Swami was a man of moderate height, that is to say, moderate for the twenty-first century, when everybody nearly, attained a great stature. His shoulders did not measure the breadth of the Teuton’s, nevertheless, he knew no chest-weakness, for his daily athletic exercises from the age of six gave him a constitution that bore the changes of the English climate admirably. He had the beautifully soft, and peculiarly shaped eyes of his race, that looked dark, dreamy and unfathomable. His black silken hair hung in natural ringlets around his neck, which was smooth and of a deep cream colour: his complexion was the same, but was relieved by the dark silky moustache which partially concealed his well-cut lips. His nose was straight, coming in a line almost from the forehead, while his chin was prominent and broad, indicating resolution of character. The forehead was high and full; while the whole expression of his countenance gave the impression of his being a thinker, rather than a man of action. Although he was averse to much speech nevertheless, his natural fluency of language gave him such choice of words that he always expressed himself with great grace and dignity. Notwithstanding all his wisdom and deep learning there was such an indescribable air of simplicity and naturalness about him, that people were inspired more with feelings of trust and affection for him, rather than those of awe and wonder. If you endeavoured to guess his profession by his appearance you might have said he was a poet, philosopher, or scholar, but never a builder, architect, or civil engineer; for in truth, he was a dreamer only, and took no interest in practical pursuits. Nevertheless the nature of his occupation prevented him from spending his time in mere contemplation, where he could live in a world of his own creation; for his mind being daily taken up with the affairs of others, forced him into the outside world, although only in spirit. Seated in his ‘room of contemplation,’—as his Eastern servants named it,—where he was surrounded with his books and instruments of magic, and attired in a robe of rich yellow silk that floated down his figure in ample folds, with turban of the same hue, half concealing his dark silky hair, he looked indeed, a perfect picture of Eastern beauty. He was a bachelor, so that the disturbing influence to the exercise of genius of which our eighteenth-century artist[4] complained, did not interfere with his occupations. The halo that surrounds the unappropriated man had spread its lustre over him, making the pulse of many a maiden quicken beneath the soft glance of those beautiful Eastern eyes of his. Footnote 4: Sir Joshua Reynolds maintained that a wife and children spoilt an artist’s genius.