“When I went down into the public room, the Frenchman had his bottle of wine and plate of food on a bare table black with grease, and was “chomping” like a horse.  He had the little religious paper which is in everybody’s hands on the Rhone borders, and was enlightening himself with the histories of French saints who used to flee to the desert in the Middle Ages to escape the contamination of woman.  For two hundred years France has been sending missionaries to other savage lands.  To spare to the needy from poverty like hers is fine and true generosity.”

But to get back to India—­where, as my favorite poem says—­

              “Every prospect pleases,
               And only man is vile.”

It is because Bavaria and Austria and France have not introduced their civilization to him yet.  But Bavaria and Austria and France are on their way.  They are coming.  They will rescue him; they will refine the vileness out of him.

Some time during the forenoon, approaching the mountains, we changed from the regular train to one composed of little canvas-sheltered cars that skimmed along within a foot of the ground and seemed to be going fifty miles an hour when they were really making about twenty.  Each car had seating capacity for half-a-dozen persons; and when the curtains were up one was substantially out of doors, and could see everywhere, and get all the breeze, and be luxuriously comfortable.  It was not a pleasure excursion in name only, but in fact.

After a while the stopped at a little wooden coop of a station just within the curtain of the sombre jungle, a place with a deep and dense forest of great trees and scrub and vines all about it.  The royal Bengal tiger is in great force there, and is very bold and unconventional.  From this lonely little station a message once went to the railway manager in Calcutta:  “Tiger eating station-master on front porch; telegraph instructions.”

It was there that I had my first tiger hunt.  I killed thirteen.  We were presently away again, and the train began to climb the mountains.  In one place seven wild elephants crossed the track, but two of them got away before I could overtake them.  The railway journey up the mountain is forty miles, and it takes eight hours to make it.  It is so wild and interesting and exciting and enchanting that it ought to take a week.  As for the vegetation, it is a museum.  The jungle seemed to contain samples of every rare and curious tree and bush that we had ever seen or heard of.  It is from that museum, I think, that the globe must have been supplied with the trees and vines and shrubs that it holds precious.

The road is infinitely and charmingly crooked.  It goes winding in and out under lofty cliffs that are smothered in vines and foliage, and around the edges of bottomless chasms; and all the way one glides by files of picturesque natives, some carrying burdens up, others going down from their work in the tea-gardens; and once there was a gaudy wedding procession, all bright tinsel and color, and a bride, comely and girlish, who peeped out from the curtains of her palanquin, exposing her face with that pure delight which the young and happy take in sin for sin’s own sake.