peacock feathers, the fan, the yak tail, and the umbrella
(now furled). The confidential servant is still
whispering into the ear of his master from time to
time. This is durbar. No one speaks, unless
to exchange a languid compliment with the Chief.
Presently essence of roses and a compound of areca
nut and lime are circulated, then a huge silver pipe
is brought in, the Chief takes three long pulls, the
thakores on the carpet each take a pull, and the levee
breaks up amid profound salaams. After this—dinner,
opium, and sleep.
In the cool of the evening our King emerges from the
palace, and, riding on a prodigiously fat white horse
with pink points, proceeds to the place of carousal.
A long train of horsemen follow him, and footmen run
before with guns in red flannel covers and silver maces,
shouting “Raja Maharaja salaamat,” &c.
The horsemen immediately around him are mounted on
well-fed and richly-caparisoned steeds, with all the
bravery of cloth-of-gold, yak-tails, silver chains,
and strings of shells; behind are troopers in a burlesque
of English uniform; and altogether in the rear is
a mob of caitiffs on skeleton chargers, masquerading
in every degree of shabbiness and rags, down to nakedness
and a sword. The cavalcade passes through the
city. The inhabitants pour out of every door
and bend to the ground. Red cloths and white
veils flutter at the casements overhead. You would
hardly think that the spectacle was one daily enjoyed
by the city. There is all the hurrying and eagerness
of novelty and curiosity. Here and there a little
shy crowd of women gather at a door and salute the
Chief with a loud shrill verse of discordant song.
It is some national song of the Chiefs ancestors and
of the old heroic days. The place of carousal
is a bare spot near a large and ancient well out of
which grows a vast pipal tree. Hard by is a little
temple surmounted by a red flag on a drooping bamboo.
It is here that the Gangor[F] and Dassahra[F]
solemnities are celebrated. Arrived on the ground,
the Raja slowly circles his horse; then, jerking the
thorn-bit, causes him to advance plunging and rearing,
but dropping first on the near foot and then on the
off foot with admirable precision; and finally, making
the white monster, now in a lather of sweat, rise
up and walk a few steps on his hind legs, the Raja’s
performance concludes amid many shouts of wonder and
delight from the smooth-tongued courtiers. The
thakores and sardars now exhibit their skill in the
manege until the shades of night fall, when
torches are brought, amid much salaaming, and the
cavalcade defiles, through the city, back to the palace.
Lights are twinkling from the higher casements and
reflected on the lake below; the gola[G] slave-girls
are singing plaintive songs, drum and conch answer
from the open courtyards. The palace is awake.
The Raja, we will romantically presume, bounds lightly
from his horse and dances gaily to the harem to fling
himself voluptuously into the luxurious arms of one
of the five-and-twenty queens, or one of the five-and-twenty
grand duchesses; and they stand for one delirious
moment wreathed in each other’s embraces—
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