During my visit to the city I was greatly interested in looking at “society” and upon the moving world. It was as good as a circus to see the maidan of an evening. The very High Highs of natives in their phaetons, followed by horsed spearmen, as if these swells were afraid of bandits capturing their sweet selves, then a load of bareheaded, barefaced babus, with a number of ragamuffins clinging on behind and shouting at the top of their voices, while the driver was trying to run down every one in front of him. In one of the grand phaetons was a swell rajah, with a servant sitting near him, carrying a spittoon to receive the royal spittle. He probably is one who is clamoring for representative government. What would he represent? I never see such a nest of natives but I think the government erred in not passing a law a century ago restricting every native to his ancestral bullock hackery. A native is by nature a squatter, and is as much out of his place in a phaeton as he is among European ladies in a drawing room. A babu said to me, “If you go to the houses of these fellows who appear in public in great style, you would find the most of them living in mud huts surrounded by filth and stinks, while everything they have is mortgaged to keep up their appearance when they go on parade.” He knew no doubt what he was saying. Then the traps of the Europeans, the extremes could be seen at a glance. A slender, six foot youth, wearing an enormously high collar and the highest kind of a narrow-rimmed hat, seated on a six foot cart, while alongside of him was a pompous porpoise of a man in a trap nearly touching the ground, drawn by a limping, half-starved pony. Then the people, scarcely one good looking, but ugly and so so, all kinds and conditions as various as the crowd that once assembled in Jerusalem, not omitting the painted bedizened females in grand style, flaunting their characters before everybody—evidently in “society”—the whole scene a vanity fair, fit for the pen of a Bunyan or a Thackeray.