temper; Sir Thomas Munro, simple and earnest; Ochterlony—now alas! the shadow of his greater self;—these names are household words even to-day and fill the official literature of the time. Four out of the five were Scotchmen, and three were soldiers. But different social strains were found happily blended in the public service. Metcalfe was a brilliant Eton boy: Elphinstone an aristocrat to the finger tips: Malcolm was a farmer's son: in Munro the plain commercial element was represented. There were strong distinctions of moral and religious tone. We find the gentle spirit of Bishop Heber distressed by tales which he for his part, having known the man, did not believe—that Elphinstone was an 'atheist,' while Munro's letters are full of unpretentious piety. Nor can the student of the times fail to see the contrast between the austere principles of Metcalfe and the somewhat Oriental laxity of Ochterlony. But all had one instinct in common: a commanding sense of public duty.
There was, in truth, giant's work to be done. The Pindárís had been crushed and scattered: the predatory powers brought under the firm bonds of British supremacy. The degenerate descendant of the Great Mughal had to confine his despotic rule to the precincts of the palace or, at most, the boundaries of his private domains. But the submission, though for the moment complete, was sullen, and the only pledge for the continuance of internal peace was the vigilance and sagacity of our officers and the efficiency
