Indians, when preferring an English alliance,
get out their wives from Europe—ordering
them of their agents like so much beer or
brandy,—as they are accused of having done in
the old days. The matrimonial market is now so
well supplied in India that no man need go far
to fix his affections—indeed, the general complaint
among subalterns and other persons who
are apt to suffer from what they call in Ireland
"a pain in the pocket"—is, that their affections
(confound them) fix themselves too soon. But
granting this inconvenience, the change is
decidedly a gain, and so is the new fashion,
introduced of late years with considerable success—
of leaving off drinking beer and brandy-panee
before a point at which the consequences become
disgraceful. Anglo-Indians in the present day
are almost as sober as any class of persons
I know. At dinner-parties people do not sit
over their wine even so long as in England,
and most of those who are able avoid beer
altogether—substituting the lighter refreshment
of champagne, which they take ab ovo
usque ad mala—that is to say, from the soup to
the coffee—thus avoiding that "mixing" which
elderly gentlemen at home regard with much
honour, and which few men in a tropical climate
can long stand with impunity.

If any excesses are ever committed, it is by
daring men just out from England—bachelors,
perhaps, or some monsters of the kind—and as
their proceedings would be much the same anywhere,
their faults can scarcely be set down to
the Anglo-Indians. Everywhere in society, the
old character given to Anglo-Indians is fast
becoming inapplicable. One hears as little of
high play and debt, as of delirium tremens;
and when our countrymen ill-treat the natives,
we do hear of it—which accounts for two or
three instances of late, which have not brought
us into very good odour in that respect. A
class of domestic scandals, usually including
elopements, are also far less frequent than
formerly; and as far as these are concerned, it
can scarcely be said that Anglo-Indians are open
to greater condemnation than their European
neighbours.

On the whole, the change from Yesterday to
To-day is decidedly for the better. What the
new arrival will miss, is a class of people in the
country who consider it as their home. The
danger which we run is that of becoming too
English; of depending upon ourselves too much,
and considering the natives too little. Our
political policy now, is, conciliation of the native
princes and aristocracy, in order that we may
employ them as our allies in improving the
condition of the people. Our social policy should
be of a similar kind. It is difficult, I know, to
mingle much more with the natives than we do,
in private life, and the difficulty arises principally
on their side. But the attempt should be made,
and I hope will be made, and with success, as
the settlement of our countrymen extends. At
present, nearly everybody lives in India with a
view to " home;" all supply themselves from
home, as far as is in their power, with everything
that they eat, drink, and wear; anything
"native" is looked down upon with contempt;
and the time is fast coming—unless a healthy
change takes place—when we may meet with
hundreds of persons who have been in India, but
when we may look for an "Indian" in vain!

TIPPING THE TEAPOT.

Two years ago, the Lord Chancellor deprived
us of the services of our friend the curate, by
giving him a living which would just secure him
bread. For this the Reverend Timothy Tritt,
who is a grateful little round man, will never
cease to bless his patron.

Tritt was always popular in Grumbleton: was
liked better, indeed, than the rector. This,
though, is commonly the case. Rectors are past
romance, and curates are not too far gone—so, at
least, say the ladies. Curates have nothing to
do with parochial grievances in vestry; it is no
business of theirs to compel recalcitrant
members of the flock to yield their yearly allowance
of fleece for the proper comfort of the rectorial
body. Lastly, rectors are generally married, and
curates are well disposed to follow the example.

So soon as it became confidentially known
throughout the parish that the Rev. T. Tritt
had got a living, all the ladies determined to
get up a testimonial for him. How impressive
was the presentation-day, graced by the beauties
and virtues of Grumbleton, reckoning from Miss
Virginia Stocke (such was her name then), bright
Mary Gould, and the Misses Mynn, to the
damsels last presented for confirmation, and
who looked so deeply interested in all that was
going to happen. Admiral Groggen was there,
with his jolly nose and ear-trumpet; as an
influential parishioner he had undertaken the duty
of spokesman. Rector Drowse was there with all
his belongings; the Grobey family, the Slobey
family, old Mrs. Tittlemy, and the curate in full
canonical apparel, were all there. It was an
influential gathering of grateful parishioners, including
every child in the parish above ten years old.
We met on a hot July day, and the room was
crammed to suffocation. There was a table in
front of the rector, and on the table there was
a shiny mahogany box. It shone nearly as
much as Mr. Tritt's smooth pate, which he
polished ever and anon with a white pocket-
handkerchief, unmindful that it had long reached
its maximum of radiance. He tried,
meanwhile, to look as if lie were not specially
interested in what was going on. Report has been
uncertain, wavering between the probability of
his transplanting to the new soil Virginia Stocke
or Jessie Mynn. He mustn't commit bigamy,
but both girls have been enthusiastic in the
matter of the Testimonial.

The schoolroom was garlanded with festoons
and appropriate mottoes. One or two old
devices had been retained: "Welcome the
coming, speed the parting friend," was thought
too prettily done to be excluded, and not
altogether inappropriate, although it certainly did