Twenty-One Days in India; and, The Teapot Series | Page 5

the Assistant-Adjutant-General--where
he has tiffin. The Major-General-Commanding writes notes to all his
friends, and keeps orderlies flying at random in every direction.
The Commander-in-Chief--who had a disturbed night in the
train--sleeps peacefully throughout the day, and leaves under another
salute in the afternoon. He shakes hands with everyone he can see at
the station, and jumps into a long saloon carriage, followed by his staff.
"A deuced active old fellow!" everyone says; and they go home and
dine solemnly with one another under circumstances of extraordinary
importance.
The effect of the Commander-in-Chief is very remarkable on the poor
Indian, whose untutored mind sees a Lord in everything. He calls the
Commander-in-Chief "the Jungy Lord," or War-Lord, in

contradistinction to the "Mulky-Lord," or Country-Lord, the appellation
of the Viceroy. To the poor Indian this War-Lord is an object of
profound interest and speculation. He has many aspects that resemble
the other and more intelligible Lord. An aide-de-camp rides behind him;
hats, or hands, rise electrically as he passes; yet it is felt in secret that
he is not pregnant with such thunder-clouds of rupees, and that he
cannot make or mar a Raja. To the Raja it is an ever-recurring question
whether it is necessary or expedient to salaam to the Jungy Lord and
call upon him. He is hedged about with servants who will require to be
richly propitiated before any dusky countryman [of theirs, great or
small,] gets access to this Lord of theirs. Is it, then, worth while to pass
through this fire to the possible Moloch who sits beyond? Will this
process of parting with coin--this Valley of the Shadow of Death--lead
them to any palpable advantage? Perhaps the War-Lord with his red
right hand can add guns to their salute; perhaps he will speak a
recommendatory word to his caste-fellow, the Country-Lord? These are
precious possibilities.
A Raja whom I am now prospecting for the Foreign Office asked me
the other day where Commanders-in-Chief were ripened, seeing that
they were always so mellow and blooming. I mentioned a few nursery
gardens I knew of in and about Whitehall and Pall Mall. H.H. at once
said that he would like to plant his son there, if I would water him with
introductions. This is young 'Arry Bobbery, already favourably known
on the Indian Turf as an enterprising and successful defaulter.
You will know 'Arry Bobbery, if you meet him, dear Vanity, by the
peculiarly gracious way in which he forgives and forgets should you
commit the indiscretion of lending him money. You may be sure that
he will never allude to the matter again, but will rather wear a piquant
do-it-again manner, like our irresistible little friend, Conny B----. I
don't believe, however, that Bobbery will ever become a
Commander-in-Chief, though his distant cousin, Scindia, is a General,
and though they talk of pawning the 'long-shore Governorship of
Bombay to Sir Cursinjee Damtheboy.--ALI BABA.

No. IV

WITH THE ARCHDEACON

A MAN OF BOTH WORLDS

[Illustration: THE ARCHDEACON--"A man of both worlds."]

[August 23, 1879.]
The Press Commissioner has been trying by a strained exercise of his
prerogative to make me spend this day with the Bishop, and not with
the Archdeacon; but I disregard the Press Commissioner; I make light
of him; I treat his authority as a joke. What authority has a pump? Is a
pump an analyst and a coroner?
Why should I spend a day with the Bishop? What claim has the Bishop
on my improving conversation? I am not his sponsor. Besides, he might
do me harm--I am not quite sure of his claret. I admit his superior
ecclesiastical birth; I recollect his connection with St. Peter; and I am
conscious of the more potent spells and effluences of his shovel-hat and
apron; but I find the atmosphere of his heights cold, and the rarefied air
he breathes does not feed my lungs. Up yonder, above the clouds of
human weakness, my vertebræ become unhinged, my bones inarticulate,
and I collapse. I meet missionaries, and I hear the music of the spheres;
and I long to descend again to the circles of the everyday inferno where
my friends are.
"These distant stars I can forego; This kind, warm earth, is all I know."
I am sorry for it. I really have upward tendencies; but I have never been
able to fix upon a balloon. The High Church balloon always seems to
me too light; and the Low Church balloon too heavy; while no

experienced aeronaut can tell me where the Broad Church balloon is
bound for; thus, though a feather-weight sinner, here I am upon the
firm earth. So come along, my dear Archdeacon, let us have a stroll
down the Mall, and a chat about Temporalities, Fabrics, "Mean
Whites," and little