From Egypt to Japan

by Henry M. Field

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 manœuvres, 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 fêtes 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.