amiable, one of the very few official Englishmen in India who are not ashamed to own the dusky children of the soil their brethren.
But to return to the Durbár. Well, the Resident sat, and with him the whole assembly. And then rose three noticeable personages from the floor on which they had been squatting. Two muddy-complexioned nymphs,[1] and the bear-leader, that is to say, the music-master. The former ethereal beings I dare not describe; the latter was a short, healthy Mahomedan, not much under four hundred pounds avoirdupois. I need not say he is a man of great weight. The dusky houris sang a few snatches in a clear vigorous monotone, accompanied by instrumental music on half-a-dozen porcelain cups and saucers by the healthy Mahomedan. The music was not intended for man; so I cannot be a judge of it with justice. It soon ended, to our relief, and was followed by the rubbing of attar[2] (which has a sweet sickly odour, and a most tenacious regard for your handkerchief) and distribution of pán supári.[3] Before the Durbár broke up, a tall, lank courtier stepped forward, and offered his
