that they did not very perceptibly increase Percival's chance of making a living as a stockbroker or an engineer, yet he may not have been altogether wrong when he imagined himself to be learning as well as enjoying himself. From Sherwin's Vergilian ramblings, which were of constant occurrence, he got perhaps the greatest satisfaction of all-a continual suggestion of feeling, of mystery, of the underlying significance of things. The politics of Cicero, the artistic common-sense of Horace, the positive tone of the books recommended to him by teachers of science, the arid realism of the novels then in vogue, all combined with the routine of the school and its practical interpretation of ideals to parch a tongue that was by nature thirsty for the waters that are beneath the earth and above it. In Vergil's country, for those who tramped with Sherwin, they welled up on every page, or fell in the finest dew. Percy was here at one with the men of the Middle Ages-a period hardly ever in sight of Downton he recognised in these pathetic half lines," these haunting and inexplicable rhythms, the presence of a supernal power: and was as ready as any of his forefathers, at the Wizard's word, to be "going dimly through shadows, beneath the lonely night." 66 No other of the ancients, except perhaps Sophocles, gave him anything like this help: but he found it again in the poets of his own century, found it with the sense of immediate certainty, of complete ownership, which always came to him at the moment of meeting with great romance in either prose or verse. "And they are gone: ay, ages long ago Those lovers fled away into the storm." It is surprising that these lines had not been among his early possessions: but Keats happened to be absent from the family bookshelves, and insufficiently represented in the anthologies then popular. There they were now, under the lamplight of a January evening, lying upon the table in the handwriting of the sixth-form master, reproduced in the bilious violet ink peculiar to the copying-machine of that period. Three stanzas were there, headed only with the words "For Hexameters." Percy loved Latin verses, and wrote them with some ease: the evening devoted to them was generally one of those which passed most quickly and profitably. But to-night a stronger spell was upon him: he had not read six lines of the twentyseven before he had forgotten dactyls, duty, marks, and masters as completely as any truant-had indeed most truly run away from school altogether. "Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found"who were they, those stealthy passionate companions, for whose sake he was so ready to risk his life in a blind adventure? Ha! what was that? The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound, fluttered in the besieging wind's uproar, and the long carpets rose along the gusty floor. What was this endless, shadowy, sleeping house, so strange and yet so intimately remembered, so stirring with mediæval beauty and the terror of the living moment? He could half believe it his own home, yet every nerve is straining in the effort to escape from it. A cold, tense hand draws him: they glide like phantoms into the wide hall, like phantoms to the iron porch a-tiptoe now, past the huge besotted porter, porter, and again with an agony of the heart past the great bloodhound, friendly after all. The door-ah! softly! by one and one the bolts full easy glidesoftly again, and the chains lie silent on the foot-worn stones -the key turns-the door upon its hinges groans-and they are gone! Ay! ages long ago, and to-night, and forever, those lovers fled away into the storm, and by some malign enchantment their poor young friend Percival found himself alone in the rain, hurrying under the lamps of College Road towards the house of Mr Smith. "What is it, Twyman?" "The verses, sir, the verses for to-morrow: could you lend me the book?" "No, sir, but I can't get on with the verses till I've read the whole poem." Mr Smith had been only half attending, in his absentminded way, but he was roused by this reply. "Hullo!" he said, "what's this? You don't know Keats?" to He took the volume from the shelf and began to read aloud. Percy's mortal part was comfortably dumped upon a sofa by the fire: the rest of him was shivering back through the elfin storm that arras - hung and windy house. This time he entered by the way we all know, through the chapel aisle; he passed the soulptured dead on each side, imprisoned in black purgatorial rails knights, ladies, praying in dumb oratories, passed northward through a little door where already he could hear the silver snarling trumpets beginning to chide: already the level chambers were glowing to receive & thousand guests.... to The dream was broken: Mr Smith had been interrupted. "You'll stay to supper, Twyman?" he said, as the white cloth was laid upon the table. "We can finish this afterwards, and the verses we'll take as written." So, with Mr Smith's wine and cakes, Percival kept his first St Agnes' Eve. (To be continued.) VOL. CLXXXIX.-NO. MCXLIV. R "SHOPPING" IN INDIA. BY IAN MALCOLM, M.P. "OF the making of fools there is no end," and the manufacture of this universal commodity is extensively practised in the bazaars of the shiny East. I cannot find it in my heart to decide whether the male or female variety is easier to produce, for the entrance to the spider's parlour is ornamented with the remains of flies of either sex in about equal numbers. Shopping is the tourist's constant delight in all parts of the world, even as sight-seeing is his duty. But in India and in Burma its joys are multiplied by the infinite variety of conditions under which it can be enjoyed; and, for the benefit of those who contemplate a visit to India, I cannot do better than enumerate a few of the pleasures that are in store for them. To begin with Burma and its bazaars: you may walk through the muddy old markets of Rangoon for hours at a time, or through the brandnew bazaar at Mandalay, without any of the sales people taking the slightest notice of you as a possible purchaser of their wares. The dear little ladies sit cross-legged upon long tables in front of the high cupboards containing their goods. They are placidly smoking, or chatting, or painting their faces, or braiding their hair. They are not attending to business in the least. If the European is conspicuously dressed, or presents a figure which the Burman, with his finely trained sense of humour, considers at all ridiculous, then a gay ripple of laughter passes along the stalls, and then, indeed, the would-be customer is noticed; but otherwise the tourist is an object of no interest whatever. requires a great effort to get a Burmese shop-woman (they are nearly all women) to show you her silks, and when at last It she has spread her merchandise broadcast upon the table, and you are revelling in the illusion that you are living in the middle of a rainbow, with a chance of holding fast to some of its colours, she will ask her price (which is seldom more than one rupee too much) and will stick to it "like glue." "like glue." She is an indolent lady in many ways, who loves a quiet life, and she has determined that her most comfortable course is not to haggle in the market-place. So you may make up your mind that bargaining and persuasion are useless arts to practise Burma, however valuable they may be elsewhere. You may also be sure that the little shopwoman will bear you no grudge if you do not purchase. She will thank you with a in ous bright smile and, having packed up her rainbow, will return to her cigar. So with the silversmith and the dealer in precistones: Burma is the home of the prix fixe, whatever class of tradesman you may be dealing with. Do you want a silver bowl or a betel - box chased with those curiously ugly figures of Burmese mythology, you can get it but not by chaffering. Your silver material will be weighed out before you, and you will be charged at the current rate per ounce; an equal sum is due for the labour entailed in fashioning the design, and so the total is arrived at with a precision worthy of a mechanical calculator. Do not try to bargain: you will waste your breath, although your efforts may be the cause of undue merriment to the apprentices, whose smiling faces beam upon you out of the darkness which envelops the rickety wooden houses in the silversmiths' street. Or do you seek for rubies from the mines of Upper Burma, or for sapphires from Siam? These, too, you will find in the bazaars of Rangoon and the neighbourhood. This is a most fascinating form of shopping-to sit in the back parlour of a very humble-looking shop and to handle precious stones by the handful, letting them rain through your fingers upon the cotton-wool beneath like so many drops of radiant dew. You may take them out into the daylight of the crowded thoroughfare to examine their colour; you may even take them back to your dwelling to match them with other stones. The trust thus reposed in the Sahib is most appealing in its confidence, and is rarely misplaced; but "business is business," and you are given understand that nothing you can do or say will alter the scheduled price of the stones you covet. And so it is all through Burma, so far as my experience goes. I have followed a native street band for hours, trying to buy a dulcima at a bargain. Impossible: I had to pay the tariff price-and it was cheap them. I have used every device known to the amateur in the hopes of inducing one of the wild men north of Myitkina to part with his sword (which is his chief article of dress) at a reduced figure. Hopeless: nothing would induce him to part with it for less than he originally asked. So with a basket of persimmons at Bhamo, or with red and gold lacquer-work on the Irrawaddy. There is only one thing in this changeful world that never seems to alter, and that is the mind of a Burman as to the value of the article that he is prepared, though not eager, to sell. But in India the case is completely altered. Your reputation is gone if you give more than half the price asked by a native merchant, whatever his commodity. take them out commodity. Of course, I do speak of shopping in Calcutta, which is just as dull as shopping in Glasgow or in Bombay, where every counter is manned by smart young gentlemen who cultivate an American accent and a bustling manner. I am writing more particularly about the indigenous shopman, with his keen eye to business and to human nature, his everlasting patience and his ingratiating speech. Each town appears to have its own methods of commerce, and these are most interesting to note as one passes from East to West. In Benares, for example, the bazaars are very narrow, but bright with brass ware and shoes and caps glistening with gold and silver thread. When the tourist makes his appearance there is a general shout and a rush for him, each man carrying as many articles as he can hold, and declaiming their prices at the pitch of his lungs. If you are blest with a keen sense of hearing and a slight knowledge of the language, you will detect a good many still small voices offering considerable commissions to your guide upon any purchases which he can induce you to make. But the leading tradesmen do not appear in these public places. If you want the cloth of gold or silver for which Benares is famous, you have always to turn aside by a narrow passage into a dim courtyard. There, ascending a rickety staircase into an upper chamber, you will find a solemn band of respectable old gentlemen ready to do business to any extent, to the accompani ment of a cup of coffee (if you will) and the pattering of monkeys' feet as they gallop wildly over the roof. The Agra bazaars used to be very much the same, but now the well-to-do-shops are moving out of the city toward the higher ground where the hotels are situated. Their shops have become "emporiums," their flimsy advertisements are replaced by "illustrated catalogues," and their merchants drive about in the smartest of dog-carts. I suppose that Ganeshi Lal is the best-known tradesman in Northern India, as his house is one of the most fascinating. His parlour is carefully laid out for the flies of every continent, a beautiful bungalow of five handsome apartments, situated in the centre of a garden of shrubs and flowers. Each room is hung with rare rugs and Eastern draperies, which induce a sense of luxury and sudden opulence in the most cautious visitor. tread such carpets, to examine such embroideries, to handle such jewels, is surely the privilege of Croesus! And so we feel millionaires all over, and the pauper spends his money like the prince. Who can resist such a salesman as this accomplished Hindu, with his silken manner and his honeyed speech? For half an hour he has lavished his best attentions upon a British matron of adamantine resolution, who has "just come in to look round." He consults her about To |