his educational career, an appointment in the
Uncovenanted Civil Service, and, having
immediately accepted it, and made his seat therein
secure by fulfilling all the behests of the Civil
Service examiners, he found himself, at the age
of twenty-seven, in the undisputed possession
of a snug and pretty bungalow, a salary of
nearly five hundred a year, and a district
that gave him but little trouble in its management.

In person, he is a man of middle height; his
frame, of fair proportions, adds the uprightness
and suppleness natural to his fellow-countrymen
to the drilled carriage of the Western nations.
His complexion is dark, even more so than
is generally observable in the people of the
country; but his features are well shaped, and
his eyes bright and sparkling. His face
betokens the kindliness of his heart, and his bearing
the manliness of his spirit. His conversation
bears no trace of his foreign origin.

The court-house or cutcherry, wherein our
Bengal magistrate performs the chief part of his
public duties, is situated in the same compound
as that which surrounds his private bungalow.
It is a structure formed of four mud walls,
surmounted by a thatched roof, which,
projecting for several feet, serves as a verandah
for the accommodation of the attendants and
suitors of the court, or as a depository for
the books and other articles required in the
office.

It is eleven o'clock, and the magistrate has
just taken his seat; the groups of natives who
rose and respectfully salaamed to him as he
passed from his house to the court, have once
more settled themselves down in various
attitudes expressive of pathetic patience. Some are
extended at full length on the grass; some
sitting under the shade of trees, which, stretching
their wide branches over the compound,
have long served to shelter alike accuser and
accused. Some are squatted on the ground;
some, bending down, are balancing themselves
in a posture more comfortable than elegant,
their elbows resting on their knees; others are
standing about, watching the scene with
countenances expressive of anything but intelligence;
all, whether standing or sitting, whether at
rest or in motion, are in an extreme state
of excitement and satisfaction. This satisfaction
is produced by the conviction that whatever
they have come there for, or whether
justice or injustice be the object of the whole
proceedings, a "tumasha" is a delightful
thing, and a commotion of any kind a pleasure
to the heart of man. What seduction dwells
in that magic word "tumasha" or its
equivalent! To a native, dinner would be no
consideration, a day's wages but as a feather in the
balance, the probable starvation of himself and
his family a trifle—nay, I believe, that even
the fear of personal punishment would not
prevent him from being present at a "sight."
And so it is all the world over; the feeling
that makes Guyaram Dass run where he sees a
number of his countrymen gathered together,
is the same that drives us to endure the toil of
pleasure-hunting, or to become one of a much-
suffering crowd collected to hear the last new
opera-singer.

As I pass across the compound, the silence
imposed on the attendant crowds by the
appearance of the magistrate has been broken,
and the Babel of voices is growing wilder and
wilder, until at last the inspector of police
attendant at the court, or one of his myrmidons,
appears at the door of the cutcherry, and with
a few words of full-mouthed authority, followed
by some common-place and low-murmured
epithets of abuse, lulls the storm of voices for
awhile.

The lawyers and court-officials, raising their
hands to their faces, bow and make obeisance
as I reach the verandah. I stoop under the
low portal, and entering the court find myself
in a small, ill-ventilated, and worse-lighted,
room. The thatch is unconcealed by any
attempt at a ceiling, and the walls bear the
hue of the virgin earth. At one end of the
apartment on a raised platform, stands a table,
behind which sits the magistrate. At the
foot of the platform, and on either side of it,
stand two other tables for the use of the
officials; two rows of rails placed at right
angles to the bench form separate apartments
for the accommodation of the various parties
to the suits. The room is crowded with
natives, silent and expectant. The magistrate
observes my entrance, and beckoning, welcomes
me with a smile, and a shake of the hand.

"Don't let me interrupt your proceedings,
baboo," I say, as I take a chair by his side.

"You don't disturb me at all," he replies.
"I am not very busy to-day. Will you take a
glass of wine?"

"Thank you, I am not thirsty; still I
shouldn't—" and a half-denial giving a half-
consent—for in India one can never refuse an
invitation, why I cannot tell, unless the heat
produces a laxity in self-control as well as in
bodily energy—he immediately orders wine
and glasses to be brought over from his house.
Refreshed, or otherwise, by the inevitable
"peg," which, usually in the shape of "brandy-
pawnee," that is, brandy mixed with water, or
with some effervescing drink, the magistrate
bids me light a cigar, and offering me his case,
makes a selection therefrom on his own
account. "Og laou!" or "bring fire!" is the
immediate cry of obsequious attendants.
Everything necessary for our comfort being now
provided, I beg him to proceed with his day's work:
for I am anxious, I inform him, to witness an
Indian trial. He turns to his table and calls for
the next case.

This proves to be one sent up by the
superintendent of police from charges laid at the
police station. Ruyal Mitter accuses Abdool
Rohaman, a lad twelve years of age, of stealing
a quantity of rice, worth one pice, a coin
equivalent in value to a farthing and a half.
Surely a matter of no great moment, one would
think, but the loss appears to weigh heavily
upon the spirits of the prosecutor, who, when
summoned to give his evidence, states the