If you go to the house of an Indian gentleman now, he does not say, "Bring more curricles," like the famous Nabob of Stanstead Park.
He goes to Leadenhall Street in an omnibus, and walks back from the City for exercise.

I have known some who have had maid-servants to wait on them at dinner.

I have met scores who look as florid and rosy as any British squire who has never left his paternal beef and acres.

They do not wear nankeen jackets in summer.

Their livers are not out of order any more; and as for hookahs, I dare swear there are not two now kept alight within the bills of mortality; and that retired Indians would as soon think of smoking them, as their wives would of burning themselves on their husbands' bodies at the cemetery, Kensal Green, near to the Tyburnian quarter of the city which the Indian world at present inhabits.