burning village. It was a long, straggling one, with a good masonry
well in the centre, shadowed by a mighty _peepul_ tree. The wind was
blowing the fire right along, and if no obstruction was offered, would
sweep off every hut in the place. The only soul who was trying to do a
thing was a young Brahmin watchman belonging to the factory. He had
succeeded in removing some brass jars of his own, and was saving some
grain. One woman was rocking to and fro, beating her breast and crying.
There sat the rest of the apathetic villagers in groups, not lifting a
finger, not stirring a step, but calmly looking on, while the devouring
element was licking up hut after hut, and destroying their little all.
In a few minutes some of my servants, syces, and factory men had
arrived. I tied up the pony, ordered my men to pull down a couple of
huts in the centre, and tried to infuse some energy into the villagers.
Not a bit of it; they would _not_ stir. They would not even draw a
bucket of water. However, my men got earthen pots; I dug up fresh earth
and threw it on the two dismantled huts, dragging away as much of the
thatch and _debris_ as we could.

The fire licked our faces, and actually got a footing on the first
house beyond the frail opening we had tried to make, but we persevered,
and ultimately stayed the fire, and saved about two thirds of the
village. I never saw such an instance of complete apathy. Some of the
inhabitants even had not untied the cattle in the sheds. They seemed
quite prostrated. However, as we worked on, and they began to see that
all was not yet lost, they began to buckle to; yet even then their
principal object was to save their brass pots and cooking utensils,
things that could not possibly burn, and which they might have left
alone with perfect safety.

A Hindoo village is as inflammable as touchwood. The houses are