The king, Ackbar Shah the Second, an aged and venerable man, adorned with jewels and aigrettes in his turban, sat immovable in a silver howdah, looking straight before him, neither to the right nor left, up nor down (for it is considered beneath the dignity of the “Son of the Sun and Moon” to notice sublunary matters), whilst his youngest and favourite son Mirza Selim, a youthful and handsome man, sat behind him, slowly waving over his head a chowry, or fan, formed of the tail of the peacock. His majesty’s elephant was followed by many others, more or less superbly decorated, bearing his relations, and the various officers and dependants of the court. The assemblage of these vast animals, the litters, horsemen, and multitudinous array, combined with the Moresque buildings around, so admirably in keeping, altogether constituted to my mind a perfect scene of romance, which it took me two sides of foolscap properly to describe for the gratification of my friends at home. I pictured to myself, I remember, as I wrote that account, the delight it would cause when read by my mother to the fireside circle in the little green parlour, whilst old Thomas, our lame footman, lingered, with the kettle in his hand, to catch some of Master Frank’s account of the “Great Mowgul in the Heast Hingies.” Well, time wore on; some months had elapsed, during which nothing very particular had occurred, excepting that I received a letter from the charming widow, announcing that my kind friend, the old general, had at last gone to his long home. It was an admirable epistle, written with all that proper feeling which such an event would naturally call forth in the breast of an accomplished woman and affectionate daughter. It breathed a spirit of resignation, and contained many beautiful, though not very new, reflections touching the frail tenure of existence, and of that inevitable termination of it which is alike the lot of us all. The general, she said, had not forgotten me in his parting moments, but sent me his blessing, with a hope that I would not forget his advice, and would strive to emulate my uncle, who seemed, indeed, to have been his model of a cavalier. In conclusion, she stated that she was about to join some relations who were coming to the Upper Provinces, and hoped she might have an opportunity shortly of renewing my acquaintance, and of assuring me in person that she was “mine very truly.” Yes, mine very truly! I saw I was hooked for the widow, and began to put more faith than ever in the Chinese doctrine of invisible attraction. “Let me see,” said I; “the widow is two-and-twenty, I eighteen; when I’m two-and-twenty, she will be six-and-twenty. Oh, ’twill do admirably! what matters a little disparity?” So I whistled _Lillabulero_, after the manner of my uncle Toby, concluding _affettuoso_— And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart Shall entwine itself verdantly still.