We met the King of Oude a few days since at a party, and were honored by an invitation to dine with his Majesty at his house in the Regent’s park. Yesterday was the appointed day; and with the pleasant anticipation of an oriental feast we drove up at seven, and were received by his turbaned _ayahs_, who took shawl and hat with a reverential salaam, and introduced us to the large drawing-room overlooking the park. The King was not yet down; but in the corner sat three parsees or fire worshippers, guests like ourselves, who in their long white linen robes, bronze faces, and high caps, looked like anything but “diners-out” in London. To our surprise they addressed us in excellent English, and we were told afterward that they were all learned men—facts not put down to the credit of the Ghebirs in Lalla Rookh.
We were called out upon the balcony to look at a balloon that was hovering over the park, and on stepping back into the drawing-room, we found the company all assembled, and our royal host alone wanting. There were sixteen English ladies present, and five white gentlemen beside myself. The Orient, however, was well represented. In a corner, leaning silently against a table, stood Prince Hussein Mirza, the King’s cousin, and a more romantic and captivating specimen of Hindoo beauty could scarcely be imagined. He was slender, tall, and of the clearest olive complexion, his night-black hair falling over his shoulders in profusion, and his large antelope eyes fixed with calm and lustrous surprise upon the half denuded forms sitting in a circle before him. We heard afterward that he has conceived a most uncontrollable and unhappy passion for a high-born English girl whom he met in society, and that it is with difficulty that he is persuaded to come out of his room. His dress was of shawls most gracefully draped about him, and a cap of gold cloth was thrown carelessly on the side of his head. Altogether he was like a picture of the imagination.
A middle-aged stout man, ashy black, with Grecian features, and a most determined and dignified expression of mouth, sat between Lady —— and Miss Porter, and this was the _Wakeel_ or ambassador of the prince of Sutara, by name Afzul Ali. He is in England on business for his master, and if he does not succeed it will be no fault of his under lip. His secretary, Keeram Ali, stood behind him—the Wakeel dressed in shawls of bright scarlet, with a white cashmere turban, and the scribe in darker stuffs of the same fashion. Then there was the King’s physician, a short, wiry, merry looking, quick-eyed Hindoo, with a sort of quizzical angle in the pose of his turban: the high-priest, also a most merry-looking Oriental, and Ali Acbar, a Persian _attaché_. I think these were all the Asiatics.