There are only three European warders in this prison, and nearly all the remainder are good-conduct prisoners. One who accompanied us, holding a huge umbrella over my head, had thrown a man down a well in a fit of temper. In the cook-house we saw them busy baking thousands of chapatties, or flat cakes, of coarse meal, the only food they require. The difficulty of caste is got over here, by the Brahmins, or highest caste, being alone employed for the cooking.
We bought some very pretty ornaments to-day made of soapstone, a clay of a warm grey tint, and which forms beautifully clean raised patterns on boxes, and card-trays, &c.
Monday, January 26th.—We began our morning with a disappointment. We had intended to drive out twenty-three miles to Futtehpore Sikri, to see the village of palaces and princely buildings of Akbar's first metropolis, abandoned for the fort at Agra on account of its unhealthiness; but we were confronted with the tiresome detail of not having given notice the previous day for relays of horses along the road. Hoping perhaps to return to Agra, we determined to leave for Delhi by the midday train.
In going to the station, we saw a touching sight. A bier covered with flowers was set on the ground, and a little group were squatted resignedly around—mute, not weeping, but looking helplessly and steadfastly at the bier. The chief mourner had taken his place at the head. And this is the sight you often see as you pass down some quiet avenue, or near approach to the river banks—a mournful little party, a few bearers carrying the bier uplifted, and hurrying down towards the sacred river with their burden, crying as they pass along that mournful wail, "The name of God is true. If you speak true, it will bring salvation."
Eight hours' journey brought us in the evening to Delhi. We found the "Northbrook" so full of Americans (for we meet such numbers of them travelling in India, come across from "Frisco" to Japan and China, and taking India on their way to Europe, generally bent on arriving to Rome for Easter week), so we took refuge at the United Service Hotel. Here there is the officious, though, be it said, intelligent guide, Baboo Dass, well known to travellers at Delhi.
A word about the hotels. An Indian hotel is the embodiment of dirt and discomfort. There is nothing to complain of in the food, but the rooms are damp and cellar-like, with whitewashed walls, and the barest amount of furniture. Dressing is a lengthy process, when you have to divide your toilette between a brick-floored bath-room, and a dressing-room with one looking glass and a chair, and a bedroom equally dismal. Moreover, they are built solely with regard to the heat, and in the cold nights and frosty mornings you suffer bitterly from the draught of air-traps from skylights in the roof, and doors and windows that refuse, and are never intended to close tightly. Added to this there are the multitude of servants from whose incessant attention you suffer much annoyance, no one man doing the same thing. On leaving an hotel a crowd of at least six are awaiting backsheesh—the Khitmutgar, the Sirdar, the Bheestie, the Sweeper, &c. No exception can be made for any one hotel. We found them all equally atrocious, even including those of Bombay and Calcutta.
Tuesday, January 27th.—We drove along the Mall of the civil lines, where was lying the encampment of a collector or other provincial officer travelling on his annual round of inspection. We passed under the battered portals of the Cashmere Gate, so famed for its noble defence during the Mutiny. Just on the other side of this is Skinner's Church. Colonel Skinner married first, as was natural, an Englishwoman, and built this church; but, secondly, he married a Mohammedan, and then the mosque opposite was built; but, last of all, he espoused a Hindu, when the Hindu temple, a little way off, came into existence. He used to say that when he died he would be sure of going to the heaven of the best religion.
Delhi has a fort, containing a palace, a Dewas-i-Khas, a Dewas-i-Am, a pearl mosque, and a Jâma Musjid, similar and in the same position as at Agra. But all, with the exception of the mosque, are but a feeble reproduction of the latter. Shah Jahan, as we know, founded Delhi, but the works he accomplished were but a feeble and poor imitation of those of his noble grandfather Akbar at Agra.
The four splendid gateways of the Fort, with their grand red colouring and coping of domes, would appear to be copied from the gateway of the Taj.
We entered by the Lahore gate, and passed under the vaulted causeway known as the chattahs, or umbrella of the king, and where the military bazaar now maintains a certain air of picturesqueness.