FROM DELHI TO LAHORE.
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 passed 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 pass. 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.
Canon Duckworth seemed to me also a very "manly man." Though coming to
India in the train of royalty, he is much less interested in the fetes
which are setting the country ablaze, than in studying missions,
visiting native churches and schools and orphanages. Our American
missionaries like his bearing, and wish that he might be appointed the
new Bishop of Bombay. One fact should be mentioned to his credit--that
he is one of the strongest temperance men in England, carrying his
principles and his practice to the point of rigid total abstinence,
which, for one travelling in such company, and sitting at such
entertainments, shows a firmness in resisting temptation, greatly to
his honor. It is a good sign when such men are chosen to accompany
the future King of England on his visit to this great dependency, over
which he is one day to rule.
That night we had our first sight of the Himalayas. Just at evening we
saw on the horizon a fire spreading on the side of a mountain. It was
kindled by the natives, as fires are sometimes lighted in our forests
or on our prairies. There were the Himalayas!
We now entered the most Northwestern Province of India, the Punjaub,
which signifies in Persian "the land of the five streams," which
coming together like the fingers of a hand, make the Indus. About
midnight we crossed the Sutlej, which was the limit of the conquests
of Alexander the Great.
Morning brought us to Umritzur, the holy city of the Sikhs--a sect of
reformed Hindoos, who began their "reforms" by rejecting idolatry, but
have found the fascination of the old worship too strong for them, and
have gradually fallen back into their old superstitions. Their most
holy place is a temple standing in the centre of a large tank of
water, which they call the Lake of Immortality, and with its pure
white marble, and its roof made of plates of copper, richly gilded,
merits the title of the Golden Temple. This is a very holy place, and
they would not let us even cross the causeway to it without taking off
our shoes; and when we put on slippers, and shuffled about, still they
followed, watching us with sharp eyes, lest by any unguarded step we
should profane their sanctuary. They are as fanatical as Mussulmans,
and glared at us with such fierce looks that the ladies of our party
were almost frightened. In the centre of the temple sat two priests,
on raised mats, to whom the rest were making offerings, while half a
dozen musicians kept up a hideous noise, to which the people responded
in a way that reminded us of the Howling Dervishes of Constantinople.
A pleasant change from this disgusting scene was a visit to the
bazaars, and to the places where Cashmere shawls are manufactured. Of
the latter I must say that (as a visit to a dirty kitchen does not
quicken one's appetite for the steaming dinner that comes from it), if
our fine ladies could see the dens in which these shawls are woven,
they might not wear them with quite so much pride. They are close,
narrow rooms, in which twenty or thirty men are crowded together,
working almost without light or air. The only poetical thing about it
is that the patterns are written out _in rhyme_, which they read or
sing as they weave, and thus keep the patterns so regular. But the
rooms themselves seem like breeding places for the cholera and the
plague. But out of this filth comes beauty, as a flower shoots up from
the damp, black soil. Some of the shawls were indeed exquisite in
pattern and fabric. One was offered to us for eight hundred rupees
(four hundred dollars), which the dealer said had taken two years and
a half in its manufacture!
We left Umritzur at five o'clock, and in a couple of hours rolled into
the station at Lahore. As the train stopped a friendly voice called
our name, and we were greeted most heartily by Dr. Newton, the father
of the Mission. Coolies were waiting to carry our baggage, and in a
few minutes we were in an American home, sitting before a blazing
fire, and receiving a welcome most grateful to strangers on the other
side of the world. Dr. Newton is the head of a missionary family, his
four sons being engaged in the same work, while his only daughter is
the wife of Mr. Forman, another missionary. Very beautiful it was to
see how they all gathered round their father, so revered and beloved,
happy to devote their lives to that form of Christian activity to
which he had led them both by instruction and example. Here we spent
four happy days in one of the most pleasant homes in India.
Lahore, like Delhi, has a historical interest. It was a great city a
thousand years ago. In 1241 it was taken and plundered by Genghis
Khan; a century and a half later came Tamerlane, who did not spoil it
only because it was too poor to reward his rapacity. But as it
recovered a little of its prosperity, Baber, in 1524, plundered it and
partially burnt it. But again it rose from its ashes, and became a
great city. The period of its glory was during the time of the Moguls,
when it covered a space eighteen miles in circumference, and this vast
extent is still strewn with the ruins of its former greatness. Huge
mounds, like those which Layard laid open at Nineveh, cover the mighty
wreck of former cities.
But though the modern city bears no comparison to the ancient, still
it has a political and commercial importance. It is the capital of the
Punjaub, and a place of commerce with Central Asia. The people are the
finest race we have seen in India. They are not at all like the
effeminate Bengalees. They are the Highlanders of India. Tall and
athletic, they seem born to be warriors. Their last great ruler, old
Runjeet Sing, was himself a soldier, and knew how to lead them to
victory. Uniting policy with valor, he kept peace with the English,
against whom his successors dashed themselves and were destroyed. All
readers of Indian history will remember the Sikh war, and how
desperate was the struggle before the Punjaub was subdued. But English
prowess conquered at last, and the very province that had fought so
bravely became the most loyal part of the Indian empire. It was
fortunate that at the breaking out of the mutiny the Governor of the
Punjaub was Sir John Lawrence, who had a great ascendancy over the
natives, and by his courage and prompt measures he succeeded not only
in keeping them quiet, but in mustering here a considerable force to
restore English authority in the rest of India. The Punjaubees took
part in the siege of Delhi. From that day they have been the most
trusted of natives for their courage and their fidelity. They are
chosen for police duty in the cities of India, and three months later
we were much pleased to recognize our old friends keeping guard and
preserving order in the streets of Hong Kong.
Old Runjeet Sing is dead--and well dead, as I can testify, having seen
his tomb, where his four wives and seven concubines, that were burnt
on his funeral pile, are buried with him. His son too sleeps in a tomb
near by, but only seven widowed women were sacrificed for him, and for
a grandson only four! Thus there was a falling off in the glory of the
old suttee, and then the light of these fires went out altogether.
These were the last widows burnt on the funeral pile, and to-day the
old Lion of the Punjaub is represented by his son Maharajah Dhuleep
Sing, of whose marriage we heard such a romantic story in Cairo, and
who now lives with his Christian wife in Christian England.
We had now reached almost the frontier of India. Two hundred and fifty
miles farther we should have come to Peshawur, the last military post,
on the border of Afghanistan, which no man crosses but at the peril of
his life. We find how far North we have come by the race and the
language of the people. Persian begins to be mingled with Hindostanee.
In the streets of Lahore we meet not only the stalwart Punjaubees, but
the hill tribes, that have come out of the fastnesses of the
Himalayas; the men of Cabul--Afghans and Beloochees--who have a
striking resemblance to the Circassians, who crossed the Mediterranean
with us on their pilgrimage to Mecca, the long dresses of coarse,
dirty flannel, looking not unlike the sheepskin robes of the wild
mountaineers of the Caucasus.
One cannot be so near the border line of British India without having
suggested the possibility of a Russian invasion, the fear of which has
been for the last twenty years (since the Mutiny and since the Crimean
War) the bugbear of certain writers who are justly jealous of the
integrity of the English Empire in the East. Russia has been steadily
pushing Eastward, and establishing her outposts in Central Asia. These
gradual advances, it is supposed, are all to the end of finally
passing through Afghanistan, and attacking the English power in India.
The appearance of Russian soldiers in the passes of the Hindoo Koosh,
it is taken for granted, will be the signal for a general insurrection
in India; the country will be in a state of revolution; and at the end
of a struggle in which Russians and Hindoos will fight together
against the English, the British power will have departed never to
return. Or even should the Russians be held back from actual invasion,
their approach in a threatening attitude would be such a menace to the
Indian Empire, as would compel England to remain passive, while Russia
carried out her designs in Europe by taking possession of
Constantinople.
This is a terrible prospect, and no one can say that it is impossible
that all this should yet come to pass. India has been invaded again
and again from the time of Alexander the Great. Even the mighty wall
of the Himalayas has not proved an effectual barrier against invasion.
Genghis Khan and Tamerlane, with their Tartar hordes, crossed the
mountains and swept over the plains of Northern India. A King of
Persia captured Delhi, and put out the eyes of the Great Mogul, and
carried off the Peacock Throne of Aurungzebe. What has been, may be;
what Persia has done, Russia may do.
But while no one can say that it is impossible, all can see that the
difficulties are enormous. The distance to be traversed, the deserts
and the mountains to be crossed, are so many obstacles set up by
nature itself. An army from the Caspian Sea must march thousands of
miles over great deserts, where even a small caravan can hardly
subsist, and then only by carrying both food to eat and water to
drink. Many a caravan is buried by the sands of the desert. What then
must be the difficulty of passing a whole army over such a distance
and such a desert, with food for men and horses, and carrying guns and
all the munitions of war! Five years ago, Russia attempted a campaign
against Khiva, and sent out three separate expeditions, one of which
was forced to turn back, not by hostile armies, but by the natural
obstacles in its path, while the main column, under Gen. Kaufman, came
very near succumbing to heat and thirst before reaching its
destination. But if the deserts are crossed, then the army is at the
foot of the loftiest mountains on the globe, in the passes of which it
may have to fight against savage enemies. It is assumed that Russia
will have the support of Afghanistan, which will give them free access
to the country, and aid them in their march on India; though how a
government and people, which are fanatically Mussulman, should aid
Russia, which in Europe is the bitterest enemy of Turkey, the great
Mohammedan power, is a point which these alarmists seem not to
consider.
But suppose all difficulties vanquished--the deserts crossed and the
mountains scaled, and the Russians descending the passes of the
Himalayas--what an army must they meet at its foot! Not a feeble race,
like that which fled before Nadir Shah or Tamerlane. With the railways
traversing all India, almost the whole Anglo-Indian army could be
transported to the Punjaub in a few days, and ready to receive the
invaders.
With these defences in the country itself, add another supreme fact,
that England is absolute master of the sea, and that Russia has no
means of approach except over the deserts and the mountains, and it
will be seen that the difficulties in the way of a Russian invasion
render it practically impossible, at least for a long time to come.
What may come to pass in another century, no man can foresee; but of
this I feel well assured, that there will be no Russian invasion
within the lifetime of this generation.
We had now reached the limit of our journey to the North, though we
would have gladly gone farther. Dr. Newton had spent the last summer
in Cashmere, and told us much of its beauty. We longed to cross the
mountains, but it was too early in the year. The passes were still
blocked up with snow. It would be months before we could make our way
over into the Vale of Cashmere. And so, though we "lifted up our eyes
unto the hills," we had to turn back from seeing the glory beyond.
Might we not comfort ourselves by saying with Mohammed, as he looked
down upon Damascus, "There is but one Paradise for man, and I will
turn away my eyes from this, lest I lose that which is to come."
And so we turned away our eyes from beholding Paradise. But we had
seen enough. So we thought as on Saturday evening we rode out to the
Shalamir gardens, where an emperor had made a retreat, and laid out
gardens with fountains, and every possible accompaniment of luxury and
pride. All remains as he left it, but silent and deserted. Emperor and
court are gone, and as we walked through the gardens, our own footfall
on the marble pavement was the only sound that broke the stillness of
the place. But the beauty is as great as ever under the clear, full
moon, which, as we rode back, recalled the lines of Scott on Melrose:
"And home returning, sooth declare,
Was ever scene so sad and fair?"