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looking round the class, all burning to distinguish themselves in the august presence of the Governor of Bombay, “supposing a buggy driving along the street were to run over a man and fracture his ribs, what would

you do?"

“Run after the buggy-wallah (driver) and take him to prison,” promptly answered one of the men, policeman instinct overcoming humanitarian impulse.

CHAPTER XII.

BURYING AND GIVING IN MARRIAGE.

“ CHUTTOORBHOOJ MORARJEE presents his best compliments to - and requests the favour of their company to a Nautch Party in honour of the marriage of his son Chururodas at Javer Baug on the Kalbadevi Road, on Monday, the 17th December, 1883, from 9 to 12 p.m.'

In response to this invitation, boldly printed on a white card, with the imprint of the Am. E. Jamsheed Printing Press Co. (Limited) in scarcely less large type at the bottom, I found myself in the Kalbadevi Road about 10.30, when it might reasonably be supposed the fun was at the height of its fastness and fury. The giver of the party is one of the wealthiest and most popular natives in Bombay. The road in which the hall is situated is the centre of Hindoo life. Consequently there was much excitement in the neighbourhood, and the approaches to the hall were crowded much as is the doorway of a London church when a fashionable wedding is taking place. But it became clear on entering that all the life and excitement were outside. Within, ranged on benches leaving a broad gangway in the centre, were some sixty or seventy natives, chiefly dressed in cool, loose-fitting white robes. Most of them had a bunch of roses in hand, the unfortunate flowers being tightly tied as if the design were to make a ligature. They had suffered the further indignity on presentation to each guest of being sprinkled with powerful rose-water.

One of the elders of the family carried round a large dish of betel nuts, made up in lime leaves, the whole of which one was expected to put in his mouth forthwith, an expectation cheerfully fulfilled by the natives. At the lower end of the hall stood the Nautch dancer, gorgeously arrayed in costly cloak of crimson silk loaded with gold lace and embroidery. I suppose a hundred pounds could not have purchased this raiment, beside which the lilies of the field would timidly bend their heads. The lady could afford such extravagance, since the fee paid for her attendance was £120. This is unusually high, but the host was rich and she a prima donna among Nautch girls, having come down specially from Benares. One pace behind her stood the orchestra, composed of three men. One incessantly beat a tom-tom, a second played a kind of violin, and the third played with infinite skill a pair of small bells. The girl in a harsh unmelodious voice sang a monotonous recital of a love chase. The general idea of the romaunt was the disappearance of a lover and the guest by the faithful maiden. From time to time she got on his track, when a little liveliness was introduced into her motions and voice ; but for the most part she saw him not, and her dolor visibly affected the spirits of the patient audience, who chewed their betel nut reflectively and looked unutterably bored.

The chief victim was the bridegroom, a boy of thirteen, who sat near the head of one of the front rows, dressed in jacket of richly brocaded satin and ruby velvet trousers. In strings, around his neck and glistening all over his robe, were diamonds worth £40,000. But these carried no comfort to his seared soul, It was all very well for his father beaming on the guests that came and went, and seeing in the influential assemblage tokens of respect and regard for himself. It was not bad for the uncle flitting hither and thither with his dish of betel nuts, on hospitable cares intent. It woman wants a new gagras or cholis, she buys the necessary length of calico and takes it to the printer, selecting her own colours. These often seem bold regarded by themselves; but gracefully wrapped around the swarthy limbs and shoulders, and, mingling with the parti-coloured throng, they are enchanting. After a pretty extensive journey through the largest towns in North-West India, I do not remember to have seen among the lowest classes five women who were badly dressed, and these exceptions were probably Persians. The innate art taste of the natives of India is shown not less in their magnificent monuments at Benares than in the art of dressing themselves.

In the School of Art at Bombay an experiment has for some time been carried on with conspicuous success to revive the ancient art of Indian pottery. Mr. Terry, the director and moving spirit of the Institution, works upon a very simple plan. He takes boys out of the street, gives them a few elementary lessons in drawing and designing, and then, providing them with a wheel and a stock of clay, bids them create whatever their far or their genius if they have it, suggests to them. The result is seen in some original compositions of shape and colour, not in the

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