ABSTRACT
And now it is all over. In two and a half hours it will be Saturday, the 22nd of March — the date of our departure from fascinating India. I have travelled, comparatively speaking, a good many miles across the earth, have visited some thirty-four countries; but of them all none will hold kindlier or happier recollections than the great stretch of land which we vaguely call India. Nowhere, I think, will you nd such a combination of historical interest, lovely scenery, quaint customs, and healthy climatic conditions as this vast dependency a ords in the winter, tourist, season; nowhere, I am certain, will one meet with greater kindliness, courtesy and hospitality than in strange, inexplicable and enthralling Hindustan; and as the mighty dome of the Taj Mahal Hotel sinks down lower and lower into the mirror of the sunlit sea (as it is now doing, for the last words are actually being penned on board the “Mantua”) one can only sigh one’s gratitude for all the fascinating experiences and impressions one has culled between “Cape Comorin and Peshawar.”
