manufacture of some of the old art objects. "I can find you shop to make you copy of anything you see here," repeated the bogus Nawab several times plaintively. To end the farce, which had then been played long enough, we confided loudly to each other in prearranged dialogue that we had not an anna left for shopping in Jeypore—only our railway tickets and rupees enough to get to Bombay. The Nawab melted away without adieu and was seen no more.
This art museum, housed in a beautiful palace in a park, is filled with the choicest examples of old pottery, brass, enamel, gold- and silver-work, carving, weaving, embroidery, jewelry, and everything else on which Indian fancy and genius lavished decoration in the past. At the art school in the city replicas of many of the museum objects were for sale, and others could be commanded. The class of young brass-beaters sat in the cellar-like entrance of the school, beating out Saracenic traceries as borders of large brass trays sunk in beds of pitch; and a dyer and his wife next door walked up and down, stretching between them to dry the rainbow-striped cotton head-sheets which are a specialty of Jeypore. Everywhere in this "rose-red city, half as old as time," the street groups were so theatrically picturesque that we forgot everything in watching them. The city is new, architecturally, and its two long, straight streets, crossing at right angles by the palace walls, cause all picturesqueness to converge there. The crowds were so brilliant and fantastic that one remembers Jeypore as some pageant in grand opera, the bazaars more spectacular than even those of La-
