Forty Thousand Miles Over Land and Water

In the afternoon we revisited the Residency and the Imambara. Returning from the latter we stopped to watch a band of prisoners at work on a new railway embankment, in charge of their orange clad gaolers. They were all heavily chained, and whilst carrying the earth to and fro in baskets and throwing it down at the feet of the overseer, we could not help thinking that the gaolers were unnecessarily harsh, the use of the switch in their hands too frequent, with the often-repeated "chillau." We waited to see them marched away from their work, hand in hand, the road being previously kept clear of the friends who were waiting to catch a glimpse of them at a distance. Some of the men were very old and tired, whilst others only walked with great difficulty, on account of the tightness of their chains.

We drove through the lines of the Cantonment, the military and civil, with their rows of bungalows, all with that untidy and temporary look which characterizes the bungalow. It is very strange, when driving up to one to call, to draw up opposite the drawing-room window in the verandah. Indian society under these circumstances gives you no opportunity for the polite untruth of "not at home." Many of the bungalows we went into in the course of our Indian travels were very pretty with their bright foulquaries and striped purdahs, but I can never grow accustomed to the lazy necessity of ground-floor bedrooms, opening to and separated from the drawing-room only by a curtain. Of course there are all manner of appliances against the heat—a punkah, pulled day and night by relays of "wallahs;" shutter-doors and windows, to keep the rooms dark and yet cool; chicks, or fine wooden venetian blinds; and "tatties" placed in windows and doorways. These latter are formed of the root of a grass, and, kept constantly moist, freshen the air which passes through them into the room. It is also strange, when you wish to buy anything, to be driven by an avenue up to a bungalow—the shop.

We called on General Dillon, who is at present commanding the division here, and then driving down "the Mall," the inevitable accompaniment to "the lines," we listened to the band playing till the malarious mist drove us home. We noticed the church of Christchurch, whose pinnacles were being repaired after the damage done them by the storm as we came home, and the more humble structure of the American Presbyterian Mission Church.

It is said that these missions do far more good than the S.P.G. or C.M.S. Societies of the Church of England, on account of the divisions of High and Low Church of the latter, for the natives come and ask if they are of different religions.

C. went to see Lord Randolph Churchill, who arrived in Lucknow early this morning, and who is having a splendid reception from Europeans and natives wherever he goes. Every spot in and about Lucknow is marked by reminiscences of the Mutiny, some position of the enemy snatched from them by our troops, some palace or garden more hotly disputed; but you need to be an enthusiastic tactician to thoroughly appreciate the interest which attaches to Lucknow, the city and centre of the scenes of the Mutiny.

Saturday, January 24th.—Getting up this morning at 6 a.m., and dressing by the modest light of one candle, was a miserable struggle. The extreme changes of temperature which one is subjected to during one day's travelling in India is very trying. From the intense cold of the early start we warm into life at 10 a.m., and by noon are suffering from the heat. At sundown the chill creeps on again, and by night the bitter cold returns, Through the day we are alternating from ulster to dust-cloak, and returning at last to the warmth of our morning friend.

We had reached the second state of temperature by the time we arrived at Cawnpore, where we were to spend the day. The Railway Hotel, kept by Mr. Lee, is atrociously bad, and certainly ought not to be taken as a fair specimen of a Dâk Bungalow, as usually, and especially when under Government management, they are excellent. The Dâk Bungalow is an important feature in Indian travelling. Maintained by the Government, a fixed charge is made, and the traveller enters in a book the sum paid, with date of departure and arrival. He is only entitled to shelter for forty-eight hours, in accordance with the postal rules. A miserable breakfast determined us to take refuge at the station for dinner. We had a pleasant rest of some hours sitting reading in the verandah, before starting.

Cawnpore may be described as a dreary plain, across which in dotted lines run the cantonment barracks, whilst clouds of dust trace the numerous roads which intersect it in all directions. A single bullock-cart raises for the moment an impenetrable wall of sand.

The Memorial Church of All Souls stands out conspicuously amongst a cluster of trees on the plain. It is of red brick, faced with white stone, and looks like a handsome village church. The inside is disappointing. The mural tablets to those who fell during the Mutiny cover the walls, the only fine one in marble being that erected to the Engineers. One cannot help wishing that instead of the usual ugly white tablet in the form of a tomb or urn bordered with black, some great, some beautiful monument had been designed with a grand inscription, like the one we were to see presently in the garden. The black dome of the chancel is somewhat curious, being intended to represent the heavens, with the constellations in gold. Fourteen memorial tablets form the semicircle of the chancel, giving the name of each and every one who died during the siege. The inscription opens as follows:—

"To the glory of God: and in memory of more than 1000 Christian people who met their deaths hard by between the 6th June and the 15th July, 1857."

By the side of the church there is a flat slab, paved round with blue and white marble, with the inscription in raised letters, arranged so as to form a cross. Here Major Vibart with seventy officers and soldiers are buried, who, after escaping from the massacre, were recaptured and murdered. We were now within Wheeler's Entrenchment, the small enclosure, protected only by a mud wall of four feet high, hastily thrown up, and where the besieged maintained themselves for twenty-one days. We could trace the entrenchment exactly by means of the small posts set up, with "W. E." on them. Then we came to another monument, built on the site where St. John's Church stood at the time of the siege. Here seventy-five Eurasians and natives, with their families, had taken refuge after the evacuation of the entrenchment, and were murdered to a man by order of Nana Sahib. Our interest is still further deepened when we see the stone well, riddled with shot, yet used, where the oxen still toil up and down the inclined causeway. It lies just outside the entrenchment, and was the only water the besieged could obtain. Every drop was fetched at the risk of life, with shots dropping at random over the open space that had to be traversed.

Next we go some distance away to the well, where an awful memory still clings of the midnight parties bringing each night the bodies of victims who had died of cholera, heat, apoplexy, small-pox, or wounds during the day. They were thrown into the well as the only means of safe disposal for the survivors; and Captain Jenkins, who still held the bungalow commanding the position, kept up a covering fire for these parties. The spot is now made into a garden, and marked by a Byzantine cross, with this inscription:—"Under this cross were laid, by the hands of their fellows in suffering, the bodies of those men, women, and children, who died near by during the heroic defence of Wheeler's Entrenchment, when beleaguered by the rebel Nana, June 6th to 27th, A.D. 1857." And on the pedestal of the cross,—"'Our bones are scattered at the grave's mouth, as when one cutteth and cleaveth wood upon the earth; but our eyes are unto thee, O God the Lord.'—Psalm cxli." Four smaller crosses at the corners give the names of the officers and the men of their regiments whose bodies were thrown into the well. Captain Jenkins is one of them, and it is told how Private Murphy was the only individual of the C company of the 84th Regiment who escaped.

Then we drove about a mile away to the deep ravine called the Suttee Chowra Ghât. Here were the very steps, shaded by the same peepul-tree, where the men, women, and children went down on their way to embark from the ghât on the river. They had surrendered to Nana Sahib, as will be remembered, on the condition of being transported in boats up the Ganges to Allahabad. The women and children had embarked in the open boats, and been pushed into the middle of the stream. The stone platform flanked by two archways was crowded with others. There was a cry of "Treachery!" and the soldiers of Nana Sahib, acting under his orders, opened fire. Volley after volley was fired upon the helpless occupants of each boat; a hidden battery of guns behind a tree being brought to bear upon those on the landing-stage. It became a wholesale butchery. The women and children who were captured and not massacred were taken that night to the Assembly Rooms. Here atrocities were committed such as even the page of history cannot detail, until a century has passed, and the victims and their near relations shall be laid to rest; some cannot ever be mentioned in the ears of ladies, but the world learnt then, if it never learnt before, what our sex can endure. One lady killed the native with his own sword, when he attempted, with Nana's permission, to take her away to his house. Thus they remained for upwards of a fortnight, when, at Havelock's approach, Nana Sahib ordered a general massacre at the Assembly Rooms, the "House of Massacre" as it came to be called. The natives would not hold the Europeans whilst their throats were cut, because it was against their caste, and then Nana ordered his officers to get men to cut or fire them down. One hundred were told off for the men, one hundred for the women. After incessant firing for several hours, whether on purpose or not was never known, only two were found to have been killed. At last Nana found five butchers, belonging to the Bhowrie, or lowest caste of all, who undertook the bloody slaughter. For five hours, from five till ten in the morning, they cut and slashed, till few were left. The bodies were cast into a well. This well became so full that, the water causing the bodies to swell, many rose above the surface, when branches of trees were laid across to keep them under.

It is on this awful spot that the most perfect monument, full of beauty and peace, has been so fitly erected.

In the centre of the memorial garden stands the lovely statue of Marochetti. It is a white marble figure, draped, with head downcast and eyes full of tender sorrow. The hands are crossed on the breast, each holding the palm-branch of victory, and the large curving wings are unfolded. The delicate delineation of each feather on the latter shows the perfect finish of the whole. The palm-branches rise over each shoulder, from the declivity of the wings, where they are joined behind, and in the centre there is a white marble cross, against which the figure is supposed to be leaning. The drooping attitude and the gentle expression of sorrow are very touching.

The angel figure seems to be declaring to us the inscription over the entrance, "These are they which came out of great tribulation, and have washed their robes."

The carved octagonal screen, showing daylight between its delicate tracery, is worthy of the beautiful monument it surrounds and guards. The harmony of the whole is maintained by the repetition of the octagonal form. The screen is octagonal, and so are the steps which descend to the richly carved pillar. The three tiers of marble, the pedestal of the figure, are also octagonal. The purity and beauty of the memorial is completed by the inscription: "Sacred to the Perpetual Memory of a Great Company of Christian People, chiefly Women and Children, who near this spot were cruelly massacred by the Followers of the Rebel Nana, Dhoondopoor of Bithoor, and cast, the Dying with the Dead, into this well below on the 15th day of July, 1857."

The "House of Massacre" is below the slope of the memorial, and is marked by a white cross on a black marble base. The original little cross is shown inside the burial-ground, the base of which marked the well, and the cross at the top the House of Massacre—a poor but touching little memorial, "raised by twenty men of the same regiment, who were passing through Cawnpore" some time afterwards, as it tells us. The burial-ground is on the spot where two bungalows adjoining the Assembly Rooms were found, whose walls were written in blood, describing the agonies of the prisoners. They were destroyed by Havelock's soldiers, and the spot selected for the cemetery as the ground was soft for digging. It took the men four days to bury the dead. Now the spot is enclosed with a handsome railing, and it presents the appearance of a garden of tangled roses and creepers, which cover the graves. There are seventy-two mounds in all, but many of them are nameless graves; and it is known that four were often buried in one grave. Immediately opposite them is another three-cornered piece of ground railed in, where more of the mutilated remains of the women and children were collected and interred. It is a very noticeable fact that none of the dates on the memorial stones of the "Mutiny" agree. They vary in fixing it as breaking out on the 15th, 17th, or 18th of June. The garden, which is really part of the old Assembly Garden, is beautifully kept. Broad carriage-drives lead down the palm-avenues, and amongst the bright masses of flower-beds.

We left Cawnpore at six o'clock. Half an hour after midnight we had to change carriages at Tundla Junction, and we arrived at Agra at the ghastly hour of two in the Morning. As I sat in the gharry outside the station, waiting for C. with the luggage to appear, for the natives were half asleep at that late hour, I could see the red battlements of the fort rising opposite against the half-moonlit sky.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE CITIES OF THE GREAT MOGUL

Monday, January 25th.—Agra is essentially the city of Akbar, the great Mogul. Founded and created by him in 1506, it had no previously known history. Here he established his metropolis—his palace within the fort. One looks forward to seeing some of the splendour with which we have always learnt to associate the name of the greatest of ancient emperors, save only Alexander the Great. Nor ought one to be disappointed.

The fort is a superb structure, recalling the days of barbarous warfare in the substantiality of its walls. It is entirely built of red granite—not sandstone as at first appears, for that would be too easy and crumbling a substance for such massive walls and ramparts. The entrance through the Delhi Gate is very imposing. The hill leads up to the gateway, flanked by two towers, and guarded by portcullis and drawbridge, and over all floats a tiny Union Jack. The gates in themselves are curious, being studded with nails and bits of old iron. Under the dome of the entrance are the sepoys on duty, who stand at attention as we pass. Amongst all this massiveness the details are not overlooked, and there are some very delicately carved niches and windows filled with fretwork to be seen high up in this dome. A glissade, sunk between high walls, leads to yet another gateway, formed by two octagonal towers, which allow of two domes under the entrance, and then we find ourselves in a barren waste.

The Moti Musjid—the Pearl Mosque—with its three bulbous domes of purest marble, truly appears in the distance like "pearls of great price" set in the red walls. In common with many of these buildings, it stands on a large platform raised high above the road, and ascended to by flights of steps. It suggests the beautiful idea of the going up from the street, and leaving its cares behind to go into a purer atmosphere for prayer. As the gates are thrown open a sea of marble against the cloudless blue sky meets the eye. Such is the first impression; and then by degrees we turn our attention to the small courtyard, paved with marble, to the marble cloisters which close it in on both sides, and lastly to the pearl itself, with its gem-like towerets, alternating with the three domes, "It is of the purest Saracenic architecture, though it has the simplicity of Doric art." There is a vista of horse-shoe arches; one, two, three, four, we see receding successively, with the same repeated in perspective by the rows of pillars. These pillars are formed of four single blocks of marble, one block to each of the sides. The inscription in Persian over the arches tells us it was built by Shah Jehan in 1656, and the intense purity of the marble after two centuries have thus passed, without crack or weather-stain, seems marvellous. Under the central dome you look up to a ceiling covered with a raised device of triangles laid crossways, a decoration identified with all mosques. Each of the four pillars with its dome forms a perfect little mosque within the larger one. The marble floor is covered with squares just the size of the Mahommedan prayer-carpet, and 570 can kneel side by side at the same time. The three apart in the Kibla, or Central Niche, are for the Mullah, with one for the King and Vizier, or Prime Minister, on either hand. There is a beautiful carved marble screen at one end, behind which the Begum and the women of the zenana stood when attending prayer. The floriated design of this screen is carved out of marble quite two inches thick. Some one has said, "It is a sanctuary so pure and stainless, revealing so exalted a spirit of worship, that one feels humbled, as a Christian, to think that our noble religion has never inspired its architects to surpass this temple to God and Mahommed."

And then we pass on to the palace, of which the Pearl Mosque is the fitting sanctuary.

Akbar, the Great Mogul, the greatest of barbarian kings, built for himself a palace worthy of his great renown. Quarries of marble were used in its construction, and tons of precious stones. Agate, porphyry, and carnelian were thought not too costly for the inlaying and mosaic of the apartments used by the emperor. It was built within the fort, which thus enclosed the little world gathered about Akbar the Great. Passing along we see the old gateway which led to the chowk, or bazaar, reserved for the emperor's own use, and then one enters the Carousal, or Tilt Yard. Here stands the Dewan-i-Am, or Audience Hall. It is an open loggia supported on marble pillars, and the decoration of red and gold is still vivid. The slab of marble in the centre is where Akbar sat in judgment, and behind in the wall there is an alcove deep enough to form a room, where the court sat in waiting for their master. This room is exquisitely inlaid with flowers in precious stones, and the recesses, or pigeon-holes in the wall, were used for burning incense and sweet-scented woods. This leads us into the interior, or private courts of the palace, and we find ourselves in a maze of these. Those beautiful marble trellises seem to have been let into every window, or form the grating over every doorway, and the embroidery in precious stones on the marble amazes us with its costly magnificence. Quiet courts, still gardens, abound. All is harmonious and preserved, left just as it was 300 years ago. The rooms are empty, it is true, but one hardly notices it, for these eastern palaces are always cold and void. A few carpet-mats strewn on the marble floor, some looking-glasses and chandeliers, are all the furnishing you look to find in them.

The palace is washed by the waters of the sacred Jumna on one side, and the windows and loggias took down on the river, while frequently we came upon water-gates leading down underground passages to give access for bathing in the stream.

Apart from all the beauty of the palace, it is most precious to us as a living record of the domestic life of those times. In the zenana we see the baths, on which the greatest care has been lavished, the cold bath being in the basin of the open court, with the hot bath in the covered recess. Here is the mosque apart for the ladies of the zenana, with the court below where a bazaar was kept also for their separate use. We see the walled entrance to the passage, which is supposed to lead underground to the Taj. It was through here the unfaithful begums disappeared, to be seen no more. We can trace it all so distinctly that we can repeople the harem with its dusky beauties.

Then we come to the inner court, the Dewan-i-Khas, or Hall of Select or Private Audience. On a platform open to the river there are two thrones, one of black marble and the other of white. It is on the black takt, or throne, that Akbar sat in state. When the Mahrattas took Agra, and the foreign Rajah seated himself on the throne, it cracked (so runs the legend) from end to end, and blood gushed out. When Lord Ellenborough, as Governor-General, seated himself on it, blood again came forth, and two dark stains with the crack attest these "truths" to all good Mahommedans! On the white throne opposite, tradition says that the king's jester seated himself and burlesqued his royal master. Below this we look down into the arena where the wild-beast fights took place, the king viewing them from the platform above. The emperor's bedroom has a fresco round the ceiling of great beauty. On a gold background are inlaid sprays of flowers in precious stones. A portion of one corner was restored for the visit of the Prince of Wales, but the cost of 5000 rupees was too heavy for it to be continued. Near the dining-hall are the famous Somnath Gates captured by Lord Ellenborough in the Afghan campaign, and which gave rise to a well-known controversy. We saw in them the three metal bosses supposed to have been taken from Mahmoud's shield.

The Khas Mahl, or Belvedere, overhanging the Jumna, is a little gem, with its delicate rows of cusped arches, and the niches and groinings of its walls. It is open on three sides, and commands a splendid view over the river, with the snowy domes of the Taj in the distance. It was here that the emperor sat in the rainy season.

Then we go down to the little court, paved in squares of black and white marble, called the Pachise, or backgammon and chessboard. There were no pieces used for this colossal board, but Akbar's wives trotted about at his bidding from square to square, thus performing each move. Above this there is the lovely Jasmine Tower, or the Boudoir of the Chief Sultana, most exquisitely inlaid with turquoise and carnelian. We discovered near here a charming little mosque hidden up some steps, called the "Children's Mosque," and where the children were taken separately to pray. It was in the Anguri Bagh that the British officers and their families were confined during that terrible summer of 1857, and here Mr. Russell Colvin, the Lieutenant-Governor, died—worn out with anxiety—and was buried in the marble tomb we saw just now opposite the Audience Hall.

We then descended to a garden, where, in a cool grotto, we found the Shish Mahal, or the Palace of Glass. It is an oriental bath, and the decoration is very eccentric and fantastic. It consists of hundreds of thousands of tiny mirrors covering the walls and ceiling. On entering it is like being in a silver cave. The chunar stone of which it is made is covered with filagree, and the looking-glasses arranged in rows and patterns produce a wonderful effect. We lighted a match in a dark corner, and the effect was bewilderingly dazzling, the gleam of light being reflected and flashed back in our faces a hundred times. The marble baths all round are much carved, but the most beautiful sight of all must have been the bath where the water from the Jumna fell over some recesses lined with looking-glass, which gave back in radiated colours the reflection of the tiny waterfall. About here we see some entrances to underground passages, where, it is said, during the midday heat, the wives and concubines of the king disported themselves in the original garb of Eve before their royal master, causing the corridors to resound again with their merry shouts of laughter.

The Jahangir Mahal, or Palace of Jahangir, Akbar's son, adjoins the palace. The red courts, particularly that called the Begum's Court, with their massive pillars supported by Hindu brackets, and carvings of birds and flowers, looked coarse and heavy after the chaste beauties we have just been seeing.