LIFE AT OOTY.
If a bachelor, you generally begin by depositing your household gods in
the club buildings, or one of the two hotels[156]—there is no travellers’
bungalow at Ootacamund—if a married man, you have secured lodgings by
means of a friend.
The Neilgherry house merits description principally because it is a
type of the life usually led in it. The walls are made of coarse bad
bricks—the roof of thatch or wretched tiles, which act admirably as
filters, and occasionally cause the downfall of part, or the whole of
the erection. The foundation usually selected is a kind of platform, a
gigantic step, cut out of some hill-side, and levelled by manual labour.
The best houses occupy the summits of the little eminences around the
lake. As regards architecture the style bungalow—a modification of the
cow-house—is preferred: few tenements have upper stories, whilst almost
all are surrounded by a long low verandah, perfectly useless in such a
climate, and only calculated to render the interior of the domiciles as
dim and gloomy as can be conceived. The furniture is decidedly scant,
being usually limited to a few feet of drugget, a chair or two, a table,
and a bedstead. The typical part of the matter is this. If the diminutive
rooms, with their fire-places, curtained beds, and boarded floors,
faintly remind you of Europe, the bare walls, puttyless windows and
doors that admit draughts of air small yet cutting as lancets, forcibly
impress you with the conviction that you have ventured into one of those
uncomfortable localities—a cold place in a hot country.
So it is with life on the Neilgherries—a perfect anomaly. You dress like
an Englishman, and lead a quiet gentlemanly life—doing nothing. Not being
a determined health-hunter, you lie in bed because it passes the hours
rationally and agreeably, and you really can enjoy a midday doze on the
mountain-tops. You sit up half the night because those around you are
not shaking the head of melancholy, in consequence of the dispiriting
announcement that “the Regiment will parade, &c., at four o’clock next
morning” (A.M. remember!). At the same time your monthly bills for pale
ale and hot curries, heavy tiffins, and numerous cheroots, tell you, as
plainly as such mute inanimate things can, that you have not quite cast
the slough of Anglo-Indian life.
* * * * *
We will suppose that your first month in the Neilgherry Hills with all
its succession of small events has glided rapidly enough away. You
reported your arrival in person to the commanding officer, who politely
desired your signature to a certain document,[157] threatening you as
well as others with all the penalties of the law if you ventured to quit
Ootacamund without leave. The Auditor-General’s bill, which you received
from the Paymaster, Bombay, authorizing you to draw your salary from him
of the southern division of the Madras army, was not forwarded before the
first of the month, or it was forwarded but not in duplicate—something
of the kind must happen—so you were most probably thrown for a while
upon your wits, rather a hard case, we will suppose. Then you tried to
“raise the wind” from some Parsee, but the way in which he received
you conclusively proved that he has, perhaps for the best of reasons,
long since ceased to “do bijness” in that line. You began to feel
uncomfortable, and consequently to abuse the “authorities.”
During your first fortnight all was excitement, joy, delight. You
luxuriated in the cool air. Your appetite improved. The mutton had a
flavour which you did not recollect in India. Strange, yet true, the
beef was tender, and even the “unclean” was not too much for your robust
digestion. You praised the vegetables, and fell into ecstasy at the
sight of peaches, apples, strawberries, and raspberries, after years of
plantains, guavas, and sweet limes. From the exhilarating influence of
a rare and elastic atmosphere you, who could scarcely walk a mile in
the low country, induced by the variety of scenery and road, wandered
for hours over hill and dale without being fatigued. With what strange
sensations of pleasure you threw yourself upon the soft turf bank, and
plucked the first daisy which you ever saw out of England! And how you
enjoyed the untropical occupation of sitting over a fire in June!—that
very day last year you were in a state of semi-existence, only “kept
going” by the power of punkahs[158] and quasi-nudity.
The end of the month found you in a state of mind bordering upon the
critical. You began to opine that the scenery has its deficiencies—Can
its diminutive ravines compare with glaciers and seas of ice—the
greenness of its mountain-tops compensate for the want of snow-clad
summits, and “virgin heights which the foot of man never trod?” You
decided that the Neilgherries are, after all, a tame copy of the Alps
and the Pyrenees. You came to the conclusion that grandeur on a small
scale is very unsatisfactory, and turned away from the prospect with the
contempt engendered by satiety. As for the climate, you discovered that
it is either too hot in the sun or too cold in the shade, too damp or
too dry, too sultry or too raw. After a few days spent before the fire
you waxed weary of the occupation, remarked that the Neilgherry wood is
always green, and the Neilgherry grate a very abominable contrivance.
At last the mutton and pork, peaches and strawberries, palled upon your
pampered palate, you devoured vegetables so voraciously that pernicious
consequences ensued, and you smoked to such an extent that—perhaps
tobacco alone did not do it—your head became seriously affected.
And now, sated with the joys of the eye and mouth, you turn round upon
Ootacamund and inquire blatantly what amusement it has to offer you.
Is there a hunt? No, of course not!
A race-course? Ditto, ditto!
Is there a cricket-club? Yes. If you wish to become a member you will be
admitted readily enough; you will pay four shillings _per mensem_ for the
honour, but you will not play at cricket.
A library? There are two: one in the Club, the other kept by a Mr.
Warren: the former deals in the modern, the latter in the antiquated
style of light—extremely light—literature. Both reading-rooms take in
the newspapers and magazines, but the periodical publications are a very
exclusive kind of study, that is to say, never at home to you. By some
peculiar fatality the book you want is always missing. And the absence of
a catalogue instead of exciting your industry, seems rather to depress it
than otherwise.
Public gardens, with the usual “scandal point,” where you meet the ladies
and exchange the latest news? We reply yes, in a modifying tone. The sum
of about 200_l._, besides monthly subscriptions, was expended upon the
side of a hill to the east of Ooty, formerly overrun with low jungle, now
bearing evidences of the fostering hand of the gardener in the shape of
many cabbages and a few cauliflowers.
Is there a theatre, a concert-room, a tennis, a racket, or a fives-court?
No, and again no!
Then pray what is there?
We will presently inform you. But you must first rein in your impatience
whilst we enlarge a little upon the constitution and components of
Neilgherry society.
Two presidencies—the Madras and Bombay—meet here without mingling.
Officers belonging to the former establishment visit the hills for two
objects, pleasure and health; those of the latter service are always
votaries of Hygeia. If you ask the Madrassee how he accounts for the
dearth of amusements, he replies that no one cares how he gets through
his few weeks of leave. The Bombayite, on the contrary, complains loudly
and bitterly enough of the dull two years he is doomed to pass at Ooty,
but modesty, a consciousness of inability to remedy the evil, or most
likely that love of a grievance, and lust of grumbling which nature has
implanted in the soldier’s breast, prevents his doing anything more.
Some public-spirited individuals endeavoured, for the benefit of poor
Ooty, to raise general subscriptions from the Madras Service, every
member of which has visited, is visiting, or expects to visit, the
region of health. The result of their laudable endeavours—a complete
failure—instanced the truth of the ancient adage, that “everybody’s
business is nobody’s business.” Besides the sanitarians and the
pleasure-seekers, there are a few retired and invalid officers, who
have selected the hills as a permanent residence, some coffee-planters,
speculators in silk and mulberry-trees, a stray mercantile or two from
Madras, and several professionals, settled at Ootacamund.
With all the material above alluded to, our circle of society, as you may
suppose, is sufficiently extensive and varied. Among the ladies, we have
elderlies who enjoy tea and delight in scandal: grass widows—excuse the
term, being very much wanted, it is _comme il faut_ in this region—and
spinsters of every kind, from the little girl in bib and tucker, to
the full blown Anglo-Indian young lady, who discourses of her papa
the Colonel, and disdains to look at anything below the rank of a
field-officer. The gentlemen supply us with many an _originale_. There
are _ci-devant_ young men that pride themselves upon giving ostentatious
feeds which youthful gastronomes make a point of eating, misanthropes
and hermits who inhabit out-of-the-way abodes, civilians on the shelf,
authors, linguists, oriental students, amateur divines who periodically
convert their drawing-rooms into chapels of ease rather than go to
church, sportsmen, worshippers of Bacchus in numbers, juniors whose glory
it is to escort fair dames during evening rides, and seniors who would
rather face his Satanic Majesty himself than stand in the dread presence
of a “woman.” We have clergymen, priests, missionaries, tavern-keepers,
school-masters, and scholars, with _précieux_ and _précieuses ridicules_
of all descriptions.
But, unhappily, the said circle is divided into several segments, which
do not willingly or neatly unite. In the first place, there is a line of
demarcation occasionally broken through, but pretty clearly drawn between
the two Presidencies. The Mulls[159] again split into three main bodies,
1, the very serious; 2, the _petit-sérieux_; and, 3, the unsanctified. So
do the Ducks, but these being upon strange ground are not so exclusive
as they otherwise would be. Subdivision does not end here. For instance,
the genus serious will contain two distinct species, the orthodox and
the heterodox serious. The unsanctified also form numerous little knots,
whose bond of union is some such accidental matters as an acquaintance
previous to meeting on the hills, or a striking conformity of tastes and
pursuits.
* * * * *
A brief account of the Neilgherry day will answer your inquiry about the
existence of amusement. We premise that there are two formulas, one for
the sanitarian, the other for the pleasure-hunter.
And first, of Il Penseroso, or the invalid. He rises with the sun,
clothes himself according to Dr. Baikie,[160] and either mounts his
pony, or more probably starts stick in hand for a four mile walk. He
returns in time to avoid the sun’s effects upon an empty stomach, bathes,
breakfasts, and hurries once more into the open air. Possibly, between
the hours of twelve and four, his dinner-time, he may allow himself to
rest awhile in the library, to play a game at billiards, or to call
upon a friend, but upon principle he avoids tainted atmospheres as much
as possible. At 5 P.M. he recommences walking or riding, persevering
laudably in the exercise selected, till the falling dew drives him home.
A cup of tea, and a book or newspaper, finish the day. This even tenor
of his existence is occasionally varied by some such excitement as a
pic-nic, or a shooting-party, but late dinners, balls, and parties, know
him not.
Secondly of L’Allegro, as the man who obtains two months’ leave of
“absence on urgent private affairs” to the Neilgherries, and the
Penseroso become a robust convalescent, may classically and accurately be
termed. L’Allegro, dresses at mid-day, he has spent the forenoon either
in bed or _en deshabille_, in dozing, tea-drinking, and smoking, or, if
of a literary turn of mind, in perusing the pages of “The Devoted,” or,
“Demented One.” He dilates breakfast to spite old Time, and asks himself
the frequent question What shall I do to-day? The ladies are generally at
home between twelve and two, but L’Allegro, considering the occupation
rather a “slow” one, votes it a “bore.” But there is the club, and a
couple of hours may be spent profitably enough over the newspapers, or
pleasantly enough with the assistance of billiards and whist. At three
o’clock our Joyful returns home, or accompanies a party of friends to
a hot and substantial meal, termed tiffin, followed by many gigantic
Trichinopoly cigars, and glasses of pale ale in proportion.
A walk or a ride round the lake, is now deemed necessary to recruit
exhausted Appetite, who is expected to be ready at seven for another hot
and substantial meal, called dinner. And now, the labours of the day
being happily over, L’Allegro concludes it with prodigious facility by
means of cards or billiards, with whiskey and weeds.
This routine of life is broken only by such interruptions, as a
shooting-party, an excursion, a pic-nic, a grand dinner, _soirée_, or a
ball. Short notices of these amusements may not be unacceptable to the
reader.
There are many places in the neighbourhood of Ooty—such as Dodabetta,
Fair Lawn, and others—where, during the fine season, the votaries of
Terpsichore display very fantastic toes indeed, particularly if they wear
Neilgherry-made boots, between the hours of ten A.M. and five P.M. Much
innocent mirth prevails on these social occasions, the only remarkable
characteristic of their nature being, that the gentlemen generally ride
out slowly and deliberately, but ride in, racing, or steeple-chasing, or
enacting Johnny Gilpin.
A more serious affair is a grand dinner. This truly British form which
hospitality assumes, may be divided into two kinds, the pure and the
mixed. The former is the general favourite, as, consisting of bachelors
only, it admits of an _abandon_ in the style of conversation, and a
general want of ceremoniousness truly grateful to the Anglo-Indian mind.
A dinner where ladies are admitted is, by L’Allegro, considered an
unmitigated pest; and those who dislike formality and restraint, scant
potations, and the impossibility of smoking, will readily enter into his
feelings.
The Ootacamund _soirée_ happens about once every two months to the man of
pleasure, who exerts all the powers of his mind to ward off the blow of
an invitation. When he can no longer escape the misfortune, he resigns
himself to his fate, dresses and repairs to the scene of unfestivity,
with much of the same feeling he remembers experiencing when “nailed” for
a Bath musical reunion, or a Cheltenham tea-party. He will have to endure
many similar horrors. He must present Congo to the ladies, walk about
with cakes and muffins, listen to unmelodious melody, and talk small—he
whose body is sinking under the want of stimulants and narcotics, whose
spirit is fainting under the _peine forte et dure_ of endeavouring to
curb an unruly tongue, which in spite of all efforts will occasionally
give vent to half or three-quarters of some word utterly unfit for ears
feminine or polite. If, as the Allegri sometimes are, the wretch be
nervous upon the subject of being “talked about in connexion with some
woman,” another misery will be added to the list above detailed. He has
certainly passed the evening by the side of the young lady whom he first
addressed—his reasons being that he had not courage to break away from
her—and he may rest assured that all Ooty on the morrow will have wooed
and won her for him. Finally, he observes that several of his married
friends look coldly upon him, beginning the morning after the _soirée_.
Probably he endeavoured to compensate for his want of vivacity, by a
little of what he considered brilliancy, in the form of satire,—quizzing,
as it is generally called. The person for whose benefit he ventured to
Tamper with such dangerous art,
looked amused by his facetiousness, encouraged him to proceed by
⸺The smile from partial beauty won,
and lost no time in repeating the substance of his remarks, decked, for
the sake of excitement, in a richly imaginative garb, to the sensitive
quizzee.
There are about half-a-dozen balls a year on the Neilgherries, the cause
of their infrequency being the expense, and the unpopularity of the
amusement amongst all manner and description of men, save and except the
“squire of dames” only. This un-English style of festivity is also of two
kinds, the subscription and the bachelors’: the former thinly attended,
because 1_l._ is the price of a ticket, the latter much more numerously,
because invitations are issued gratis. The amusement commences with the
notes which the ladies indite in reply to their future entertainers, who
scrutinize all such productions with a severity of censure and a rigidity
of rule which might gratify a Johnson, or a Lindley Murray. And woe, woe,
to her who slips in her syntax, or trips in her syllabication! Then the
members of the club carve out for themselves a grievance, all swear that
it is a “confounded shame to turn the place into a hop-shop,” and one
surlier individual than the rest declares that “it shan’t be done again.”
At the same time you observe they endure the indignity patiently enough,
as it is a magnificent opportunity for disposing of their condemnable
though not condemned gooseberry.
And here we pause for a moment in indignation at such a proceeding.
May that man never be our friend who heedlessly sets a bottle of bad
champagne before a fellow-creature at a ball! Heated and excited by the
dancing atmosphere around, the victim’s palate becomes undiscerning,
he drinks a tumbler when at other times a wine-glass full would have
been too much, and in the morning—aroynt thee, Description! Well do
we remember the bitter feelings with which we heard on one of these
occasions, two gentlemen felicitating each other upon the quantity of
sour gooseberry disposed of unobserved. Unobserved! we were enduring
tortures from the too observable effects of it.
At eleven or twelve the ladies muster. The band—a trio of fiddlers, and
a pianist, who performs on an instrument which suggests reminiscences
of Tubal Cain—strikes up. The dancing begins—one eternal round of
quadrilles, lancers, polkas, and waltzes. There is no difficulty in
finding partners: the “wall-flower,” an ornament to the ball-room
unknown in India generally, here blooms and flourishes luxuriantly as
in our beloved fatherland. But if you are not a bald-headed colonel, a
staff-officer in a gingerbread uniform, or a flash sub. in one of Her
Majesty’s corps, you will prefer contemplating the festal scene from the
modest young man’s great stand-by—the doorway. About one o’clock there
is a break for supper—a hot substantial meal of course:—the dancing that
follows is strikingly of a more spirited nature than that which preceded
it. The general exhilaration infects, perhaps, even you. You screw up
your courage to the point of asking some smiling spinster if she “may
have the pleasure of dancing with you?” and by her good aid in action as
well as advice, you find out, with no small exultation, that you have not
quite forgotten your quadrille.
At three P.M. the ladies retire, apparently to the regret, really to
the delight of the bachelors, who, with gait and gestures expressive
of the profoundest satisfaction, repair to the supper-room for another
hot and substantial meal. The conversation is lively: the toilettes,
manners, conversation and dancing of the fair sex are blamed or extolled
_selon_; the absence of the Bombay ladies and the scarcity of the Bombay
gentlemen are commented upon with a _naïveté_ which, if you happen to
consider yourself one of them, is apt to be rather unpleasant. Before,
however, you can make up your mind what to do, the cigars are lighted,
spirits mixed, and the singing commences. This performance is usually of
the style called at messes the “sentimental,” wherein a long chorus is a
_sine quâ non_, the usual accompaniments a little horse-play in different
parts of the room, and the conclusion a hammering of tables or rattling
of glasses and a drumming with the heels, which, when well combined,
produce truly an imposing effect. At length Aurora comes slowly in,
elbowing her way, and sidling through the dense waves of rolling smoke,
which would oppose her entrance, but failing therein, content themselves
with communicating to her well known saffron-coloured morning wrapper a
rather dull and dingy hue. Phœbus looks red and lowering at the prospect
of the dozen gentlemen, who, in very pallid complexions, black garments,
and patent leather boots, wind, with frequent halts, along a common road,
leading, as each conceives, directly to his own abode. And the Muses thus
preside over the conclusion, as they ushered in the beginning of the
eventful _fête_.
“On the — of ⸺ the gay and gallant bachelors of Ootacamund entertained
all the beauty and fashion of the station in the magnificent ball-room of
the club. The scene was a perfect galaxy of light and loveliness, etc.”
* * * * *
You have now, we will suppose, almost exhausted the short list of public
amusements, balls and parties; you have boated on the lake; you have
ridden and walked round the lake till every nodule of gravel is deadly
familiar to your eye; you have contemplated the lake from every possible
point, and can no longer look at it, or hear it named, without a
sensation of nausea. You have probably wandered “over the hills and far
away” in search of game; your sport was not worth speaking of, but its
consequences, the headache, or the attack of liver which resulted from
over-exertion, _was_—. Perhaps you have been induced to ride an untrained
Arab at a steeple-chase, and, curious to say, you have not broken an arm
or even your collar-bone. What are you to do now? You wish to goodness
that you could obtain leave to visit the different stations in the low
country, but, unhappily, you forgot to have your sick certificate worded,
“For the Neilgherries and the Western Coast.” You find yourself cooped up
in the mountains as securely as within the lofty walls of your playground
in by-gone days, and if you venture to play truant, you will certainly be
dismissed the establishment, which is undesirable:—you are not yet over
anxious to return to “duty,” although you are by no means happy away from
it.
Suddenly a little occurrence in your household affords you a temporary
diversion. You dismissed your Bombay servants, first and foremost the
Portuguese, a fortnight after your arrival at Ootacamund, because the
fellows grumbled at the climate and the expense:—they could not afford
to get drunk half as often as in the plains:—demanded exorbitant wages,
and required almost as many comforts and luxuries as you yourself do.
So you paid their passage back to their homes, and secured the usual
number of Madras domestics, men of the best character, according to
their own account, and provided with the highest, though more than
dubious testimonials. You found that the change was for the better. Your
new blacks worked like horses, and did not refuse to make themselves
generally useful. Presently, they, seeing your “softness,” began
to presume upon it. You found it necessary to dismiss one of them,
summarily, for exaggerated insolence. The man left your presence, and
stepped over to the edifice where sits in state the “Officer Commanding
the Neilgherries.” About half an hour afterwards you received a note,
couched in terms quite the reverse of courteous, ordering you to pay your
dismissed servant his wages, and peremptorily forbidding you to take the
law into your own hands by kicking him. But should you object to obey, as
you probably will do, you are allowed the alternative of appearing at the
office the next day.
At the hour specified you prepare to keep your appointment, regretting
that you are not a civilian:—you might then have tossed the note into
the fire:—but somewhat consoled by a discovery, made in the course
of the evening, that the complainant has stolen several articles of
clothing from you. You walk into the room, ceremoniously bow and are
bowed to, pull a chair towards you unceremoniously, because you are not
asked to sit down, wait impatiently enough,—you have promised to ride
out with Miss A⸺, who will assuredly confer the honour of her company
upon your enemy Mr. B⸺ if you keep her waiting five minutes,—a mortal
hour and a half. When the last case has been dismissed, the Commanding
officer, after some little time spent in arranging his papers, nibbing
his pens and conversationizing with a native clerk about matters more
than indifferent to you, turns towards you a countenance in which the
severity of justice is somewhat tempered by the hard stereotyped smile
of polite inquiry. Stimulated by the look, you forget that you are the
defendant, till reminded of your position in a way which makes you feel
all its awkwardness. The Commanding officer is a great “stickler for
abstract rights,” and is known to be high-principled upon the subjects of
black skins and British law. So you, who expected, as a matter of course,
that the “word of an officer and gentleman” would be taken against that
of a “native rascal,” find yourself notably in the wrong box. Indignant,
you send for your butler. And now Pariah meets Pariah with a terrible
tussle of tongue. Complainant swears that he was not paid; witness oathes
by the score that he was. The former strengthens his position by cursing
himself to Patal[161] if he has not been swindled by the “Buttrel” and
his Sahib out of two months’ wages. The head servant, not to be outdone,
devotes the persons of his Brahman, his wife, and his eldest son, to
a very terrible doom indeed, if he did not with his own hands advance
complainant three months’ pay,—and so on. At length the Commanding
officer, who has carefully and laboriously been taking down the evidence,
bids the affidavits cease, and reluctantly dismisses the complaint.
And now for your turn, as you fondly imagine. You also have a charge to
make. You do so emphatically. You summon your witnesses, who are standing
outside. You prove your assertion triumphantly, conclusively. You inform
the Commanding officer, with determination, that you are resolved to do
your best to get the thief punished.
The Commanding officer hears you out most patiently, urges you to
follow up the case, and remarks, that the prosecution of the affair
will be productive of great advantage to the European residents on
the Hills. You are puzzled transiently: the words involve an enigma,
and the sarcastic smile of the criminal smacks of a mystery. But your
mental darkness is soon cleared up; the Commanding officer hints
that you will find no difficulty in procuring a fortnight’s leave to
Coimbatore, the nearest Civil station, for the purpose of carrying out
your public-spirited resolution. As this would involve a land journey
of one hundred miles—in India equal to one thousand in Europe—with all
the annoyances of law-proceedings, and all the discomforts of a strange
station, your determination suddenly melts away, and gentle Pity takes
the place of stern Prosecution; you forget your injury, you forgive your
enemy.
You must not, however, lay any blame upon the Commanding officer; his
hands are tied as well as yours. He is a justice of the peace, but his
authority is reduced to nothing in consequence of his being subject
to the civil power at Coimbatore. A more uncomfortable position for a
military man to be placed in you cannot conceive.
This little bit of excitement concludes your list of public amusements.
And now, again, you ask What shall you do? You put the question, wishing
to heaven that Echo—Arabian or Hibernian—would but respond with her usual
wonted categoricality; but she, poor maid! has quite lost her voice, in
consequence of the hard-talking she has had of late years. So you must
even reply to and for yourself—no easy matter, we can assure you.
Goethe, it is said, on the death of his son, took up a new study. You
have no precise ideas about Goethe or his proceedings, but your mind
spontaneously grows the principle that actuated the great German. You are
almost persuaded to become a student. You borrow some friend’s Akhlak
i Hindi,[162] rummage your trunks till you discover the remnant of a
Shakespeare’s Grammar, and purchase, at the first auction, a second-hand
copy of Forbes’s Dictionary. You then inquire for a Moonshee—a
language-master—and find that there is not a decent one in the place.
The local government, in the plenitude of its sagacity, has been pleased
to issue an order forbidding examination committees being held at the
Sanitarium; so good teachers will not remain at a station where their
services are but little required. Your ardour, however, is only damped,
not extinguished. You find some clerk in one of the offices who can
read Hindostani; you set to—you rub up your acquaintance with certain
old friends, called Parts of Speech—you master the Verb, and stand in
astonishment to see that you have read through a whole chapter of the
interesting ethical composition above alluded to. That pause has ruined
you. Like the stiff joints of a wearied pedestrian, who allows himself
rest at an inopportune time, your mind refuses to rise again to its task.
You find out that Ootacamund is no place for study; that the houses
are dark, the rooms cold, and the air so exciting that it is all but
impossible to sit down quietly for an hour. Finally, remembering that you
are here for health, you send back the Akhlak, restore Shakespeare to his
own trunk, and, after coquetting about the conversational part of the
language with your Moonshee for a week or two—dismiss him.