mes up makes a low salaam,
deposits his _salamee_, his name is written down, and he retires. The
putwarries present two rupees each, shouting out their names, and the
names of their villages. Afterwards a small assessment is levied on
the villagers, of a 'pice' or two 'pice' each, about a halfpenny of
our money, and which recoups the putwarree for his outlay.

This has nothing to do with the legitimate revenue of the factory. It
never appears in the books. It is quite a voluntary offering, and I
have never seen it in any other district. In the meantime the
_Raj-bhats_, a wandering class of hereditary minstrels or bards, are
singing your praises and those of your ancestors in ear-splitting
strains. Some of them have really good voices, all possess the gift of
improvisation, and are quick to seize on the salient points of the
scene before them, and weave them into their song, sometimes in a very
ingenious and humorous manner. They are often employed by rich
natives, to while away a long night with one of their, treasured
rhythmical tales or songs. One or two are kept in the retinue of every
Rajah or noble, and they possess a mine of legendary information,
which would be invaluable to the collector of folk-lore and
antiquarian literature.

At some of the Pooneahs the evening's gaiety winds up with a _nautch_
or dance, by dancing girls or boys. I always thought this a most
sleep-inspiring exhibition. It has been so often described that I need
not trouble my readers with it. The women are gaily dressed in
brocades and gauzy textures, and glitter with spangles and tawdry
ornaments. The musical accompaniment of clanging zither, asthmatic
fiddle, timber-toned drum, clanging cymbal, and harsh metallic
triangle, is a sore affliction, and when the dusky prima donna throws
back her head, extends her chest, gets up to her high note, with her
hand behind her ear, and her poura-stained mouth and teeth wide
expanded like the jaws of a fangless wolf, and the demoniac
instruments and performers redouble their din, the noise is something
too dreadful to experience often. The native women sit mute and
hushed, seeming to like it. I have heard it said that the Germans eat
ants. Finlanders relish penny candles. The Nepaulese gourmandise on
putrid fish. I am fond of mouldy cheese, and organ-grinders are an
object of affection with some of our home community. I _know_ that the
general run of natives delight in a nautch. Tastes differ, but to