be all finally acquitted and released by the judges—­the magistrate would get into disrepute with his superiors, by the number of acquittals compared with convictions exhibited in his monthly tables; and he would vent his spleen upon the poor Thanadar, who would at the same time have incurred the resentment of the robbers; and between both, he would have no possible chance of escape.  He therefore consults his own interest and his own case by leaving them to carry on their trade of robbery or murder unmolested; and his master, the magistrate, is well pleased not to be pestered with charges against men whom he has no chance of getting ultimately convicted.  It was in this way that so many hundred families of assassins by profession were able for so many generations to reside in the most cultivated and populous parts of our territories, and extend their depredations into the remotest parts of India, before our System of operations was brought to bear upon them in 1830.  Their profession was perfectly well known to the people of the districts in which they resided, and to the greater part of the police; they murdered not within their own district, and the police of that district cared nothing about what they might do beyond it.[22]

The most respectable native gentleman in the city and district told me one day an amusing instance of the proceedings of a native officer of that district, which occurred about five years ago.  ’In a village which he had purchased and let in farms, a shopkeeper was one day superintending the cutting of some sugar-cane which he had purchased from a cultivator as it stood.  His name was Girdhari, I think, and the boy who was cutting it for him was the son of a poor man called Madari.  Girdhari wanted to have the cane cut down as near as he could to the ground, while the boy, to save himself the trouble of stooping, would persist in cutting it a good deal too high up.  After admonishing him several times, the shopkeeper gave him a smart clout on the head.  The boy, to prevent a repetition, called out, “Murder!  Girdhari has killed me—­Girdhari has killed me!” His old father, who was at work carrying away the cane at a little distance out of sight, ran off to the village watchman, and, in his anger, told him that Girdhari had murdered his son.  The watchman went as fast as he could to the Thanadar, or head police officer of the division, who resided some miles distant.  The Thanadar ordered off his subordinate officer, the Jemadar, with half a dozen policemen, to arrange everything for an inquest on the body, by the time he should reach the place, with all due pomp.  The Jemadar went to the house of the murderer, and dismounting, ordered all the shopkeepers of the village, who were many and respectable, to be forthwith seized, and bound hand and feet.  “So”, said the Jemadar, “you have all been aiding and abetting your friend in the murder of poor Madari’s only son.”  “May it please your excellency, we have never heard of any murder.”  “Impudent