The best of things must come to an end, and so did the Cooch Behar
shoot. It is an experience that I would not have missed for anything,
especially as I am now too old to hope to be able to repeat it.

The Maharajah was good enough to invite me again the next year, 1892,
but by that time I was seated in an editorial chair, and could not
leave London. In the place of the brilliant sunshine of Assam, the
grimy, murky London atmosphere; instead of the distant roars from the
jungle, the low thunder of the big "machines" in the basement, as they
began to revolve, grinding out fresh reading-matter for the insatiable
British public.

The memories, however, remain. Blazing sunlight; splendid sport;
endless tracts of khaki-coloured jungle; princely hospitality;
pleasant fellowship; cheery company.

What more can any one ask?




CHAPTER II

Mighty Kinchinjanga--The inconceivable splendours of a Himalayan
sunrise--The last Indian telegraph-office--The irrepressible British
Tommy--An improvised garden--An improvised Durbar Hall--A splendid
ceremony--A native dinner--The disguised Europeans--Our shocking
table-manners--Incidents--Two impersonations; one successful, the
other reverse--I come off badly--Indian jugglers--The rope-trick--The