Plantains, the golden and the green,
  Malaya’s nectar’d mangusteen;
  Prunes of Bokara, and sweet nuts
    From the far groves of Samarcand,
  And Basra dates, and apricots,
    Seed of the sun, from Iran’s land;—­
  With rich conserve of Visna cherries,
  Of orange flowers, and of those berries
  That, wild and fresh, the young gazelles
  Feed on in Erac’s rocky dells.. 
  Wines, too, of every clime and hue
  Around their liquid lustre threw;
  Amber Rosolli.. 
  And Shiraz wine, that richly ran.. 
  Melted within the goblets there!”

This reckless, but unsubstantial and very unwholesome meal, was not for us, and while waiting patiently for the first course to appear, I glanced down the long table to admire the decorations.  They were delightful, consisting of glass flower-vases spaced regularly along the festive board, and filled to overflowing with tufts and clumps of flowers.  Innumerable plates filled with fruit and sweetmeats graced the feast, and a magnificent array of knives and forks gave promise of good things to come.

Presently the expected dainties arrived, resembling but little the lately-described poetic feast; a strict attention to business enabled us to keep the wolf from the door, and a very cheerful party finally emerged from the big tent to stroll by the fountains that flashed under the chenars.

The Maharajah, of course, did not lunch with us, but held aloof, peeping occasionally into the cook-house to satisfy himself that the lions were being fed properly, and in accordance with their unclean customs.

Finally, he and his chief officers of state vanished into a secluded tent, where he probably took a little refreshment, having first carefully performed the ablutions necessary after the contamination of the unbeliever.

His Highness reappeared from nowhere in particular as his guests strolled across the terrace, and, after a little polite conversation, we took our leave and set forth for Srinagar.

It was a glorious afternoon, and we deeply regretted that time would not permit us to visit the neighbouring Shalimar Bagh, which lay hidden among the trees near by.  The excursion must remain a “hope deferred” for the present, as we had again to thread the maze of half-submerged melon plots and miniature kitchen gardens which, even in the golden glow of a perfect evening, could not be made to fit in with our preconceived ideas of “floating gardens.”  Jane was frankly disappointed, as she admitted to having pictured in her mind’s eye a series of peripatetic herbaceous borders in full flower, cruising about the lake at their own sweet will and tended by fair Kashmirian maidens.

By-the-bye, here let me expose, once for all, the fallacy of Moore’s drivel about the lovely maids of fair “Cashmere.” There are none! This appears a startling statement and a sweeping; but, as a matter of fact, the Eastern girl is not left, like her Western sister, to flirt and frivol into middle age in single “cussedness,” but almost invariably becomes a respectable married lady at ten or twelve, and drapes her lovely, but not over clean, head in the mantle of old sacking, which it is de rigueur for matrons to adopt.