away. The ground at first favoured them, consisting of rice fields,
along the bunds of which they ran like cats on a wall. Then we came
to more open country and got well ahead, but at the last mile they
put on the most splendid spurt I ever saw, and won by a hundred
lengths.

It is also only justice to say that we do not give the Ghorawalla
fair play. We artificialise him, dress him according to our tastes,
conform him to our notions, cramp his ingenuity, and quench his
affections. The Ghorawalla in his native state is no more like our
domesticated Pandoo than the wild ass of Cutch is like the
costermonger's moke. We will have him like our own saddlery, plain
and businesslike, but he is by nature like his national horse gear,
ornamental, and if you let him alone, will effloresce in a red fez
cap, with tassel, and a waistcoat of green baize. In such a guise he
feels worthy to tend a piebald horse, caparisoned in crimson silk,
with a tight martingale of red and yellow cord. He can take an
interest in such a horse, and will himself educate it to walk on its
hind legs and paw the air with its forefeet, or to progress at a
royal amble, lifting both feet on one side at the same time, so that
its body moves as steadily as if on wheels, and, to use the
expressive language of a Brahmin friend of mine, the water in your
stomach is not shaken. He will feed it with balls of ghee and
jagree, that it may become rotund and sleek, he will shampoo its legs
after hard work, and address it as "my son." If it is disobedient,
he will chastise it by plunging his knee into his stomach, and if it
acquits itself well, he will plait its mane and dye the tip of its
tail magenta. This loving relationship between him and his beast
extends even to religion, and the horse enjoys the Hindoo festivals.
During the Dussera it does not work, but comes to the door, festooned