One king at a time is commonly thought to be as much as any kingdom has need of. Indeed, there seems to be a growing tendency among the nations of the earth to think that even one is one too many, and the popular prejudice is setting very strongly in favor of none at all. Nevertheless, there are in Siam (or rather, until very recently, there were) two kings reigning together, each with the full rank and title of king, and with no rivalry between them. It is probable that, originally, a monarchy was the normal condition of the government, and that the duarchy is of comparatively modern origin. But it is certain that when I was in the Land of the White Elephant there was a kind of Siamese-twin arrangement in the kingdom. The two kings were brothers, and though, as has been said, their rank and title were equal, the real power and work of government rested on the shoulders of the elder of the two, the other keeping discreetly and contentedly in the background. Both were men of noteworthy ability, and deserve to be known and honored for their personal attainments in civilization, and for what they have done to lift their kingdom out of degradation and barbarism, and to welcome and promote intercourse between it and the Western nations. When we remember the obstinacy of Oriental prejudice against innovation, and the persistency with which the people wrap themselves in their conceit as in a garment, we shall the better appreciate the state of things at the court of the White Elephant, which I am about to describe.
The second king was a man of social disposition, and fond of the company of strangers. It was, doubtless, owing to this fact that when he heard that there was an American man-of-war at the mouth of the river, and that an officer had been sent up to Bangkok to report her arrival, he sent a messenger and a boat with the request that I would come and see him. It did not take long for the score of oarsmen, with the short, quick motion of their paddles, and the grunting energy with which they plied them, to bring the boat up to the palace gates. For, of course, the palace has a water-front, and one may pass at one step from among the thronging boats of the river into the quiet seclusion of the king's inclosure. Passing through a lofty gateway at the water's edge, we came to a large and stately temple, about which were priests in orange-colored drapery trying to screen their shining skulls from the fierce heat of the morning sun by means of fans. I used to feel sorry for the priests. Ecclesiastical law and usage compel them to shave every sign of hair from their heads. Not even a tail is left to them, but they are as bald as beetles. And when (as in Siam) the sun's rays beat with almost perpendicular directness, it is no trifling thing to be deprived of even the natural protection with which the skull is provided. Whatever can be done with fans toward shielding themselves they do; and, also, they can, by the same means, shut off their eyes from beholding vanity, so that a fan is a most important part of the sacerdotal outfit. Leaving the priests to group themselves in idle picturesqueness near the royal temple, we pass on by storehouses and treasuries and stables of the royal elephants, between sentries standing guard with European arms and in a semi-European uniform, to the armory, where I was to wait until the king was ready.