Gul Hassan had never failed me when better men than Calcutta bazaar rowdies had to be dealt with, and his simple logic would not permit him to truckle to the mere conventionalities of civilisation, where one is robbed far oftener than on the frontier, and by very inferior bandits.

However, after the adventure at the emporium I took charge of the bank.

Having finished my purchases, I suggested a visit to the docks. The great ships were a revelation to Gul Hassan, and the wonder which filled his soul showed in his eyes; for a long time he could not speak. We saw a big steamer lightly laden, and with her propeller half exposed, churn her way down the river. Gul Hassan looked puzzled and said he could not understand why the ship was going backwards, as the splashing and commotion ought to be at the front end, at least, the boats in the Kabul River always sent the froth and foam in front of them!

He expressed supreme contempt for the Hooghly-the sacred Gunga of the unspeakable Hindoos - until I explained to him how the river differed from any he had seen before, as it could flow in two opposite directions, north during part of the time and south for a similar period. That put him in more respect of Mai Gunga, and he said he quite believed my explanation of the phenomenon, but I fear added this to his list of the devilries of the Bengali unbelievers.

We boarded the ship that

was to take me home, and I showed him my cabin. He looked incredulous, and asked me whether I really intended spending a month in such a dog-kennel, and whether I had really paid several hundreds of rupees for the pleasure. On my admitting the impeachment he seemed half inclined to interview the captain there and then, with the purpose, no doubt, of securing better terms for me, so I thought it prudent to get ashore without further parley.

And now as the time was slipping away, and I wanted to take my old friend off to buy him a parting gift, I sounded him on the subject, and got him to confess that a real English knife would be the most acceptable offering I could make him, though Heaven forbid that he should ever require anything to keep him from forgetting his "father and his mother." So we went to the best European cutler in Calcutta. When we entered the palatial premises where lethal weapons of all sorts and sizes were displayed in dazzling array, the Pathan blood was stirred and his eyes glowed with pleasure. I asked him to make his choice. With the hand and eyes of a connoisseur he inspected blade after blade, and finally set his heart on a murderous-looking hunting-knife of generous length. But before finally passing it he asked me if it was a "Rajers," that being his rendering of the name of a Sheffield cutler whose goods have always been popular in India. The blade in question was not by "Rajers," though probably as good as

any turned out by him. Alas! the charm had fled from the hunting-knife, and Gul Hassan put it down in disgust. We ransacked the shop for the handiwork of the popular maker, but all we could discover was a case of little penknives. Gul Hassan selected one and felt happy again. "How could I go back to my country, sahib, and show them a knife you gave me if it wasn't a 'Rajers'?" They are veritable overgrown babies, these splendid soldiers of ours!

It was now evening, and Gul Hassan said he would stay the night and see me off in the morning, but visions of assaults on Baboos, insults to Young Bengal, and possible misunderstandings with the myrmidons of the law rose before me as I pictured my friend left to his own devices in Calcutta, so I gently but firmly insisted that we should reverse the programme, and that after dinner I should see him off by the night mail to the Punjab.

After dinner, therefore, we drove across the Hooghly to Howrah station, which we found besieged by a struggling mass of humanity. Hundreds of would-be passengers, with their household goods upon their backs, were chattering and wrangling and pushing towards the gates, which were securely locked. We bored our way through the mass and came to the gates. The sahib still possessed some measure of authority among the railway-folk-even in Bengal; and the gates admitted him and his companion, and then clicked again in the faces of the mob.

This procedure, it may be explained, is absolutely necessary in India, because the average native's idea of catching a train is to arrive. to arrive at the station a good twelve hours before the hour of starting, and if he and his fellows were allowed to make free of the premises during this interval, traffic would become a sheer impossibility.

Having got within the barriers, I asked to be directed to the third class bookingoffice. A very dark gentleman, in a very white helmet, pointed the way through a spacious hall which was full of little tables dotted about the floor. At each table a Baboo was scribbling with piles of papers in front of him. The scene reminded me of an army competitive examination in Burlington House. I refer, of course, only to the large hall and the little tables; the occupants of the latter bore no resemblance to army candidates.

I hastened through the hall, leaving Gul Hassan enjoying the sight of the struggling Bengalis beyond the outer gates. Hardly had I had time to state my requirements to the booking-clerk when I was amazed to hear a terrible hubbub arising in the Hall of Tables. As I turned I saw a most extraordinary scene. A small wizened Baboo, with eyes almost starting from his head, and his once spotless garments splashed from the neck to the extremities of the flowing loin - cloth with red and black ink, was rushing towards me closely fol

lowed by the equally irate Gul Hassan. The Baboo could only articulate in jerks. Between the catching of his breath and his frantic efforts to find words of a suitable length (no doubt he was a "failed B.A."), he was scarcely intelligible, but I managed to understand that Gul Hassan, discovering that I had moved on, had taken a bee-line to rejoin me. The little Baboo had stopped him, forbidden him to cross the Hall of Tables, and had actually had the temerity to bar the way. In brushing aside the obstacle Gul Hassan had unfortunately brought off a "cannon," with the result that the Baboo fell over his little table, and the table returned the compliment by falling-paper, pens, and

ink included-on to the Baboo. Hinc illæ lachrymæ! The case was clearly against us, and a surrender at discretion was the only alternative to probably no end of complications. An inspiration, however, seized me. Deftly insinuating a ten-rupee note into the outraged Baboo's hand, I said, "Baboo-ji" (ji being a term of respect), "you have been the victim of a most audacious outrage. Your honour has been assailed. Please accept this sum, which will pay for washing your clothes; and, with my full permission, take this uncouth barbarian outside and give him a sound thrashing. I promise not to interfere." The Baboo's hand closed over the crisp note, and his eyes travelled from Gul Hassan's feet to his head and back again (the Baboo's eyes were

about on a level with the bottom button of Gul Hassan's gorgeous waistcoat). There was a pause, and then a smile came over the Baboo's little face, and he said he thought he would dispense with the chastisement of the wicked barbarian. We then shook hands, and parted the best of friends. That Baboo was the best Bengali I have so far

come across.

And now the hour had come to say good-bye.

"Sahib," said Gul Hassan, as he leant from his carriage window, "I will not out my name as I intended: I shall join the Reserve. Some day

you will be the colonel of the regiment,-after that you will become a Lat. Presently the Bengalis (may they burn!) will make the Great Sirkar very angry, and the Pathan regiments will be sent to Calcutta to teach the Baboos how to behave, and to make them eat dirt. My last prayer to the sahib is, that when that day comes he will send for Gul Hassan, the Reservist. Sahib salaam! May you never be poor!"

I gave him him the frontier "May you never be weary!" and that was the last I saw of my trusty orderly.

THE nineteenth century is the most eventful in the long history of Oxford. Other changes will take place, and are now approaching, in this great University; perhaps also in Cambridge, her more sedate sister; but they will not be so profound and so fruitful of consequences as the Oxford revolution. That happily was less sanguinary than the French Revolution, to which it was in some measure due-no Vice-Chancellors or Heads of Houses were beheaded, or fled to other countries, they remained at their posts with unwavering fidelity; no property was confiscated, except at a later stage, by University Commissioners. Things moved slowly in the English wayprogress was "continuous and calm," or comparatively calm, and the Oxford of to-day is after all the Oxford of a hundred years ago, but quantum mutata!

The writer, who has known Oxford for nearly half a century, will, with much diffidence, attempt to give an account of the transformation, in the faint hope that he may move some one to write a book which might be entitled 'A Century of Oxford History.' The materials for such a history are abundant, and the subject is of surpassing interest, especially at the present time. The writer of it must be a son of

Oxford, for its history cannot be written from without: he must have lived and worked in Oxford through its many changes, and have kept his eyes open: he must belong to no narrow coterie: he must be learned but intelligent, and of a liberal and generous mind. There is, of course, no such a person, nor will he ever exist; but, if history is to be written at all, a lower standard than the ideal must be accepted. Gibbon was an undergraduate of Magdalen College in 1752-1754. He says hard things of his College and his University :

:

of erudition which might have puzzled "I arrived at Oxford with a stock a doctor, and a degree of ignorance of which a schoolboy would have been ashamed. To the University of Oxford I acknowledge no obligation; and she will as cheerfully renounce me for a son, as I am willing to disclaim her for a mother. . . . During my first weeks I constantly attended lessons in my tutor's room, but as they appeared equally devoid of profit and pleasure, I was once tempted to try the experiment of a formal apology. The apology was accepted with a smile, no plan of study was recom- no exercises mended for my use were presented for his inspection, and at the most precious season of youth whole days and weeks were suffered to elapse without labour or amusement, without advice or account."

An undergraduate nowadays might complain of the conduct of his tutor, but his complaints would be of too much "inspec