Out in the country in India, the day begins early.  One sees a plain, perfectly flat, dust-colored and brick-yardy, stretching limitlessly away on every side in the dim gray light, striped everywhere with hard-beaten narrow paths, the vast flatness broken at wide intervals by bunches of spectral trees that mark where villages are; and along all the paths are slender women and the black forms of lanky naked men moving, to their work, the women with brass water-jars on their heads, the men carrying hoes.  The man is not entirely naked; always there is a bit of white rag, a loin-cloth; it amounts to a bandage, and is a white accent on his black person, like the silver band around the middle of a pipe-stem.  Sometimes he also wears a fluffy and voluminous white turban, and this adds a second accent.  He then answers properly to Miss Gordon Cumming’s flash-light picture of him—­as a person who is dressed in “a turban and a pocket handkerchief.”

All day long one has this monotony of dust-colored dead levels and scattering bunches of trees and mud villages.  You soon realize that India is not beautiful; still there is an enchantment about it that is beguiling, and which does not pall.  You cannot tell just what it is that makes the spell, perhaps, but you feel it and confess it, nevertheless.  Of course, at bottom, you know in a vague way that it is history; it is that that affects you, a haunting sense of the myriads of human lives that have blossomed, and withered, and perished here, repeating and repeating and repeating, century after century, and age after age, the barren and meaningless process; it is this sense that gives to this forlorn, uncomely land power to speak to the spirit and make friends with it; to, speak to it with a voice bitter with satire, but eloquent with melancholy.  The deserts of Australia and the ice-barrens of Greenland have no speech, for they have no venerable history; with nothing to tell of man and his vanities, his fleeting glories and his miseries, they have nothing wherewith to spiritualize their ugliness and veil it with a charm.

There is nothing pretty about an Indian village—­a mud one—­and I do not remember that we saw any but mud ones on that long flight to Allahabad.  It is a little bunch of dirt-colored mud hovels jammed together within a mud wall.  As a rule, the rains had beaten down parts of some of the houses, and this gave the village the aspect of a mouldering and hoary ruin.  I believe the cattle and the vermin live inside the wall; for I saw cattle coming out and cattle going in; and whenever I saw a villager, he was scratching.  This last is only circumstantial evidence, but I think it has value.  The village has a battered little temple or two, big enough to hold an idol, and with custom enough to fat-up a priest and keep him comfortable.  Where there are Mohammedans there are generally a few sorry tombs outside the village that have a decayed and neglected look.