I was cutcha in the ways of the civilized world, that is, green, unripe, and am so still, even in my old age, and doubt if I ever shall be ripe, for I am often taken in by the plausibility of men and also women. After some such experience a kind of mental gloom comes over me, and I feel like repeating Hamlet, after his grandest eulogy of man, “And yet to me what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me, no, nor woman neither.” Talking about tips, one day my American fellow voyager told me this: “A Yankee, standing on the stern of a steamer leaving Liverpool, held up a shilling and cried out, ‘If there’s a man, woman or child in this island I’ve not tipped, come forward now, as this is your last and only chance.’” CHAPTER XXXI. Returning, we soon thought of setting our faces toward the east, though first to the Continent, to see which, I had said I was leaving India, but had forgotten it for something else, and yet would have obtained forgiveness of that something for this slip of my pen had I asked it. I had seen Great Britain, England, the home of my Government, yet not my home, as some Eurasians style it, or as I have heard some Europe-clad natives speak of England, as if they had been born there. The fact is, I was so badly mixed up in my make-up that I hardly knew where my home really should be. I am in somewhat of the quandary of a man who was born of an English father, a Scotch mother, on an American ship, in African waters.