plendid Lombard-Gothic structure erected in memoriam of those who fell
in the mutiny here. The church is full of tablets commemorating the death
of distinguished people, and the stained-glass windows are covered with
the names of the victims of Nana Sahib's treachery, and of those who fell
in action.

Cawnpore is celebrated for the number and extensiveness of its
manufactures, and might almost be called the Manchester of India;
woollen, cotton, and jute mills abound, leather factories, and various
kindred industries, giving employment to millions of capital and
thousands of hands.

A stroll through the native quarter of any Indian city is interesting,
and Cawnpore is no exception. One sees buildings and courts the
decorations and general appearance of which leave the beholder in doubt
as to whether they are theatre or temple. Music and tom-toming would seem
rather to suggest the former, but upon entering one sees fakirs and
Hindoo devotees, streaked with clay, fanciful paintings and hideous
idols, and all the cheap pomp and pageantry of idolatrous worship.
Strolling into one of these places, an attendant, noting my curious
gazing, presents himself and points to a sign-board containing characters
as meaningless to me as Aztec hieroglyphics.

In one narrow street a crowd of young men are struggling violently for
position about a door, where an old man is flinging handfuls of yellow
powder among the crowd. The struggling men are aspirants for the honor of
having a portion of the powder alight on their persons. I inquire of a
native by-stander what it all means; the explanation is politely given,
but being in the vernacular of the country, it is wasted on the
unprofitable soil of my own lingual ignorance.

Impatient to be getting along, I misinterpret a gleam of illusory
sunshine at noon on the third day of the rain-storm and pull out, taking
a cursory glance at the Memorial Church as I go. A drenching shower
overtakes me in the native military lines, compelling me to seek shelter
for an hour beneath the portico of their barracks. The road is perfectly
level and smooth, and well rounded, so that the water drains off and
leaves it better wheeling than ever; and with alternate showers and
sunshine I have no difficulty in covering thirty-four miles before
sunset. This brings me to a caravanserai, consisting of a quadrangular
enclosure with long rows of cell-like rooms. The whole structure is much
inferior to a Persian cara