circumstances of the case with many piteous
lamentations and protestations of injured
innocence. The crime, too, to judge from Abdool
Rohaman's terror-stricken look and imploring
attitude, has awakened terrible remorse, and
created dread visions of punishment in the
breast of its perpetrator. He, it appears, did
in a boyish freak, or to satisfy the cravings of
hunger, go to the private grain store of the
plaintiff and feloniously extract therefrom a
handful of rice, with which, intending to enjoy
it at his leisure, he immediately retired into
a field hard by the prosecutor's house. His
purpose, however, was summarily frustrated by
the unexpected appearance of the injured Ruyal
Mitter, who, having observed the boy's exit
from his house, and his subsequent munchings
by the way, had from the premises drawn a
conclusion, which induced him first of all to
give the lad a sound cuffing and then lead him
away to the nearest police station. The police
inspector having taken him in charge, deposited
him for safe custody in the village lock-up, in
which primitive receptacle the unfortunate
urchin was confined until the next morning, in
company with a lunatic and a party of dacoits,
when with other malcontents he was dragged
before the magistrate. The result of the trial
is an infliction on the culprit of a fine of one
anna, of which sum one pice is to be handed
over to the public-spirited prosecutor. The
poor boy, with evident glee at the unexpected
mildness of the sentence, fumbles in the cloth,
which, surrounding his waist, is the only covering
he wears, and after untying a great many
knots, at length arrives at a hoard of small
copper pieces, from which, having extracted
four pice, he hands the amount to an officer of
the court.

The next case wears a more serious aspect; but
turns out to be one of the instances in which
Bengalees evince their predilection for making
a mock at Justice. The plaintiff states that
during his absence one night from his home, a
cow was stolen from his yard; and he asserts
that on his return the missing animal was, with
the help of the gomasta, or head man of the
village, discovered on the premises of one of
his neighbours. But the gomasta has been
bribed, and the chokedar, or native watchman,
has accepted four annas to bear witness against
the defendant, and to state that he himself
saw the cow in the defendant's house. The
latter, however, when called on for his defence,
throwing a perfect light upon the rather
obscure evidence of his persecutors, proves the
whole case to be a fabrication, and shows that
the charge was brought against him from a
feeling of revenge, he having declined to part
with a piece of land to the prosecutor of which
the latter greatly coveted the possession. The
case is speedily dismissed, and as the parties
leave the court the police inspector says
something to the magistrate about prosecuting the
plaintiff for bringing a false accusation.

Another chokedar then appears to answer a
charge of attempting to extort money from a
traveller by threatening to arrest him. The
evidence being conclusive, he is at once
sentenced to a fine of four annas (sixpence).

"Nay, sahib!" exclaims the village watchman,
a stalwart young man of six-and-twenty,
"have pity on me, sahib! I won't do it again!"
His feelings here become too much for him,
and he weeps bitterly, lifting his clasped
hands towards the dispenser of justice. "I
can't pay four annas, great king! I shall be
ruined! Oh, spare me, mighty lord, spare me!"
The magistrate is inexorable, and the
constables in attendance hustle the chokedar out
of the court, whence he disappears, howling, in
a manner dismal to hear, at the dark prospect
of being obliged to pay four annas himself
instead of extorting that sum from an innocent
and inoffensive fellow-countryman.

So, with a constantly repeated exhibition of
the smallest and meanest passions of human
nature, the morning wears away. At about
two o'clock the magistrate, inviting me to
join him, leaves the court and goes to his
own house, to refresh himself, after the
exertions of the morning and his long sitting in the
stifling atmosphere of the small and closely-
crowded room, with tiffin or lunch. This is
served in English fashion, for our magistrate
can enjoy his meal and his glass, after the
manner of white men, and can even share with
them the same dish, as though the Vedas were
an unwritten book, and Brahma a divinity of
the Greek mythology.

But the virtues of the bench, and the
amenities of civilised and social life, are not the
only evidences of the superiority of the
magistrate to the body of his countrymen; for
municipal improvements, local institutions, and
public charities, alike bear testimony to his
assiduous and fostering care. Therefore, I
express a wish to visit them, and to that end
he, returning after tiffin to his court, and
leaving me to enjoy another cigar, and amuse
myself with the books lying on his well-
furnished table, brings to a speedy conclusion
the proceedings of the day, and, to the
great mortification of the litigious Bengalees,
and to the personal discomfort of the yet
untried prisoners, dismisses his court, and
prepares to accompany me.

As we walk along, my companion points
out all the improvements he has made, or is
making, in and about the village. Culverts,
drains, bridges, direction-posts, railings, mended
roads, and new footpaths, appearing in every
direction, show that even the wilds of Bengal are
amenable to civilisation; while lamps, springing
up by the side of the principal highways,
act at once as a public assurance company, and
as a powerful arm of the executive: in the one
case by guiding the weary traveller safely to his
home: in the other by depriving the dacoit of
his cloak of darkness.

Entering the village, we stop at a small
house whence issues a monotonous chorus of
childish voices. It is the village academy, a
private institution presided over by a
venerable moonshee, who, to judge from his
appearance and that of his surroundings, lays