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 a religious teacher, moreover, as well as that of a poet—we had been almost afraid of receiving such a guest in our dry unceremonious English fashion. But nothing could exceed the simplicity and unpretentiousness of this visitor from an older world. He was content to take things as he found them, and did not expect one to discourse all day on philosophy or on the doctrines of the Upanishads. He could tell delightful stories, gay or sad; he had the humour that could take pleasure in the incongruities of men; and he could on rarer occasions be prevailed upon to sing his songs to the veritable wild and beautiful Indian melodies out of which they were born. At other times, if the English sun was only good enough to shine, it was pleasure enough for him to sit on the grass in a Hampstead garden and listen to the noises of the town carried over the roofs and tree-tops. His understanding of life, his acceptance of its cares, his delight in its common occurrences, were not those we had hitherto associated with the notion of an Indian ascetic. If there was that in his face and expression which told of a peace won by hard and long probation and a discipline like that of the Yogi who despised the flesh, it only remained now as a quality added to his sympathy.