After a stay of about a week at the Guest House at Gwalior we took the road again, or rather the railroad, Delhi being the next place on our itinerary. We thought, however, to break the journey for a few hours at Agra, and get a view of the entry of the Amir, which was fixed for the 9th of January.

It was a lowering, cloudy morning when we left our quarters and made for the railway station, where we had a long wait in the darkness. An enormous throng of natives filled the platform, squatting on the ground or standing about in groups, talking or sleeping under covers which hid them from head to foot. Most were closely wrapped up about the shoulders, cloths being wound over the turban, even so that they had generally a top-heavy look with bare legs. Their wraps were only of cotton though, as a rule, and did not seem adequate against the chill of the morning. One little swarthy man was busy writing, making entries on sheets of paper or perhaps bills of lading. He squatted on the platform against one of the piers of the arcade, writing by the aid of a lantern’s light. I noticed only one European besides ourselves in the throng, and he appeared to be an English official and wore a pith helmet. At last up came the train from Jhansi, and we got in, a slumbering English officer occupying one of the berths. The sky, which was the only gloomy and threatening one we had experienced in India, and certainly looked leaden and hopeless enough, soon turned to rain, and under such an aspect the country looked desolate in the extreme. The tawny earth and fuzzy, dry grass, sparse trees of prickly acacia and scrub bushes, the broken hillocks and mounds of clay, looked more fruitless and forlorn under the steady, soaking rain; groups of poor country folk in their thin cotton clothing huddled together, waiting at the stations we passed, or could be seen splashing through the muddy pools to catch the train.

Nearing Agra, we saw heavy artillery trains with field guns trailing along the wet roads. Troops had been pouring into Agra for some time, and while at Gwalior a native regiment of cavalry (lancers) rode by the Guest House, preceded by their baggage on mules and camels.

At Agra Road Station the rain was pouring in torrents. There is an immense, long, exposed platform, along which we made our way to cover under the station shed, which was already crammed with people, mostly English and American visitors, army officers, and officials.

The weather being quite hopeless, we gave up the idea of seeing anything of the procession, which of course was a military one, and then finding there was a dining-car in waiting, we had a scamper through the rain again down the platform to reach it.

After tiffin we were just in time to catch a train on to Delhi—in fact it had actually started, but the courteous station-master sent an official to stop it for us, and to see us safely in with our baggage. It was now nearly noon, but our train, a slow passenger one, was not due at Delhi until 5.30. The rain continued steadily, and damp groups of natives were gathered at the different stopping stations in various stages of discomfort. They did not, however, appear to mind the wet so much as one would have expected, but swathed themselves in all sorts of curious wraps up to the eyes, leaving the legs and feet bare, and some even squatted on the wet ground.

The country was again a plain for the most part, and extensively cultivated under irrigation, several irrigation canals being crossed by the railway. Green crops of young corn seemed almost hidden by charlock, the yellow fields having almost the effect of our buttercup meadows in May. Flocks of black and white cranes were seen, as well as a large, blue, grey-plumaged kind, which are usually seen in pairs in the green corn. Three superior-caste Hindus got into our compartment and occupied the cross-bench at one end. One had a bad cough, but they kept their windows open and did not seem to mind draughts. Coughs and throat troubles seemed, indeed, too common in India, and we often heard distressing coughs in the hotels at night.

The sky towards evening began to clear in the west, the whole solid field of rain cloud gradually lifting like a curtain, and the sun shining out while the rain continued, a brilliant rainbow appeared as if painted on the black wall of cloud to the eastward.

The line passes through a part of old Delhi, a vast region of broken tombs and ruined walls lying outside the walls of the present city, and afar off we could see the domes and minarets of the Great Jama Musjid Mosque.

We got in in good time, and collecting our heavy baggage sent on from Gwalior, drove to Maiden’s Hotel, through streets dark with rain and standing in pools of water, a stormy orange sunset casting a warm glow over everything. The hotel was on the usual Indian plan, with a centre and two arcaded wings enclosing a court, along which a series of ground-floor, bungalow-like bed- and bath-rooms extended, chilly enough at this time of year in the mornings and evenings, especially in wet weather. The hotel itself was under English management, and there were large open fires in the dining-room and salon, which looked comfortable, and the cookery was superior to most of the others we had experienced. Letters from England awaited us, and added to our satisfaction. No doubt the mails are delivered with wonderful regularity, and so long as the traveller can arrange his tour in order that his letters shall meet him at certain places, and does not leave before the mail arrives, no complications occur. It is only when letters follow one about instead of preceding one that delay and difficulties occur.

The next morning (January 10) was grey, chill, and damp, when we started after breakfast to see Delhi. The hotels and the British residential quarter lie quite outside the native town, as is usually the case, amid spacious, park-like grounds, here pleasantly undulating, and varied with gardens and fine groups of trees. The town is walled, and has a broad dry ditch as a farther defence. We drove through the famous Kashmir Gate, renowned for the British assault at the time of the Mutiny, which remains in the battered condition in which it was left after the siege, with great shot-holes in its masonry, as well as in the walls each side. A tablet records the circumstances of the siege, and the names of the officers and soldiers who distinguished themselves at that terrific time.

The gate has two ogee-pointed arches, enclosed in rectangular mouldings in the usual Mogul fashion. As one enters the city, inscribed tablets recording incidents of the siege are numerous, and the British authorities have certainly been most careful to preserve the memory of their side of the fight along with the names of their military heroes, and every noteworthy spot in the struggle is commemorated in this way. In addition to such incidental monuments there is the Mutiny Memorial, an important red-sandstone erection (110 feet high) outside the gates, upon a rising ground, and so placed that a complete view can be obtained from its summit of the lines of the siege.

At the fort, which was formerly the Imperial Palace of the Moguls (built in A.D. 1628–58 by Shah Jehan), it is distressing to see the ruthless destruction of superb buildings for which the British have been responsible, and the barbarous way in which hideous barrack structures have been substituted. The fort, or palace, is entered through a noble, deep-red sandstone gate. The Lahore, or, as it is now called, the Victoria Gate, and the fine court, is marred by these ugly modern military barracks for which so much beauty was sacrificed. We were shown two splendid halls, the Diwan-i-am, or public hall of audience, and the Diwan-i-khas, or private hall of audience. This is of white marble with beautiful inlays of precious stones, with a richly decorated ceiling in colour and gold. A marble pedestal is pointed out as the place whereon the wonderful peacock throne stood. This must indeed have been gorgeous, the seat between two peacocks with spread tails, and these encrusted with sapphires, diamonds, rubies, and emeralds, representing the natural colours of the plumage, a true emblem of oriental magnificence. Over the arches of the arcade in this hall is a Persian inscription in raised and gilt characters, which reads, “If there is a paradise on earth, it is this, it is this, it is this.” This costly “paradise,” again, was built by the builder of the Taj Mahal, Shah Jehan, who seems to have outshone all the Mogul emperors by the splendour of his buildings. Of course there are no diamonds, or rubies, or emeralds left, and even the small stones used in the decorative floral inlays have in many cases been picked out. It is said that Lord Curzon employed Florentine workmen to replace some of this work at his own expense.

The decoration of the walls and ceilings in the zenana rooms, consisting of painted and gilded arabesques, was very lovely, and the marble Akab Baths exquisite. The river (Jumna) formerly flowed up to the walls of the palace on that side, and from a beautiful minaret we could see the river beyond a belt of green foliage, and get a fine perspective view up and down of the palace wall and buildings.

Near by, on the other side of the court, is the Rung Mahal, which is distinguished by particularly fine pierced screen-work. The vaulted rooms connected with this building were till recently used as officers’ mess-rooms, when all their beautiful decoration were obliterated with whitewash.

Opposite to the Akab Baths is the Moti Musjid, called the Pearl Mosque, a most exquisite little building of white marble, a cluster of three domes and many slender pinnacles terminated by lotus flowers. It has many-cusped arches of Saracenic character, and a fine bronze door.

It is sad to think that these lovely buildings are after all only remnants of what were once on this spot when this Imperial Palace was complete in all its splendour. The Burj-i-Shameli, the great marble bath-room; the Metiaz-Mehal, a huge quadrangle of palaces enclosing a garden 300 feet square; the Nobatkhama or music gate, the Golden Mosque, the hareem courts, and fifty other lovely pavilions, fountains, and gardens—think of it! The late W.S. Caine, writing in his “Picturesque India,” adds the following passage: “These and other glories of the palace have all been swept away by successive barbarians. Nadir Shah, Ahmed Khan, and the Maratha chiefs were content to strip the buildings of their precious metals and jewelled thrones: to the government of the Empress of India was left the last dregs of vandalism, which, after the Mutiny, pulled down these perfect monuments of Mughal art, to make room for the ugliest brick buildings from Simla to Ceylon.”

The Jama Musjid at Delhi is on a splendid scale, a mosque of red sandstone inlaid with white marble. There are four great gateways, approached by long flights of steps, through which the great arcaded square court, in which the mosque stands, is entered. Reputed relics of Buddha are shown to visitors at a shrine at one corner of the court. On the eastern side the mosque faces an open plain from which a large slice of the native city, which once surrounded the mosque, had been cleared by the Government. This gives a clear view of the noble building on this side, but must have been rather distinctive of the character of the place, and one would have thought the mosque, standing so high as it does, would have easily dominated the native houses. In fact, if it had been designed for a site on an open plain, there would have been no necessity to raise it on such a lofty platform. Modern improvers are apt to forget the logic of art.

We went up a side street in the native town on the other side of the mosque to see the Jain temple, which is an interesting and richly decorated small building in the Mogul style of architecture, approached by a doorway in the street and reached by a flight of steps. It is extremely beautiful in detail. In the curious street there were many interesting Mogul doorways. We stopped at a stall to buy some specimens of the glass and lacquered bracelets commonly worn by the native women which only cost a few annas.

The Chandni Chowk (or silver street) is the main business street or bazaar of Delhi. It is very wide, and has a sort of long island down the middle planted with trees. This was said to have been originally an aqueduct. It runs east and west, and we saw a striking effect one evening—the glowing sunset behind the dark masses of the trees, the end of the vista lost in mysterious gloom; twinkling lights, here and there, about the white awnings of the stalls under the trees; white turbaned figures of natives moving noiselessly up and down, ox-carts and pony tongas, wandering sacred zebus, and all the mixed and varied character of an Indian bazaar form a wonderful and picturesque ensemble.

Individualistic commercial competition is well illustrated in the Chandni Chowk. The traveller is besieged by touts thrusting their cards into his hand, or throwing them into his carriage, or surrounding it with the most importunate solicitations to see their shops.

We visited an ivory carver’s workshop in a street leading out of the Chowk. My impression was about this, as in regard to other native handicrafts, that it was now a craft as distinct from an art. We saw the carvers at work, quite a number. It was a species of factory. There were draughtsmen and designers, and miniature painters and inlayers, quite distinct from the carvers. The former draw the patterns on the ivory with a pencil. There were some young boys learning to draw from the craft; one was drawing a bird on a slate. The skill of the ivory-carvers was very wonderful: they could carve a figure inside an open scroll-work and leave it distinct, and there were feats of this kind of which they seemed to be most proud; but these craftsmen seemed to work almost mechanically, no doubt entirely to order, and without any initiative of their own in the way of design. They sat cross-legged on the floor, and more in one room than our factory inspectors would probably approve. The works here were mostly produced for ready sale to the tourist. Elephants and paper knives were—I was going to say, walking hand in hand—all over the shop, and small models of the Taj Mahal ran them close, models of native ox-carts, tongas, and palkis, the native ploughman and his yoke of oxen, and such-like images of familiar things of Indian life; elaborate chess-men, and inlaid caskets with little miniatures of the Taj Mahal and the Jama Musjid inserted, in fact all sorts of ivory toys were there, consciously prepared for the Western eye, and too often the Western want of taste. A loquacious Parsee-looking proprietor or manager showed us over this establishment. He had the air of a general director of the works, etc. While not at all pressing, he took care to show all his attractive things, beginning at the most elaborate and costly articles, and skilfully grading downwards, until in price they were within measurable distance of the visitor’s purse.

My wife found that native home-spun linen and silks for embroidery were difficult to find in the Chandni Chowk, where there were plenty of European goods.

On January 11th there was a slight frost. The early morning was quite misty, too, but the sun came out later, and there was a strong cold wind from the east in spite of the clear, bright, blue sky and the brilliant sunshine. It suited Delhi far better than the grey sky under which we had seen it the first morning of our visit, and was favourable for our excursion to the Kutab Minar, eleven miles out. Driving through the Delhi and Kashmir Gates again, and along the road past the Jama Musjid, and out again at a farther gate to the south-east, we traversed the region known as Old Delhi, a wonderful tract of ruined cities, shattered buildings, mingled with noble tombs, mosques, and minarets, extending for many miles outside the present city. Domes of tombs were seen on all sides, and broken walls, and the ground was strewn with bricks and stones. Trees (acacias and tamarinds mostly) bordered the road. Our native coachman (a good guide) spoke of No. 8 city, and pointed out its ruined gate, under which we passed. Farther on we took a branch road and stopped before the noble gate of the ancient city of Indrapat with its strong walls and bastions. Leaving our carriage, we passed through the gate and on past a squalid group of wretched huts, where poverty-stricken natives huddled together about their tumble-down dwellings, and where native children were inclined to be rude. Farther along the broken path we reached a spacious octagonal mosque of red sandstone on a marble platform. This was the mosque of Shir Shah (A.D. 1541). The contrast between the dignity of this building and the squalor of the village was striking and saddening.

Resuming our road, we next reached the splendid tomb of Humayun (built by Akbar the Great about 1560 A.D., in memory of his father the Emperor Humayun). An important gateway led into a garden with long tanks and flagged pathways, bordered by formal green hedges, which led up to a spacious platform upon which the noble tomb was built. In the central chamber under the tomb the actual tombstone was screened by pierced marble. There was also a smaller chamber of tombs, each side the central one. The building was of red sandstone, inlaid with white marble with a central dome and four minarets. It seemed to be a prototype of the great Akbar’s own tomb we had seen at Sikandra.

Then on again we went, making another short detour from the main road to the cemetery of Nizam-ud-din. Entering through the gateway, we came upon a deep tank, surrounded with buildings. On the flattened dome of one—the Nizam’s well-house—sat a group of brown-skinned youths, ready to dive into the water, a dive of about seventy feet, for backsheesh, and the entertainment of the visitor. A passage from this led into a marble court, in the centre of which was the white, marble-domed tomb of the Nizam, brilliantly decorated with arabesques in colour. It reminded one of the shrine of the Kwaja in the Dargarh at Ajmir. There were also other tombs in the court, one to the poet Khusru, whose songs are said to be still popular in India. An interesting one is that of Jahanara Begum, daughter of the Emperor Shah Jehan, on which is an inscription to the effect that she begs that nothing but grass may cover her. Certainly her wishes are fulfilled, as the grass grows freely in the marble-sided tomb which has no cover. Up some steps was the modern tomb of Mirza Jahangir, but a beautiful marble one.

The carving in marble and ornaments of all these tombs were exceedingly delicate and beautiful, and would compare well with the work on the Taj Mahal.

The visitor on leaving is embarrassed by the number of claimants of fees. There seemed to be a different custode for every tomb in the place, and the crowd of hangers-on, hungry for backsheesh, rather spoils the pleasure which the sight of so much beautiful work gives.

Returning to the road again and continuing our drive, it was not long before we descried the great Kutab Minar rising up above the trees in front of us. We had indeed caught a glimpse of it miles away, when the tower was almost lost in the haze. There is a good little bungalow close by where the traveller can get tiffin, or put up for the night if so minded.

The Minar, tapering upwards to an astonishing height (238 feet), piercing the clear blue sky, is of red sandstone with a white marble top story. There are five stories, and the summit was formerly crowned by a small cupola and open arcade, which was destroyed by a storm, and a model of it has been placed near by. Successive bands of small carving are carried across the deep flutings, both semicircular and rectangular alternately on the lower storey, semicircular in the second, rectangular in the third, a plain cylinder forming the fourth, while the fifth and last is partly fluted and partly plain. These bands are composed of texts from the Koran, the Arabic characters having a rich ornamental effect, the carving being wonderfully sharp and unimpaired, although it dates from the twelfth and the latter part of the thirteenth century (A.D. 1210–20), having been built as a tower of Victory, commenced by Kutab-ud-din, and completed by his successor, Altamsh. The tower was built in the centre of the old Hindu fortress of Lalkot (A.D. 1060). At its foot are various ruins, the most extensive being those of a fine Mohammedan mosque, constructed out of the materials of, and incorporated with an ancient Hindu temple, the original columns of the latter remaining to form the colonnade of the court.

The images of the Hindu gods have been mostly defaced when they occurred in the carving.

There is a fine Mogul arch of red sandstone, similar in treatment and style to “the mosque of two and a half days” at Ajmir. In front of this, in the centre of the court, stands a remarkable pillar of solid wrought iron, supposed to date from A.D. 300 to 400. It is dedicated to Vishnu, and there are lines in Sanscrit inscribed around it. The wonder is that such a massive thing in iron could have been forged at that early period.

Returning to Delhi by a different road we passed another important-looking tomb, also near the outskirts of the present city, the ruins of the Observatories built by different rajahs in the eighteenth century, which impress one as weighty evidences of the philosophical knowledge and culture of these native princes. A moon observatory was pointed out to us, and a vast circular building. The groups of ruined buildings hereabout recalled to us the Roman Campagna and its fragments.

Our coachman (who was perhaps more careful as a guide than as a Jehu) collided rather violently with a tonga just outside the city, and the consequences might have been serious, but the wheels were the chief sufferers, and the tonga must have got the worst of the jolt, one of the native passengers being thrown out. No bones were broken, and the incident did not seem to be regarded as at all an unusual occurrence. There seems no rule of the road in India, and so risks are constantly run. In the crowded streets the drivers rely on the power of their lungs to shout out warnings of their approach, and it is a marvel people escape being run over, and that collisions are not more frequent and worse than they are.

At the hotel, where the custom of small, separate, circular dining-tables obtained, we happened to meet a very agreeable Anglo-American family from Ceylon, who were travelling in India, and were returning to their home at Colombo, before visiting Japan and Europe. We discovered we had several friends in common, and promised to visit them when we came to Ceylon.

I got a coloured drawing of the Jama Musjid from the plain before mentioned, where a few trees afforded a little shade, the sun being very strong, although a cool wind was still blowing from the east. The light was particularly clear and the shadows sharp, so that the architecture looked remarkably distinct, the effect being almost hard.

We had a stroll in the park-like grounds near the Club. There was an old and much overgrown Mogul archway here, which had been considerably battered in the siege. There were fine cypresses and other trees, and among them little flights of green parroquets flew with their shrill scream—their flight and their notes reminding one of our swifts. Toucans were also to be seen, and of course the palm squirrels. We watched a whole colony of them sleeping in the hollow of a fine old banyan tree.