on us at meals through the ports and doors!

It is pleasant enough on deck this Sunday afternoon under the awning. We
have a piano in the middle of the deck, and a Captain in the East Yorks
is playing--he was one of the men who so politely, in fact anxiously,
vacated the cabin he found occupied by a married couple; four men play
bridge near us, and as we are not a large company we have all got to
know each other--the common infliction of the native crowd makes a bond
of sympathy.

A young Englishman beside me is overhauling Madras B. A. Exam, papers,
and works hard, so that he may have a clear holiday in Burmah. He hands
me some of the papers to read, essays on Edwin Harrison's "Life of
Ruskin." They are both funny and pathetic; we laughed at the absurd
jumble of ideas in some, and felt sorry that natives should have to
study the thoughts and sayings of a man, who, after all, did not himself
understand the very simple beauties of a Whistler. Then I dropped on an
essay, eight pages foolscap, in scholarly handwriting, with perfect
grasp of subject, and concentrated, pithy expression. I could with
difficulty accept the assurance that it was written by a Madrassee and
not by some famous essayist! So, perhaps, if one Eastern can grasp
Ruskin's best thoughts it may be worth the effort of trying to teach
thousands who can't? Is it not folly, this anglicising of the Indians,
Irish, and Scots by the English schoolmaster, who knows as little of
Sanscrit as of Erse Scottis or gaelic; calls England an island! and
wishes to teach everyone "The ode to a Skylark," "Silas Marner,"[19] and
"Tom Browne's Schooldays." (My own dear countrymen you will not be taken
in by this chaff for ever, will you?) Why not study Campbells tales in
gaelic, or Sir David Lindsay, or the Psalms by Waddell or Barbeurs
Bruce.

[19] Prescribed by Indian university curriculum.

Just to make the groups on deck complete we ought to have children
playing, but there are none with us, their route lies always westwards;
they would be a pretty foil to the serious restfulness of the deck
scene. Now a lady sings "Douglas tender and true," and sings it so well,
we could weep were we not so near port; a group in the stern beside the
wheel watches a glorious sunset, which fills the space we sit in under
the awning with a dull red and across the light a missionary paces,
aloof and alone; a melancholy stooping silhouette against the glorious
afterglow--to and fro--to an