s everywhere else in
India; the omnipresent Bengali Babus, who are always glad to be of
some service to you, are scattered all over Hindostan, like the Jews in
Russia. Besides, our party was joined by a new member.

The day before we had received a letter from Swami Dayanand, carried to
us by a traveling Sannyasi. Dayanand informed us that the cholera was
increasing every day in Hardwar, and that we must postpone making his
acquaintance personally till the end of May, either in Dehra-Dun, at the
foot of Himalaya, or in Saharanpur, which attracts every tourist by its
charming situation.

The Sannyasi brought us also a nosegay from the Swami, a nosegay of the
most extraordinary flowers, which are totally unknown in Europe. They
grow only in certain Himalayan valleys; they possess the wonderful
capacity of changing their color after midday, and do not look dead even
when faded. The Latin name of this charming plant is Hibiscus mutabilis.
At night they are nothing but a large knot of pressed green leaves,
but from dawn till ten o'clock the flowers open and look like large
snow-white roses; then, towards twelve o'clock, they begin to redden,
and later in the afternoon they look as crimson as a peony. These
flowers are sacred to the Asuras, a kind of fallen angels in Hindu
mythology, and to the sun-god Surya. The latter deity fell in love with
an Asuri at the beginning of creation, and since then is constantly
caught whispering words of fiery love to the flower that shelters her.
But the Asura is a virgin; she gives herself entirely to the service
of the goddess Chastity, who is the patroness of all the ascetic
brotherhoods. The love of Surya is vain, Asura will not listen to him.
But under the flaming arrows of the enamoured god she blushes and in
appearance loses her purity. The natives call this plant lajjalu, the
modest one.

We were spending the night by a brook, under a shadowy fig-tree. The
Sannyasi, who had made a wide circuit to fulfil Dayanand's request, made
friends with us; and we sat up late in the night, listening whilst he
talked about his travels, the wonders of his native country, once so
great, and about the heroic deeds of old Runjit-Sing, the Lion of the
Punjab.

Strange, mysterious beings are found sometimes amongst these traveling
monks. Some of them are very learned; read and talk Sanskrit; know all
about modern science and politics; and, nevertheless, remain faithful to
their ancient philosophical