rests sit thakores of the Royal house, other thakores sit below, right
and left, forming two parallel lines, dwindling into sardars, palace
officers, and others of lower rank as they recede from the _gaddi_.
Behind the Chief stand the servants with the emblems of royalty--the
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 levée 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