Summary

W. S. R. Hodson Twelve Years of a Soldier's Life in India

The creeds of the party are as varied as their colors; and that's saying a good deal, when you contrast my white face and yellow hair with Sir Henry's nut-brown, the pale white parchmenty-color of the Kashmeree, the honest brunette tinge of the tall Sikh, the clear olive-brown of the Rajpoot, down through all shades of dinginess to the deep black of the low-caste Hindoo. I am one of the whitest men in India, I fancy, as, instead of burning in the sun, I get blanched like endive or celery.
Source: Gutenberg

W. S. R. Hodson Twelve Years of a Soldier's Life in India

I have seen a great deal of the native Sirdars or chiefs, especially Tej Singh who commanded the Sikh forces in the war, and of the Maharaja. The former a small, spare little man, marked with the smallpox, and with a thin and scanty beard, but sharp and intelligent, and by his own account a hero. The Maharaja is a fine, tall, portly man, with a splendid expressive face, and most gentlemanly, pleasing manner, and fine-toned voice,—altogether the most pleasing Asiatic I have seen,—to all appearance the gentlest of the gentle, and the most sincere and truthful character in the world
Source: Gutenberg

W. S. R. Hodson Twelve Years of a Soldier's Life in India

In the above compendious epitome of the work of that much-abused and ill-used class called "politicals" in India, you will, I trust, observe no vacant places or "hiati" in which you would expect to see inscribed, "item, to write to one's friends." No; one is a white slave, and no mistake; day and night, early or late, week-day or Sunday, one is the slave of the public, or rather of the Government, to a degree which cannot be credited until it is experienced.
Source: Gutenberg

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