LARGE GREY MONKEY.LARGE GREY MONKEY.
We will go back now to the place where we left that native cart and driver and we'll find a dagoba which has been stripped of its trees, so that we can see what it really looks like.
Hush! Do you hear that curious singing like a chant? Wait; there is a procession of pilgrims. They come swinging round the corner of the road in their picturesque flowing garments, and just at the turn they stop and kneel with their hands held palms together before their faces,and they bow repeatedly before marching on again. Let us go and find out what it was that stopped them. We soon come to it and find that it is the seated figure of a man with one hand falling over his knee and the other on his lap, while his legs are crossed tailor-wise. It is painted white and it is not very much larger than life. This is Buddha, of whom you heard in Kandy, and all over here, and in Burma, and in a less degree in India, you will find images of him set up to remind his followers of the precepts he left for them to follow.
Our driver is dead asleep under a tree, but we manage to wake him and soon we are rattling along a tree-shaded road in the queer little cart to Ruanveli, the best known of all the dagobas. When we arrive in full view of it we dismiss the driver and climb on to a slab of stone that is raised from the ground and tilted slightly like a table with two legs higher than the others. Here we can gaze upon this extraordinary monument which rises about one hundred and fifty feet into the air, and is about two and a half times as much across, just the shape of a pudding basin, you see. It is not a temple, not even a tomb, as the Pyramids are, but a solid block built of millions and millions of bricks with a tiny chamber inside containing an infinitely precious relic, nothing less than a few of Buddha's hairs. So they say! Only the priests were allowed to go into this sacred chamber, with the exception of one king, who had this priceless privilege granted to him. It is not very many years since mighty monuments were rediscovered, because the jungle had grown up all around them and no one knew even where Anuradhapura had stood; but now there are men who spend their whole time uncovering and preserving them, just as many men are working at the excavations in Egypt; and the trees and overgrowth have been stripped from Ruanveli, which stands forth sharp and clear-cut against this beautiful sky.
Men are very much alike all the world over! This great dagoba was put up by one of the Cingalese kings, Dutugemunu, to celebrate his great victory over the Tamils, just as Ramesesii.put up the inimitable temple of Abu Simbel to celebrate his victory over the Syrians. Before Dutugemunu came to the throne the Tamils had usurped all power and made one of their own men, called Elala, king, and the young prince, exiled from his capital city, met them in battle outside the walls. He fought with great bravery, and in the end the issue of the day was decided by a single combat between him and Elala, both mounted on huge elephants. That must have been a fight indeed! Dutugemunu killed Elala and regained the throne of his fathers, but he must have been a singularly enlightened prince for his age, for he not only buried his fallen foe with great honour but he gave orders that henceforth all music should cease when bands were marching past his tomb, and that royalties were to alight from their horses or palanquins and walk past on foot to do honour to the mighty dead. Even in the nineteenth century one of the princes from Kandy, who was flying from capture, obeyed the order and would not allow himself to be carried past the spot! So the memory of Elala and the great fight he made were kept alive as Dutugemunu had intended they should be.
On this very slab where we are now sitting it is said that Dutugemunu died. If not the actual stone, it is probably the spot. It was about 140b.c., and when he knew he was dying he gave orders that he should be carried out here, that his fast failing eyes might look their last on the greatest monument of his reign. In the midst of his great city, with its fine buildings and the great tanks he had caused to be made to give the people water, he thought most of all of Ruanveli, partly because of the sacred relic enclosed, but partly also because he haddone a wonderful thing in paying for all the labour that was used in its building, instead of forcing his subjects to work for nothing, as was the custom in his time.
There is much to examine in Ruanveli; we can see the casing of granite running up the sides, we can examine a statue of the king himself and many wonderful carvings; around the dagoba runs a magnificent granite platform wide enough for six elephants to walk abreast, as no doubt they did many times in the gay processions on festival days.
Behind the dagoba, not far off, is an immense lake, or tank, much larger than that we saw this morning. It was considered a peculiar work of merit for kings to make these tanks so that water could be stored up for the use of the people, and they are found all over Ceylon; there is one twenty miles in length!
The sun has fallen low by the time we pass on to the Brazen Palace. At first, when we near it, we see merely a forest of columns with nothing brazen about them; they are not very high, about twice the height of a man perhaps, and they are set in rows very near together. Altogether there are one thousand six hundred of them! There is no roof now, but in the days of its glory this great house, which was built for the priest, had nine, and was finished by a sheet of burnished copper which caught the sun's rays and flashed far and wide beneath the clear blue sky. The walls were decorated with glittering stones and the fittings were of the most costly and beautiful kind. The wonder is how the priests found room to walk about between those multitudinous columns which so filled the space in their halls.
THE BRAZEN PALACE, CEYLON.THE BRAZEN PALACE, CEYLON.
One more sight in this city of ancient glory. Do you see across that park-like space of short grass some fires glimmering weirdly in the dusk which has now fallen round the most sacred object in Anuradhapura; I won't say what it is. Come nearer. A heavy scent, like that of tuberoses, greets us as we approach; it comes from the white waxy blossoms of the frangipani lying in that cardboard saucer with all the heads put outwards like the spokes of a wheel. In the centre is a pink blossom. Those flowers are sold as offerings in this sacred place. Don't stumble over that dark bundle, it is a sleeping child. Step cautiously between the bright-eyed people who watch, furtively alert, like shy woodland creatures, as they crouch low over their fires, for the evening has suddenly become chilly with the loss of the sun. These are pilgrims come from afar, and they will lie down to sleep just as they are in the open. There are very few at this time of the year;but in June and July, which are the principal months, thousands and thousands arrive here, having crossed weary leagues to come. It is strange how the world is linked up by its pilgrimages. We saw the pilgrims in the Holy Land coming from afar to the Christian shrines, humble and devout, believing all that was told them and carrying out in their poor lives much of Christ's teaching; we saw them in crowded and uncomfortable ships journeying from Mecca, the shrine of Mohammedanism; and now we see them here reverently drawn to the only sacred place they know, there to pray to something unseen and unknown, that they may be helped by a power stronger than themselves. In all ages and all races man yearns for a god, and if he knows not God he still worships dimly any strange god he hears of.
We cross some brick pavement, and climb up a few worn steps on to a platform surrounded by a railing. Out of the middle of it there grows a gnarled and ancient tree with crooked boughs splitting asunder with hardly any leaves on them.
Nowdo you see?
You only see monkeys looking like little black demons against the afterglow still lingering in the sky as they leap from the tall palm trees near, but this tree is not a palm.
Suddenly a leaf, shaped like that of a poplar, but much larger, floats down, and in an instant a slight dark figure, tied up in a bundle of loose clothes, falls upon it, and holding it between the palms of the hands bows again and again. That leaf is a precious relic, for this is the sacred Bo tree, said to be at least two thousand years old!
SWAYING ITS LEAN UNLOVELY BODY TO AND FRO IN TIME WITH THE TUNE.SWAYING ITS LEAN UNLOVELY BODY TO AND FRO IN TIME WITH THE TUNE.
After the Cingalese had come over from India and settled here, a monk came and converted them to Buddhism; he was followed by his sister, a princess, as he was a prince, and she brought with her, so it is said, a branch of the actual tree under which Buddha sat when he considered all the problems of life and found an answer to them, which he left to his people. This branch, being planted, became a tree itself. So the story goes; and that there has been a tree here worshipped for untold ages is true, and if that is so, whatever its origin, this also to us is a sacred spot, hallowed by the thousands of poor souls who, knowing not the light, yet have come here with yearnings towards the light and to the "unknown god."
After dinner we wander out again into the tree-shaded road near, and a sight of extraordinary splendour startles us. Every tree is brilliantly illuminated as if by a million points of electric light. You have seen an arc-light which seems to scintillate rays? These lights might be very tiny arc-lights, for each one vibrates in the intensity of its luminousness. We can see the outlines of the trees clearly. It is a wonderful evening for fire-flies. No one knows why on some nights they appear like this in countless thousands, and on other nights, apparently the same, there is not one to be seen. It looks almost as if they had parties and agreed to do their best on certain occasions. They have evidently done their best for us to-night, for the other people following us out of the hotel, who have been here longer than us, are entranced.
"Never saw anything like it, not even in the West Indies," says one man.
"Puts a Christmas tree in the shade," remarks another.
Catch one, he doesn't burn; don't grab him so as to hurt him, just take him gently; that is right; bring him into the light and open your hand a little. You see he is a flat, greenish beetle, with head set on a funny hinge so that he could nod it violently if he liked. Half shut your hand and turn away from the light; now you see two round green eyes glowing like emeralds. He doesn't seem embarrassed by all this attention, but you might let him go back to his party!
When we have let him go we will walk down the avenue of living light, where is one thing more to see to-night. It is only ten minutes' walk and as we near it it gleams in the dim light of the brilliant stars, a ghostly white object. As our eyes grow accustomed to the light we see a building like a snow-white bell. It is small compared with the gigantic dagobas we have examined already to-day, for the very tip of the pinnacle, rising above the bell-shaped part, is only sixty-three feet, but it is very graceful and is considered the most sacred of all the dagobas, for it was built to enshrine Buddha's collar-bone!
We haven't seen the half of Anuradhapura yet, and there are numbers of other ancient cities in Ceylon to explore, to say nothing of rock-temples with strange paintings and carvings; but we mustn't be here too long or we shan't get through India and Burma before the hot weather comes, which no European can endure.
The white coating of this dagoba is a stuff called chunam, a kind of lime. It is startlingly white and looks beautiful at night, but otherwise it is just a sort of whitewash, clean enough but not particularly attractive. There are numbers of the same square-cut granite columns that we saw at the Brazen Temple falling about near the dagoba, some this way and some that. A good place for snakes, that is why we came round by the road and walked so carefully.
Hullo! There is one! Keep still! Did you see him wriggle across among the interlacing shadows of the trees? A large one too! Thank goodness he has gone harmlessly! I wonder what sort he was? We ought not to have come out, let us get back as quickly as we can.
A BULLOCK CART.A BULLOCK CART.
India at last!
We have come up the west coast from Ceylon and are now approaching Bombay. It is night-time, and far ahead we see a great yellow light which appears and disappears, and is visible for twenty miles out at sea. It seems to blink at us in greeting, peeping every few seconds to see if we are still there. Then at last we ride into the harbour, and such a harbour! We cannot see it now at all, and even if it were daylight we couldn't see more than a very small part of it, for it is fifteen miles one way by four or five the other, and a harbour that size cannot be taken in at one glance.
We have to sleep on board, for there are some formalitiesto be observed before we go ashore. There is our heavy baggage to get out of the hold, for instance, and to pass through the Customs. That can wait until to-morrow.
Our first impression of Bombay is therefore a city of lights. There are lights sprinkled about anyhow and anywhere; some in chains, some separate, some low, and some apparently slung high up in mid-air. These are on the hill above the town, which itself stands on an island.
The very first incident we notice is a ludicrous one, and I am sure we shan't forget it. A rather stout Englishman who is landing to-night steps on to the launch, and in an instant is garlanded with marigolds hung in wreaths round his neck. A crowd of native friends surrounds him. Some are in European dress, and talk a queer sort of English very fast and fluently, as if it were being pumped out of their mouths by the yard; others wear the flowing drapery of the East. Many of them carry bunches of flowers, which look more like balls, because the native habit is to strip off every atom of leaf and then pack the blossoms with all their heads together as tight as they will go. Many such balls are being pressed upon the embarrassed Englishman, and the scent of crushed marigolds fills the air. This is all by way of welcome, and it is evident that the newcomer is a prime favourite with the people. He looks sheepish, but his round rosy face rises good-humouredly above the absurd garlands.
Next morning we are up in good time, and as soon as ever we get our baggage clear of the Customs we go sight-seeing. In our nostrils is the subtle scent of India; it has something of dust in it, but is not chiefly dust, as in Egypt; there is a waft of wood-smoke, and a strong flavour of mixed spices, and some hint of sweet flowers, and many other things not so agreeable. It is a blend thatany Anglo-Indian knows, and if he smelt it suddenly when he was thousands of miles away, with the daisied grass beneath his feet, and the swallows wheeling overhead, it would carry him back with a jump to a land of dark faces and burning sun and red dust, and all the vivid sights of the East.
We are not starting on our great journey across India until the evening, so we can wander at will through the broad clean streets, looking into the magnificent shops that might be in any European town, and then we can plunge into the native part, where we find narrow, busy bazaars that might belong to theArabian Nights.
Bombay was one of the first bits of India to belong to the English. The Portuguese held it before then, and gave it to our nation as part of the dower of Catherine of Braganza, the Portuguese princess who married Charles II. You know the old saying, "trade follows the flag," and it certainly did in Bombay, for the East India Company rented the city from the king at £10 a year. The Company pushed forward all over the rest of India year by year, and it was through their steady and persistent advance in the country that the British finally occupied India—so later on the saying was reversed, and "the flag followed trade," as it more often does. But you know that story, every British boy does, the story of Clive and Hastings, and later on of the Mutiny; it is a part of English history and one of the most thrilling parts too.
Bombay is a city of trade; her immense docks receive ships of all sizes, her wharves are laden with the produce of the world, her wide streets are open to traffic of all descriptions, her public buildings are splendid, her clubs and hotels palatial. Her merchants prosper and grow rich, and build for themselves houses on Malabar Hill, the long ridge above the town, which catches the sea-breezes. At one time that ridge was looked upon assacred to Europeans, but now the wealthy natives settle there, and there is not room for all the poorer Europeans, who have to be content with lower levels.
Stand still for a moment in this street, and look around. Here comes a motor-car, and in it lolls a hugely fat man with a yellow skin, and that crafty insolent look which marks the successful native trader; his thick neck rolls in creases above his purple brocade coat. But they are not all like this; some are thoughtful men who have given lakhs of rupees for the public good.
What a contrast! Here is one of the poorest of the poor. A bullock-cart comes along, drawn by two lean animals with their ribs sticking out. A heavy yoke passes across their necks, but otherwise they have not a scrap of harness on them. That lean man huddled up on the pole between them, clad in a few yards of rag, prods them with a pointed stick when he wants them to go this way and that. He dares not now twist their tails till he breaks them, or keep open running sores so that he may prick them in a sensitive part, as he would have done at one time, for if he did the police would be down on him.
On the side-walk there is a lady, yes, itisa lady—in very baggy green and gold trousers, with gold anklets tinkling as she walks. Her head and face are swathed in a "sari" or shawl of shot gold and purple, which only allows her heavy black eyes to appear above its folds. The street is alive with men in white; some wear long white coats buttoned down over the kind of white petticoat called adhoti, others have the curious habit of wearing their shirts outside their trousers like a kilt, but you soon get used to this, and cease to notice it. That fellow in a tall extinguisher cap made of lamb's wool is a Persian.
In the midst of all this queer crowd, which looks like a fancy-dress ball let loose in broad daylight, run thecurving steel tram-lines. There are shades of every complexion to be seen. That very fresh, pink-faced lady, who has just gone dashing by in her smart "tum-tum" or pony-cart, is at one end of the scale—she is probably newly out from home,—and that ebony-black native woman of so low a caste that she goes uncovered in the public street is at the other, but even she, poor thing, cares enough about her personal appearance to wear a gold ring through one of her nostrils!
A PERSIAN.A PERSIAN.
Now we can see the long outline of Malabar Hill quite clearly, and below all its trees and gardens and the great houses rising among them, but at one part, the highest, the hill is kept for other uses. Look up into the clear blue sky overhead, do you see a black speck? Not got it yet? Wait a moment and try again. There! That is right, and there is another and another; you can't help seeing them now. Their flight is the slow heavy flight of clumsy birds. What do you suppose they are? Vultures. They live, as you know, on carrion, which is dead flesh, and the vultures of Bombay are peculiarly favoured, for they banquet on human bodies.
In this district there are a large number of Parsees or fire-worshippers, and these people have their peculiar ceremonies. Under the British Crown every man is free to carry out his own religion in his own way; persecution is unknown. The Parsees have their cemetery on the topof that high hill; it is a beautiful place, laid out in gardens, and reached by flights of steps. Only at one end are five grim towers shut in by a wall and called the Towers of Silence. Their parapets are high, and none may climb to the top except certain men set apart and dedicated for this terrible work. When a Parsee dies, his body is borne reverently and with care to the gardens on the hill, but instead of burying it in the earth, these men take it up the winding stairs of one of the towers and lay it on the roof, and then retire. The vultures do the rest! No human being has ever seen that dread spectacle, for when the men come back again about a fortnight later there are only the clean bleached bones of the skeleton to take away and lay in quicklime to be absorbed.
So the vultures hover over Bombay and sit like great images around the parapets on the Towers of Silence, knowing that they will never lack a meal!
We have seen many and bewildering things in this great city, and when at last we arrive at the station between five and six in the evening, for our first journey across this vast land, we are glad to rest. We engaged our places directly we arrived, for here, where a journey takes often nights and days, it is no use wandering in casually a few minutes before the train starts. We also engaged the whole of a compartment to ourselves, as we want a good night's sleep. It has been cleaned and prepared, and looks very comfortable when we come to claim it. There are two seats running lengthwise, the opposite way to that which they do in an English train. Above them are two more which can be let down as bunks if required, so that the carriage can accommodate four, but as we have paid extra to get it to ourselves we ought not to be disturbed.
By the way, you haven't seen any Indian money yet. This is a rupee, a large and substantial coin you see, aboutas big as a two-shilling piece, but it is only worth one and fourpence; fifteen of them go to the pound. An anna is a penny, and that little coin like a threepenny bit is a two-anna bit.
SIT LIKE IMAGES ROUND THE PARAPET.SIT LIKE IMAGES ROUND THE PARAPET.
We have had to hire a native boy to travel with us and look after the luggage, as it is difficult to do without one in India. All servants are called "boys" here, even if they are grey-headed; our man is probably about five-and-twenty. He is called Ramaswamy, and has a chocolate-coloured moon-face with big round eyes; I think he is intelligent though he looks stupid. He is dressed in spotless white, his garments consisting of a short jacket and a dhoti, and he wears a large round turban on his head, and a pair of neat little gold ear-rings in his ears. It is a verydifficult thing to get a really trustworthy boy, but the Madrassees are the best, and Ramaswamy comes from the Madras country far south; he has been in service with a man I know for two years, and as he is only lent to us for this trip he will probably behave himself. He is piling up our bedding in a corner of the carriage, and later on when the train stops at a station for a few minutes he will come to spread it out. It seems funny to have to carry bedding with us on a journey, but it is very necessary here. We have pillows and rugs and a couple ofrezaieach. These are rather like eider-down quilts, but are stuffed with cotton instead of down, so they are heavier, and very comfortable they are to lie upon when doubled up.
You remarked on the amount of luggage we seem to be taking in the carriage, it is a simple nothing to what is the custom here; look at all that being piled into the next compartment! Besides masses of bedding there is a deck-chair, a typewriter, a case for a topee, or helmet, a gun-case, two portmanteaus, and a box of books, as well as a lunch-basket. The owner, a pleasant-looking, sun-browned Englishman, stands by giving orders to his native servants in Hindustanee, which is a language spoken by the English people to the natives and understood pretty nearly everywhere. That man is almost certainly what is here known as a "civilian," that is to say, one of the men in the Indian Civil Service who govern India. They have to pass stiff examinations at home, and then come out here for a number of years to do all the work of government, being magistrates, judges, rulers, and general protectors of the native, giving up their lives to the country, and dealing out justice to all men. Some men have not the habit of command, but if it is in them at all it comes out here, where one white man alone in a district running to hundreds of miles often has everything in his own hands; he has to make decisions in an instant of emergency, andstand by them, compel evildoers to behave, save the miserable low-caste natives, ground down by those above them, and often to hold his life in his hand for fear of the knife or bullet of a fanatic.
A little farther up the platform there is a gorgeous group, of which the central figure is a fine tall man, slenderly built, with a clear proud face. He is dressed in marvellous silks which shimmer and flash in the late afternoon sunlight. His upper garment is deep rich rose, and the lower one a medley of greens and gold. Watch the flashing of that great jewel which fastens the aigrette in his turban; it is probably worth anywhere about three thousand pounds. That man is a native prince, and those very splendid gentlemen in purple and yellow silk are seeing him off. There are many of these native rulers or maharajahs in India, and they keep up the state of royalty and are treated with respect. So long as they rule their people wisely the British Government does not interfere with them.
A RAJAH.A RAJAH.
Sometimes one thinks of India as one whole country, as England is or France, but that is not true. It is not, and never was. The state held by a native prince may beonly the size of a gentleman's country estate, but it may be as large as the United Kingdom. In the old days the rulers of these kingdoms were for ever fighting against each other, and though one of them sometimes got the better of his neighbours for a while, India was never ruled from end to end by one sovereign until it passed into the possession of Great Britain. The nations and races who make up this vast land are as different from each other as the races of Europe; to think of them as being one people would be as foolish as to imagine that you, say, and an Italian, were one people.
The size of India is a thing almost impossible to conceive. In old-fashioned atlases the whole of this mighty land was often given one page to itself, and little England was put on another just the same size, that is to say, they were drawn on quite different scales, a mile in England being given about as much space as forty miles in India! The best way to judge is this—picture India set down on the map of Europe, and you will find it would cover about half of it!
At the other end of the train, the third-class end, what a contrast to His Highness! Here a crowd of natives of all kinds have been crammed into what look like covered-in trucks, and they are squatting on the floor. There is no hardship in that, they prefer it; to sit on chairs is an art only acquired by the Europeanised. There are women here as well as men; look at that handsome creature whose crimson scarf has slipped off her sheeny black hair, showing the gold ring in her nose and the huge decorative ear-rings! She is hugging a tiny boy with one blue bead slung round his neck as a charm, just as it was round the donkey's neck in Egypt,—people are very much alike all the world over! This little chap has silver bangles on his podgy ankles but not a rag of any sort of clothing.
NATIVES AT THE RAILWAY STATION.NATIVES AT THE RAILWAY STATION.
These people are packed so tightly you could hardly get a foot in between them, but they are very happy, because they love travelling. Natives have no idea of time, and when they are going to start on a journey as likely as not they arrive at the station the evening before, sleep rolled round in their garments where they may happen to be, and next day eat a handful of something or other they carry with them, waiting patiently till that marvellous object, the train, condescends to start. Most of these here are munching sweetmeats; they love them as children do, and the sweetmeat-seller never lacks trade. There he is, with a tray on his shoulder! A man with a water-pot stops by the third classes and pours some of the precious fluid into the cups held outto him, and even into one man's hands. You notice that he is careful not to touch either hand or cup. In India there is an extraordinary custom called caste, deep-rooted in the natives. They are all divided into higher and lower castes, according to their birth, and those of a higher caste will not allow those of a lower caste to touch them or prepare their food and drink, for they fancy they would be defiled! Only the lowest castes of all will do dirty work, such as scavenging and carrying away refuse, and you can imagine what difficulties all this leads to. The Brahman, who is the highest caste, will not touch food which has been defiled even by having the shadow of another fall on it, he would throw it away and remain hungry sooner.
As we stroll back to our places we pass various men with marks on their foreheads; these are caste-marks and to those who understand they tell a great deal. Standing beside the second classes we see a short-sighted gentleman in glasses, wearing an alpaca suit; he has with him a lady, who, like himself, is coffee-coloured. She is wearing a full petticoat of brocaded silk, and has a very lovely shawl edged with sequins thrown round her head in place of a hat, but, alas, all this magnificence is spoilt by the pair of tight and obviously most uncomfortable yellow leather European shoes, which she has put on to show how fashionable she is. When she climbs into the carriage she immediately takes them off, putting them on the seat beside her, and shows a pair of bare brown feet without shame. The shoes were only meant for show, and she has endured them to the utmost!
Well, we are off! And as it is dark we can't, unfortunately, see much of the country, which at first is quite pretty. Presently we cross the sea by a long bridge and notice the lights reflected sparkling in the water, andthen we begin to climb up into the hills and it quickly grows colder.
While we go along to the restaurant-car for dinner Ramaswamy takes advantage of the stoppage of the train to hasten along, settling his turban as he comes. He must never appear before us without it; we are supposed to think it a fixture on his round cropped head, and also he must not come into a room where we are with his shoes on! Odd how fashion differs! With us men remove the head-covering on entering a room, but would not dream of being so rude as to take off their shoes!
When we come back after dinner we find our bedding neatly spread out and looking very inviting. As there is nothing else to do it is not long before we turn in and fall asleep, lulled by the rumbling of the train.
I am deep in dreamland when I am woke unpleasantly by a draught of icy air as the door at the end of the compartment is pushed open, and I realise the train has stopped at a station. The native guard stands in the doorway apologetically fumbling with the key which he has just used in undoing the door. "Mem-sahib coming in," says he hopelessly, and a very disagreeable high-pitched voice makes itself heard behind him. Pushing rudely past come a man and woman so much alike they must be brother and sister; they have both coarse features and clumsy squat figures; they speak English but with a strong Colonial accent of some kind.
"They can't have italltheir own way," says Madam viciously. "I'm coming in here, and that's flat."
An overloaded coolie follows, and dumps down masses of rolled-up bedding and trunks into the small space between our bunks and departs.
"This compartment is engaged," I say as politely as I can, conscious that I don't look dignified in shirt-sleeves, but thankful I have only taken off my coat and boots.
"Can't help that," snaps the lady.
"Isn't there any other——" I begin patiently.
"I telling the Mem-sahib," begins the guard plaintively, "that there is one with only——"
"Don't care if there is! Horace, undo that bundle. I'm going to bed at once," and the newcomer proceeds to remove her coat and hat.
The guard hastily lets down the two upper bunks and disappears as the train gets under way again.
Appalled at the idea of how much she may think it necessary to remove, and thankful that you are sleeping peacefully through all the turmoil, I get up and grope for my shoes.
"If you prefer the lower bunk it is at your service," I say, making the best of a bad job and gathering up my coverlets. She deigns to snap out "Thanks!"
"I will go outside until you're ready," I say, retreating to the small platform between the carriages; there is nothing else for it, as there isn't room to turn inside. Just as I leave I add to the man, "Don't wake the boy if you can help it, he has had a hard day."
It is intensely cold outside, and after having smoked two cigarettes I think I may venture in again as I hear no sounds, so I knock, and getting no answer enter. By the dim light I make out the form of the lady in my bunk; but that is surely not the brother in the one opposite? Itis! The impudence of it! They have turned you out and made you go into the upper one. As I climb to my own perch, internally wrathful and debating whether I shall not poke the man up and make him restore you to your place, I hear your sleepy voice in a stage whisper—
"He made me come up here." Then deliberately, leaning over and with mischief in your voice, you add: "I suppose when you are fat like that it would be very difficult to climb."
I think you got your own back! I saw the fellow squirm!
Bad as they were at night our fellow-travellers are worse in the daytime. They won't get up until ten o'clock, and we have to stay outside until they do, as there is nowhere to sit down. Ramaswamy brings uschota hazri, consisting of tea and toast and plantains, and we eat it outside. The Englishman in the next compartment looks out presently and invites us in. He laughs when he hears of our adventure. "Brutes!" he says tersely; "people like that should be hanged at sight. The worst is you meet them travelling more often than elsewhere; they have come into some money probably, and are so proud of it they think themselves little gods."
I think he was right, for when we pull up at the station, where we are at last to get rid of our tormentors, I happen to remark to you that I thought some restaurant we had been to in Bombay was rather expensive.
"Did you indeed!" says the lady, taking the remark as if addressed to herself. "'Grace and I dined there and paid double that, and we did not think anything of it."
She then immediately turns, and seeing Ramaswamy standing outside mistakes him for a station-attendant, and orders him to tie up their bedding. He looks to me for orders. I nod to him to do it, and, hat in hand, make a sweeping bow—
"Only too glad if my boy can be of any service to you, Madam."
I think I also got my own back!
A BRASS WORKER, DELHI.A BRASS WORKER, DELHI.
Delhi!
If you draw a line across the map of India from the north to the south at the greatest length, and another from east to west at the greatest breadth, the two will form a cross of the usual shape, with the cross-bar high up. Just at the point where they intersect stands Delhi, the chief city in India since the King-Emperor's proclamation in 1911. Before that Calcutta was the capital, but Calcutta, like Bombay, is a city of trade, and has practically no historic memories. Delhi is full of the romance of history. In the Mutiny the question as to who should hold it was of the greatest importance, and if the British then had let it slip from their grip, without an effort to retake it, their power in India would have been gone for ever.
Now, on the first morning that we are here, let us drive round and see what we can of this splendid city. First we will go down the Chandni Chauk, the main street which cuts Delhi into two parts. It is immensely wide and lined with trees of a good size. These stand on each side of a broad walk for foot-passengers, which runs down the middle of the street, foreign fashion, and makes a popular promenade. The gay colours of the natives' clothes flash in and out of the shadows of the trees as the people pass along, each on his own errand. On one side are the tram-lines and on the other you can see a fast bullock-cart with pretty little white trotting bullocks as dainty in their own way as antelopes, and as different from the slow yellow ones as carriage-horses are from cart-horses. There are on both sides shops for jewels, for sweetmeats, for the richest and most beautiful silks and ivory, and mingled with them grocers' shops filled with tinned stuffs from England, and others with every kind of modern utensil for a house. Such a mixture! They are all heavily protected against the sun by awnings, for even at this early hour of the morning it is strong. At the end of the street is a tall red sandstone tower with a clock in it. In the distance we see the spire of an English church, and down that opening we catch sight of a Mohammedan mosque. The shop here beside us is a blaze of colour with Eastern carpets hung out like banners; the native owner squats on a thing like a wooden bedstead by his door and chews betel-nut, which makes his tongue and lips a deep red. Next door is a vigorous agency for the sale of sewing-machines! A Hindu religious fanatic, smeared with ashes and with hardly any clothes to cover his lean body, walks ahead with eyes unseeing, and at the same moment a smart motor-car stops beside us and the voice of a high-bred English-woman says, "I will meet you at the Effinghams in anhour," as she waves a greeting to her companions and steps out.
A SHOP IN DELHI.A SHOP IN DELHI.
Hullo! There is a band. Round the corner swings a company of Ghurkas, the sturdy little men who helped England to overcome the mutineers. They look very soldier-like in their neat holly-green uniforms, with small round caps set at a jaunty angle on their cropped heads. They are hill tribes from the north, and in appearance not unlike the Japanese. They are all so much of one size you could run a ruler along their heads. Their swinging stride would delight a soldier's heart, for it islike clockwork in its precision. They are born soldiers, brave and easily disciplined, devoted to their officers and without the knowledge of fear. They have faults, of course. The Ghurka is apt to be rather a gay dog; he gets drunk, and the girls he loves are many, but he is of the right stuff, and his officers are proud of him.
I was talking to one of them as we came up the coast on the ship.
"Nothing like them anywhere else in the world," he said. "They take to drill like their mother's milk, they thrive on it and discipline—the slightest fault that might be overlooked elsewhere we punish severely. They like it and live up to it. You could lead a Ghurka regiment anywhere; fighting is their pastime. They have nothing in common with the slothful races of Lower India; they are alert and vigorous and active as cats. The funniest thing is their love for the Highlanders; if a Highland regiment comes up the two meet and mingle as if they were brothers. You'll see a great Highlander in his kilt and feather bonnet arm in arm with one of these little chaps, hobnobbing as if they had known each other all their lives. And the Ghurkas won't have anything to say to the other Indian regiments; they despise them all except the Sikhs—they get on with them all right."
We are lucky, for the Ghurkas are followed by a company of Sikhs, and anything less like the Ghurkas you could hardly imagine. The Sikhs are big men with stern bearded faces, they look like veterans and are a pleasant sight in their scarlet tunics with neat gaitered feet. There were many Sikh regiments belonging to our army in the black days of the Mutiny, and some wavered, but some held firm. Had it not been for the Sikhs things would have gone badly with us.
Now we are nearing the Lahore Gate and you can see that Delhi is a walled city. The walls run all round forsix miles, and are backed up by a twenty-five feet ditch, so that it is a tough city for any army to take. The gate itself is a fine building. When the British troops, who varied at times from 5000 to 10,000 men, set to work to attack this strong city, held by 40,000 to 100,000 natives, many of them trained and disciplined soldiers, taught by the very men against whom they were fighting, it seemed an impossible task. The audacity of it! This gate was one of the hardest of all to break through. Four attacking parties had been sent against the walls, the other three got in, but the one that came here failed. Then the others tried to work their way through, inside the city, to capture this gate. They crept along the narrow lane running inside the wall, but it was commanded everywhere from the heights of the houses by the enemy, who poured down a murderous fire into it. Again and again the reckless men, who determined to take the gate, started off on the deadly errand, again and again they were wiped off, and alas! one of those mortally wounded was General John Nicholson, whose utter disregard of danger and marvellous understanding of the native character had made many of the natives look on him as a god!
Now we are outside and driving up to the ridge. Every British boy and girl has heard of the ridge. It played a great part in the Mutiny. It is a long backbone of hill which runs close up to the city at one end. We will leave our carriage to go slowly along to the far end, where the road winds up, and we ourselves will scramble up at this side till we gain the Mutiny Memorial, a Gothic tower rising in many stages like a church spire. We can mount the steps inside to see the view. It is worth it, for miles and miles of country lie spread before us from this height.
I don't want to go into details of history, but if ever there is a place where history was made it is here. On thisridge for months was camped the British army, including some loyal native regiments, and all the time they never wavered in their determination to retake Delhi, then in the hands of the natives. Our men could not be said to besiege the city, because to besiege means to sit down all round a place and prevent the inhabitants from getting supplies from outside until they are compelled to give in or are too weak to resist the entrance of the besiegers; we never invested Delhi in this way. There were not enough men even to attempt it; the natives could always get supplies into the city, if they wanted, from the river Jumna, which runs past the other side. But the British sat steadily on their heights in grim determination, and never lost the chance of a move. They died in hundreds; remember it was during an Indian summer, and even under the best conditions, with ice and punkahs and shade, the European finds it hard to get through the hot weather. Here there were no conveniences and very few even of what might be considered necessaries. The men suffered from dysentery, fever, wounds, and sunstroke, and yet they carried through their forlorn hope triumphantly, and it was hardly a year later that the Queen of England was proclaimed Sovereign of India.
In that great plain, which stretches far as eye can see on the other side of the ridge, some twenty years later another proclamation was made, and the Queen was further proclaimed under the title of Empress of India; while in 1911 her grandson, King George, himself proclaimed Delhi as the capital of India in place of Calcutta.
Over the screen of trees you can see beautiful Delhi lying within its hoary walls. You can see the towers and steeples and minarets and domes of the city. Now look the other way, along the ridge. That great pillar close to us is very old; it was made by one of the Hindu kings, but it was only put up here ten years after the Mutiny,and is not interesting. That white house farther on is now a hospital; it was once a private house, and in it General Nicholson died. Look on again, much farther, past trees and other houses, and you will see a rounded building with turrets—that is the Flagstaff Tower so fiercely held.
Come down now to rejoin the carriage and we will go back to the city by the Kashmir Gate. Of all the gates this is the one with the most daring story of adventure attached to it.
When the British had resolved to make an assault on the city they detailed four parties, as I said, to attack in four places. One of them was this gate. The other three places had been partially broken in by the guns, and there was a chance for those heroic madmen to get through, but this was entire. The assaulting party had first to break a way in and then get through.
And they did it!
The five told off to make the breach were Lieutenants Home and Salkeld, and Sergeants Carmichael, Burgess, and Smith. Some carried bags of gunpowder, and others, the fire to set them off. It was daylight when they ran towards the gate across a single plank spanning the ditch, so that they had to go one by one in full range of the enemy's fire from the walls. The marvel is that any lived to reach the gate alive. When one fell another leaped forward to carry on his task. The bags were flung down, and those who placed them tumbled back into the ditch, while their comrades set the powder alight and rolled down too. Out of the whole party only Home and Smith survived. The wicket of the gate was burst open by the explosion, and the storming party, also crossing that single plank, made for it, got inside, and beat back the foe, meeting their comrades, who had burst in at other points, inside.
The tale of "how Horatius kept the bridge" pales before this amazing pluck.