when Time seems a maniac scattering dust, and Life a Fury slinging
flame].

Let us soothe ourselves by contemplating the Planter and his generous,
simple life. It calms one to look at him. He is something placid,
strong, and easeful. Without wishing to appear obsequious, I always
feel disposed to borrow money when I meet a substantial Planter. He
inspires confidence. I grasp his strong hand; I take him
(figuratively) to my heart, while the desire to bank with him wells up
mysteriously in my bosom.

He lives in a grand old bungalow, surrounded by ancient trees. Large
rooms open into one another on every side in long vistas; a broad and
hospitable-looking verandah girds all. Everywhere trophies of the
chase meet the eye. We walk upon cool matting; we recline upon
long-armed chairs; low and heavy punkahs swing overhead; a sweet
breathing of wet _khaskhas_ grass comes sobbing out of the
thermantidote; and a gigantic but gentle _khidmatgar_ is always at our
elbow with long glasses on a silver tray. This man's name is Nubby
Bux, but he means nothing by it, and a child might play with him. I
often say to him in a caressing tone, "_Peg lao_";[U] and he is
grateful for any little attention of this sort.

It is near noon. My friend Mr. Great-Heart, familiarly known as "Jamie
Macdonald," has been taking me over the factory and stables. We have
been out since early morning on the jumpiest and beaniest of Waler
mares. I am not killed, but a good deal shaken. The glass trembles in
my hand. I have an absorbing thirst, and I drink copiously, almost
passionately. My out-stretched legs are reposing on the arms of my
chair and I stiffen into an attitude of rest. I hear my host splashing