The Durbar at Lahore was wondrous even among these occasions which have all excited wonder. The princes, the chiefs, the feudatories of the empire, from the Punjab, the Himalayas, the Trans-Indus frontier, and even from Afghanistan, vied with each other in doing honour to the man who in their eyes was the embodiment of British might, and had returned as the Queen’s representative to the centre-point of his labours and the scene of his former triumphs. This moment was the second of the two proudest moments of his life, the first having been that at the Guildhall in London. He found his bosom friend, Sir Robert Montgomery (to whom he had made over charge of the Punjab when departing for England in 1859), still in the position of Lieutenant-Governor. The manner in which his services were remembered by his old associates, is shown by the following passage from the Lieutenant-Governor’s speech, which was applauded with rapture: “Then came 1857. The Punjab under his grasp stood firm. Delhi must be regained or India lost. The Punjab was cut off from all aid. It poured down at his bidding from its hills and plains the flower of the native chivalry. The city was captured and we were saved. We are here to welcome him this day, in a hall erected to his memory by his Punjab friends.”
His Durbar was held in a beautiful plain lying between the castellated city of Lahore and the river Ravi, which became for the nonce a tented field. Moving to his place there, he looked around at the noble mosque turned by the Sikhs into a magazine, but lately restored to the Moslems by the British—at the palace of the Mogul emperors—at the tomb of Runjeet Sing, the Lion-king of the Punjab—and further off across the river, at the still nobler mausoleum of the emperor Jehangir. Amidst these historic surroundings he addressed to the assembly a speech in the vernacular of Hindostan, probably the first speech that had ever been made by a Viceroy in this language. The whole of his well-considered oration is worth reproduction; but the quoting of one passage only must suffice.
“I recognise the sons of my old allies, the Maharaja of Cashmere and Puttiala: the Sikh chiefs of Malwa and the Manjha; the Rajpût chiefs of the hills: the Mahommedan Mulliks of Peshawur and Kohat; the Sirdars of the Derajat, of Hazara, and of Delhi. All have gathered together to do honour to their old ruler. My friends! Let me tell you of the great interest which the illustrious Queen of England takes in all matters connected with the welfare, comfort and contentment of the people of India. Let me inform you, when I returned to my native country, and had the honour of standing in the presence of Her Majesty, how kindly she asked after the welfare of her subjects in the East. Let me tell you, when that great Queen appointed me her Viceroy of India, how warmly she enjoined on me the duty of caring for your interests. Prince Albert, the Consort of Her Majesty, the fame of whose greatness and goodness has spread through the whole world, was well acquainted with all connected with this country, and always evinced an ardent desire to see its people happy and flourishing.”
His next Durbar was at Agra, again in a tented plain near the river Jumna, almost within sight of the peerless Taj Mahal, with its gleaming marble, the acknowledged gem of all the architecture in the world, and not far from the red-stone fortress of Akbar the Great. Hither he had summoned the princes and chiefs of two great divisions of the empire which are still almost entirely under Native administration. He utilises the pomp and magnificence with which he is surrounded, in order to give weight and solemnity to his exhortation. Again he delivers to the assembly a speech in the language of Hindostan, which really forms an imperial lecture to Oriental rulers on the duty of ruling well, and is probably the most noteworthy utterance of this description that ever proceeded from British lips. Every sentence, almost every word, of his oration was adapted to a Native audience. Without any vain compliments he reminds them of their besetting faults, and declares to them, “that peace and that security from outward violence which the British Government confers on your territories, you must each of you extend to your people.” He admonishes them, in tones bland and dignified but still earnest and impressive, to improve their roads for traffic, their schools for the young, their hospitals for the sick, their police for repressing crime, their finances. He urges them to enlighten their minds by travelling beyond their own dominions. Knowing their passion for posthumous fame and their leaning towards flattery, he takes advantage of these sentiments thus,
“It has often happened after a chief has passed away that he has not been remembered as a good ruler. Great men while living often receive praise for virtues which they do not possess; and it is only after this life is ended that the real truth is told. The names of conquerors are forgotten. But those of virtuous chiefs live for ever.”
Then in order to add encouragement, after impressive advice, he proceeds thus—in reference to their disputes among themselves regarding precedence—
“The British Government will honour that chief most who excels in the management of his people, and does most for the improvement of his country. There are chiefs in this Durbar who have acquired a reputation in this way—I may mention the Maharaja Scindia and the Bêgum of Bhopal. The death of the late Nawab Ghour Khan of Jowrah was a cause of grief to me, for I have heard that he was a wise and beneficent ruler. The Raja of Sîtamow in Malwa is now ninety years old, and yet it is said that he manages his country very well. The Raja of Ketra in Jeyepore has been publicly honoured for the wise arrangements he has made in his lands.”
His third and last Durbar was at Lucknow, after the controversy (already mentioned) with the Talukdars had been happily settled. They found that the compromise on which he insisted for the protection of their tenants, was quite workable, that it left a suitable margin for the landlords, and that with its acceptance the thorough support of the British Government to their Talukdâri status would be secured. So they in their turn emulated their brethren of other provinces in doing him honour. Mounted on seven hundred elephants in a superb procession, they rode with him into Lucknow past the ruins (carefully preserved) of the hastily formed defences, and of the battered Residency where his brother Henry had been mortally wounded. The city of Lucknow is artistically not so fine as Lahore and Agra, the scenes of the two former Durbars; still he is greeted by a fair spectacle, as the city stands with a long perspective of cupolas, towers and minarets on the bank of the Goomti. The aspect of Lucknow has never been better described than by the greatest man who ever ruled there, his brother Henry, who wrote:
“The modern city of Lucknow is both curious and splendid. There is a strange dash of European architecture among its Oriental buildings. Travellers have compared the place to Moscow and Constantinople, and we can easily fancy the resemblance: gilded domes surmounted by the crescent; tall slender pillars and lofty colonnades; houses that look as if they had been transplanted from Regent Street; iron railings and balustrades; cages some containing wild beasts, others filled with strange bright birds; gardens, fountains, and litters, and English barouches.”
Again there comes the gorgeous assemblage in the tented field with the speech in Hindostani from his dais as Viceroy, and the last of these dramatic occasions is over. Believing this to be his final utterance in public Durbar, he throws a parting solemnity into his language. After acknowledging the address just presented by the Talukdars, whereby they admit the considerateness towards them, as superior land-owners, with which the rights of the subordinate proprietor and tenancy-holders had been defined—he speaks to them thus: “Talukdars! Though we differ in race, in religion, in habits of thought, we are all created by the same God; we are all bound by the same general laws; and we shall all have to give an account to Him at the last of the manner in which we have obeyed His commandments. In this way there is a common bond of union among us all, whether high or low, rich or poor, learned or ignorant.”