and it is worth a trip around the world to make his acquaintance. All through India one may find "Stripes" in captivity, often in beautiful physical condition, and almost always so trained, or treated, as to present an appearance of unrestrained ferocity. But our Udaipur tiger, when we came close against the bars, trotted forward, fawning like a hungry kitten that has been spoiled by petting. Our understanding Mercury rubbed the captive's neck and head, evoking such smiles as I had never seen before. The most wileful actress on a Parisian stage never exhibited more ingratiating smiles and other signs of affection than were lavished upon us by the Friendly Tiger.

There is another garden a little way out from the city that is occasionally shown to visitors. It is the personal possession of the Maharana, and is known as the "Rose Garden of the Dancinggirls." This is inclosed by high walls, and has in the center a fine pavilion with numerous chambers. The garden itself has all sorts of flowers, and a few restful

trees withal, as well as the essential fountains. But perhaps the very name will serve as a description, will suggest another of the countless poetical panegyrics on Persian or Indian gardens which echoed "to the chime of silver

THE MODERN CLOCK-TOWER

bangles and the beat of rose-leaf hands." They are all true. Everything is true in Udaipur.

The Maharana's palace being still unvisited, one morning we summoned Yakub, who led us straight to the Bari Pol, the stately gate built three centuries ago. When we entered, what we saw was not the palace, but elephants. The elephant remains a symbol of royal dignity throughout India, and the Maharana maintains a particularly fine herd. There is nothing so regally festal as an elephant decorated for a state occasion.

Visitors at the coronation Durbar of George V. at Delhi are to be envied mainly because of the elephants that figured in the event. The old-fashioned rulers cling to them desperately; and there is one hill-rajah who spends three

fifths of the income from his whole dominion on the upkeep of a single hathi. For which I, at least, vote him a real rajah. About us were all sorts of elephants: here a group of four, there of six, here a darling baby, and there the finest old tusker I have ever seen. A fighter this, for they still fight elephants in Mewar. The two males are placed on opposite sides of a low wall, and not a great deal of damage is done, but the picturesque effect is as of the ramming of battleships.

Only at this point had we time to be informed that under the carved arches of the gateway each Maharana on succeeding to the throne was weighed against gold and silver, which were distributed to his subjects as an accession gift. We permitted ourselves the sympathetic hope that all the Maharanas were fat and heavy.

Of the palace itself I must let the picture speak. And yet I must pray you to insert all sorts of picturesque human figures, to remember that marble seems to have had no price when the palace was built, that delicate workmanship must have grown on every fingerend, and that in any court you are likely to stumble on a refreshing garden.

The festival of the Muharram at Udaipur is always big with possibili

ties of trouble. One-fourth of the population is Mohammedan, the other threefourths are mainly Hindu, and the Mewar Hindu is distinctly of the vigorous type. The day is made a general holiday, and the scores of tall policemen have a busy time.

We were given seats on the roof of one of the lower structures connected with the temple of Jagannath, so the time of waiting was comfortably passed. In fact, it was all too short, for each moment offered its own entertainment, although one needed little besides the throng itself, filling the square and overflowing to the neighboring balconies and roofs. The color was beyond description. Among the thousands of high turbans, the observant lady told me there were scarcely two alike, and the bright sun made everything brighter.

Just beneath us was an athletic exhibition-dancing, tumbling, and what not. At one point an old Rajput warrior entered the circle, and calling three boys from the crowd, bade them lie down. When an apple had been placed on each little brown neck the swordsman, never interrupting the rhythmic dance, clove each apple with his flashing blade; and the unaffrighted youngsters ran back gleefully to their friends. Ever the crowd kept narrowing the circle, while the police kept pushing them back. Each moment you would have expected a riot if you had not learned somewhat of the vociferous moods of the East.

Just when a Western crowd might have been growing impatient we heard the beating of drums and clashing of swords mingled with the wild cries of the devotees. Soon the procession poured into the square. Surely if ever a festival was calculated to rouse men to fanatical madness, it was this. As every one knows, the Muharram commemorates the death of the grandsons of the prophet; and over all is heard the piercing cry of "Hasan! Husain!" The drums roar madly; wildeyed priests beat their breasts; another group brandishes gleaming swords. But

the tall policemen keep them from tarrying long in any one spot, and the tazzias move slowly past.

In front of the foremost bier we noticed a man rolling over and over along the rough road, while his friends fanned him in his evident distress. It was simply the fulfilment of a vow. The poor wretch had prayed that a man child be vouchsafed him, swearing to go the whole route of the procession with his hands and feet tightly bound if only his cry was heard. The baby had come, and he was paying the price. Ever the cry for the man child.

As the procession left the square we took another road to the lake to watch the sinking of the tazzias. This commemorates the agonizing thirst of the son of Ali in his final suffering, and it is a bad omen if any particular tazzia fails to sink. It is a weird sight on the darkening waters, making a most fitting conclusion to a commemoration that every year stirs the hearts of millions of the followers of the Prophet.

An Oriental city, like a fascinating woman, does not cast the same spell over two men. Never, I am sure, does she reveal her soul to any. After reading the dainty, glowing lines of Lafcadio. Hearn on some spot in Japan, or the effective paragraphs of Kipling narrating his visit to an Indian city, one is prone to believe that these men have caught the final secret, the inner self, of the places they describe. But on visiting Enoshima or Udaipur, one finds it necessary in all humility to see with his own eyes and learn with his own wits. And sometimes, it would seem, in sheer feminine caprice a city will be more gracious to a humble wooer. Unfortunately, however, the man who feels the fascination most deeply is often the one who is most incapable of conveying it to others. Other writers could better present the charms of Udaipur, but in none could she have stirred a deeper joy or inspired a more abiding homage.

VOL. CXXVI.-No. 753.-51

D

OWN one of the cool, bright alleys of the Tiergarten a woman came slowly nearer and nearer. Her long, gray dress hung loosely about her. She carried a pair of copper - colored gloves, and under her arm a small package done up in a heavy paper. What was she? She was not a working-girl and not quite a lady. There was something wonderfully sweet and generous about her, and a heavy power as of a fiber more magnificent than flesh.

She seated herself on one end of a bench which was full in the sun. Her head dropped upon her breast. Her eyes closed. Before one could have drawn a breath she was asleep, startlingly, as if she had literally fallen, as we say, or dropped. In a quarter of an hour she started up, and clasping her package more closely under her arm, stood staring across the vista of sparkling grass and great old trees. Then she sank back upon the bench, and again fell quickly asleep. So she spent the July morning, the clouds flying above her, the sun and shade straying over her, the nurse-maids and working-men passing her with silent glances trying occasionally to go on her way, but held by the single great Fact of Sleep. She had plainly been without sleep for several days and nights.

All morning a gentleman just beginning to be old remained on the other end of the bench from her. He was thin and student-like, and carried a volume of verse in his pocket, but his personality was too defined for that of a scholarat once creative, humorous, and deep. He glanced at her sometimes, sometimes he fell into reverie, and sometimes he took out a note-book and made some notes on the edge of a musical score. Once he was about to leave her, but he was better advised of this desertion. So they sat all morning-he reading and making his notes, she sleeping her unhoused sleep. It was nearly three o'clock when she awoke.

"You were very tired, Fräulein," he said, speaking in English, when he saw that she had returned out of her long oblivion. "You have not eaten since morning," he added. "Let us go to the Potsdammer-strasse, where there is warm food, and you will go with more heart on your way."

The girl complied without restraint toward this chance acquaintance, as if the drama in which she acted were too large to take account of the familiar and the unfamiliar. She sat impassive and remote as he gave an order, scarcely seeming to know that he was there. But when the life flowed back in her with the warm food and speech she leaned forward against the table and covered her face with one hand, trying to command herself. The old man bent over his stick, frowning, watching her.

"Why do you not speak, Fräulein?" he said, very gently, at last. "It lightens the heart."

She rose in a moment and tried to thank him, but there was that in his face, with its look of the artist and searcher of life so plainly worn, which made her hesitate.

"You have seen much in life, Signore," she said, brokenly. "Perhaps you will help me," and she stood with her eyes so full of pain fastened upon his.

Together they walked back to the old deer park, and in a quiet seat as the afternoon drew to a close she told him the story of what had brought her there in the height of the day sitting in the sun. She seemed to tell him these incidents of girlhood and young womanhood because of some common effort in which she had seen that they strove together as if through it all she were only saying, "Yes, comrade," to something which he had spoken.

"I was born with the love of beauty, Signore," she began. "It is this which has driven me. I have always hated what was ugly and wanted what was beautiful.