HINDOO BARBER.
There I see two stately men walking arm in arm; they have fine cut, very regular features, and beautiful black hair and beard; their intelligent looks and easy carriage command attention; they wear japanned shoes, snow white trousers, long white linen coats buttoned close to the chin, and high black hats without brim. They are Parsees, descendants of the ancient Persians and fire-worshipers, and probably merchants and men of wealth. And there again I see a group of Asiatic Jews in skull caps and long gowns,—keen, thoughtful and intelligent, without the slightest change in manners, costumes, or features since the days of the Jews of nineteen hundred years ago.
In the crowded street I suddenly hear a shout, and see two men running with staffs in their hands, hallooing: “Stand aside, get out of the way, you fellows! The Prince of Travancore is coming! Clear the road, get out of the way!” Close on the heels of the runners is a magnificent carriage drawn by four Arabian steeds. By the side of the driver sits a trumpeter, who occasionally blows in a long horn to make known that the great personage is coming. Inside is the prince, and behind the carriage are four mounted soldiers, his body guard.
Just coming in sight around a street corner, turning up one of the native streets, is a long line of ox-carts. They are loaded with cotton, jute, hides, indigo, or other native products. They are very light, and are drawn by a pair of Hindoo oxen no larger than a two-year-old heifer of our cattle, but with fine limbs and a high hump over the shoulders. They are yoked far apart, about the same way as in Sweden; but the coolie driver sits close behind them and guides them by a twist of the tail with his hand. Several palanquin-bearers are passing the square. The palanquin is a long covered box attached to a long pole and carried by four men, two at each end of the pole, which rests on their shoulders. Inside the palanquin is perhaps a Hindoo merchant going to a bazaar, or a couple of students going to the university, or maybe the wife of some well-to-do native merchant on the way to the home of her parents.
INDIGO CART.
The trees in the park are all full of flowers, like the tulip tree and the chestnut in bloom. Innumerable birds of gay colors flutter among the branches of the trees, and on the roofs of the highest houses we discover a couple of the so-called adjutant birds, a species of stork, which stand like sentinels on guard watching the thousands of ravens that hover over the city ready to dive for any garbage that may be thrown out into the street or alley. Formerly, these were the only scavengers in the cities of India. A dozen coolies who are almost naked are seen running among the carriages sprinkling water on the streets from goat skins, to keep the dust down.
There comes a family procession of the lower class with a basket of bananas and wreaths of flowers going to the river Ganges to offer sacrifices and enjoy an evening bath in the open river. Early every morning thousands upon thousands may be seen in the streets bent on a similar errand. Men from Cashmere, Afghanistan, China, Arabia, Thibet, etc., are seen in the throng, dressed in their native costumes. It is a strange and beautiful picture to look at for a little while. I have described only a small portion of it, for fear of tiring the reader.
