We left Bombay for Ahmedabad on December the 15th. Finding that the best train was a night one, and as it was a journey of some three hundred miles or more, and time was an object, we made up our minds, though not given to night travelling, to make an exception to our usual practice, although we should lose the sight of the country by the way. Railway travelling in India is quite as comfortable as one might expect. The carriages, it is true, vary on different lines and according to age, but, as a rule, the trains have separate carriages for Europeans and for different classes of natives, and it is often quite possible to have an entire compartment even for a long distance. On some lines the first-class carriages are scarcely better than the second, but the fare is double. The best carriages have compartments containing two long leather-covered seats, each side under the windows, which can be turned into sleeping couches at night. There is a good space between them and also at the end between the doors, and a lavatory is always attached. Above the seats are slung two upper berths, so that the compartment could be arranged for four sleepers. Any amount of light luggage can be taken into the compartments by passengers, but the heavy must be registered. The windows are protected from the sun by Venetian shutters, which can be let up or down, as well as glass, clear or toned, and sometimes fine wire screens. Outside there is a sort of hood, between which and the tops of the windows is a space for air, so that the fierce heat of the sun is tempered, and the carriage shielded to a certain extent from its rays.

We found very well-appointed sleeping-cars to Ahmedabad, but divided into ladies’ and gentlemen’s compartments. As it happened, another couple were the only others travelling by the first-class sleeping-car besides ourselves, so that we were able to arrange between ourselves that husbands and wives were not divided, each pair having a compartment to themselves.

Ahmedabad was reached about half-past seven in the morning. A crowd of coolies usually rush to seize your baggage on the arrival of a train, and our bearer was useful in keeping them at bay a bit. There was a Dak bungalow at Ahmedabad, but we did not feel any decided leaning towards it, and, finding there were quite decent bedrooms to be had at the station and that we could feed in the refreshment-room, we decided to stay there.

Carriages were to be had at from six to eight rupees a day, and we engaged one and had a drive through the town, stopping to see the mosques for which it is so famed. The Jama Musjid had a splendid, spacious court in front of it, walled around, the entrance being through a rather small door, where it is necessary for the visitors either to put off their shoes or to consent to have enormous loose ones of grass or matting tied on over their own, which seems to prevent desecration quite as efficiently. The mosque had fifteen domes, and inside was a forest of white pillars (260), and a large gallery for the women, screened with pierced stone-work in lovely patterns. There were the marble tombs of Ahmad Shah—the builder of the mosque—and his son and grandson, richly carved in delicate relief, the sides being arcaded, and under each arch the representation of a hanging lamp, or censer, some of the latter showing an ornamental treatment of smoke ascending from them.

The marble pavements had a peculiar fine dull polish, noticeable in mosque pavements throughout India, which is the result of the constant movement of the bare feet of the natives passing over their surface. The tombs of the queens of Ahmad Shah were carved with remarkable fineness. One, inlaid with delicate trees in white marble or black, was as fine as any Persian cabinet work in ivory.

The Queen’s Mosque, with three domes, contains charming carving and pierced screen-work.

The mosque of Rani Sipri and her tomb are marvellously rich in fine carving in red sandstone and screen-work, and suggest in some of their forms and the rich incrustation of their ornament the influence of Hindu work, which, indeed, is a characteristic of many here. Beautiful pierced screens of stone-work, divided into panels by the supporting columns, enclose the tomb.

For the loveliest designs, however, in pierced screen-work, one still turns to those of the windows of the Sidi Sayyids’ Mosque, especially to the two wherein palms and rose-trees are combined in a sort of natural formation to form a lovely mesh of intricate, yet perfectly coherent and balanced pattern, which fills the tympanum shape of low-arched windows; a design in light on dark seen from the outside, and in dark against light seen from within, when it fulfils its purpose of breaking up the light of the sun, and producing that enchanting luminous twilight so characteristic of Eastern interiors. There are reproductions of two of these windows at our Indian Museum at South Kensington, but I had long desired to see the originals, and I was not disappointed. The warm light of the late afternoon sun lingered in their interstices, and, seen from below, the under sides of the marble fret took rich golden reflections, which gave the designs quite a new aspect, and filled them with life and colour, giving the effect almost of sunlit foliage. We drove to see Shah Alam’s Mosque, built about 1420, which was reached in about half an hour beyond the city gates, along a cool avenue of acacias. The mosque has a fine court and minarets, and a splendid canopied tomb, with pillars inlaid with mother-o’-pearl; beautiful metal-work in pierced brass gates and screens.

On returning from this drive we stopped near the river Sarbarmati in a grove of trees, chiefly banyan, mango, and acacia. Here a native boy set up a peculiar hooting sort of call, and presently we saw troops of silver grey monkeys dropping from the trees and gambolling along towards us between the stems—hundreds of them apparently—hurrying up to feed on the dried peas we scattered for them. They came crowding around us, but were quite friendly, and many would feed out of our hands. They varied much in size, but were mostly large, and carried their tails high in the air and curled over their backs in spirited curves when walking on all-fours. Many of the female monkeys carried their young ones with them. All looked beautifully clean and healthy, and were full of play—in fact as different as possible in their freedom from the poor captives in cages at zoological gardens. It was amusing to watch their pranks and to note the ease with which they would climb up into the trees, some of which were as full of monkeys almost as branches.

As we left the monkeys we had another unusual sight. We saw a large and leafy mango tree leaning over the river, which seemed to have suddenly burst into white blossoms; but we soon perceived these supposed flowers begin to flutter, and winged ones detached themselves from the mass of white, which we then discovered were white cranes. They would rise in a cloud and settle again ever and anon among the green foliage. They were a small kind, not larger than a heron, and are common all over India. We often saw them afterwards rising by the side of the pools by the railway track, or fishing, or flying over the submerged paddy fields, but in smaller numbers, and never so beautifully.

On the white and dusty road to Ahmedabad we met numbers of wagons loaded with cotton bales and drawn by large white oxen. The country carts had wicker bodies, somewhat like those I have seen in Germany, and primitive massive wheels with eight spokes in a double cross. Camels were occasionally seen ridden by natives. As at Bombay, there were extensive cotton factories here, and cotton was very largely grown in the country around.

The bazaars and the street life in Ahmedabad are most various and interesting, all sorts of trades and crafts being carried on. There is still a great quantity of silk-weaving done, and brocades wrought with gold thread. A proverb of the place quoted by Mr W.S. Caine has it that the prosperity of Ahmedabad hangs on three threads—“gold, silk, and cotton”; and these three threads still symbolise the main industries of the city. A picturesque incident in the streets is the silk-winder—in some open space in front of the shops you may sometimes see a native woman standing (like Mr Holman Hunt’s “Lady of Shalott”) within a low square enclosure formed of bamboo sticks wound with long strands of silk thread. She holds a sort of spindle in her left hand, and a long tapering wand in her right, by means of which she divides or regulates the thread as she winds it off on to the bamboo sticks, rapidly twirling the spindle as she does so. It is an extremely pretty and picturesque sight. The old methods of hand-weaving are practised, and for weaving the brocades or “kincobs” the treadles in the loom are lifted from above by a boy, who draws up the cords attached to the threads of the warp according to the pattern the weaver is working. It is said that the native trade in the finer brocaded silks has been injured owing to the richer natives following the European fashion of dressing plainly, the rich silk woven with gold thread being only worn on state occasions, another instance of the depressing influence of Western ideas and habits upon the East. The rich merchants, and the Maharajahs and their court officials no doubt believe they are improving their style in adopting fashions from Europe, but the effect is practically only to vulgarise the native taste. The native princes and the well-to-do merchants now dash about in imported motor cars in raiment of dingy tints, instead of proudly prancing upon stately elephants and clothed in splendour and colour. Eastern life is made less joyous in its aspects by such changes. The mass of the people do not change, however, and seem to have no desire to, and they are the common people everywhere who give the characteristic life and colour. Though they only wear cotton or muslin, the beauty and variety of the tints are wonderful, and fill the bazaars with a stream of ever-changing hues in the most unexpected combinations and harmonies.

Driving through the bazaars at Ahmedabad, we came to a sort of open space from which several streets diverged, and here was being held a sort of open market of cloth—chiefly muslins and cottons of every variety of colour and pattern. These were laid out in piles on the ground, the merchants squatting by their goods or spreading them out to show their customers.

We stopped our carriage, and got our bearer to bring us some of the stuffs to look at and to inquire the prices, and we were soon surrounded by an eager crowd of dark faces and turbaned heads, and were nearly buried in a rainbow-tinted cloud of muslin and cotton cloth, amid which deliberate selection became difficult. I noted, however, many examples of the native method of dyeing cloths in patterns by the tying and dipping methods which often produce most delightful results, the pattern having a softer and more blended effect than the ordinary block printing. Although Manchester cottons were in evidence, it was pleasant to see that native methods were not forgotten, and were still in demand.

The native pottery, too, at Ahmedabad is extremely interesting, the common forms are always good, as indeed they are throughout India. Enormous earthen jars are made here to hold grain, or for carrying water from the river on ox-carts. The ordinary earthen water-jar, which the Hindu women carry on their heads, resembles the ancient Greek Hydria in form, and is so beautiful that it is distressing to see it occasionally substituted by the hideous tin kerosine can—another European innovation—much more difficult to balance one would think. In the streets of Ahmedabad occasional features are small, richly carved octagonal minarets supported on posts, and looking like glorified pigeon houses. There is a big Hindu temple—a Jain temple of no antiquity, only about thirty or forty years old. The shrine of Hathi Sing. It has the characteristic pagoda domes, and is elaborately painted and decorated, though rather coarsely. The finest features were the marble pavements where, again, one noticed the peculiar soft polish given by bare feet.

A very interesting excursion is that to Sarkhei, a drive of about seven miles outside the city gates. The road crosses the wide river Sarbarmati—or rather its bed, as the water shrinks into a rather narrow stream, and is almost lost sometimes among great stretches and banks of sand. At the water’s edge, as we passed, we saw the people busy washing clothes (which made a pretty coloured pattern when spread on the sands to dry) or themselves, or watering horses and bullocks, or refreshing their baskets of vegetables they had borne along the dusty ways by dipping them in the stream.

Our road was deep in dust, but generally pleasantly shaded by fine old trees, chiefly banyan, teak trees, and acacias. The little striped squirrels were very numerous and active, frisking up and down and around the tree stems. Monkeys were occasionally seen—of the same silver grey sort we had seen on our visit to the Mosque of Shah Alam—in the jungles at the side of the road, or in the trees. A bird rather like a large bullfinch was common, and we saw many peacocks wandering about, and, of course, kites and crows everywhere. On the road we passed many a heavy-laden ox-cart, piled with bales of cotton, making their way to Ahmedabad, as well as droves of white asses, and many groups of natives. About two miles out we saw at the side of the road a large brick-built Mohammedan Tomb, said to be the tomb of the architect of Sarkhei, who was a Persian.

Further on our carriage turned out of the main road down a narrow lane to the right and up a steep bit of hill, flagged with flat stones. Presently we arrived in front of a fine gateway of Moslem architecture, which formed the entrance to a large quadrangle, shaded by a very old acacia tree. We had to put on the usual clumsy canvas shoes before entering this court, which enclosed the splendid mosque and tomb of Gunj Baksh (begun by Mahmudshah in 1445 and finished by Begara in 1451), with a low, flat cupola, and many pilastered front, the structures of the caps showing Hindu influence. There is a finely worked lattice screen of brass surrounding the octagonal shrine within, containing the tomb. The floor is inlaid with coloured marbles, and the roof is rich with gilding. An open pavilion stood in the court in front of the shrine, raised upon a platform, with steps supported by sixteen carved marble pillars. Opposite to this is a charming portico, through which one can get a glimpse of the great tank, though it was almost dried up when we saw it, the water hardly enough to conceal an alligator, though white cranes were standing in the pool in the forlorn hope of catching fish, and monkeys gambolled about the steps. On the side of the court near the entrance are the tombs of Mahmud Begara and his two sons—of the usual Mohammedan type, an arcaded pattern in low relief along the sides; with censers hanging between the arches of similar type to those at Ahmedabad.

There is a pathetic feeling of departed or half decayed splendour about Sarkhei, as well as a sense of romance and mystery, and one leaves it impressed with the idea of the refinement, sense of beauty, and spaciousness of the departed princely builders who lie buried within their own architectural dream.

There are always a number of hangers on about Indian tombs and temples, self-constituted guides, and persons of indefinite status and occupation who cluster around the arriving and departing stranger, who has to smooth his path with backsheesh, and Sarkhei is no exception. We had a hot drive along the dusky highway back to Ahmedabad in the middle of the day, the sun blazing down very fiercely, and we were glad of the protection of the carriage hood.

In the course of one of our evening drives about the town, our Moonsawmy pointed out an acacia tree we passed by the roadside which appeared to be full of what looked like large pendant pear-shaped fruit of black and golden brown colour. These, however, were really clusters of fruit-bats hanging in the tree until nightfall. Some of them, as we looked, were already moving and stretching out their wings in the last rays of the evening sun.

We passed through the triple arched ancient gateway which stands at the head of the main street. The bazaars were crowded with buyers and sellers, chiefly of cotton and other stuffs. The people themselves in every variety of costume formed a wonderful scheme of colour, varied by the brownskins of babies and little children playing about quite naked, and the brown backs of the workers bending over their crafts. The whole scene fused in the light of afterglow and rich in tone and chiaroscuro.