The generals presented a brilliant sample of oriental style: a long and lofty room in a blaze of lustre, from a row of wall lights; a table, covered with a profusion of plate and glass, occupied nearly the whole length of the apartment; the huge _punkahs_, suspended from the ceiling, with their long fringes, waved to and fro, gently agitating the air in the room, which would otherwise have been hardly endurable from the crowd it contained. There was much lively conversation, taking wine, and clashing of knives and plates; altogether far less quiet, I thought, than at a dinner in England. The peculiar feature, however, of the scene, and that which marked most strongly its eastern character, was the multitude of servants in attendance on the guests; behind each chair, on an average, stood two _khidmut-gars_, or footmen, with black beards and mustachios, and attired in the various gay liveries of their masters, adapted to the turban and Indian costume; most of them were the domestics of great people, and exhibited in their looks a good deal of that pampered, self-satisfied importance, so often observable in our metropolitan servants here at home—the vulgar reflection of their masters’ consequence. Many stood, their arms folded, with Roman dignity, gazing consequentially about them, and mentally making their observations on their fellow-servants and the guests. Dinner over and the ladies withdrawn, the gentlemen closed up, and the conversation became more general. The Calcutta dinner parties are not usually scenes of uproarious conviviality; yet, as this was the anniversary of some great event in the history of the general, he seemed determined on its being celebrated with something approaching to a “jollification.” “Fill your glasses, gintlemen,” said he, as we closed up after the usual loyal toasts, “and I’ll give ye a sentiment that I remember was a favourite of my father’s.” There was a profound silence—the little veteran arose, and valorously grasping his glass, and stretching out his arm, delivered the following, with a rich brogue and a most determined emphasis:— “May hemp bind the man that honour can’t, and the devil ride rough-shod over the rascally part of the community.” The sentiment was drunk with much glee, and many a hearty response, followed by songs and speeches. It was late when, taking leave of the general’s family, I returned to my room in the barracks. CHAPTER XIII.