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BARODA.
Leaving Broach, nothing loth to leave, we came to Baroda on the 10th March. The capital of the Guicowárs was to me the Mecca of my pilgrimage.
The Apostrophe.
Land of my birth! After twenty-four years of forced exile, I fly to thee. For a fourth of a century has my spirit yearned to see thee. For a full fortnight have I tried, on the spot, to conjure up thy past glories. But where are they, Baroda? Where are thy traditions, thy institutions? Where are the goody-goody stories which soothed me to slumber and thrilled me into infantile action? Above all, where are thy great institutions, such as the Sáthmári in
