From Egypt to Japan

by Henry M. Field

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 Peacock 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 passed 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 nobler 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 grass 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 grass 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 passes of the Himalayas, ravaged the North of India to the gates of Delhi, plundered the city and the palace, and carried off the Peacock 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 passages, 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 coarse 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 bloody 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 assault 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 assassins 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 God. 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 pass, 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 passed 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 massacred the Europeans of both sexes, and then rushed along the road to Delhi, to rouse the natives here to mutiny. Had those in command anticipated 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, rushing 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 Arsenal, 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 assault a walled city held by sixty thousand native troops! Planting their guns on the Ridge, a mile or two distant, they threw shells 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 pushing 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 balls, 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 amusement 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 cushion 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.