'God', said one, 'had no doubt put his name on these trees, but they had somehow or other got rubbed off.

He would in good time renew them, that men's eyes might be blessed with the sight of His holy name, even in the deepest forest, and on the most leafless tree.'[5] 'But', said Nathu, 'he might not have thought it worth while to write his name upon those trees which no travellers go to see.' 'Cannot you see', said I, 'that these letters have been engraved by man?
Are they not all to be found on the trunk within reach of a man's hand ?' 'Of course they are', replied he, 'because people would not be able conveniently to distinguish them if God were to write them higher up.' Shaikh Sadi has a very pretty couplet, 'Every leaf of the foliage of a green tree is, in the eye of a wise man, a library to teach him the wisdom of his Creator.'[6] I may remark that, where an Englishman would write his own name, a Hindoo would write that of his god, his parent, or his benefactor.

This difference is traceable, of course, to the difference in their governments and institutions.

If a Hindoo built a town, he called it after his local governor; if a local governor built it, he called it after the favourite son of the Emperor.

In well regulated Hindoo families, one cannot ask a younger brother after his children in presence of the elder brother who happens to be the head of the family; it would be disrespectful for him even to speak of his children as his own in such presence--the elder brother relieves his embarrassment by answering for him.
On the 27th[7] we reached Damoh,[8] where our friends, the Browns, were to leave us on their return to Jubbulpore.