l puts on all the gold lace he is
allowed to wear, and gallops to the Assistant-Adjutant-General--where
he has tiffin. The Major-General-Commanding writes notes to all his
friends, and keeps orderlies flying at random in every direction.

The Commander-in-Chief--who had a disturbed night in the train--sleeps
peacefully throughout the day, and leaves under another salute in the
afternoon. He shakes hands with everyone he can see at the station,
and jumps into a long saloon carriage, followed by his staff.

"A deuced active old fellow!" everyone says; and they go home and dine
solemnly with one another under circumstances of extraordinary
importance.

The effect of the Commander-in-Chief is very remarkable on the poor
Indian, whose untutored mind sees a Lord in everything. He calls the
Commander-in-Chief "the Jungy Lord," or War-Lord, in contradistinction
to the "Mulky-Lord," or Country-Lord, the appellation of the Viceroy.
To the poor Indian this War-Lord is an object of profound interest and
speculation. He has many aspects that resemble the other and more
intelligible Lord. An aide-de-camp rides behind him; hats, or hands,
rise electrically as he passes; yet it is felt in secret that he is
not pregnant with such thunder-clouds of rupees, and that he cannot
make or mar a Raja. To the Raja it is an ever-recurring question
whether it is necessary or expedient to salaam to the Jungy Lord and
call upon him. He is hedged about with servants who will require to be
richly propitiated before any dusky countryman [of theirs, great or
small,] gets access to this Lord of theirs. Is it, then, worth while
to pass through this fire to the possible Moloch who sits beyond? Will
this process of parting with coin--this Valley of the Shadow of
Death--lead them to any palpable advantage? Perhaps the War-Lord with
his red right hand can add guns to their salute; perhaps he will speak
a recommendatory word to his caste-fellow, the Country-Lord? These are
precious possibilities.

A Raja whom I am now prospecting for the Foreign Office asked me the
other day where Commanders-in-Chief were ripened, seeing that they
were always so mellow and blooming. I mentioned a few nursery gardens
I knew of in and about Whitehall and Pall Mall. H.H. at once said that
he would like to plant his son there, if I would water him with
introductions. This is young 'Arry Bobbery, already favourably known
on the Indian Turf as an enterprising and successful defa