essor was
more or less enlightened, and had he lived a few years longer, would
have brought the iron horse through the Dobarri--the green gate which is
the entrance of the Girwa or girdle of hills around Udaipur; and, with
the train, would have come the tourist who would have scratched his name
upon the Temple of Garuda and laughed horse-laughs upon the lake. Let
us, therefore, be thankful that the capital of Mewar is hard to reach.

Each man in this land who has any claims to respectability walks armed,
carrying his tulwar sheathed in his hand, or hung by a short sling of
cotton passing over the shoulder, under his left armpit. His matchlock,
or smooth-bore, if he has one, is borne naked on the shoulder.

Now it is possible to carry any number of lethal weapons without being
actually dangerous. An unhandy revolver, for instance, may be worn for
years, and, at the end, accomplish nothing more noteworthy than the
murder of its owner. But the Rajput's weapons are not meant for display.
The Englishman caught a camel-driver who talked to him in Mewari, which
is a heathenish dialect, something like Multani to listen to; and the
man, very gracefully and courteously, handed him his sword and
matchlock, the latter a heavy stump-stock arrangement without pretence
of sights. The blade was as sharp as a razor, and the gun in perfect
working order. The coiled fuse on the stock was charred at the end, and
the curled ram's-horn powder-horn opened as readily as a much-handled
whisky-flask. Unfortunately, ignorance of Mewari prevented conversation;
so the camel-driver resumed his accoutrements and jogged forward on his
beast--a superb black one, with the short curled _hubshee_ hair--while
the Englishman went to the city, which is built on hills on the borders
of the lake. By the way, everything in Udaipur is built on a hill. There
is no level ground in the place, except the Durbar Gardens, of which
more hereafter. Because colour holds the eye more than form, the first
thing noticeable was neither temple nor fort, but an ever-recurring
picture, painted in the rudest form of native art, of a man on horseback
armed with a lance, charging an elephant-of-war. As a rule, the elephant
was depicted on one side the house-door and the rider on the other.
There was no representation of an army behind. The figures stood alone
upon the whitewash on house and wall and gate, again and again and
again. A highly intelligent priest grunted that it was a