The superintending officer and interpreter seemed to have it all their own way, rebuking crude judgments and irrelevent questions, &c. (just as a judge bothers a stupid jury); laying down the law to the subadars and jemadars, who nodded like Chinese mandarins, in deep acquiescence to their superior wisdom, saying “_such bhat_ and _bhote khoob_.”[32] The native officer, before coming into the Court, has generally (_i.e._, in five cases out of six) made up his mind after a long _bhat cheet_ (chat, or discussion, as to the guilt or innocence of the party), touching both the act and its criminality; but is guided in his verdict or decision, nevertheless, pretty much by what the European officers may say to him: his own peculiar notions of justice and good evidence are, perhaps, clear enough; but, confused by European refinements, the sublimity of which his untutored mind cannot reach, he yields himself passively to be guided by the _dicta_ of the _Sahib Logue_. Upon the whole, when the Court was cleared, and Tom and I repaired to his bungalow, I felt that I had added something to my little stock of experience, in having witnessed this mode of administering _justice_ in a sepoy corps. The next thing of the kind I attended was an invaliding committee, a body assembled periodically for the purpose of examining those soldiers whose age or infirmities rendered them unfit for further active service, which I need not describe. The system of granting pensions to old and worn-out veterans is an admirable one; it binds the native soldier to us more strongly than anything else, and is one of the firmest foundations of our power in India. Frequently, at a more advanced period of my Indian career, have I had occasion to observe its admirable workings. I have listened to the old veteran, in his native village, with pleasure, surrounded by his children, and children’s children, as he has recounted his deeds, showed his medals and his scars, and spoken with, I believe, sincerely grateful feelings of the generosity of the “Kumpany Angraiz Bahadour.” CHAPTER XVIII. A day or two after this, my bearer gave me a little rose-coloured billet, which had been left for me, of which missives (though not always _couleur de rose_) there is a vast circulation in India—almost all communications from house to house, and family to family, being carried on in this way. The note was from Miss Lucinda; it was written in a delicate crow-quill hand, and sealed with a dainty device (“_qui me néglige, me perd_”), or something of that sort, and contained an invitation, in her mamma’s name, to a _soirée musicale_, on the following evening. “Here is an invitation (a provoke), Tom” said I, “from your friend, the stout gentlewoman; shall we go?”