An Archdeacon is one of the busiest men in India--especially when he
is up on the hill among the sweet pine-trees. He is the recognised
guardian of public morality, and the hill captains and the
semi-detached wives lead him a rare life. There is no junketing at
Goldstein's, no picnic at the waterfalls, no games at Annandale, no
rehearsals at Herr Felix von Battin's, no choir practice at the church
even, from which he can safely absent himself. A word, a kiss, some
matrimonial charm dissolved--these electric disturbances of society
must be averted. The Archdeacon is the lightning conductor; where he
is, the leaven of naughtiness passes to the ground, and society is not
shocked.

In the Bishop and the ordinary padre we have far-away people of
another world. They know little of us; we know nothing of them. We
feel much constraint in their presence. The presence of the
ecclesiastical sex imposes severe restrictions upon our conversation.
The Lieutenant-Governor of the South-Eastern Provinces once complained
to me that the presence of a clergyman rendered nine-tenths of his
vocabulary contraband, and choked up his fountains of anecdote. It
also restricts us in the selection of our friends. But with an
Archdeacon all this is changed. He is both of Heaven and Earth. When
we see him in the pulpit we are pleased to think that we are with the
angels; when we meet him in a ball-room we are flattered to feel that
the angels are with us. When he is with us--though, of course, he is
not of us--he is yet exceedingly like us. He may seem a little more
venerable than he is; perhaps there may be about him a grandfatherly
air that his years do not warrant; he may exact a "Sir" from us that
is not given to others of his worldly standing; but there is
nevertheless that in his bright and kindly eye--there is that in his