From Egypt to Japan Part 9

If we believe the tales of travellers and historians, nothing since the days of Babylon has equalled the magnificence of the Great Mogul.

But magnificence in a sovereign generally means misery in his subjects. The wealth that is lavished on the court is wrung from the people. So it is said to have been with some of the successors of Akbar. The latest historian of Mussulman India[2] says: "They were the most shameless tyrants that ever disgraced a throne. Mogul administration ... was a monstrous system of oppression and extortion, which none but Asiatics could have practised or endured. Justice was a mockery. Magistrates could always be bribed; false witnesses could always be bought.... The Hindoos were always in the hands of grinding task-masters, foreigners who knew not how to pity or to spare."

But Akbar was not merely a magnificent Oriental potentate--he was truly a great king. A Mohammedan himself, he was free from Moslem fanaticism and bigotry. Those conquerors of India had a difficult task (which has vexed their English successors after two centuries), to rule a people of a different race and a different religion. It was harder for the Moslem than for the Christian, because his creed was more intolerant; it made it his duty to destroy those whom he could not convert. The first law of the Koran was the extermination of idolatry, but the Hindoos were the grossest of idolaters. How then could a Mohammedan ruler establish his throne without exterminating the inhabitants? But the Moslems--like many other conquerors--learned to bear the ills which they could not remove. Necessity taught them the wisdom of toleration. In this humane policy they were led by the example of Akbar, who, though a Mussulman, was not a bigot, and thought it a pity that subtle questions of belief should divide inhabitants of the same country. He admitted Hindoos to a share in his government, and endeavored by complete tolerance to extinguish religious hatreds. He had even the ambition to be a religious reformer, and tried to blend the old faith with the new, and to make an eclectic religion by putting together the systems of Zoroaster, of the Brahmins, and of Christianity, while retaining some of the Mohammedan forms. But he could not convert even his own Hindoo wives, of whom he had one or two, and built a house for each, in Hindoo architecture, with altars for idol wors.h.i.+p. What impression then could he make outside of the circle of his court?

But greatness commands our homage, even though it sometimes undertakes tasks beyond human power. Akbar, though he could not inspire others with his own spirit of justice and toleration, deserves a place in history as the greatest sovereign that ever sat in the seat of the Great Mogul. And therefore, when in the Fort at Agra I stood beside the large slab of black marble, on which he was wont to sit to administer justice to his people, it was with the same feeling that one would seek out the oak of Vincennes, under which St. Louis sat for the same purpose; and at Secundra, a few miles from Agra, we visited his tomb, as on another continent we had visited the tomb of Frederick the Great, and of Napoleon.

But the jewel of India--the Koh-i-noor of its beauty--is the TAJ, the tomb built by the Emperor Shah Jehan, the grandson of Akbar, for his wife, whom he loved with an idolatrous affection, and on her deathbed promised to rear to her memory such a mausoleum as had never been erected before. To carry out his purpose he gathered architects from all countries, who rivalled each other in the extravagance and costliness of their designs. The result was a structure which cost fabulous sums of money (the whole empire being placed under contribution for it, as were the Jews for the Temple of Solomon), and employed twenty thousand workmen for seventeen years. The building thus erected is one of the most famous in the world--like the Alhambra or St. Peter's--and of which enthusiastic travellers are apt to say that it is worth going around the world to see. This would almost discourage the attempt to describe it, but I will try and give some faint idea of its marvellous beauty.

But how can I convey to others what is but a picture in my memory?

Descriptions of architecture are apt to be vague unless aided by pictorial ill.u.s.trations. Mere figures and measurements are dry and cold. The most I shall aim at will be to give a general (but I hope not indistinct) _impression_ of it. For this let us approach it gradually.

It stands on the banks of the Jumna, a mile below the Fort at Agra. As you approach it, it is not exposed abruptly to view, but is surrounded by a garden. You enter under a lofty gateway, and before you is an avenue of cypresses a third of a mile long, whose dark foliage is a setting for a form of dazzling whiteness at the end. That is the TAJ.

It stands, not on the level of your eye, but on a double terrace; the first, of red sandstone, twenty feet high, and a thousand feet broad; at the extremities of which stand two mosques, of the same dark stone, facing each other. Midway between rises the second terrace, of marble, fifteen feet high, and three hundred feet square, on the corners of which stand four marble minarets. In the centre of all, thus "reared in air," stands the Taj. It is built of marble--no other material than this of pure and stainless white were fit for a purpose so sacred. It is a hundred and fifty feet square (or rather it is eight-sided, since the corners are truncated), and surmounted by a dome, which rises nearly two hundred feet above the pavement below.

These figures rather belittle the Taj, or at least disappoint those who looked for great size. There are many larger buildings in the world. But that which distinguishes it from all others, and gives it a rare and ideal beauty, is the union of majesty and grace. This is the peculiar effect of Saracenic architecture. The slender columns, the springing arches, the swelling domes, the tall minarets, all combine to give an impression of airy lightness, which is not destroyed even when the foundations are laid with ma.s.sive solidity. But it is in the finish of their structures that they excelled all the world. Bishop Heber said truly: "They built like t.i.tans and finished like jewellers." This union of two opposite features makes the beauty of the Taj. While its walls are thick and strong, they are pierced by high arched windows which relieve their heaviness. Vines and arabesques running over the stone work give it the lightness of foliage, of trees blossoming with flowers. In the interior there is an extreme and almost feminine grace, as if here the strength of man would pay homage to the delicacy of woman. Enclosing the sacred spot is a screen of marble, carved into a kind of fretwork, and so pure and white that light s.h.i.+nes through it as through alabaster, falling softly on that which is within. The Emperor, bereaved of his wife, lavished riches on her very dust, casting precious stones upon her tomb, as if he were placing a string of pearls around her neck. It is overrun with vines and flowers, cut in stone, and set with onyx and jasper and lapis lazuli, carnelians and turquoises, and chalcedonies and sapphires.

But the body rests in the crypt below. We descend a few steps and stand by the very sarcophagus in which all that loveliness is enshrined. Another sarcophagus contains the body of her husband. Their tombs were covered with fresh flowers, a perpetual tribute to that love which was so strong even on the throne; to those who were thus united in life, and in death are not divided.

Here sentiment comes in to affect our sense of the beauty of the place. If it were not for the touching history connected with it, I could not agree with those who p.r.o.nounce the Taj the most beautiful building in the world. Merely as a building, it does not "overcome" me so much as another marble structure--the Cathedral of Milan. I could not say with Bishop Heber that the mosques of Islam are more beautiful, or more in harmony with the spirit of devotion, than Christian churches or cathedrals. But the Taj is not a mosque, it is a tomb--a monument to the dead. And that gives it a tender interest, which spiritualizes the cold marble, and makes it more than a building--a poem and a dream.

This impression grew upon us the more we saw it. On our last night in Agra we drove there to take our last view by moonlight. All slept peacefully on the banks of the Jumna. Slowly we walked through the long avenue of dark cypresses, that stood like ranks of mourners waiting for the dead to pa.s.s, their tops waving gently in the night wind, as if breathing a soft requiem over the departed. Mounting the terrace we stood again before the Taj, rising into the calm blue heavens. A few nights before the Prince of Wales had been here, and the interior had been illuminated. As we had not seen it then, we had engaged attendants with blue lights, who gave us an illumination of our own. It was a weird scene as these swarthy natives, with naked arms, held aloft their torches, whose blue flames, flaring and flickering, cast a spectral light upward into the dim vault above.

To add to the ghostly effect, we heard whispers above us, as if there were unseen witnesses. It was the echo of our own voices, but one starts to hear himself in such a place. The dome is a whispering gallery; and as we stood beside the tomb, and spoke in a low voice (not to disturb the sleep of the dead), our words seemed to be repeated. Any sound at the tomb--a sigh of pity, or a plaintive melody--rising upward, comes back again,--faintly indeed, yet distinctly and sweetly--as if the very air trembled in sympathy, repeating the accents of love and of despair, or as if unseen spirits were floating above, and singing the departing soul to its rest.

Then we went down once more into the crypt below, where sleeps the form of the beautiful empress, and of Shah Jehan, who built this monument for her, at her side. The place was dark, and the lights in the hands of the attendants cast but a feeble glimmer, but this deep shadow and silence suited the tenor of our thoughts, and we lingered, reluctant to depart from the resting-place of one so much beloved.

As we came out the moon was riding high overhead, flooding the marble pile with beauty. Round and round we walked, looking up at arch and dome and minaret. At such an hour the Taj was so pale and ghostlike, that it did not seem like a building reared by human hands, but to have grown where it stood--like a night-blooming Cereus, rising slowly in the moonlight--lifting its domes and pinnacles (like branches growing heavenward) towards that world which is the home of the love which it was to preserve in perpetual memory.

With such thoughts we kept our eyes fixed on that glittering vision, as if we feared that even as we gazed it might vanish out of our sight. Below us the Jumna, flowing silently, seemed like an image of human life as it glided by. And so at last we turned to depart, and bade farewell to the Taj, feeling that we should never look on it again; but hoping that it might stand for ages to tell its history of faithful love to future generations. Flow on, sweet Jumna, by the marble walls, reflecting the moonbeams in thy placid breast; and in thy gentle murmurs whispering evermore of Love and Death, and Love that cannot die!

FOOTNOTE:

[2] Mr. Talboys Wheeler.

CHAPTER XIII.

DELHI--A MOHAMMEDAN FESTIVAL--SCENES IN THE MUTINY.

Delhi is the Rome of the old Mogul Empire. Agra was the capital in the time of Akbar, but Delhi is an older city. It had a history before the Moguls. It is said to have been destroyed and rebuilt seven times, and thus is overspread with the ashes of many civilizations. Its very ruins attest its ancient greatness. The plain around Delhi is like the Campagna around Rome--covered with the remains of palaces and mosques, towers and tombs, which give credit to the historical statement that the city was once thirty miles in circuit, and had two millions of inhabitants. This greatness tempted the spoiler. In 1398 it was plundered by Tamerlane; in 1525 it was taken by his descendant, Baber, the founder of the Mogul dynasty. Akbar made Agra, 112 miles to the south, his capital; but Shah Jehan, the monarch of magnificent tastes, who built the Taj, attracted by the mighty memories of this Rome of Asia, returned to Delhi, and here laid the foundations of a city that was to exceed all the capitals that had gone before it, if not in size, at least in splendor.

That distinction it still retains among the cities of India. Though not a tenth of old Delhi in size, it has to-day over 160,000 inhabitants. It is surrounded by walls seven miles in extent. We enter under lofty arched gateways, and find ourselves in the midst of a picturesque population, representing all the races of Southern and Central Asia. The city is much gayer than Agra. Its streets are full of people of all colors and costumes. Its shops are rich in Indian jewelry, which is manufactured here, and in Cashmere shawls and other Oriental fabrics; and in walking through the Chandney Chook, the Broadway of Delhi, one might imagine himself in the bazaars of Cairo or Constantinople.

The Fort is very like that of Agra, being built of the same red sandstone, but much larger, and encloses a Palace which Bishop Heber thought superior to the Kremlin. In the Hall of Audience, which still remains, stood the famous Peac.o.c.k Throne, which is estimated to have been worth thirty millions of dollars. Here the Great Mogul lived in a magnificence till then unknown even in Oriental courts. At the time that Louis XIV. was on the throne of France, a French traveller, Tavernier, made his way to the East, and though he had seen all the glory of Versailles, he was dazzled by this greater Eastern splendor.

But what a comment on the vanity of all earthly power, that the monarch who built this Palace was not permitted to live in it! He was dethroned by his son, the wily Aurungzebe, who imprisoned his father and murdered his brother, to get possession of the throne. Shah Jehan was taken back to Agra, and confined in the Fort, where he pa.s.sed the last years of his life. But as it is only a mile from the Taj, the dethroned King, as he sat in his high tower, could see from his windows the costly mausoleum he had reared. Death came at last to his relief, as it comes alike to kings and captives, and he was laid in his marble tomb, beside the wife he had so much loved.

This story of crime is relieved by one of the most touching instances of fidelity recorded in history. When all others deserted the fallen monarch, there was one true heart that was faithful still. He had a daughter, the favorite sister of that murdered brother, who shared her father's captivity. She was famous throughout the East for her wit and beauty, but sorrow brought out the n.o.bler traits of her character. She clung to her father, and thus comforted the living while she mourned for the dead. She became very religious, and spent her life in deeds of charity. She is not buried in the Taj Mahal, but at Delhi in a humble grave. Lowly in spirit and broken in heart, she shrank from display even in her tomb. She desired to be buried in the common earth, with only the green turf above her. There she sleeps beneath a lowly mound (though surrounded by costly marble shrines), and near the head is a plain tablet, with an inscription in Persian, which reads: "Let no rich canopy cover my grave. This gra.s.s is the best covering for the tomb of one who was poor in spirit--the humble, the transitory Jehanara, the disciple of the holy men of Cheest, the daughter of the Emperor Shah Jehan." Was there ever a more touching inscription? As I stood by this grave, on which the green gra.s.s was growing, and read these simple words, I was more moved than even when standing by the marble sarcophagus under the dome of the Taj. That covered an Emperor's wife, and was the monument of a royal husband's affection; this recalled a daughter's fidelity--broken in heart, yet loving and faithful, and devoted to the last.

But humiliations were to come to the house of Aurungzebe. As Louis XIV. on his deathbed had to mourn his haughty policy, which had ended in disaster and defeat, so Aurungzebe was hardly in his grave when troubles gathered round his house.[3] About thirty years after, a conqueror from Persia, Nadir Shah, came down from the pa.s.ses of the Himalayas, ravaged the North of India to the gates of Delhi, plundered the city and the palace, and carried off the Peac.o.c.k Throne--putting out the eyes of the Great Mogul, telling him in bitter mockery that he had no more need of his throne, since he had no longer eyes to see it!

Other sorrows followed hard after. The kingdom was overrun by the terrible Mahrattas, whose horses' hoofs had so often trampled the plains of India. Then came the English, who took Delhi at the beginning of this century. But still the phantom of the old Empire lived, and there was an Indian Rajah, who bore the sounding name of the Great Mogul. The phantom continued till the Mutiny twenty years ago, when this "King of Delhi" was set up by the Sepoys as their rallying cry. The overthrow of the Rebellion was the end of his house.

His sons were put to death, and he was sent into exile, and the Great Mogul ceased to reign.

But though he no longer reigns in Delhi, yet it is one of the chief centres of Islam in the world. Queen Victoria has more Mohammedan subjects than the Sultan. There are forty millions of Moslems in India. Delhi is their Mecca. It has some forty mosques, whose tall minarets and gilded domes produce a very brilliant effect. One especially, the Jumma Musjid, is the most magnificent in India. It stands on a high terrace, mounted by long flights of steps, which give it an imposing effect. Huge bronze doors open into a large court, with a fountain in the centre, and surrounded by arched pa.s.sages, like cloisters. Here are preserved with religious care some very ancient copies of the Koran, and the footprint of Mohammed in black marble (!), and (holiest relic of all) a coa.r.s.e red hair, which is said to have been plucked from the beard of the prophet!

Nor is Mohammedanism in India a dead faith, whose fire has died out, its forms only being still preserved. The recurrence of one of their festivals arouses their religious zeal to the highest pitch of fanaticism. We were in Delhi at the time of the Mohurrim, the Moslem "Feast of Martyrs," designed to commemorate the b.l.o.o.d.y deaths of the grandsons of Mohammed. Macaulay, in his review of the Life of Lord Clive, gives an instance in which this day was chosen for a military a.s.sault because of the frenzy with which it kindled all true Mussulmans. He says:

"It was the great Mohammedan festival, which is sacred to the memory of Hosein, the son of Ali. The history of Islam contains nothing more touching than the event which gave rise to that solemnity. The mournful legend relates how the chief of the Fatimites, when all his brave followers had perished round him, drank his latest draught of water and uttered his latest prayer; how the a.s.sa.s.sins carried his head in triumph; how the tyrant smote the lifeless lips with his staff; and how a few old men recollected with tears that they had seen those lips pressed to the lips of the Prophet of G.o.d. After the lapse of twelve centuries, the recurrence of this solemn season excites the fiercest and saddest emotions in the bosoms of the devout Moslems of India. They work themselves up to such agonies of rage and lamentation, that some, it is said, have given up the ghost from the mere effect of mental excitement."

Such was the celebration that we witnessed in Delhi. The martyrdom of these Moslem saints is commemorated by little shrines in their houses, made of paper and tinsel, and on the great day of the feast they go in procession out of the city to a cemetery five miles distant, and there bury them in hundreds of newly-opened graves. As we drove out of Delhi, we found the procession on its march; men, women, and children by tens of thousands on foot, and others in bullock-carts, or mounted on horses, camels, and elephants. Immense crowds gathered by the roadside, mounting the steps of old palaces, or climbing to the tops of houses, to see this mighty procession pa.s.s, as it went rolling forward in a wild frenzy to its Golgotha--its place of a skull. There they lay down these images of their saints as they would bury their dead. We went into the cemetery, and saw the open graves, and the little shrines garlanded with flowers, that were laid in the earth, not (so far as we saw) with weeping and wailing, but rather with a feeling of triumph and victory.

Leaving this scene of wild fanaticism, we rode on a few miles farther to the Kootub Minar, the loftiest isolated tower in the world, that has stood there six hundred years, looking down on all the strange scenes that have pa.s.sed within its horizon, since watchers from its summit saw the armies of Tamerlane march by. We rode back through a succession of ruins, stopping at several royal tombs, but most interested in one where the sons of the aged king of Delhi took refuge after the fall of the city, and from which they were taken out by Captain Hodson, and shot in the presence of their deluded followers, and their bodies exposed in the Chandney Chook, to the terror of the wretched people, who had seen the cruelty of these young princes, and were awed to see the retribution that overtook those who had stained their hands with blood.

This tragedy took place less than twenty years ago, and recalls that recent history from which fresh interest gathers round the walls of Delhi. This city played a great part in the Mutiny of 1857. Indeed it broke out at Meerut, thirty miles from here, where the Sepoys rose upon their officers, and ma.s.sacred the Europeans of both s.e.xes, and then rushed along the road to Delhi, to rouse the natives here to mutiny. Had those in command antic.i.p.ated such a blow, they might have rallied their little force, and shut themselves up in the Fort (as was done at Agra), with provisions and ammunition for a siege, and there kept the tigers at bay. But they could not believe that the native troops, that had been obedient till now, could "turn and rend them."

They were undeceived when they saw these Sepoys drunk with blood, rus.h.i.+ng into the town, calling on their fellow-soldiers to rise and kill. Many perished on the spot. But they fell not ingloriously. A brave officer shut himself up in the a.r.s.enal, and when the mutineers had gathered around, ready to burst in, applied the torch, and blew himself and a thousand natives into the air. The little handful of troops fled from the town, and were scarcely able to rally enough to be safe even at a distance. But then rose the unconquerable English spirit. With this small nucleus of an army, and such reinforcements as could be brought from the Punjaub, they held out through the long, dreadful Summer, till in September they had mustered all together seven thousand men (half of whom were natives), with which they proposed to a.s.sault a walled city held by sixty thousand native troops! Planting their guns on the Ridge, a mile or two distant, they threw sh.e.l.ls into the town, and as their fire took effect, they advanced their lines nearer and nearer. But they did not advance unopposed. Many of the Sepoys were practised artillerists (since the Mutiny all the artillery regiments in India are English), and answered back with fatal aim. Still, though the English ranks were thinned, they kept pus.h.i.+ng on; they came nearer and nearer, and the roar of their guns was louder and louder. Approaching the walls at one point, they wished to blow up the Cashmere Gate. It was a desperate undertaking. But when was English courage known to fail? A dozen men were detailed for the attempt. Four natives carried bags of powder on their shoulders, but as they drew within rifle range, English soldiers stepped up to take their places, for they would not expose their native allies to a danger which they were ready to encounter themselves. The very daring of the movement for an instant bewildered the enemy. The Sepoys within saw these men coming up to the gate, but thinking perhaps that they were deserters, did not fire upon them, and it was not till they darted back again that they saw the design. Then came the moment of danger, when the mine was to be fired. A sergeant advanced quickly, but fell mortally wounded; a second sprang to the post, but was shot dead; the third succeeded, but fell wounded; the fourth rushed forward, and seeing the train lighted sprang into the moat, the bullets whizzed over him, and the next instant a tremendous explosion threw the heavy wall into the air.

Such are the tales of courage still told by the camp-fires of the regiments here. More than once did we walk out to the Cashmere Gate, and from that point followed the track of the English troops as they stormed the city, pausing at the spot where the brave General Nicholson fell. With mingled pride and sadness, we visited his grave, and those of others who fell in the siege. The English church is surrounded with them, and many a tablet on its walls tells of the heroic dead. Such memories are a legacy to the living. We attended service there, and as we saw the soldiers filing into the church, and heard the swords of their officers ringing on the pavement, we felt that the future of India was safe when committed to such brave defenders!

This church was standing during the siege, and above it rose a gilded ball, supporting a cross, which was an object of hatred to both Mohammedan and Hindoo, who wished to see this symbol of our religion brought to the ground. Again and again they aimed their guns at it, and the globe was riddled with b.a.l.l.s, but still _the cross stood_, until the city was completely subdued, when it was reverently taken down by English hands, and carried to the Historical Museum, to be kept as a sacred relic. May we not take this as a sign of the way in which the Christian faith will stand against all the false religions of India?

But I turn from battles and sieges to a lighter picture. One may find great amus.e.m.e.nt in the street scenes of Delhi, which will relieve these "dun clouds of war." In the Mohammedan procession we had seen hundreds of the drollest little carts, drawn by oxen, on which the natives were stuck like pins, the sight of which, with the loads of happy life they bore, excited our envy. Before leaving Delhi, we thought it would be very "nice" to take a turn around the town in one of these extraordinary vehicles. We had tried almost every kind of locomotion; we had ridden on horses and donkeys, on camels and elephants, and had been borne in palanquins; but one more glory awaited us--to ride in a "bali,"--and so we commanded one to attend us for our royal pleasure. But when it drew up in the yard of the hotel, we looked at it in amazement. There stood the oxen, as ready to draw us as a load of hay; but what a "chariot" was this behind! It was a kind of baby-house on cart-wheels--a cus.h.i.+on and a canopy--one seat, with a sort of umbrella over it, under which a native "lady" sits in state, with her feet curled up between her. How we were to get into it was the question. There were three of us, for the surgeon of the Peshawur had joined us. C. of course had the place of honor, while the Doctor and I sat on the edge of the seat, with our lower limbs extended at right angles. The "bali" is rigged somewhat like an Irish jaunting-car, in which one sits sidewise, hanging over the wheels; only in a jaunting-car there is a board for the feet to rest upon, whereas here the feet are literally "nowhere." In the East there is no provision for the lower part of a man. Legs are very much in the way.

A Turk or Hindoo curls them up under him, and has done with them. But if an impracticable European will dangle them about where they ought not to be, he must take the consequences. I find that the only way is to look out for the main chance--to see that the body is safe, and let the legs take care of themselves. Then if an accident happens, I am not responsible; I have done my duty. So we now "faced the situation,"

and while the central personage reposed like a Sultana on a soft divan, her attendants faced in either direction, with their extremities flying all abroad. We felt as if sitting on the edge of a rickety chair, that might break any moment and pitch us into the street. But we held fast to the slender bamboo reeds that supported the canopy, and, thrusting our feet into the air, bade the chariot proceed.

The driver sits astride the tongue of the cart, and sets the thing going by giving the animals a kick in the rear, or seizing the tails and giving them a twist, which sets the beasts into an awkward, lumbering gallop. He was proud of his team, and wished to show us their mettle, and now gave the tails a Herculean twist, which sent them tearing like mad bulls along the street. Everybody turned to look at us, while we laughed at the absurdity of our appearance, and wished that we could have our photograph taken to send home. Thus we rode to the great Mosque of the city, and through the Chandney Chook, the street of the bazaars, and back to our hotel, having had glory enough for one day.

FOOTNOTE:

[3] There are many parallels between Louis XIV. and Aurungzebe. They were contemporaries--and both had long reigns, the former a little over, and the latter a little less than, half a century. They were the most splendid sovereigns of their time--one in Europe, and the other in Asia, and with both the extravagance and prodigality of the monarchs prepared the way for revolution after their deaths.

CHAPTER XIV.

FROM DELHI TO LAh.o.r.e.

Times have changed since twenty years ago, when Delhi was the head and front of the Rebellion. It is now as tranquil and loyal as any city in India. As we rode out to the Ridge, where the English planted their guns during the siege, we found it surmounted by a lofty Memorial Tower, reared to mark the spot where the courage of a few thousand men saved India. So completely is the English power re-established, that Delhi was lately chosen over all Indian cities as the one where should be gathered the most imposing display of troops to do honor to their future sovereign, the Prince of Wales. Some forty regiments, native and English, were mustered here to form a grand Camp of Exercise.

Never before had India witnessed such a military display. Here were native regiments in the picturesque costumes of the East--the superb Sikh cavalry; a corps of guides mounted on camels; and heavy artillery drawn by elephants, which, as they came before the Prince, threw up their trunks and trumpeted a salute to the Majesty of England. Two weeks pa.s.sed in military manoeuvres, and the nights in a constant round of festivities. The Fort was brilliantly illuminated, and the Palace was thronged with "fair women and brave men," but they were those of another race, and speaking another language, from any known to the Great Mogul. Manly English forms took the place of the dusky Hindoos, and bright English eyes shone where once the beauties of the Seraglio "looked out from the lattice." As we walked through these marble halls that had just witnessed these splendid festivities, I could but think, What would the old fanatical Mohammedan Aurungzebe have said, if he could have seen, less than two hundred years after his day, a Christian prince from that distant island of which he had perhaps scarcely heard, received in his palace, the heir of a power ten thousand miles away, that from its seat on the banks of the Thames stretches out its hand across the seas to grasp and hold the vast empire of the house of Tamerlane?

The change has been from darkness to light. If England has not done as much for Delhi as the Great Mogul to give it architectural beauty, it has done far more for the people. It has given them good government for their protection, just laws rigidly enforced against the rich as well as the poor, a police which preserves perfect order; and it even cares for the material comfort of its subjects, giving them good roads, clean and well-lighted streets, and public gardens; thus providing for ornament and pleasure as well as for utility.

The Camp of Exercise was breaking up as we left Delhi, and the troops were marching home. We saw them filing out of the gates of the city, and drew up by the roadside to see the gallant warriors pa.s.s. Among them was the corps of Sikh guides, or couriers, mounted on "swift dromedaries." As they were scattered along the road, our guide asked some of them to show us how they could go. In an instant they dashed their feet against the sides of their "coursers," and set them off at full speed. I cannot say that they were very beautiful objects. The camel with his long strides, and with the legs of his rider outspread like the wings of a bird, looked like an enormous ostrich flying at once with legs and wings in swift chase over the desert. But certainly it was a picturesque sight. The infantry marched in column. The spectacle was very gay, as the morning sun shone on the waving banners and gleaming bayonets, and the sound of their bugles died away in the distance. Regiments had been leaving for days, and were scattered at intervals far to the North. As we travelled at night, we saw their camp-fires for a hundred miles. Indeed the whole country seemed to be a camp. Once or twice we came upon a regiment at sunset, just as they had pitched their tents. They had parked their guns, and picketed their horses, and the men were cooking their evening meal. It was a busy scene for an hour or two, till suddenly all became quiet, and the silence of night was broken only by the sentinel's tramp and the jackal's cry.

At Gazeeabad we met Sir Bartle Frere, the chief of the suite of the Prince of Wales, and Canon Duckworth, his chaplain, who were going North on the same train, and found them extremely courteous. The former, I think, must be of French descent from his name (although his family has been settled in England for generations), and from his manners, which seemed to me more French than English, or rather to have the good qualities of both. When French courtesy is united with English sincerity, it makes the finest gentleman in the world. He is an "old Indian," having been many years in the Indian service, and at one time Governor of Bombay. I could but share the wish (which I heard often expressed) that in the change which was just taking place, he were to be the new Governor-General of India.