt's investigation; and when we learned of Leacock's confession, it gave me just the excuse I needed. I really didn't want the Major here,—I simply wished to give Mr. Stitt a free hand."

"What did you find out?" Markham asked the accountant.

"Plenty!" was the laconic reply.

He took a sheet of paper from his pocket, and placed it on the desk.

"There's a brief report. . . . I followed Mr. Vance's suggestion, and took a look at the stock record and the cashier's collateral blotter, and traced the transfer receipts. I ignored the journal entries against the ledger, and concentrated on the activities of the firm heads. Major Benson, I found, has been consistently hypothecating securities transferred to him as collateral for marginal trading, and has been speculating steadily in mercantile curb stocks. He has lost heavily—how much, I can't say."

"And Alvin Benson?" asked Vance.

"He was up to the same tricks. But he played in luck. He made a wad on a Columbus Motors pool a few weeks back; and he has been salting the money away in his safe—or, at least, that's what the secretary told me."

"And if Major Benson has possession of the key to that safe," suggested Vance, "then it's lucky for him his brother was shot."


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 "Lucky?" retorted Stitt. "It'll save him from State prison."

When the accountant had gone, Markham sat like a man of stone, his eyes fixed on the wall opposite. Another straw at which he had grasped in his instinctive denial of the Major's guilt, had been snatched from him.

The telephone rang. Slowly he took up the receiver, and as he listened I saw a look of complete resignation come into his eyes. He leaned back in his chair, like a man exhausted.

"It was Hagedorn," he said. "That was the right gun."

Then he drew himself up, and turned to Heath.

"The owner of that gun, Sergeant, was Major Benson."

The detective whistled softly, and his eyes opened slightly with astonishment. But gradually his face assumed its habitual stolidity of expression.

"Well, it don't surprise me any," he said.

Markham rang for Swacker.

"Get Major Benson on the wire, and tell him—tell him I'm about to make an arrest, and would appreciate his coming here immediately." His deputizing of the telephone call to Swacker was understood by all of us, I think.

Markham then summarized, for Heath's benefit, the case against the Major. When he had finished, he rose and rearranged the chairs at the table in front of his desk.

"When Major Benson comes, Sergeant," he said, "I am going to seat him here." He indicated a chair directly facing his own. "I want you to sit at his


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 right; and you'd better get Phelps—or one of the other men, if he isn't in—to sit at his left. But you're not to make any move until I give the signal. Then you can arrest him."

When Heath had returned with Phelps and they had taken their seats at the table, Vance said:

"I'd advise you, Sergeant, to be on your guard. The minute the Major knows he's in for it, he'll go bald-headed for you."

Heath smiled with heavy contempt.

"This isn't the first man I've arrested, Mr. Vance—with many thanks for your advice. And what's more, the Major isn't that kind; he's too nervy."

"Have it your own way," replied Vance indifferently. "But I've warned you. The Major is cool-headed; he'd take big chances, and he could lose his last dollar without turning a hair. But when he is finally cornered, and sees ultimate defeat, all his repressions of a lifetime, having had no safety-valve, will explode physically. When a man lives without passions or emotions or enthusiasms, there's bound to be an outlet some time. Some men explode, and some commit suicide,—the principle is the same: it's a matter of psychological reaction. The Major isn't the self-destructive type,—that's why I say he'll blow up."

Heath snorted.

"We may be short on psychology down here," he rejoined, "but we know human nature pretty well."

Vance stifled a yawn, and carelessly lit a cigarette. I noticed, however, that he pushed his chair back a little from the end of the table where he and I were sitting.


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 "Well, Chief," rasped Phelps, "I guess your troubles are about over—though I sure did think that fellow Leacock was your man. . . . Who got the dope on this Major Benson?"

"Sergeant Heath and the Homicide Bureau will receive entire credit for the work," said Markham; and added: "I'm sorry, Phelps, but the District Attorney's office, and everyone connected with it, will be kept out of it altogether."

"Oh, well, it's all in a lifetime," observed Phelps philosophically.

We sat in strained silence until the Major arrived. Markham smoked abstractedly. He glanced several times over the sheet of notations left by Stitt, and once he went to the water-cooler for a drink. Vance opened at random a law book before him, and perused with an amused smile a bribery-case decision by a Western judge. Heath and Phelps, habituated to waiting, scarcely moved.

When Major Benson entered Markham greeted him with exaggerated casualness, and busied himself with some papers in a drawer to avoid shaking hands. Heath, however, was almost jovial. He drew out the Major's chair for him, and uttered a ponderous banality about the weather. Vance closed the law book and sat erect with his feet drawn back.

Major Benson was cordially dignified. He gave Markham a swift glance; but if he suspected anything, he showed no outward sign of it.

"Major, I want you to answer a few questions—if you care to." Markham's voice, though low, had in it a resonant quality.

"Anything at all," returned the other easily.


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 "You own an army pistol, do you not?"

"Yes—a Colt automatic," he replied, with a questioning lift of the eyebrows.

"When did you last clean and refill it?"

Not a muscle of the Major's face moved.

"I don't exactly remember," he said. "I've cleaned it several times. But it hasn't been refilled since I returned from overseas."

"Have you lent it to anyone recently?"

"Not that I recall."

Markham took up Stitt's report, and looked at it a moment.

"How did you hope to satisfy your clients if suddenly called upon for their marginal securities?"

The Major's upper lip lifted contemptuously, exposing his teeth.

"So! That was why—under the guise of friendship—you sent a man to look over my books!" I saw a red blotch of color appear on the back of his neck, and swell upward to his ears.

"It happens that I didn't send him there for that purpose." The accusation had cut Markham. "But I did enter your apartment this morning."

"You're a house-breaker, too, are you?" The man's face was now crimson; the veins stood out on his forehead.

"And I found Mrs. Banning's jewels. . . . How did they get there, Major?"

"It's none of your damned business how they got there," he said, his voice as cold and even as ever.

"Why did you tell Miss Hoffman not to mention them to me?"

"That's none of your damned business either."


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 "Is it any of my business," asked Markham quietly, "that the bullet which killed your brother was fired from your gun?"

The Major looked at him steadily, his mouth a sneer.

"That's the kind of double-crossing you do!—invite me here to arrest me, and then ask me questions to incriminate myself when I'm unaware of your suspicions. A fine dirty sport you are!"

Vance leaned forward.

"You fool!" His voice was very low, but it cut like a whip. "Can't you see he's your friend, and is asking you these questions in a last desp'rate hope that you're not guilty?"

The Major swung round on him hotly.

"Keep out of this—you damned sissy!"

"Oh, quite," murmured Vance.

"And as for you,"—he pointed a quivering finger at Markham—"I'll make you sweat for this! . . ."

Vituperation and profanity poured from the man. His nostrils were expanded, his eyes blazing. His wrath seemed to surpass all human bounds: he was like a person in an apoplectic fit—contorted, repulsive, insensate.

Markham sat through it patiently, his head resting on his hands, his eyes closed. When, at length, the Major's rage became inarticulate, he looked up and nodded to Heath. It was the signal the detective had been watching for.

But before Heath could make a move, the Major sprang to his feet. With the motion of rising he swung his body swiftly about, and brought his fist against Heath's face with terrific impact. The Ser-


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 geant went backward in his chair, and lay on the floor dazed. Phelps leaped forward, crouching; but the Major's knee shot upward and caught him in the lower abdomen. He sank to the floor, where he rolled back and forth groaning.

The Major then turned on Markham. His eyes were glaring like a maniac's, and his lips were drawn back. His nostrils dilated with each stertorous breath. His shoulders were hunched, and his arms hung away from his body, his fingers rigidly flexed. His attitude was the embodiment of a terrific, uncontrolled malignity.

"You're next!" The words, guttural and venomous, were like a snarl.

As he spoke he sprang forward.

Vance, who had sat quietly during the mêlée, looking on with half-closed eyes and smoking indolently, now stepped sharply round the end of the table. His arms shot forward. With one hand he caught the Major's right wrist; with the other he grasped the elbow. Then he seemed to fall back with a swift pivotal motion. The Major's pinioned arm was twisted upward behind his shoulder-blades. There was a cry of pain, and the man suddenly relaxed in Vance's grip.

By this time Heath had recovered. He scrambled quickly to his feet and stepped up. There was the click of handcuffs, and the Major dropped heavily into a chair, where he sat moving his shoulder back and forth painfully.

"It's nothing serious," Vance told him. "The capsular ligament is torn a little. It'll be all right in a few days."


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 Heath came forward and, without a word, held out his hand to Vance. The action was at once an apology and a tribute. I liked Heath for it.

When he and his prisoner had gone, and Phelps had been assisted into an easy chair, Markham put his hand on Vance's arm.

"Let's get away," he said. "I'm done up."


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That same evening, after a Turkish bath and dinner, Markham, grim and weary, and Vance, bland and debonair, and myself were sitting together in the alcove of the Stuyvesant Club's lounge-room.

We had smoked in silence for half an hour or more, when Vance, as if giving articulation to his thoughts, remarked:

"And it's stubborn, unimag'native chaps like Heath who constitute the human barrage between the criminal and society! . . . Sad, sad."

"We have no Napoleons to-day," Markham observed. "And if we had, they'd probably not be detectives."

"But even should they have yearnings toward that profession," said Vance, "they would be rejected on their physical measurements. As I understand it, your policemen are chosen by their height and weight; they must meet certain requirements as to heft—as though the only crimes they had to cope with were riots and gang feuds. Bulk,—the great American ideal, whether in art, architecture, table d'hôte meals, or detectives. An entrancin' notion."

"At any rate, Heath has a generous nature," said


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 Markham palliatingly. "He has completely forgiven you for everything."

Vance smiled.

"The amount of credit and emulsification he received in the afternoon papers would have mellowed anyone. He should even forgive the Major for hitting him.—A clever blow, that; based on rotary leverage. Heath's constitution must be tough, or he wouldn't have recovered so quickly. . . . And poor Phelps! He'll have a horror of knees the rest of his life."

"You certainly guessed the Major's reaction," said Markham. "I'm almost ready to grant there's something in your psychological flummery, after all. Your æsthetic deductions seemed to put you on the right track."

After a pause he turned and looked inquisitively at Vance.

"Tell me exactly why, at the outset, you were convinced of the Major's guilt?"

Vance settled back in his chair.

"Consider, for a moment, the characteristics—the outstanding features—of the crime. Just before the shot was fired Benson and the murderer undoubtedly had been talking or arguing—the one seated, the other standing. Then Benson had pretended to read: he had said all he had to say. His reading was his gesture of finality; for one doesn't read when conversing with another unless for a purpose. The murderer, seeing the hopelessness of the situation, and having come prepared to meet it heroically, took out a gun, aimed it at Benson's temple, and pulled the trigger. After that, he turned out the lights and


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 went away. . . . Such are the facts, indicated and actual."

He took several puffs on his cigarette.

"Now, let's analyze 'em. . . . As I pointed out to you, the murderer didn't fire at the body, where, though the chances of hitting would have been much greater, the chances of death would have been less. He chose the more diff'cult and hazardous—and, at the same time, the more certain and efficient—course. His technique, so to speak, was bold, direct, and fearless. Only a man with iron nerves and a highly developed gambler's instinct would have done it in just this forthright and audacious fashion. Therefore, all nervous, hot-headed, impulsive, or timid persons were automatically elim'nated as suspects. The neat, business-like aspect of the crime, together with the absence of any material clues that could possibly have incrim'nated the culprit, indicated unmistakably that it had been premeditated and planned with coolness and precision, by a person of tremendous self-assurance, and one used to taking risks. There was nothing subtle or in the least imag'native about the crime. Every feature of it pointed to an aggressive, blunt mind—a mind at once static, determined and intrepid, and accustomed to dealing with facts and situations in a direct, concrete and unequivocal manner. . . . I say, Markham, surely you're a good enough judge of human nature to read the indications, what?"

"I think I get the drift of your reasoning," the other admitted a little doubtfully.

"Very well, then," Vance continued. "Having determined the exact psychological nature of the


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 deed, it only remained to find some int'rested person whose mind and temp'rament were such that, if he undertook a task of this kind in the given circumst'nces, he would inev'tably do it in precisely the manner in which it was done. As it happened, I had known the Major for a long time; and so it was obvious to me, the moment I had looked over the situation that first morning, that he had done it. The crime, in every respect and feature, was a perfect psychological expression of his character and mentality. But even had I not known him personally, I would have been able—since I possessed so clear and accurate a knowledge of the murderer's personality—to pick him out from any number of suspects."

"But suppose another person of the Major's type had done it?" asked Markham.

"We all differ in our natures—however similar two persons may appear at times," Vance explained. "And while, in the present case, it is barely conceivable that another man of the Major's type and temp'rament might have done it, the law of probability must be taken into account. Even supposing there were two men almost identical in personality and instincts in New York, what would be the chance of their both having had a reason to kill Benson? However, despite the remoteness of the possibility, when Pfyfe came into the case, and I learned he was a gambler and a hunter, I took occasion to look into his qualifications. Not knowing him personally, I appealed to Colonel Ostrander for my information; and what he told me put Pfyfe at once hors de propos."


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 "But he had nerve: he was a rash plunger; and he certainly had enough at stake," objected Markham.

"Ah! But between a rash plunger and a bold, level-headed gambler like the Major, there is a great difference—a psychological abyss. In fact, their animating impulses are opposites. The plunger is actuated by fear and hope and desire; the cool-headed gambler is actuated by expediency and belief and judgment. The one is emotional, the other mental. The Major, unlike Pfyfe, is a born gambler, and inf'nitely self-confident. This kind of self-confidence, however, is not the same as recklessness, though superficially the two bear a close resemblance. It is based on an instinctive belief in one's own infallibility and safety. It's the reverse of what the Freudians call the inferiority complex,—a form of egomania, a variety of folie de grandeur. The Major possessed it, but it was absent from Pfyfe's composition; and as the crime indicated its possession by the perpetrator, I knew Pfyfe was innocent."

"I begin to grasp the thing in a nebulous sort of way," said Markham after a pause.

"But there were other indications, psychological and otherwise," went on Vance, "—the undress attire of the body, the toupee and teeth upstairs, the inferred familiarity of the murderer with the domestic arrangements, the fact that he had been admitted by Benson himself, and his knowledge that Benson would be at home alone at that time—all pointing to the Major as the guilty person. Another thing: the height of the murderer corresponded to the Major's height. This indication, though, was of minor importance; for had my measurements not tallied with


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 the Major, I would have known that the bullet had been deflected, despite the opinions of all the Captain Hagedorns in the universe."

"Why were you so positive a woman couldn't have done it?"

"To begin with: it wasn't a woman's crime—that is, no woman would have done it in the way it was done. The most mentalized women are emotional when it comes to a fundamental issue like taking a life. That a woman could have coldly planned such a murder and then executed it with such business-like efficiency—aiming a single shot at her victim's temple at a distance of five or six feet—, would be contr'ry, d' ye see, to everything we know of human nature. Again: women don't stand up to argue a point before a seated antagonist. Somehow they seem to feel more secure sitting down. They talk better sitting; whereas men talk better standing. And even had a woman stood before Benson, she could not have taken out a gun and aimed it without his looking up. A man's reaching in his pocket is a natural action; but a woman has no pockets and no place to hide a gun except her hand-bag. And a man is always on guard when an angry woman opens a hand-bag in front of him,—the very uncertainty of women's natures has made men suspicious of their actions when aroused. . . . But—above all—it was Benson's bald pate and bed-room slippers that made the woman hypothesis untenable."

"You remarked a moment ago," said Markham, "that the murderer went there that night prepared to take heroic measures if necessary. And yet you say he planned the murder."


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 "True. The two statements don't conflict, y' know. The murder was planned—without doubt. But the Major was willing to give his victim a last chance to save his life. My theory is this: The Major, being in a tight financial hole with State prison looming before him, and knowing that his brother had sufficient funds in the safe to save him, plotted the crime, and went to the house that night prepared to commit it. First, however, he told his brother of his predic'ment and asked for the money; and Alvin prob'bly told him to go to the devil. The Major may even have pleaded a bit in order to avoid killing him; but when the liter'ry Alvin turned to reading, he saw the futility of appealing further, and proceeded with the dire business."

Markham smoked a while.

"Granting all you've said," he remarked at length, "I still don't see how you could know, as you asserted this morning, that the Major had planned the murder so as to throw suspicion deliberately on Captain Leacock."

"Just as a sculptor, who thoroughly understands the principles of form and composition, can accurately supply any missing integral part of a statue," Vance explained, "so can the psychologist who understands the human mind, supply any missing factor in a given human action. I might add, parenthetically, that all this blather about the missing arms of the Aphrodite of Melos—the Milo Venus, y' know—is the utt'rest fiddle-faddle. Any competent artist who knew the laws of æsthetic organization could restore the arms exactly as they were originally. Such restorations are merely a mat-


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 ter of context,—the missing factor, d' ye see, simply has to conform and harmonize with what is already known."

He made one of his rare gestures of delicate emphasis.

"Now, the problem of circumventing suspicion is an important detail in every deliberated crime. And since the general conception of this particular crime was pos'tive, conclusive and concrete, it followed that each one of its component parts would be pos'tive, conclusive and concrete. Therefore, for the Major merely to have arranged things so that he himself should not be suspected, would have been too negative a conception to fit consistently with the other psychological aspects of the deed. It would have been too vague, too indirect, too indef'nite. The type of literal mind which conceived this crime would logically have provided a specific and tangible object of suspicion. Cons'quently, when the material evidence began to pile up against the Captain, and the Major waxed vehement in defending him, I knew he had been chosen as the dupe. At first, I admit, I suspected the Major of having selected Miss St. Clair as the victim; but when I learned that the presence of her gloves and hand-bag at Benson's was only an accident, and remembered that the Major had given us Pfyfe as a source of information about the Captain's threat, I realized that her projection into the rôle of murderer was unpremeditated."

A little later Markham rose and stretched himself.

"Well, Vance," he said, "your task is finished. Mine has just begun. And I need sleep."


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 Before a week had passed, Major Anthony Benson was indicted for the murder of his brother. His trial before Judge Rudolph Hansacker, as you remember, created a nation-wide sensation. The Associated Press sent columns daily to its members; and for weeks the front pages of the country's newspapers were emblazoned with spectacular reports of the proceedings. How the District Attorney's office won the case after a bitter struggle; how, because of the indirect character of the evidence, the verdict was for murder in the second degree; and how, after a retrial in the Court of Appeals, Anthony Benson finally received a sentence of from twenty years to life,—all these facts are a matter of official and public record.

Markham personally did not appear as Public Prosecutor. Having been a life-long friend of the defendant's, his position was an unenviable and difficult one, and no word of criticism was directed against his assignment of the case to Chief Assistant District Attorney Sullivan. Major Benson surrounded himself with an array of counsel such as is rarely seen in our criminal courts. Both Blashfield and Bauer were among the attorneys for the defense—Blashfield fulfilling the duties of the English solicitor, and Bauer acting as advocate. They fought with every legal device at their disposal, but the accumulation of evidence against their client overwhelmed them.

After Markham had been convinced of the Major's guilt, he had made a thorough examination of the business affairs of the two brothers, and found the situation even worse than had been


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 indicated by Stitt's first report. The firm's securities had been systematically appropriated for private speculations; but whereas Alvin Benson had succeeded in covering himself and making a large profit, the Major had been almost completely wiped out by his investments. Markham was able to show that the Major's only hope of replacing the diverted securities and saving himself from criminal prosecution lay in Alvin Benson's immediate death. It was also brought out at the trial that the Major, on the very day of the murder, had made emphatic promises which could have been kept only in the event of his gaining access to his brother's safe. Furthermore, these promises had involved specific amounts in the other's possession; and, in one instance, he had put up, on a forty-eight-hour note, a security already pledged—a fact which, in itself, would have exposed his hand, had his brother lived.

Miss Hoffman was a helpful and intelligent witness for the prosecution. Her knowledge of conditions at the Benson and Benson offices went far toward strengthening the case against the Major.

Mrs. Platz also testified to overhearing acrimonious arguments between the brothers. She stated that less than a fortnight before the murder the Major, after an unsuccessful attempt to borrow $50,000 from Alvin, had threatened him, saying: "If I ever have to choose between your skin and mine, it won't be mine that'll suffer."

Theodore Montagu, the man who, according to the story of the elevator boy at the Chatham Arms, had returned at half past two on the night of the murder, testified that, as his taxicab turned in front


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 of the apartment house, the head-lights flashed on a man standing in a tradesmen's entrance across the street, and that the man looked like Major Benson. This evidence would have had little effect had not Pfyfe come forward after the arrest and admitted seeing the Major crossing Sixth Avenue at Forty-sixth Street when he had walked to Pietro's for his drink of Haig and Haig. He explained that he had attached no importance to it at the time, thinking the Major was merely returning home from some Broadway restaurant. He himself had not been seen by the Major.

This testimony, in connection with Mr. Montagu's, annihilated the Major's carefully planned alibi; and though the defense contended stubbornly that both witnesses had been mistaken in their identification, the jury was deeply impressed by the evidence, especially when Assistant District Attorney Sullivan, under Vance's tutoring, painstakingly explained, with diagrams, how the Major could have gone out and returned that night without being seen by the boy.

It was also shown that the jewels could not have been taken from the scene of the crime except by the murderer; and Vance and I were called as witnesses to the finding of them in the Major's apartment. Vance's demonstration of the height of the murderer was shown in court, but, curiously, it carried little weight, as the issue was confused by a mass of elaborate scientific objections. Captain Hagedorn's identification of the pistol was the most difficult obstacle with which the defense had to contend.

The trial lasted three weeks, and much evidence of


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 a scandalous nature was taken, although, at Markham's suggestion, Sullivan did his best to minimize the private affairs of those innocent persons whose lives unfortunately touched upon the episode. Colonel Ostrander, however, has never forgiven Markham for not having had him called as a witness.

During the last week of the trial Miss Muriel St. Clair appeared as prima donna in a large Broadway light-opera production which ran successfully for nearly two years. She has since married her chivalrous Captain Leacock, and they appear perfectly happy.

Pfyfe is still married and as elegant as ever. He visits New York regularly, despite the absence of his "dear old Alvin"; and I have occasionally seen him and Mrs. Banning together. Somehow, I shall always like that woman. Pfyfe raised the $10,000—how, I have no idea—and reclaimed her jewels. Their ownership, by the way, was not divulged at the trial, for which I was very glad.

On the evening of the day the verdict was brought in against the Major, Vance and Markham and I were sitting in the Stuyvesant Club. We had dined together, but no word of the events of the past few weeks had passed between us. Presently, however, I saw an ironic smile creep slowly to Vance's lips.

"I say, Markham," he drawled; "what a grotesque spectacle the trial was! The real evidence, y' know, wasn't even introduced. Benson was convicted entirely on suppositions, presumptions, implications and inf'rences. . . . God help the innocent Daniel who inadvertently falls into a den of legal lions!"

Markham, to my surprise, nodded gravely.


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 "Yes," he concurred; "but if Sullivan had tried to get a conviction on your so-called psychological theories, he'd have been adjudged insane."

"Doubtless," sighed Vance. "You illuminati of the law would have little to do if you went about your business intelligently."

"Theoretically," replied Markham at length, "your theories are clear enough; but I'm afraid I've dealt too long with material facts to forsake them for psychology and art. . . . However," he added lightly, "if my legal evidence should fail me in the future, may I call on you for assistance?"

"I'm always at your service, old chap, don't y' know," Vance rejoined. "I rather fancy, though, that it's when your legal evidence is leading you irresistibly to your victim that you'll need me most, what?"

And the remark, though intended merely as a good-natured sally, proved strangely prophetic.


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 Gore, Thomas, s. Gerard, of Northampton town, arm. , matric. 23 Oct., 1705, aged 16; B.A. 1709, fellow, M.A. 1712, in holy orders, baptised 23 Aug., 1689, and buried at Brampton 31 March, 1714.  Gore, Thomas, y.s. William, of London, equitis. , matric. 4 June, 1714, aged 19; student of Inner Temple 1711; his father an alderman, knighted at Whitehall 29 Oct., 1692, and died 20 Jan., 1707-8. See Foster's Inns of Court Reg. and Clutterbuck's Herts, i. 502, 508.  Gorges, (Sir) Arthur (Gorge), B.A. 12 Nov., 1574; perhaps (3s. Sir William), M.P. Yarmouth, Isle of Wight, 1584-5, Camelford 1588-9, Dorset 1593, Rye 1601 (then a knight), K.B. 1597; died at Chelsea 10 Oct., 1625; perhaps father of the next and of Timoleon. See D.N.B. & Foster's Parliamentary Dictionary.  Gorges, (Sir) Arthur, born in London, eq. aur. fil. nat. max. , matric. 12 April, 1616, aged 18; buried 10 Oct., 1661; brother of Timoleon.  Gorge(s), Edward, of Somerset, gent. ., matric. entry under date 1571, aged 13.  []

Gorges, (Sir) Edward, of Somerset. , matric. 1 March, 1582-3, aged 18, as arm.; of Charlton, Somerset (s. Edward of Wraxall, Somerset), knighted 23 July, 1603; died in 1624.  Gorge(s), Edward, of Ireland, gent. , matric. 17 May, 1588, aged 19.  Gorges, (Sir) Edward, born in Kent, "equitis et Marchionissae" fil. ., matric. 23 March, 1598-9, aged 16; knighted by James I. April, 1603, created a baronet 25 Nov., 1612, and Baron Gorges of Dundalk, co. Louth, in Ireland, 13 July, 1620; s. Sir Thomas, of Langford. Wilts, by Helena, widow of William Parr, Marquis of Northampton; brother of Francis next-named, and of Robert 1605.

Gorges, Francis, equitis fil. , matric. 8 Nov., 1594, aged 15; B.A. 24 May, 1596 (1s. Marchioness of Northampton); brother of Edward last-named and of Robert 1605.

Gorges, "Harry," (subs.), born in London, s. Ric. Baron (Dundalk). ., matric. 14 March, 1672-3, aged 15; died 1674, buried at Stetchworth, co. Cambridge
 []

Gorges, Henry, s. "Ferdinand", of Eye, co. Hereford, arm. ., matric. 31 March, 1683, aged 18; of Eye and of the Mynde, co. Hereford, student of Lincoln's Inn 1683, M.P. co. Hereford, in 5 parliaments, 1698-1708, Leominster 1713-14; died April, 1718. See Foster's Parliamentary Dictionary.

Gorges, John s. Jo., of Londonderry, Ireland, gent, ., matric. 17 Dec., 1670, aged 17; of Somerset House near Coleraine, co. Derry; died Oct., 1680.

Gorges, Robert (George, of . in or before 1581; possibly bar.-at-law, Middle Temple, 1590, as 2nd son of Christopher Georges, of Cirencester, co. Gloucester. See Foster's Judges and Barristers.

Gorges, (Sir) Robert, of Wilts, equitis fil. ., matric. 22 Feb., 1604-5, aged 16; B.A. 1 Feb., 1607-8, student of Middle Temple 1608 (as 3rd son of Thomas, of Langford, Wilts, kt.), of Redlinch, Somerset, perhaps knighted 30 June, 1616, M.P. Taunton 1626; died 1648; brother of Edward 1599, and of Francis 1594. See Foster's Inns of Court Reg.

Gorges, (Sir) Robert, of Somerset, militis fil. ., matric. 6 July, 1613, aged 15; probably son of Sir Edward, of Wraxall, Somerset, knighted 13 June, 1619; M.P. Ilchester 1625, and 1628-9; buried at Wraxall 27 Dec., 1636; or may be identical with Robert Gorges, governor of New England, 1623, son of Sir Ferdinando.
 []

Gorges, Robert, created M.A. from 15 April, 1648, delegate of parliamentary visitors 1647, fellow of. 1648, proctor 1653, incorporated at Cambridge 1652; student of Inner Temple 1650, as of Cheddar, Somerset, secretary to Henry Cromwell, Lordlieutenant of Ireland, LL.D. ., Dublin, secretary to Frederick, Duke of Schomberg, general of the king's forces in Ireland, nominated scoutmaster-general; ancestor of Gorges, of Kilbrew, co. Meath. See Foster's Inns of Court Reg.; Fasti, ii. 112; & Burrows, 550, 570.

Gorges, Samuel, gent. ., matric. 2 Oct., 1652; possibly bar.-at-law, Inner Temple, 1663 (as 2nd son of Samuel, of Charleton, Somerset, arm.); baptised at Wraxall, Somerset, 26 March, 1635; K.C., a justice of common pleas, Ireland, 1684, until his death in 1687. See Foster's Judges and Barristers.

Gorges, Samuel, arm. ., matric. 29 May, 1674; student of Inner Temple 1677 as son and heir of Edward, of Wraxall, Somerset, esq., and died 1699. See Foster's Inns of Court Reg.

Gorges, Thomas, of Somerset, eq. fil. (3s.) ., matric. 1 Feb., 1621-2, aged 18, B.A. 5 July, 1624; M.A. from 14 April 1627, incorporated at Cambridge 1628, fellow. 1629, D.D. 19 July, 1661 (3s. Sir Edward, of Wraxall, Somerset); baptised at Wraxall 13 Feb., 1602-3, and rector 1663-7, prebendary of Salisbury 1643, a sufferer in the royal cause, archdeacon of Winchester 1661, and canon of Westminster 1661, until his death. 12 Dec., 1667. See Lansdowne MS, 986, f. 106; Clarendon's History of the Rebellion; Westminster Abbey Reg., 168; Fasti, ii. 257; & Burrows, 474.

Gorges, Thomas, 1s. Edward, baron of Dundalke in Ireland. ., subs. 19 Oct., 1627, aged 16; died in his father's lifetime.
 []

Gorges, Thomas, s. Theobald, of Ashley, Wilts, militis. , matric. 23 Nov., 1632, aged 14; B.A. 16 June, 1635.

Gorges, Thomas, s. Thomas, of Heavitree, Devon, arm. ., matric. 11 Dec., 1668, aged 17; student of Lincoln's Inn 1670. See Foster's Inns of Court Reg.

Gorges, Timoleon, of Middlesex, eq. aur. fil. (2s.). , matric. 12 April, 1616, aged 15, B.A. 3 Dec., 1618; M.A. from. 4 July, 1622 (s. Sir Arthur); buried 15 April, 1629; brother of Arthur same date.

Gorham, Robert, of "Canc." pleb. ., matric. 11 May, 1615, aged 17; B.A. 25 Oct., 1617.

Goring, Charles (Goreing) s. Henry, of Washington, Sussex, bart. ., matric. 3 Dec., 1680, aged 16; demy 1679-89, B.A. 1684, M.A. 1687, created D.C.L. 26 April, 1706; died s.p.; brother of Henry 1662. See Bloxam, vi. 25.
 []

Goringe, Edward, of Sussex. ., matric. entry under date 1575, aged 18; of Oakhurst, Sussex (s. Sir Henry, of Burton, Sussex, kt.), high sheriff Surrey and Sussex 1613.

Goring, Francis, 2s. William, of Burton, Sussex, bart. ., matric. 12 May, 1637, aged 16.

Goringe, George, of Sussex, arm. ., matric. May, 1594, aged 15; possibly student of Lincoln's Inn 1592 (s. George, of Hurstpierpoint and Ovingdean, Sussex), said to have been of ., Cambridge, knighted 7 May, 1605, M.P. Lewes 1621-2, 1624-6, and 1628, till void 3 April, ambassador extraordinary to the Hague 1642, and to Paris 1643-4, created Earl of Norwich 28 Nov., 1644; died 6 Feb., 1662-3. See Foster's Inns of Court Reg. & D.N.B.
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Author talk:Karl Theodore Körner

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470 been working hard as tutors or curates upon a salary of 100l. or 150l. a year at most. Let those who are disposed to repine at their lot, look back upon the life of labour and privation which, in spite of all that is now advanced by the enemies of the Church of England, is the lot of by far the greater number of her members at home, and fairly one, compared with which, as far as worldly advantages go, the life of a chaplain of the East India Company affords a very tolerable share of comfort and enjoyments.

In this point, however, the clergy and missionaries are by no means singular. There is, among a large number of the English in India, particularly among the civil and military services, a ridiculous affectation of the grandee system, and an attempt to persuade others that they were great people at home. Often may men be heard prating about how they wish they had never come to India; how they have sacrificed themselves and their prospects by so doing, &c., &c., whereas it is notorious that full half of the individuals who compose the civil and military services in India, are better off, both in regard to their standing in society, and the incomes they possess, than they ever would have been in England. Those of the lowest origin usually give themselves the greatest airs. This affectation is, however, now on the wane; men have begun to find out that no one believes their pretensions.

August 30th, 1836.

This is a wide subject, difficult to be understood even by those who have mixed much among the people, and gradually acquired their knowledge, as it were, piecemeal; and there are few subjects concerning which so many erroneous notions prevail. It would be out of the question to attempt to give in the limits of a paper such as this, a complete account of caste, and of the effects which have resulted from its institution; all I propose to do is to offer a few remarks, the result of many years’ observation.

As has been more than once remarked, if all the English in


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Rh India would do this, instead of speculating and theorizing on partial information, we should soon possess materials for composing a work containing much more accurate knowledge relative to India, its people, and customs, than any which at present exists. Let me refer to No. XXXIV., which describes the various nations into which the Indian Peninsula is divided, and alludes to the difference in their manners and customs, and in many cases in their language; and should a resident of the Madras or Bombay Presidencies ever cast his eye on this paper, and be ready to exclaim at its want of accuracy, let him recollect that the observations are the result of a residence in Bengal, and chiefly in the upper provinces of that presidency.

The caste is a division of the Hindus into four principal classes,—Brahmin, Kshutriya or commonly Chuttree, Voishya or commonly Bais, and Shoodra or Soodur. According to the sacred books, the Brahmins were produced from the mouth of the deity Brahma, the Kshutriya from his arms, the Voishyas from his thighs, and the Shoodras from his feet. According to which allegory, the Hindus have assigned the priesthood and work of legislation to the Brahmins; the Kshutriyas fill the executive departments, and are also the military tribe; the Voishyas were to be employed in trade and commerce; while the Shoodras were devoted to all kinds of servile employments, and especially to serve the Brahmins. It is at the present day impossible to discover the origin of this division, and the time when it was instituted. It bears some affinity to the Roman classification of patricians and plebeians, and was probably established by the arbitrary order of some powerful prince, after the people had made considerable advances towards civilization; for it could hardly have existed in a very rude state of society. The people attribute it, as they are apt to do most things of which they can give no account, to the gods.

But the caste of the present day is very different from what is


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472 above described. The second and third orders do not now exist as separate classes; the very names are unknown as conveying the original meaning, and the people are all comprised in two classes,—the Brahmin and the Shoodur; at the same time that thousands are hardly acquainted with the latter name. The castes now existing are very numerous, and, with the subdivisions, would probably amount to some hundreds in the Bengal Presidency alone, almost every district containing some which are not known in the adjoining province. Many of these owe their separation from the original sect and specific denomination to mere accident; the latter is not unfrequently derived from the province or parish in which a man who has left his original name has settled. Some have arisen from ancestors who had forfeited their original caste and established a new one; others from the illegitimate offspring of parents of different castes. The origin of that immense class, the Rajpoots of Rajwara or Rajpootana, who claim a descent from the sun, is nowhere provided for in the theoretical classification by the Brahmins; they would be extremely indignant to be denominated Shoodras, yet they certainly do not belong to any of the three first orders. Col. Tod endeavours to trace their origin from Scythia.

Formerly, exclusion from caste was a much more serious affair than it is now. Still it is probable, that the evils which a person suffered from loss of caste have been greatly exaggerated; and that he who forms his ideas of the misery of an excommunicated outcast from the description given in  will have a very erroneous notion of the real state of the case. Caste is partly a religious and partly a civil distinction, and, in the present day, among the people in general, has degenerated to little more than this, that if a man do certain things he is excluded from society until he give a feast to those of his own tribe, which procures his restoration. According to the shasters (see Ward, Vol. I., page 149):—“The offences by which caste is lost, are, the eating with persons of inferior caste; cohabiting with women of low caste; eating flesh, or drinking spirits; partaking of that


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Rh which has been prepared by a person of an inferior order; dealing in things prohibited by the shasters, as cow-skins, fish, &c. Persons may sink lower in caste in cases where they do not become entire outcasts. A Brahmin, by officiating as priest to a Shoodra, does not become a Shoodra, but he sinks into a despised order of Brahmins.”

But there is an infinity of petty absurdities which, among some of the people, chiefly amongst the lowest classes, and especially among the servants of the English in Calcutta, are sufficient to make a set exclude one of their members from their mess,—the sole object being to exact a dinner from him; in this respect the lower classes of Muhammedans of Bengal have just as must caste as the Hindus; many of them even worship at Hindu temples.

It has often been said that the institution of caste is one of the greatest scourges of the country; that it dooms large classes of men to a mental and bodily degradation, in which they are for ever excluded from the learning and honours of the country; and that it has proved a bar to improvement in arts and sciences. To a certain extent, its effects may have had the injurious effect described, but infinitely less than is usually supposed. It is generally conceived that the caste ties a man down to follow his father’s business: this is a most erroneous idea. Most men do commonly follow the occupation to which they have been brought up; it is grown into a custom, and in fact is but the natural course where a father bequeaths his business to his son; but it involves no obligation to do so. In England it is not uncommon for a clergyman, a lawyer, or a soldier, to educate his sons for his own profession; the business of tradesmen and shopkeepers, is almost always carried on by one of the sons during his father’s life-time, and continued by him after his death. So it is in India. It is true that the priesthood is the portion of the Brahmins, but even to this there are exceptions, and in other classes there is a considerable latitude. There is nothing, for instance, to prevent a common shopkeeper (bunnea), from rising up to be a wealthy merchant, should his affairs prosper; and, on the other hand, the family of a once rich merchant will sometimes sink down into the situation of servants. Even a choomar or a mater (currier and


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474 sweeper), instead of contenting himself with the menial offices to which he was born, will, if he be an aspiring character, seek and obtain a situation in the police or the army, and may rise to high rank. I have known a choomar to be a commissioned officer. So among bunneas, cowherds, gardeners, ploughmen, boatmen, common day-labourers, and others, may be constantly found one brother pursuing his hereditary vocation, and another entering the army, or hiring himself as a domestic servant. I have seen a bunnea who, having failed as a shopkeeper, hired himself as a boatman; and among the crew of one boat consisting of ten men, were actually found the following variety of castes:—two Rajpoots, four Kuhars, one Kisan, one Goojur, one Bhat, and only one regular mullah, or boatman by profession.

There are other circumstances besides the caste, which I am inclined to think have had a much greater effect in throwing difficulties in the way of the lower orders, and preventing able and intelligent individuals among them from rising in the scale of society. Their poverty, and the circumstance that the business of a large portion of India has, for several centuries, been carried on in a foreign language, for the acquisition of which the lower classes have neither time nor means, must have operated very strongly.

It would be almost a hopeless attempt to define, within any exact limits, the institution of caste, or its practical operation, so as to give a clear and accurate idea of the subject: its influence is so extensive, so minute, and so intricate, as almost to defy generalization: all that can be done is to endeavour to describe, as far as one’s knowledge extends, its peculiarities in detail, both what it is, and what it is not. None of the works yet written on the subject convey any clear idea of it; the authors have almost all fallen into the same mistake that Government has done, regarding the Hindu law. They have given us a picture drawn


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Rh from the Hindu shasters, and the representations of a few bigoted pundits. Now few things can bear less resemblance to each other, than these dicta and the customs which exist in practice. From the former we learn that the Shoodras are made for the service of the Brahmins, and that they are never to rise in the scale of society; yet, in practice and reality, there is nothing to prevent a Shoodra from rising to the highest rank or wealth. There have been many instances of men of the lowest ranks attaining even to sovereignty, nor did they owe their exaltation to the assistance of the English or Muhammedans, who might be supposed free from such prejudices. The Mahratta rajahs, most of whom are of very low caste, fought their way to their respective thrones against the Muhammedans, and at a period when the English were only known as foreign merchants at some of the sea-ports.

Again we are told that (see Ward, Vol. I., page 66.) “A Brahmin might be imprisoned, banished, or have his head shaved, but could not be put to death for any crime whatsoever. If a Shoodra assumed the Brahminical thread, he was to be severely fined. If he gave frequent molestation to a Brahmin, he was to be put to death. If a Shoodra committed adultery with the wife of a Brahmin, he was to be bound upon a hot iron plate, and burnt to death. If a Brahmin stole a Shoodra, he was to be fined; but if a Shoodra stole a Brahmin, he was to be burnt to death. If a Shoodra sat on the carpet of a Brahmin, the magistrate, having branded him, was to banish him the kingdom. If a Shoodra, through pride, spat upon a Brahmin, his lips were to be cut off. If a person of this caste plucked a Brahmin by the hair, or by the beard, or seized him by the neck, the magistrate was to cut off both his hands. If he listened to reproaches against a Brahmin, hot lead was to be poured into his ears. If a Shoodra beat a magistrate, he was to have an iron spit run through him, and to be roasted alive; a Brahmin for such an offence was to be fined. The Institutes of Munoo prescribe that ’a once-born man (that is, any other than a Brahmin) who insults the twice-born (Brahmins) with gross invectives, ought to have his tongue slit; if he mention their names and classes


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's two chums did not answer for a minute. They looked at each other, and then Frank exclaimed:

"I've got a bite, and a big one, too. Pass that net down here!"

For a moment the prospect of catching another crab was greater even than the chance of finding out something about the strange man. Bob handed his companion the net, and Frank cautiously began pulling up on the cord to which was fastened the chunk of meat-bait. With his other hand he held the net ready to plunge into the water, and scoop up his prize.

"There he is!" cried Bob, whose bait was not then being taken. "Get him, Frank!"

"I will. Don't get excited and rock the boat. I'll have him in a minute!"

"There!" exclaimed Sammy, whose attention was also taken away from the man for the moment. "Net him!"

Frank plunged the net into the water, trying to get it under the crab, which was clinging to the meat with its claws. But the boy was not quite quick enough, or else he hit the crab with the iron ring of the net, for the creature suddenly let go, and with a quick motion of his broad, swimming flippers went scurrying off into the depths again.

"Oh, he got away!" cried Bob, in disappointed tones.

"You weren't quite quick enough," spoke Sammy.


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476 with contumely, as if he say, “O thou refuse of Brahmins,” an iron style, ten fingers long, shall be thrust red-hot into his mouth. Should he, through pride, give instructions to the priests concerning their duty, let the king order some hot oil to be poured into his mouth and ears .’”

All this is horrible enough, certainly, and abundance of similar dogmas are to be found in the Hindu sacred books, were it, or had it been ever enforced. It is impossible to say it never was; but the probability is that, at most, it might have occurred once in a century, under the dominion of some very bigoted prince, ruled by some still more bigoted Brahmin. These sort of dicta exist not in the present day; nor have they been, perhaps, for centuries, held in any more estimation, terror, or respect, practically, than the bulls or anathemas issued by Pope Gregory the Seventh are at this moment in England. It is true they are part of Hindu law, and has, with his usual prejudice and illiberality towards the Hindus, published those above, and many others, together with his own comments, in which he has exaggerated the evil as much as possible, so as to give an impression that they are at this moment the practical law of the land. That the above cruel penalties should form part of the Hindu law is not surprising, when we consider that Hindu law is nothing but a collection of dogmas, written at various times, by different individuals among the Brahmins, who each wrote what he pleased from the dictates of his own bigoted, ignorant, and intolerant spirit; but whether, and to what extent, they were ever enforced, is a very different question.

So far from its being the truth that the Shoodras are condemned for ever to serve the Brahmins, it depends much less upon caste than upon the wealth of the parties, which shall serve the other. The low caste rajah never found even the Brahmin at all backward to enter his service; and were even a choomar or a sweeper to acquire considerable wealth, he would experience no difficulty in procuring Brahmins to serve him as lacqueys, cooks, or in other menial capacities. We learn from books


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64 "I was so! You jiggled my arm, and made the net hit him!" exclaimed Frank. "It was the biggest one I had, too; a yellow fellow, full of meat!" and he gazed reproachfully at Sammy.

"I did not jiggle your arm!" returned Sammy.

"You did so!"

"I did not!"

"Fellows, if we're going to trail that mysterious man, let's do it, and not scrap," suggested Bob. This was as near to a quarrel as any of the chums ever got. Frank's little burst of temper was soon over.

"Well, we've got enough crabs, anyhow," he said, looking into the basket where they were kept, covered with seaweed, so the sun would not make them die. For crabs are only good when cooked alive, or soon after they have died. Otherwise they are very likely to be poisonous.

"Yes, we have a good mess," agreed Sammy. "I didn't mean to jiggle your arm, if I did, Frank," he went on. "I'll give you one of my crabs to pay for it, if you say so."

"You will not! They all go in the same kettle, anyhow. Say, Bob," he went on, "what's the matter with having a clam roast out on the beach some night?"

"Sure we can," said Bob. "We'll build a fire, roast clams and boil crabs, and have some of the other fellows over. That'll be fun!"

"It sure will," agreed Sammy. "But say, fellows, what about him?" and he nodded in the direction of the old man in the clump of evergreen trees. He was still digging away, seemingly paying no attention to anything, or anyone, around him. "Are we going to follow him, or not?"

"We can't follow him, when he isn't going anywhere," observed Bob.

"No, but he may start off at any time," said Sammy. "We


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Rh that to a Brahmin the very touch of a Shoodra is pollution, and that he must immediately purify himself by bathing; what is it in practice? The English are regarded upon a par with the very lowest natives in point of caste, yet a Brahmin servant in the service of an Englishman will not hesitate to bring him his shoes, or a glass of water, or even to take the glass away after he has drunk from it. I have myself seen in attendance upon an Englishman as valets-de-chambre, instead of bearers, a Brahmin, a Rajpoot, a Gosain, and a Moosulman, all of whom performed all the services which usually fall to bearers, except carrying the palanquin. It is much more among the lower castes that difficulties are started than among the higher, just as one sees a man whose rank in society among us is established, least afraid of having it called in question. I have been entertained and have passed the night at the house of a Brahmin who prepared a dinner for me: to my infinite surprise, when the meal was served in his own dishes, I observed a fowl-curry. I expressed my regret that he should, out of civility, have done anything disagreeable or annoying to his peculiarities of caste; observing that I could have dined very well upon bread and vegetables. He smiled, and said, “These absurdities are very well for the ignorant low castes to make a fuss about, but any man of sense knows that a little sand and water purifies metal dishes from any stain.” Certainly the lower castes are much more tenacious on the subject of their caste than the higher: a low caste man, if asked for a draught of water from his lotah (a brass pot), will often refuse; a Rajpoot or Brahmin will not only consent, but, to show his respect, will often scour it first, and then fill and present it, as I have often experienced in travelling about. I grant, that a poor man of low caste might not meet with these civilities, which only more strongly illustrates the observation that wealth has as much influence as caste.

The chief criterion of caste, i. e., whether one man is of higher or lower rank than another, is the eating dressed food, and the forming a matrimonial alliance between families. All undressed food, even fruit, is pure, from whatever hands it may come; and even to dressed food there are exceptions to the rule. In some


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478 parts of India a man will eat bread cooked by another from whose hands be would not touch boiled rice, nor would any native hesitate in sending a person of much lower caste than himself to buy and bring him ready-made pastry and sweetmeats, although the touch of the same person would be considered to pollute any other kind of dressed food. In the Punjab, they will only allow two castes, the Hulwaee and Kuhar, to superintend the boiling of the sugar; in our provinces they are indifferent about the matter, and employ almost any one for this purpose. In fact, the contradictions and peculiarities of caste are so great in practice, that it is impossible to deduce any rule regarding it founded upon a general principle.

The worst feature of caste is its tendency to obstruct benevolent feelings. Ward observes (see Vol. I., page 143):—“But not only is the caste contrary to every principle of justice and policy, it is repugnant to every feeling of benevolence. The social circle is almost invariably composed of persons of the same caste, to the careful exclusion of others. It arms one class of men against another; it gives rise to the greatest degree of pride and apathy. It forms a sufficient excuse for not doing an act of benevolence towards another, that he is not of the same caste; nay, a man dying with thirst will not accept of a cooling draught of water from the hands or the cup of a person of a lower caste.”

There is, undoubtedly, at first sight, some truth in this; still it is much more in appearance than in reality attributable to the institution in question. The caste is made the excuse for the selfishness, covetousness, indolence, or apathy of the individual. Ward observes, a little farther on (Vol.1., page 146):—“In short, the caste murders all the social and benevolent feelings; and shuts up the heart of man against man in a manner unknown even amongst the most savage tribes. The apathy of the Hindus has been noticed by all who are acquainted with their character: when a boat sinks in a storm on the Ganges, and persons are seen floating or sinking all around, the Hindus in those boats which may remain by the side of the river, or in those passing by at the time, look on with perfect indifference, perhaps without moving an oar for the rescue of those who are actually perishing.”


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Rh could tell where he lives, and then we could find out something about him. As it is now we can't even tell who he is, and there are a lot of men who look like him around Lighthouse Cove."

"Well, what's your plan?" asked Frank, carefully pulling up his crab line, in the hope that the big fellow had again taken the meat. One was there, but it was so small that he shook it off, not wanting to net it.

"I say let's row close over to where he is," suggested Sammy. "Then, when he starts off, we can go ashore and follow him."

"Maybe he's got a boat hidden somewhere on shore," said Bob. "Let's take a look."

The boys scanned the beach, but could see nothing of another craft. Meanwhile, the old man in the clump of evergreens continued to dig away. He paid no attention to the boys.

"Tell you what it is," said Sammy, at length, "we've got to play foxy now. We don't want any more of that hermit business."

"What do you mean?" asked Frank.

"Well, you know what happened when we followed that old man on Pine Island. He pushed us over a cliff into a snow bank."

"Ha! Ha!" laughed Bob.

"What's the matter?" demanded Sammy. "I don't see anything to laugh at."

"You don't?" Well, there's no snow bank, for one thing."

"Well, you now what I mean," said Sammy. "He might make trouble for us. I say we'd better be careful."

"That's what I say, too," agreed Frank. "Now the best way, I think, will be to let our boat drift. We can pretend


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Rh Yet, in such a case, the people who are drowning are, in most cases, of the very same caste as those who are looking on with apathy, without exerting themselves to render any assistance; probably their acquaintances, with whom they are in daily communication. On the other hand, Hindus, who are charitably inclined, will attend others of different caste in sickness, or even wait upon a Moosulman. Many English have found their native servants, of all sects, the most careful nurses in sickness that could be procured; had it been contrary to their caste, the circumstance of their being servants would not have produced such an effect.

Caste is said to form a bar to conversion, because a man thereby becomes an outcast from all his former friends and relations: but it is not so much attributable to caste, as to the general dislike and prejudice which is felt by every nation and class of people against one of their number who renounces the religion of his fathers, which they still profess, and becomes a convert to another, as I endeavoured to illustrate in the preceding Number. But it is only to a certain extent that the convert becomes an outcast; his relations will not eat with him, but if he be well received among his new sect, and be as well off in the world as before, they will not hesitate to associate with him, as some facts, which will presently be mentioned, sufficiently demonstrate. By the Hindu law, and, in practice at least, by the Muhammedan law, a man who becomes a convert to any other religion, forfeits his share of the family property. It would be expedient to alter the law on this head, so as to allow free-will upon the point of religion and conversion.

Caste is fully as much a civil as a religious distinction, and we have some arbitrary rules in English society which approximate very nearly to that institution among the natives of India. It is constantly urged against these, that respectability of character weighs nothing when put in competition with caste, and that a man would forfeit his caste who should be found eating with one of a lower class, although the latter may be an excellent and virtuous man. Have we nothing similar to this? If a gentleman


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480 were to be found associating with tradesmen, giving and receiving entertainments from them, would he be able to keep his place among his own class? would he not be excluded from the society of the latter, because he kept what would be called “low company?” If a commissioned officer in the army were to do so, he would be dismissed the service, although he himself might possibly be the son of a tradesman. In such a case, even his old acquaintances and friends must be given up, upon receiving the talismanic commission. The fact is, that in all countries the necessity of keeping up a distinction of ranks is found indispensable, and, to effect this, lines must be drawn which cannot be passed with impunity. Notwithstanding all the prating of demagogues, democrats, and mob-orators, no nation would gain anything by having the whole population on an equality in social intercourse. The “I'm as good as you,” and “Jack and Tom” system, never leads to anything but vulgarity and coarseness.

There is, no doubt, intricacy in drawing the line properly, and certain peculiarities appertaining to it are not easily understood by the uninitiated. For instance, an officer in a shop, feels thirsty, and asks the tradesman for a glass of ale or water. If the officer drink it in the shop, this is not considered an impropriety; but if he were to go into the back room to drink his beverage, and sit down on one chair, while the tradesman seated himself on another, he would come under the ban, and forfeit his caste, or, in plain English, be turned out of the army. We understand the distinction, but it would, probably, be impossible to make any native of India comprehend it, because he has not the turn of thought necessary to enable him to do so. He would probably say, “If the officer may quench his thirst in the tradesman’s house, what possible difference can it make whether in one room or the other, sitting down or standing up?” This is precisely the same with us, in our attempts to understand many of the peculiarities of the native customs. We have not the train of thought and association of ideas requisite; and we, in equal astonishment, ask, “If you will eat bread prepared by that man, what possible difference can it make to eat boiled rice which he