e a morning star glittering from a single rift in a
darkened sky, may form the prophecy of a fairer dawn for the womanhood
of the country in which it is so incongruously placed.

Madras, India.

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XXV

MORE LEAVES FROM AN INDIA NOTE-BOOK

There are many show places and "points of interest" in India that have
a hundred times more attention in the guide books, but there is a
simple tomb in Lucknow--it cost no more than many a plain farmer's
tombstone in our country burying-places--which impressed me more than
anything else I saw excepting only the Himalayas, the Taj Mahal and
the view of Benares from the river.

It is the tomb of the heroic Sir Henry Lawrence, who died so glorious
a death in the great mutiny of 1857. No commander in all India has
planned more wisely for the defence of the men and women under his
care; and yet the siege had only begun when he was mortally wounded.
He called his successor and his associates to him, and at last, having
omitted no detail of counsel or information that might enable them to
carry out his far-seeing plans, he roused himself to dictate his own
immortal epitaph:

Here Lies

HENRY LAWRENCE

Who Tried to Do His Duty

May the Lord Have Mercy on his Soul.

And so to-day these lines, "in their simplicity sublime," mark his
last resting place; and one feels somehow that not even the great
Akbar in Secundra or Napoleon in Paris has a worthier monument.

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There are many places in India to which I should like to give a
paragraph. I should like to write much of Delhi and its palaces in
which the Great Moguls once lived in a splendor worthy of the monarchs
in the Arabian Nights--no wonder the stately Diwan-i-Khas, or Hall of
Public Audience, bears the famous inscription in Persian:

"If there be Paradise on earth.
It is this, oh, it is this, oh, it is this!"

In the ruins of seven dead and deserted Delhis round about the present
city and the monuments and memorials which commemorate "the old
far-off unhappy things" of conquered dynasties and romantic epochs,
there is also material for many a volume.

Then there is Cawnpore with its tragic and sickening memories of the
English women and children (with the handful of men) who were
butchered in cold blood by the treacherous Nana Dhundu Pant; and I was
greatly interested in meeting in Muttra one of the few living men, a
Christianized Brahmin, who as a small boy witn