Arriving at Lucknow in due course we parted with our fellow traveller, who was met by the military chaplain, and we did not see him again. The chaplain kindly gave us some information, and said that the hotel we were bound for was reputed to be “the best in India.” This was good hearing, and we found it quite borne out by our experience of Wurtzler’s, where we presently found ourselves in comfortable rooms, bungalow-like, opening on to a verandah. The hotel had formerly been a palace, and was rather a handsome building in its way, with a round-arched arcaded front, long and low, with a pleasant enclosure of trees and flower garden.

There was “a little rift within the lute,” however, which rather marred the first moments of our arrival at Lucknow, my wife having unfortunately got a little bit of grit in her eye from the engine while in the train. There was nothing for it but to drive to the hospital the first thing after breakfast. Luckily we caught the chief surgeon (Col. Anderson) just as he was attending to some native cases in waiting. He at once took us to the “operating room,” which sounded rather fearsome, and was indeed a severe place with a polished marble floor, a case of surgical instruments and an operating table being the only furniture visible. The poor eye-patient had to extend herself on the table, while the Colonel very deftly found and quickly removed a tiny black speck which had caused all the trouble—working up right under the upper lid of the eye. He put some cocaine into the eye first of all, and afterwards applied a little lint and lotion. The relief must have been worth anything—it might have been described as a lesser Relief of Lucknow!

The next example of human skill or sleight of hand we witnessed was in the juggling, not the surgical, profession. It was a native conjurer who, under the arcade of the hotel, showed us the famous mango tree trick. As additional attractions, or a sort of side-show, he had a large cobra in a round box, which, when the lid was off, reared its head all alive and hissing, and ready for a performance with a well-to-do mongoose, which was held in readiness by a cord tied tightly round its neck, which is apparently the only way in which to secure a mongoose.

The man commenced his performance by placing a monkey’s skull on the pavement, and sticking a little china doll up in front of it. Then he produced a very dry-looking mango seed about the size of a small potato, and this he planted carefully in an ordinary earthen flower-pot, covering the seed with soil, and then watering it, muttering some unknown words over it. He then put it under a cloth raised tentwise by a stick, to let it grow, as he said, while he went on with a number of small but very skilful conjuring tricks with cards, coins, marbles, ring and handkerchief, etc., any of which he offered to teach. Presently he lifted the cloth and showed the mango tree sending up a shoot of fresh green, and apparently growing vigorously. Then he covered it up again and performed some more tricks, after which he again uncovered the mango, which now showed a stem and bunch of leaves at the top like a miniature tree. Finally, after another interval of a few minutes juggling and conjuring, he lifted the cloth again, and, holding the pot in one hand, he pulled up the little mango tree with the other, showing it had stem, roots, and all. The man had an assistant, but he only played a very subordinate part, handing the conjurer the various things he wanted from time to time, holding the mongoose, but not performing in any way. These wonders were to be seen for the fee of three rupees. The conjurer was very proud of his “chits” which he showed, and among the signatures were those of “Castlereagh” and “Wenlock”; and he asked for a written testimonial in his book.

At Lucknow we had an introduction to the Chief Commissioner, Mr Ross Scott, who received us very cordially at his charming house, and offered to do anything for us. Among other kindnesses he sent my wife (whose health had suffered from the climate everywhere in India) a supply of excellent milk from his own cows during her stay, which proved of immense benefit. At his house we met Mrs Dowden and her daughter, who kindly undertook to show us over the ruins of the Residency which were quite close by. The building stands, or what remains of it after the bombardment it sustained during the terrible days of “the Mutiny,” amid pleasant lawns and fine trees, and creepers cover the ruins. In one of the rooms is a good model of the Residency as it was in 1857 in the midst of the native city on a rising ground, but thickly surrounded by the houses and mosques, from which guns and mortars were trained on to it. These were shown planted on flat roofs or in courtyards, wherever there was vantage ground. Nothing but a few shapeless ruins remain hereabouts now of the old native city, which has since been curtailed and cut in two by a broad road for the rapid movement of troops. However savage and cruel the sepoys may have been, the British reprisals were certainly severe. They seemed to have practically “wiped out” old Lucknow afterwards. We were shown a building—the Sikander Bagh—a high-walled enclosure, once a fair rose garden, which was taken by Colin Campbell, and where 2000 rebels were bayoneted without mercy by the British troops. A young English officer, speaking professionally, perhaps, we met at a friend’s house, said that Sikander Bagh gave him more satisfaction than any other memorial of the mutiny. He positively “gloated over it,” and intended to go there again and “gloat.” It is said even that British soldiers bayoneted even the sick and wounded Hindu soldiers in the hospitals who begged to be shot instead!

The whole place is overshadowed by memories of that awful period. Nothing can impair the courage and endurance of the heroic defenders of the Residency; but it is now, I believe, generally admitted that the outbreak was not without its causes, and that the government of the day did not act judiciously, to say the least. It is commonly called “The Mutiny,” but it was really an insurrection, which must from various causes have been smouldering for some time before it burst into flame. The “greased cartridges” were only the last straw. There seems to have been much discontent. Many sepoys, too, had been disbanded. The British annexation, the deposition and deportation of the reigning King of Oudh and the confiscation of his revenues, must all be considered as provocative causes; and it is a question whether at any time British rule has made itself loved in India, or the British residents have ever really understood the Indian people. Native feeling must have been generally ignored.

It was a formidable revolt, accompanied, no doubt, by explosions of race hatred and by terrible cruelties, but there was savagery on both sides—a desperate attempt to regain possession of their own country and its government on the part of the princes and people.

The question remains, with all the official solicitude of the British government for the welfare of the natives, all the railways, engineering, and irrigation works, are they really better off than they were under native rule?

Are they not, though under British administration, more heavily taxed than they were under the native kings? Mr William Digby, C.I.E., who had long personal and official experience in India, brings a formidable array of facts and statistics (from official sources, too), in his “Prosperous British India,” in support of the view that they are, and, moreover, that the ryot—the tiller of the soil—is gradually becoming poorer under our rule.

To a passing observer, the Hindus—nay, the people of India, either Hindus or Mohammedans—can never be Europeanised. There is a great gulf between the East and the West. After all these years of British occupation and administration, the two races live entirely apart and separate. In religion, manners, and customs, and sentiment, they are fundamentally different, opposed, one might say.

The British remain a transitory garrison of military and civil administrative aliens, in the midst of vast populations, rooted in the traditions, religious beliefs and observances of untold centuries, during which they have carried on the same mode of life, and who seem neither to seek or to desire change.

The mere struggle to live must occupy the energies of the vast majority, but among the more educated and leisured classes of natives there is a growing feeling of what we should call nationalism in Europe, though it may be more strictly racial than national. It is difficult, however, to see how anything like a universal movement over the whole peninsula could arise, considering the differences of caste, race and religion, or the wide differences which separate Hindus and Mohammedans. Some, however, rather think that political change may be forced by bankruptcy, considering the poverty of the people and the limits of taxation being reached.

We were shown, at the Residency, the room where Sir Henry Laurence was struck with the shell, the holes its explosion made in the wall, his grave also, and many other memorials which have a profound interest for the English visitors. Old rust-eaten, muzzle-loading muskets, sabres, and shot and shell, with which the Residency was peppered, were collected in a group in one of the rooms, and the place, as far as possible, has been made an historical museum of the period of the siege.

Our friends introduced us at the Chatter Manzel, formerly a palace of the kings of Oudh, but now used as an English club. The rooms were of spacious and good proportions—long in comparison with their width. Proportion, in fact, is the principal notable quality of the local architecture at Lucknow, the details being comparatively common-place after the beautiful inventive detail and decoration of the Mogul architects at Delhi and Agra, the ornamentation being mostly mere repetitions. After the marble inlay of the Taj Mahal and the Diwan-ud-Daulat, and Sikandra, or the rich arabesques of the Zenana rooms at Amber, the white and yellow wash and the rather coarse plaster work of the palaces and pavilions of Lucknow look, comparatively speaking, cheap. The stuccoed domes of the mosques miss the splendour of the gold and ivory-like marble seen elsewhere. Even the Jama Musjid, fine in scale as it is, lacks the charm of colour. There was a smaller mosque near the old stone bridge, however, which stood out against the deep-blue sky in dazzling whiteness, but this only showed how beautiful plain whitewash appears illuminated by the Indian sun—pearly with delicate reflections and warm shadows.

The Iambara had a beautifully-proportioned court, with steps up to the pavilion, the symmetry of the spacing being rather pleasantly broken by the mosque on one side being placed at a different angle in order to point to the direction of Mecca, as all Mohammedan mosques must do.

Inside the pavilion, under canopies of heavy embroidery in gold and silver, supported by chased silver poles, were the tombs of one of the kings and his zenana. On the walls were mirrors which reminded us of our English empire-period framed mantle-glasses. Some of these had curious tempera paintings inserted in their frames of native birds and trees, and there were other Indian paintings, one showing General or Captain Martin—the French adventurer who founded the MartiniÈre at Lucknow in the early nineteenth century—in a blue coat and gold lace and white nankeen trousers, like a naval officer of that period, conferring with the King of Oudh and his court. An image of a winged horse (a Buddhist symbol) strikingly resembled the Assyrian type of winged man-headed creatures, the treatment being remarkably similar. The crowned head, with long, black, curled locks, and formal, rather small, wings, with each feather expressed. There was an umbrella attached, which moved to and fro over the head of the figure by clock-work.

We were interested to see in the Daulat Khan—a sort of gallery up a steep flight of steps—a series of full-length portraits of the kings of Oudh in their robes, painted by English artists. Most of these were signed by my friend T. Erat Harrison, 1882–4, and I recalled the fact of having seen him at work on one of them about that time.

An English lady, Mrs Dowden (wife of Colonel Dowden), was kind enough to conduct us through Lucknow and its wonders, and she proved an excellent cicerone, and waved off all unnecessary attentions from caretakers and their hangers-on with the decisive air of a resident.

We passed a hideous clock tower—one of many in India—put up by some modern architect (as a Jubilee memorial, I think). It is astonishing what monstrosities in clock towers have been perpetrated by modern architects in India.

Finally, we got to the gate of the old city of Lucknow, by which we entered the principal street of the bazaar. There were many interesting native shops. At one I noticed some blocks of patterns for printing by hand on cotton. They were cut in some hard wood. The handicraft, too, was still carried on here. There were many pretty bead necklaces, tassels, and quaint toys. We visited, up a steep narrow staircase, a muslin and jewel merchant’s store. He showed some charming Indian muslins spangled with silver spots and patterns. He also had one or two pieces of old Lucknow enamel not ordinarily seen in the bazaars now.

We visited another friend who had been spending the winter at Lucknow—Mrs Jopling-Rowe, the well-known artist, whose son is a Magistrate here, dining with them at their charming bungalow one evening. Mr Commissioner Jopling very courteously placed elephants at our disposal on which to ride through the chowk.

An irrigation well near the hotel interested me, and I made a sketch of it in a chequered shade. The yoke of oxen and two natives at work hauling up the water for the garden in a leather bucket. While thus engaged another friend travelling in the East came up, so that as regards friends we were quite in luck’s way at Lucknow.

After this it was time to go and meet the elephants our friends had ordered at the chowk. Mrs Jopling-Rowe took us in her carriage through Wentworth Park, and past the palaces to the gate of the city, where we found two fine elephants in waiting. My wife and I mounted one of them by the usual ladder, the animal kneeling. A young officer who was of the party, however, showed us another way. He got a leg up by means of the trunk, and so over the elephant’s head on to his back. We then processed through the bazaar (the chowk), preceded by a native policeman, in khaki with a scarlet turban, to clear the way, and two more behind. The elephants seemed to quite fill up the narrow street, so that there was danger of a block when we met an ox-cart. A very comprehensive view is to be had from an elephant’s back, as one can see not only a long way ahead, but well into the shops where the people are at work, and also command the balconies and roofs, where there were often interesting groups.

We threaded our way through the chowk, passing at its end under one of the old arched gateways and along a narrower street, which led us out into the broad military road, which the British, after the revolt, ruthlessly cut right through the old city, uglifying it, of course. There is a wonderful variety and richness, again, here, in the old house fronts with arcaded balconies and doorways of carved wood. The patterns, chiefly running borders, treated very fancifully and delicately. The native houses were not so high as in Lahore, but the carving might compare with the same sort of work there in detail.

We lunched at the charming abode of another English official and his wife (Mr and Mrs Saunders), who were very pleasant and hospitable. The lady had considerable taste in furniture and decoration, and her rooms showed the influence of white and green, and looked cool and agreeable in a light key.

Afterwards we drove to see the celebrated MartiniÈre, the young officer accompanying us. The MartiniÈre is the fantastic palace built by the French General or Captain Martin, before mentioned, and is a curious conglomerate sort of scenic design of late Italo-French Renaissance character, reminding one rather of Isola Bella, semi-classical figures being perched on every pinnacle and balustrade, and there were two grotesque lions, doing duty as supporters or consoles, with mouths so open that the sky could be seen through them. The building towered high in several stories in the centre, and spread out wide into two curved long and low wings of one story, opening on to broad terraces and steps leading to a small lake, from the middle of which rose a fluted column. The general’s heart is said to be buried beneath this. The MartiniÈre was intended by him to be a college for boys. He founded another at Calcutta, and another in his native town—Lyons—in France. Martin seems to have had a curious, eventful history, beginning as a French prisoner, under the British, afterwards entering the British army and becoming a captain, when he took service under the Nawab of Oudh and became general of his army, finally accumulating by some means a large fortune, which he spent on this building and in founding the schools which bear his name.

We passed another house ruined at the time of “the Mutiny,” whence the women and children were removed to from the Residency, and where Lieutenant Paul is buried.

Mr Ross Scott entertained us with a distinguished company to dinner at his hospitable house before we left Lucknow. One English colonel of the party with whom I had a conversation had recently returned from Burmah, and had brought back some fine silk embroidered robes, some china bowls, and caps. The latter were of soft felt, and could be worn either with the edge turned down or up, forming a brim.

The colonel had lived some time in Burmah and had seen service there, having been through the British campaign against the “Dacoits.” He said that the Dacoits were largely composed of men of the disbanded native army (for which I suppose our Government were responsible), and they roamed about the country preying on the people, plundering and sometimes murdering them. The Burmese people, he said, only wanted to be left alone in peace (like most people). He had made many friends among them, as he knew the language and had lived amongst them at that time. On revisiting the country and finding things under British control and administration, he found most of his Burmese native friends in prison. They were there, he said, merely for breaking some official regulation which probably they did not in the least understand. The natives complained to him that the English officials lived aloof from them, and were not friendly and sympathetic as he (the Colonel) had been, and they never got any forwarder.