Our trip to Benares was much more rapid on returning. We floated down the Ganges by moonlight; it was a grewsome scene. We were gathered together on the deck of our steamer, while our guide, at our feet, was beguiling the weary hours by his weird tales. Visions of crocodiles, awaiting their prey, float before our eyes; lights from the shore grew indistinct, and our little group most abject; but the landing place at length was in sight, and we had kept our carriage awaiting our return. We were driven through dark, narrow streets to the garden of a temple, where lived the holy man of Benares. We remained in our vehicle until our guide ascertained whether we could have an interview. It was 9:00 p. m., but being American tourists, we were admitted. He was a man apparently sanctified by his mode of living, not unlike that of Buddha. He was emaciated, and as we approached him, he arose from his cot not entirely nude, but a simple loin cloth was his only clothing. A canopy was above his bed, and that was his home, day and night. He is a profound Hindoo scholar, and without doubt will be canonized after death. His manner toward us was most cordial and especially towards the one of our group who hailed from Chicago. He spoke through an interpreter, saying that the governor of Chicago had called on him before the World's Fair, urging the holy man to visit him at the time of the exhibition, but he could not think of ever leaving India. He then sent for his book of registration and showed us the name registered as Carter H. Harrison. We were asked to write our names, which we did, and were then offered by an attendant fruits and given a book containing his own life to date. He was born in 1833, married at twelve years of age, and was a father at eighteen. Like Buddha, he withdrew from all natural ties and set himself apart for a religious life. When asked if he did not feel the cold night air to be injurious, his reply was in his graceful gesture pointing heavenward, and in his signal language made us understand that under a watchful eye no harm could befall him.
The country from Benares to Lucknow is but little different from what we have already passed, though the distance is 190 miles. Population, 250,000. Manufacturers of carpets, rugs, gold lace and embroideries are found here, and seemingly the natives are interested in their employment, but are poor and oppressed. The remains of mausoleums and palaces attest former grandeur before its ownership was absolutely in the hands of its conquerors. Hotel accommodations are poor. We drove to the park to "Leeundea Bagh," where during the mutiny of 1857 two thousand mutineers were killed within two hours—Sir Colin Campbell under command. The residency was built in 1800 by Sahondah Ally Kahn. During the mutiny it contained only 927 Europeans, who were besieged by the rebels. Shot and shell marks are to be seen in the walls. The Fort Mueks' Bhawan, built during the famine as relief work at great cost, is of much interest; also a museum filled with objects of curiosity. Lucknow, famous in song, ran through my mind as we looked in vain for a Lalla Rookh, the imaginary character of the poet Moore.
Cawnpoor, thirty miles further on, with 130,000 inhabitants, presents large industries of leather work, rice mills and jute manufactories. The drive to the beautiful park, which now crosses the battlefield, is most interesting. The stately monument of pure white marble, surmounted by a female figure, with widespread wings, and in each hand a palm of most exquisite workmanship, combined with gracefulness. An English officer stands near by ready to give you a brief but graphic account of the mutiny. The monument stands on the spot over the great well, into which were thrown alive 700 men, women and children, who were hurled into it in one day by the order of Nana Sahib. A beautiful memorial church not far away has been erected in memory of the loved and lost. We enter during vesper hours; such perfect peace and quiet reigns in and around this sacred spot, where many English men and women were gathered at the service. It seemed so isolated to me so far from home. The drives in the vicinity are fascinating, yet the rice fields were beginning to grow scarce and less grass was seen. We journey on. Wheat fields appear more frequently; apparently no demarcation between land of different owners. Trees are scarce, but the excrement of cattle is sun baked and used for fuel. The homes of the people are mud-walled pens, huddled together, surrounded by walls of the same material. This grouping of homes, such as they were, attracted our attention all along our journey. This is evidently for protection. No isolated farm houses, with the comforts of life, were in evidence.
The pay of the laborers who construct the railroad is three annas a day (2¼ cents); an English-speaking servant will get 34 cents a day (one rupee and four annas) for food. We do not realize how thickly settled the country is in traveling on the railroad, but by and by we see the mud-walled village again with its hundreds of inhabitants, who rush out on the approach of the train, the women and children crying piteously for backsheesh. The wealth and strength of the past ages is now seen in their morgues, mausoleums and palaces, many of them wrecks of their former beauty, but patience and long years of toil are evident in their crumbling walls.
The Punjab country lies between the five great branches of the Indus River. The men here are magnificent specimens of physical development. The Sikh soldiers are the handsomest known. We see them acting as policemen at Hongkong, and we stop to admire their erect carriage and military tread. There is one defect, however, in the anatomy of the men of India; they have no calves to their legs. The Sikh is less servile than any other tribe, hard fighters, but attain to more or less civility in their contact with Europeans.
Our next stopping place to Benares was Aigra, so full of interest; namely, the Fort; the Pearl Mosque, the imperial palace, built by Abkur, the grandfather of Shah Jehan; the palace of wonders; its walls inlaid with agates, topaz, tagula and other more precious stones. The rooms set apart for the harem women are exquisitely beautiful. The oriental imagination must have lost itself in the construction and adornment of this palace. The apartments built for his favorite wife, with a boudoir and marble baths—the water furnished for the latter was delicately perfumed—and walls, mirrored with small pieces of glass, looked like the firmament in its brightness, but it remained for Shah Jehan to astonish the world with the mausoleum built for his (not the most correct) wife. The Tag Mahal, the tomb of his sultana, Montag Mahal, is the most beautiful creation in marble in existence. We are told she was beautiful; her devotion to Shah Jehan was proverbial, and his for her idolatrous. Her dying request was that her husband should never take for himself another wife, and in her memory should build a tomb that could have no rival, and one that all the world would admire. "Tag" is a pet name of endearment; "Mahal" means great or beautiful; "Montag Mahal," the chosen of the palace. In the words of another I will describe the Tag Mahal, as I know no more fitting words to use. "Passing through a majestic Saracenic arch, eighty feet in height, supported by two abutments of sand stone, on the panels of which are carved passages from the Koran, is a long vista of cypress trees, shading a marble paved canal, on either side of which are beds of flowers and crystal fountains. At the end of this magic avenue stands the "Tag" on a terrace; at either corner of this square is an edifice of sandstone, with a dome of the same material. The "Tag" is built of polished white marble, its oriental dome shaped like a globe, tapering up into a spire surmounted by a golden crescent. The platform upon which the "Tag" is placed is a square of 313 feet each side and eighteen feet in height. From each of the corners rise four lesser domes of the same matchless marble, forming graceful minarets. By moonlight and by sunset we gaze upon this Arabian night or day dream. "A thing of beauty is a joy forever." Italian, Sarascenic and Persian are all suggested in its architecture, and we are told that Shah Jehan expected to build for himself a tomb of black polished marble within sight, but on the other side of the River Jumna, but the depleted state of the treasury caused alarm in the mind of his son; fearing he would be impoverished, he made his father a prisoner in the imperial palace. We stood in the room wherein he had lain in his dying hours, and gazed out of the windows, as he did, upon the beautiful vision which was within his sight, his last wish was gratified, and his earthly vision failed in the view he had of Montag's tomb. He looked out beyond the Jumna, as the western sun's rays kissed the pure white marble, reflecting on its polished surface—the reflex it may have been of a heavenly vision, vouchsafed only to those who pass the portals.
Delhi, the next station en route, notwithstanding the dust and heat, has its attractions. The Bungalow Hotel is kept by an Englishwoman who, with her sons, had a number of hostelries in India and along the tourist line of travel. This one offered but few comforts. The proprietress assured me that they would soon build a good hotel, as travel demanded it. She evidently had received a telegram that we were on our way from her son's place, at whose table we had sat at Aigra. She sent her private conveyance for us to the depot, and received us herself with some cordiality, and was much gratified to learn of our pleasant memories of Aigra, with its tombs, temples, and its exquisite embroideries—the best we saw in India—woven of the finest texture and wrought upon with such delicacy that we could scarce realize that the dark, swarthy fingers of those poor native Indians could work out such marvels. We bought handsome table decorations in embroidered satin and bemoaned that we did not get more, after we were too far away to retrace our steps.
One of the attractions of Delhi is the tower of Kutah Mina, rising to a height of 240 feet, divided into five stories, built of red, buff and pink sandstone. The column, or tower, is of fluted architecture for most of the height, and decorated at intervals with layers of white marble slabs. We were told it was built for a favorite daughter of the ruling monarch, that she might, from its height, view the Holy River Jumna, which was at a great distance from her home. According to the tale told us, this tower must be ascended before she broke her morning fast. Near by stands the iron pillar, nearly a foot and a half in diameter and over forty feet high above the ground. It is a solid shaft of malleable iron, the natives claim its foundation is laid in the center of the earth. To see the tower and iron pillar necessitates a ride of eleven miles through dust and dirt and but little of any interest along the wayside. We visited the tomb of Johanara, the daughter of Shah Jehan, who shared her father's captivity. Pure in spirit and humble she chose a plain block of marble or alabaster, to cover her grave, screened by a delicately wrought white marble. The epitaph inscribed on her tomb reads:
"Place naught but one green herb above my head;
This alone befits the poor and lonely dead."
Pious monks keep fresh grass on her tomb; a slab at the head of the grave bears this inscription in Arabic: "God is life and the resurrection." The shops are attractive and we find and purchase some ivories and, if one cares for the likeness of Shah Jehan, they will be able to purchase paintings in miniature of him and his wife, done on porcelain. Whether or not true to nature, we are unable to judge. Beautiful pink pearls are shown us. How often I have regretted not buying some of them; we never found them so perfect after leaving Delhi. The enameled bracelets are shown in great variety, and yet we pass them by.