We breakfasted very late, and the tenants of Griff Hall dropped in one by one _en déshabille_, evincing painful symptoms of the previous night’s debauch—red eyes, trembling hand, and glued lips. One took a dose of seidlitz, another five grains of calomel, and as for appetite, there was none. These are a few of the early effects of intemperance; its ultimate consequences are not so briefly described. I remained but one day more at Dinapore, which was partly devoted to reporting my arrival, _en route_ to join—a measure enjoined on all military voyagers, but not always attended to. I also saw the troops, European and native, at brigade exercise, &c.; and in the evening witnessed a tattoo race—officers riding their own ponies. This was a very comical affair. It was a little before sunset when Grundy, the Lieutenant Fireworker (who had entered his pony), and I, walked down to the course, which is situated a little behind the cantonment, being separated from it by a dry nullah,[45] over which there are one or two bridges. We found a great number of the inhabitants of the cantonment—some in gigs, some on horseback, and others on foot—assembled to witness the sport. There was a good show of ponies, some of them certainly “rum’uns” to look at, but, as was fully proved in the sequel, “devils to go.” Long tails and swish tails, stumps, crops, and wall-eyes were there in perfection. The young officers who were to ride them, amongst whom I recognized more than one of the inmates of Griff Hall, marched about in their top boots and velvet hunting-caps, cracking their whips with countenances expressive of the full sense they entertained of the awful contest in which they were about to be engaged. Some, too, tightened their ponies’ girths; others passed their hands down their fore-legs, as if to rub out the knots and clean the back sinews; some put their arms lovingly round their animals’ necks, or gratified their love of tormenting by pinching the flanks of their steeds, and enjoying their abortive attempts to bite. Amongst this throng was a very remarkable character, well known at Dinapore, the clerk of the course, or whatever other name properly appertains to the master of the ceremonies on such occasions. He was a little, old, sun-dried, invalid sergeant, of a meagre form, but most determined spirit. I was greatly amused by the consequential air of the diminutive old fellow, as he stumped about in a rusty hunting-cap, cracking a tremendous whip, and clearing the environs of dogs, boys, and all other interlopers.