148 THE TRIBES ON MY FRONTIER. 



visits, but where there is one all the country knows it. And, 



indeed, what would the country do without it ? Where would 



the dusty wayfarer stop to eat his midday chuppattee and 



drink a draught of cold water, or where would the collector 



pitch his tent ? Into the dark penetralia of that pleasant 



resthouse the sun has no" for ages forced his way, and 



a perennial coolness broods there. No one can tell you now 



who built the small chapel and planted the tope, nor what 



wickedness it was that he thought thus to expiate ; but his 



was a misguided penitence, I fear, for he has taught future 



generations to be grateful that he sinned. However, I would 



judge him in no illiberal spirit. Whatever his motives may 



have been, estimate him by his deeds, and he ranks, I say, 



with those other two great men who have been through the 



mango-tree lasting benefactors of their race. I mean that 



Fires and that Alphonso, whose names seem to have come 



down to us in the luscious t>eirie and the delicate afoos. I 



yield to none in reverence for these names. I would not 



lend a book to the man who refuses a Bombay mango. At 



the same time I think it is a question whether the stunted 



timberless tree which produces the luxury of Bombay has 



gained or lost in its descent from the veteran of the tope, 



with its trunk, ten feet in girth, towering towards heaven 



